chapter 6
SHANE SAT CLOSE ENOUGH that his arm brushed against Callie’s, close enough he could feel the weariness rolling off her in waves.
If there was one thing Shane Black wasn’t, it was a hypocrite. He knew he wasn’t a spiritual example to anyone. He and God had been at a standstill for years. So far, God hadn’t blinked.
Shane was good with that.
So why did Callie Harper make him want to drop his head into his hands and ask God, “Why? Why is the one woman I care about in harm’s way again?” And in the same breath he wanted to breathe a prayer of thanksgiving that she had walked away unscathed.
This from a man who only darkened a church’s door when he was visiting his parents during the holidays.
“I wanted to be sure you’re okay.”
“Of course I am.”
He pulled her hands into his, wondering how best to proceed. Callie wasn’t known for being reasonable, especially when she was tired. Right now her eyes told him she’d passed exhaustion at least an hour ago. Her hands were freezing, and he rubbed them with his thumbs, trying to restore her circulation. “The paramedics checked your vitals?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Callie.”
“Tell me why you think my shop won’t be open tomorrow.” Instead of answering, he asked again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I wasn’t even the one hurt. Why all the questions?” She wouldn’t hold his gaze for long, and when she did, she kept blinking rapidly.
Exhausted? Or still frightened?
“This is our third homicide together, and I’ve never seen you react this way.”
Max watched their conversation silently, his head moving back and forth as if he were viewing a game of volleyball. Too many times when Shane was with Callie, it seemed they were engaged in a verbal match of some sort.
Why did he have trouble showing her he cared?
Why couldn’t he come out and say it?
Callie’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she stared at a stain on the chair across from her.
“Callie?”
“This one feels more personal, that’s all!” The words burst from her like a confession.
“Why does it feel personal?”
“Mrs. Knepp was my adversary. We were competitors. This jerk …” She pointed at the poster he’d placed on a nearby table. “He took her out. Why would he do that, Shane? What did a little old lady ever do to him?”
“We’re checking into that. Seems to be a burglary.”
“Who kills someone on a public sidewalk for a purse? Why not grab it from her and be gone?”
“Happens all the time —”
“In New York, maybe, or Houston. When was the last time it happened in Shipshe?”
“I have the same questions that you do.” He waited three beats, then pushed forward. “You don’t know of any other enemies she had? Other than you?”
Callie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me I’m a suspect.”
“Nope. I already checked out your alibi. It held.” He refused to let go of her hands when she tried to pull them away. “I’m serious. You may have known her better than anyone else — other than her family who aren’t giving me much. They’re Amish though, and right now they’re in shock and don’t trust me. What did you know about Mrs. Knepp?”
“She was cranky and rude and didn’t play well.”
He waited for more.
“Which is still no reason to kill her in the middle of town.”
“There aren’t that many reasons for murder, period. When it comes down to it, when it comes to a violent murder like this one —”
“Why are you saying violent? I didn’t see any blood …”
“You know I can’t share details of the investigation with you.” Shane let go of her hands. “And I’m asking you the questions, remember?”
“You’re asking me for a motive, and I can’t think of one.”
“Well the usual ones are relatively few.” Shane relaxed back into his seat, his arms across the back of their chairs, and studied her. How could she still look beautiful after two-and-a-half hours inside a police station and considering all she’d been through?
Callie held up her fingers and began ticking them off. “Money, passion, revenge —”
“Still reading Agatha Christie?” he asked.
“Shows, huh?”
“Murder on the Orient Express is sticking out of your bag.” She rolled her eyes, pushed the book farther down in her purse, and stood to go.
Max jumped up too, eager to finally be on the move.
“It’s too bad a homicide is going to cause you to miss this year’s Fall Festival,” he said, walking her to the door.
“What are you talking about?” She turned on him like a storm.
“What do you mean what am I talking about?”
“Why would I miss the festival?”
“Because there was a murder on your property.” Shane reached for a strand of her hair, pushed it out of her eyes. “I know tonight you think you want to open tomorrow. But in the morning, you’ll realize how tired you are. Tonight you’re in shock. Tomorrow —”
“You can’t be thinking of closing me down. In fact, you have no grounds to close me down. Adalyn Landt stopped by earlier to tell me she was headed out of town for the weekend, but she said for me to call her if I need her. She said she’d turn around and come back.” She began pawing through her bag for her phone.
