“Julie, the man who phoned was just some crazy person,” Chase said

“Honest, Daddy?”

“Yes…” He waited, suspecting his daughter wasn’t quite done.

Sure enough, she said, “Anne was just gonna tell me how we could stop the police from thinking Aunt Rachel killed Graham.”

“You told Anne that Rachel is the girlfriend the reporters are referring to?”

“No, just that I knew somebody with a problem….”

“Julie, why did you think you should talk to Anne about this?”

“Because she knows all about what the police do. When Penelope Snow figures things out in Anne’s books, that’s only make-believe. Really it’s Anne.”

“I know, baby. But when she makes up a story she puts in details that all fit together. That doesn’t mean she can figure out a real-life mystery.”

“Yes, she can. ’Cuz she used to be a private detective. She told me her father’s one, too.”

“Really,” he said again, his brain shifting gears. Here he was, not knowing what on earth he should do, and he’d suddenly acquired a neighbor who might be able to give him some advice. “Julie? Do you think it would be okay if I went back over and talked to Anne with you?”

Dear Reader,

Close Neighbors is a story about relationships, not only the developing romantic one between Anne Barrett and Chase Nicholson, but also the long-established ones in Anne’s and Chase’s families—particularly between Chase’s nine-year-old daughter, Julie, and the significant adults in her life.

The book spans a short period of time, yet each of these relationships evolves during the story. Most of us find change frightening, but as Julie’s grandmother tells her, “Darling, if everything always stayed the same, life would be awfully boring.”

I think it’s safe to say that Close Neighbors is anything but boring.

This book is special to me because my father helped me plot a good deal of it while he was in the hospital. That gave me a wonderful head start when it came to the actual writing, so if you ever find yourself spending a lot of time visiting someone in the hospital, you might consider trying your hand at a book. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Close Neighbors.

Warmest,

Dawn Stewardson

Close Neighbors

Dawn Stewardson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for my father, who spent countless hours helping me with the plotting.

And for John, always.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“THERE. ALL DONE.” Julie set a third glass of water on the table and smiled, then felt awful when Aunt Rachel didn’t smile back.

She hadn’t smiled all day. In fact, she’d been crying earlier. She’d come out of her room with her eyes red and her face puffy. So even though both she and Daddy kept saying there was no reason to be worried, Julie knew there was.

They’d kind of fooled her this morning, when they’d sat her down and explained what had happened. They’d made it sound okay.

Well, okay wasn’t exactly right. If you knew somebody and he got killed, it was probably never okay. But they’d said it was just one of those unfortunate things, so she hadn’t really been afraid. Not until the police detectives arrived.

That had been scary. And the stuff on TV was even worse.

At first, Daddy wasn’t going to let her watch it. Then he’d decided she’d see it at a friend’s house or something, anyway, and it would be better if she watched with them—so they could explain what was true and what wasn’t.

It was the stuff that wasn’t true that had been really bad. ’Cuz even though the newspeople never said Rachel’s name, they kept talking about an ex-girlfriend being the last person to see Graham alive—except for the killer. Only, somehow, they made it sound as if the police thought Rachel was the killer.

Daddy’d said they just did things like that so people would watch their news instead of somebody else’s. But when they made it sound like your aunt was a murderer, you felt awful.

“Hon?” Rachel glanced at her, then dropped a handful of spaghetti into the boiling water. “Would you go tell your dad that dinner’s in ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

She headed out of the kitchen and started up the backstairs. Her friends thought it was funny that their house had an extra set of stairs. But after her mom left, Daddy built a big addition across the back—so they’d have a family room downstairs and his office upstairs—and he’d put in the second staircase.

That was way before she’d started school, and he’d wanted the office so he could work at home more. Then, after her aunt moved in, one of them was almost always home. Rachel only worked when she had an assignment taking pictures to go with a magazine article or something.

Just as Julie reached the upstairs hall, the office phone began ringing. That meant she’d have to make one of those throat-cutting signs to her dad, ’cuz Rachel hated when the spaghetti got cooked too long, and—

“You’re insane!”

Daddy’s words froze her before she reached the doorway. He sounded angry, but kind of afraid, too, and he was never afraid.

Listening in on someone else’s conversation was against the rules, but she stayed right where she was, barely breathing.

“Of course I know they haven’t found it.”

Her heart had begun thumping, and she half wanted to run back down the stairs, half wanted to stay and hear more.

“You’re out of your mind! She didn’t kill him, so her fingerprints can’t be on it.”

The words kill and fingerprints started a hot, prickly feeling in her chest. She wished she’d decided to run back downstairs, because she was getting so scared that she felt like hiding in her closet, the way she used to when she was real little.

“You bastard! We’ll see what the cops think about that!”

Her eyes began to sting with tears. Daddy never swore. Maybe hell or dammit, sometimes, but never anything worse.

“Oh? And if I do call them? Are you going to walk into police headquarters with that gun? Don’t you think they’d have the brains to—”

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, she silently counted. How many seconds would it take for Daddy to hear what would happen if he called the cops?

She kept counting and counting but never found out.

The next thing she heard was the little beep his cordless made when you clicked it off.

CHAPTER ONE

“SWANSEA, SWANSEA, how I love ya, how I love ya…”

Her song dissolving into laughter, Anne stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. She was such a dreadful singer that anyone hearing her would take off running. This morning, though, she felt so good she doubted it would bother her.

