Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📕

he’d cleaned up to come scare me. It was creepy. I mean, what kind of criminal does that? Is it like taking a bath before you go to work or something?” I put my face in my hands, trying to keep the shakes from starting again. I could feel them circling in my gut.

He nudged the chocolate closer. “Drink this.” I picked it up as he looked around at the vast kitchen. Mother had redone it a couple years ago in green granite and cherry cabinets, with a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and a six-burner gas range with a grill. Who cooked in here? Not her and not me. Caterers probably appreciated the equipment when they prepared for her parties. Even so, after six years, it was probably due for an update.

He said, “Is there someone you can stay with tonight?”

“Oh, please, can’t you just stay?” I blurted it without thinking, felt my face get deep, red hot.

“Well,” he drawled, amused, “while I might certainly be interested in that offer on some other occasion, as the Chief of Police investigating your mother as a murder suspect, I can’t see it doing my reputation in this town a whole lot of good, and since I’m new, I need that reputation. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly look the same as most of the people around here.”

“I know I know I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so…so…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I’d really rather not rouse one of my friends. What time is it, anyway?”

He looked at his watch, a rather expensive and very thin Movado. How did a police chief afford that? “Quarter to three.”

“The night is nearly done. I’ll be fine. He’s delivered his message, and he won’t be back until he—they—whoever—figures out that I’m going to ignore it.” There. I’d made a commitment to stay the course, and I’d done it in clichés. Bravo for me.

“You can’t do that.” His face lost its indulgent look.

“Montagues don’t negotiate with thugs. And you wouldn’t back down if it were your family.” There it was again, the proud gene, Constance by another name. I wish I didn’t feel so scared saying it.

“Yeah, you and the American government and your mother, whom you seem to be channeling again. As for the other part, I’m a trained police officer, and I grew up fighting the bigger kids on the streets in New Orleans. You are…what are ya’ll, anyway? Do you work?” His sudden descent into drawl made me suspicious.

“I’m working for Andrew Winters, remember?” I summoned my tattered dignity and sipped hot chocolate, but the cup was empty and I sucked air.

“I meant for money.”

“I don’t need money.” Between my father’s business and my inheritance from him, I had more than enough.

“Of course you don’t. My mistake.” Frustrated, he ran his hand across a scrim of dark hair as thin as a ruler.

“You’re awfully antagonistic.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up. “It’s late, Miz Montague. I ­recommend sleep, and in the morning, assuming your other commitments aren’t too pressing, if you could come to the station and sign a statement, the police force would be eternally grateful. That way, the police department can investigate this incident instead of leaving it to your superior investigative skills. Please set the alarm after I leave, so I don’t have to get up again in the middle of the night and waste my time coming out here to help someone who obviously doesn’t want my help.”

The next morning, even though His Grouchiness wasn’t there to take it, I gave the police my statement. I had to make do with Pete Samuels and his dark charm.

“You Montague ladies sure are asking for trouble.” Pete crossed his forearms on his desk and leaned toward me with a sympathetic look that didn’t quite fit his features. “Must be tough having your Mom jailed and then finding someone in your bedroom in the middle of the night. You okay?”

“Life’s a challenge.” I just wanted to give my statement and get out of there.

“Sounds like a bit more than a challenge.” He tipped his chair back and looked over my shoulder into the bullpen. “If I took you for dinner some night, I could fill in some gaps our charming new police chief might not be willing to share.” He looked back at me and rolled his eyes.

“That’s so nice of you,” flew out of my mouth before I could censor it—or wonder what his problem was with the chief. Pete would give me only the information he wanted to, but maybe he would slip up if I asked the right questions.

“Great.” He patted my hand, let it linger a little too long. “How about tonight? I know a great place north of the parkway.”

I nodded my assent, signed my name to my statement, and stood up.

His chair smacked to the floor like a whip-crack. “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty.”

I arrived at the campaign barely on time and feeling shaky, but being there was a routine, and routine was good. As I pulled up the campaign donor data I’d been reviewing yesterday, Andrew walked in, Jennifer trailing him like a bedraggled puppy. Her hair was pulled back in a scrunchie, and she wore blue jeans with the right knee ripped out and a tee shirt with what looked like a blueberry stain on it.

I forced a smile as she crossed next to my desk. “Morning.”

She looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. Maybe she hadn’t. She was that sort of woman. “Who did you say you were again?” Andrew had disappeared into his office.

“Clara Montague. Constance’s daughter.”

She blanched. “You-you’re, um…What are you doing at our computers?”

Brain dead. The bleach must be working on more than her hair. “I work for your husband. I’ve been in the office for several days, and I attended Mary Ellen’s fundraiser last night.”

“He told me he’d hired someone. I—I…I didn’t put it together.”

“Is there