“Hold on, sweetheart. No need to call your lawyer.” Shane closed his eyes and pulled in a long breath. Would this night never ease up? “I was only saying that you must be tired, and that perhaps it would feel odd to conduct business mere hours after someone was slain on your doorstep.”
“Which technically wasn’t my fault.” Now Callie’s old fire was back in spades. While Shane wanted to be irritated with her, it comforted him to see her spark return. He should have known if there was one thing that could erase the fear and exhaustion in her eyes, any mention of her shop would do it.
He moved closer, until there wasn’t even a whisper of space between them, until he was close enough to feel her next breath, close enough to calm the fear that had nearly consumed him since the call first came in.
Max nosed his way between them, but didn’t growl any warning. If Shane was going to date Callie Harper, and some part of him seemed intent on doing just that, he and the dog were going to have to come to an understanding.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered again.
“I never said it was your fault. Would you settle down and let me worry about you occasionally?” He traced her cheekbone, let his fingers work their way through her hair. She stood for it all of five seconds before pulling away.
“We’ll be open tomorrow. Be sure your men are out of my way.”
“They’re already gone. Left less than an hour ago. We did have to leave crime tape around the exact location of the deceased.”
“I don’t sell much merchandise from the garden.” Callie sailed through the door, without glancing back. Shane wanted to laugh, but there was something about this case that wasn’t funny at all.
It wasn’t just the murder — he’d seen his share of those. But Callie had been right about one thing: murder in Shipshewana was rare. Murder for a purse that had already been found discarded a mere four blocks away from the murder scene just didn’t add up.
The fact that there were no fingerprints on the purse didn’t sit well with him either. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, but then again, what case ever had been?
What exactly was this perp up to?
Shane had a stack of witness sheets to wade through, so he made his way to the coffeepot. Maybe someone had seen something he hadn’t noticed when he’d glanced through them the first time.
He would read while the crime techs analyzed their data and Callie slept.
And he’d pray that tomorrow would be a better day.
Callie noticed Max was acting strangely as soon as she pulled up to the darkened parking area outside her shop, but she thought it was because of the strange scents left from all the police, crime-scene techs, and the so-recent death. She took him into the garden — careful to walk a wide circle around the corner with the yellow tape — and waited for him to take care of his business.
Instead of padding around, Max slunk near the far side of the yard with his nose to the ground, growling occasionally and pausing once to raise his nose at the nearly pitch-black sky to howl.
“It’s all right, boy. They’re gone now. There’s no one here but the two of us.” When he returned to her and she clipped his leash onto his collar, he strained at it as if a rabbit were darting across the parking lot. Callie briefly wondered if she’d be able to lead him to the back door. Max had bulked up since she’d inherited him, and his early morning runs with Gavin had added muscle where before there’d been fatty weight.
“Maybe I should consider joining you two for a jog,” she muttered, opening the garden gate. The words had no sooner left her lips than Max jerked the leash out of her hand, a snarl tearing from his throat. Every hair on her neck bristled in alarm, but Max had already disappeared into the night — the one indication of where he’d gone being the sound of his leash dragging against the pavement.
Callie took off in pursuit. Though one part of her mind screamed a warning, it was a warning she ignored. She couldn’t help it. Her legs flew, running after Max.
He burst across the parking area, past the front of the store, and around the corner of the building, streaking by the trellis and rose bushes that still held a few white fall blooms. He would have made it to the back alley, but he pulled up short at the property line, his bark angry and rabid.
Callie came in sight of him and stopped when she saw what he was barking at — two figures both clad in black. They stood in the dim light cast by the lone bulb dangling above the dumpster near the back lot of Pots and Pans. She opened her mouth to scream for Max to back away, but by then the first figure had already raised his weapon and found his mark.
Max made one final leap, then crumpled to the ground, his cry dying midbark.
Not again. This can’t be happening again.
Images of Trent McCallister kneeling over Max, his shirt soaked with blood, flashed across Callie’s memory. Before she could holler, before she could even stop to think about whether she ought to save her dog or run for help, the figure turned to point his weapon at her.
Unable to move, Callie stared back, frozen.
She stared and time stopped.
But instead of feeling the sting of a bullet, the man lowered his weapon, grinned, pointed a finger at her, then turned and walked off into the night, his boots echoing down the alley. His partner followed close behind.
Callie’s pulse thundered in her ears.
What had happened?
Who were those people?
Why hadn’t they shot her?
Why had they shot her dog?
