“The fabric store.”
“That’s right.”
“Not someplace I’m likely to shop.”
She chuckled. No, he would be wildly out of place amidst the riot of color and femininity in her store.
But then she had an odd thought. The previous owner of her building had died in a fall. She’d heard a rumor that the police suspected the elderly woman had been pushed down the stairs, but rumors had a way of sprouting from the smallest of seeds. Still, even when an accident resulted in a death, the police responded, didn’t they?
“You must have been in my building before.”
His gaze became opaque. “I have.”
“Did you...know Mrs. Jefferson?”
“No. I was new on the job when she died.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “And, you know, she did run a fabric store. As we’ve established, not my kind of place.”
Nadia smiled again, but it took a bit of an effort. When she heard the rumor, she’d seriously considered backing out of the sale. She’d have been within her rights, if there was any real reason to believe Mrs. Jefferson had been murdered. That was the kind of information the Realtor should have disclosed immediately. But then she’d told herself not to be an idiot. The location was perfect for her business, and she loved the idea of being able to live upstairs from it. What, did she think no one had ever died in the town of Byrum?
But she heard herself say, “I came here thinking this was a peaceful community. Learning about Mrs. Jefferson’s death really disturbed me.”
More thunderous applause from the ballroom had the police chief glancing over his shoulder, but his dark gaze returned to her. “No place is completely peaceful, Ms. Markovic. Humanity being what it is.”
“I know that.” Wait. Was he confirming that awful rumor?
No, he was speaking in generalities, of course. And, no, she absolutely would not ask him what he thought about the elderly woman’s death. Since she went up and down those stairs several times a day, the last thing she needed was to obsess about the older woman who had plummeted to her death on them.
Or to think about how intimately she had seen death.
Nadia was rescued from trying to think of something pleasant to say by renewed excitement from the ballroom. Even the police chief looked around. Nadia noticed the third cashier hovering, the one whose seat she was occupying. A stream of people started out of the ballroom, so she stood and said, “Looks like it’s time to go to work.”
Chief Slater had stepped back, but was waiting when Nadia came around the table. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said.
She forced a smile and lied. “Likewise. Except I hope I never need to call you.”
“There are other reasons for two people to talk,” he murmured, nodded—and walked away.
* * *
INTRIGUING WOMAN, BEN REFLECTED, as he stood at the back of the ballroom and watched the last few quilts be auctioned for staggering prices.
Sexy woman, too. Hair as dark as his, white, white skin that would give her trouble in the hot Missouri sun and haunting eyes he’d label as hazel, inadequate as the word was to describe the seemingly shifting colors: green, gold, whiskey brown. And lush curves. The woman was built. Breasts that would more than fill his large hands, tiny waist, womanly hips and long legs that weren’t sticks. Scrawny women had never done it for him.
For just a second, he’d thought she returned his interest. But something else had darkened her eyes. Wariness? Okay, he was a cop. Some people reacted that way to him, although usually they had a guilty conscience. She didn’t look like the type.
He frowned. He wasn’t so sure what he’d seen was wariness. She’d almost looked...afraid.
The minute the thought crossed Ben’s mind, he knew it was right. She’d moved here because she’d believed the community to be peaceful, which suggested wherever she’d come from wasn’t. Still, you’d think if she’d been the victim of a crime, law enforcement presence tonight would have reassured her.
For a moment, he didn’t see the still-full ballroom, the auctioneer, the spotters. He saw only her face, gently rounded rather than model beautiful. And he saw that flare in her eyes, and knew whatever she’d felt had been for him, not what he represented. Or, at least, not only what he represented.
He grimaced. Maybe he bore an unfortunate resemblance to some scumbag who’d beaten her. Mugged her. Stalked her. Or what if she’d had an ex who’d been a cop and violent?
Bad luck. What Ben would like to do was drop by the fabric store and persuade Ms. Nadia Markovic to take a break for a cup of coffee. But scaring women...that wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. He’d keep his distance, at least for now.
He abruptly refocused on the stage, because Nadia had taken the microphone and was thanking everyone for coming and letting them know how much money had been raised. Over $100,000 just from the auction, plus an additional $20,000 from the sale hall open today, where many more quilts had been available as well as other textile arts. A drop in the bucket compared to the need, but a nice sum of money nonetheless.
“And, finally,” she said, “we all owe thanks to the artists who donated the work of thousands of hours, their skill and their vision, to help people whose lives were devastated by nature’s fury.”
The applause was long and heartfelt. Ben joined in, watching as Nadia made her way from the stage and through the crowd, stopping to exchange a few words here, a hug there. She was glowing. Nothing like the way she’d shut down at the sight of him.
Even so, he hung around until the end, thinking about how much money was stashed in that metal box behind the cashiers. He couldn’t shake the big-city mentality. Hard to picture anyone here trying to snatch it—but better safe than sorry.
He clenched his teeth. That had been one of his mother’s favorite sayings. She had, once upon a time, been firm in her belief she could keep her family safe by adequate precautions. Until the day she found out shit happens to everyone.
Keeping that in mind, he stepped outside and waited in the darkness beneath some ancient oak trees until he’d seen Nadia Markovic safely in her car and on her way.
* * *
THE FOURTH STAIR always creaked, and it always made her start. Which was silly. Older buildings made noises. Nadia had had an inspection done before she bought this one, and there wasn’t a thing wrong with the structure. Yet the creak made her think of clanking chains, moans and movement seen out of the corner of her eye.
Had the stair creaked before Mrs. Jefferson’s fatal fall? Nadia wrinkled her nose at her own gothic imagination. Only then she got to wondering if the police had noticed that one step creaked. Because nobody could sneak up those stairs—unless they knew to skip that step. Or the person hadn’t bothered, because he or she was expected, even welcome. Either way, it suggested the killer wasn’t a stranger.
She rolled her eyes as she set the money box on the dresser in her bedroom. If Mrs. Jefferson had the TV on, she wouldn’t have heard anyone coming. Or she could have been in the bathroom, or maybe she was going a little deaf. No one had said.
Or, oh, gee, she’d stumbled at the head of the stairs and fallen. There was a concept. A neighbor had said that the poor woman had suffered from osteoporosis. Tiny, she had become stooped with a growing hunch. She should have moved to an apartment or house where she didn’t have to deal with stairs.
And Nadia did not want to think about tragedy of any kind, not tonight. If she hadn’t encountered Ben Slater, she wouldn’t have felt nervous for a minute going upstairs in her own home.
While she was at it, she’d refrain from so much as thinking about him, too. She’d forget that odd moment of fear, or her surprising physical response