They’d shot her dog. The thought startled Callie into motion, and she ran to Max, kneeling beside him on the pavement. Her hands went to work, searching to find the bloody hole, searching in the dim alley light to see if he was still alive.
Instead, her fingers bumped into a dart sticking out of Max’s side. She grasped it and pulled, careful not to stick herself with the tip of the syringe. Placing her ear to Max’s chest she counted his respirations.
What was normal breathing for a sixty-five — pound Lab? His breathing seemed fast, and he wasn’t moving. But Callie wasn’t sure if the rapid breathing was an issue or if it just meant he was asleep.
She’d dropped her purse somewhere as she ran, but now she needed to go back and find it. She needed to call for help.
“Don’t you die on me, Maxie. I need you.” She kissed him once, stood, and ran into the darkness.
Were they waiting for her there? The brief thought darted through Callie’s mind, but it was followed by another question: Why would they be?
They’d passed up a perfect chance to shoot her at the same time they’d shot Max. With a tranq dart? That’s what she was holding, right?
She slowed as she turned the corner around the front of her building. The street was now silent — no cars, no people, no one to hear or help her. Sweat poured from her as she crept down the front walk until she could make out her bag, contents spilled under a streetlight.
Her cell phone was there.
She could call Shane.
Call for help.
But she’d have to stand under the glaring light, and she’d once again be a perfect target.
The image of Max lying near the alley, an unknown drug running through his veins, spurred her forward.
She reached her bag, snatched it off the sidewalk, scooped up her things, and had turned to sprint back to Max when she looked toward the front door of her shop.
What if someone else was in there? What if while she was kneeling by Max they attacked again?
Clutching her bag so she could clobber an intruder with it, she stepped slowly toward the front of the shop.
The door had been pushed open at least four inches — maybe not noticeable to someone driving by, but if you were standing on the sidewalk, you couldn’t miss it.
Drawn toward that door, knowing she should walk away, should walk back to Max to call Shane, she instead pushed the door wide open. The first thing she did was reach for the switch and flood her shop with light. A plain white envelope lay on the floor in front of her. Nothing was written on the outside. With shaking hands, Callie picked it up and tore it open.
The words were typed on a single sheet of white paper.
As she slid to the floor, she felt herself tumbling down a dark hole.
Don’t call anyone about Max or you could be next.
You’ll receive further instructions within the hour.
She hesitated for less than a moment, and then placed the note on the counter next to the register, not bothering to see if anyone was there. Something told her they weren’t.
They were cowards.
Only cowards shot a dog with a tranq gun then fled.
Only cowards preyed on old women in parking lots.
And Callie thought surely this was the same person. Hadn’t the man standing under the light been approximately the same height and weight as the man Aaron had described?
Her anger built and her terror subsided as she snatched her keys from her purse and made her way through the darkness outside, picking her way carefully along the brick path to the garden shed. She fumbled with the lock and opened the door, which creaked as it always did. Why hadn’t she oiled it? Pulling out the tarp she used for moving dirt and rocks around the backyard, she walked quickly back around the building, pausing only once to glance down the road. But the lights revealed nothing except a car passing at the end of the street.
Callie hurried on to the alley.
Max hadn’t moved at all, but she hadn’t expected him to. It had been two years since she’d been a pharmaceutical rep, but she still received the trade magazines. They made for good late-night reading when she couldn’t sleep. Her mind cycled through the most common drugs used in tranq darts: Domosedan and … what was the other? Something that started with an F. There was a third as well, but now her mind had gone blank. These people did not strike her as professionals. They could have used the wrong drug and the wrong dosage. As she pulled Max onto the tarp, then dragged the tarp to the back door of the shop, she kept her tears at bay. He wasn’t dead. If they’d used the wrong dosage or the wrong drug, he’d already be dead.
Unlocking the back door to her shop, she pulled him up the small loading ramp the deliverymen used before closing and locking the door behind her. Hurrying through the shop, which was silent except for the sounds coming from the low hum of her appliances, she closed and locked the front door as well.
Then she stood completely still and listened.
It didn’t sound as if anyone were inside with her.
It didn’t feel as if anyone were inside with her.
She picked up an umbrella by the front door — it was the old-fashioned kind, left here from when Aunt Daisy was still alive. She hadn’t had the heart to throw it away. Weighing over a pound and nearly thirty inches long, the end was metal and so sharp Callie once considered using it to spear trash as she walked around the yard.
Tonight she might need it for something else.