Rather than having to sleep through the rumble of streetcars and honking horns in downtown last night, she’d been treated to silence. And she’d awakened to the twitter of birds.

Thus far, she thought, searching through a carton labeled Shorts & Stuff, not a single one of her brand-new-home-owner fears had become a reality. And even though she’d barely moved in, she was already starting to think her real estate agent had told her the truth. That she’d never regret buying in the peaceful west-end neighborhood of Swansea.

Of course, only yesterday morning, some dog walker had discovered a body in nearby High Park—the body of a police detective, no less. She’d heard about it on the news last night, while she’d been making sure her clock radio had survived the move. But murders were uncommon in Toronto, especially in tony areas like the High Park district.

After finally finding a T-shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled, she pulled it on and headed downstairs. There, the mountains of boxes seemed to have multiplied overnight. But even that wasn’t enough to dampen her mood.

She started the coffee brewing, spent a few minutes searching for her laptop, then carried it and a mug of coffee out to the patio table.

Some of the friends who’d helped her move had offered to come back today. And her father had downright insisted. But she’d convinced even him that she wanted to spend the first day in her new home alone.

And now that it had turned out to be so gorgeous…well, there was just no way she could waste a July-perfect morning unpacking. Not when she had such a terrific idea for her next book that she was positively itching to get started.

While the computer ran its warm-up checks, she sat happily contemplating her new little corner of the world—bright sky above, light breeze rustling the leaves of her twin aspens, the pool’s water sparkling with diamonds, and…someone spying on her.

A vaguely uneasy feeling stole up her spine. She’d never had much in the way of woman’s intuition, but she did have a sixth sense that warned her when she was being watched.

Hoping someone was merely curious about the new neighbor, she slowly scanned the length of the cedar privacy fence—seeing no one, yet certain someone was there. A couple of seconds later she heard a quiet creak, and the gate to the yard backing onto hers opened a few inches.

A girl of eight or nine peered tentatively over at her, a skinny little thing with long, pale hair.

“Hi.” Anne shot her a smile. “Are you my neighbor?”

The child nodded solemnly.

“Well, I’m Anne. And you’re…?”

“Julie.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s really Juliette, but nobody ever calls me that.”

“Ah. Do you wish people would?”

When the girl simply shrugged, then stood looking uncertain, Anne nodded toward her mug. “I guess you’re a little young for coffee?”

“I tried it once, but I didn’t like it.”

“Well, I’ve got orange juice in the fridge. How about some of that?”

“Umm…my dad said I shouldn’t bother you.”

“You’re not. So why don’t you come and sit down while I get some juice.”

“No, that’s okay. I already had my juice. But do you think I could talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Julie closed the gate, then skirted the end of the pool and silently sat down.

“Did you want to talk about anything in particular?” Anne finally prompted.

“Do you really write the Penelope Snow mysteries?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I like them. My aunt buys them for me.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. But how did you know who I was?”

“’Cuz my aunt asked Mrs. Kitchner who our new neighbor was gonna be. That’s who lived here before. Mr. and Mrs. Kitchner.”

Anne nodded. “I met them the first time I came to look at the house.”

“Well, Mrs. Kitchner told Rachel—that’s my aunt—what your name was, and said you wrote books for kids. And Rachel knew right away who you were. But when I saw you…you kind of look like the picture on the books, but different.”

“I know. I always freeze when there’s a camera pointed at me.”

“Rachel says lots of people do. She’s a photographer. That’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.”

“You are, eh?”

Julie nodded. “Rachel gave me one of her old cameras and taught me how to do all the settings and everything.”

“It sounds as if you and Rachel are pretty close.”

“Uh-huh. She lives with me and my dad. ’Cuz my mom and dad are divorced.”

Anne hesitated, not sure if she should say that was too bad.

Before she could decide, Julie added, “My mom’s a singer. And she lives in Los Angeles now, ’cuz it’s where the best jobs are.”

“Ah.” She left it at that, although she couldn’t help wondering what kind of woman would move thousands of miles away from her child.

“Under your picture on the books?” Julie said. “It says you used to be a private eye.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what my father is, and I used to work for him—until I discovered that writing books was more fun.”

“But it’s ’cuz you were a detective that you know how to solve mysteries, right? I mean, you pretend it’s Penelope who figures everything out, but it’s really you.”

“Exactly. That’s the way writing books works.”

“So…you could probably figure out just about anything.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as anything, but…is there something you thought I could help you figure out?”

Julie hesitated, then nodded. “I know someone who has a big problem.”

“Oh.” The infamous “friend with a problem.” Anne resisted the temptation to smile. Whatever was troubling Julie, she obviously believed it was serious.

“So, if I tell you about it, will you figure out what she should do?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The girl gave her a wan smile, then said, “What happened is—”

“Julie?” a man called.

“That’s my dad!” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t tell him what I was saying, okay?”

“Okay,” Anne said, glancing over at Julie’s father.

He was tall, his head and shoulders visible above the fence, and she quickly appraised what she could see of him.

In his mid-thirties, he wasn’t handsome in a conventional way. His nose was a bit too large, his dark hair longish and decidedly unruly, his eyebrows on the thick side. Still, he was the kind of man who seemed comfortable in his own skin, and there was something more than a little attractive about him.

“Hi,” he said, reaching the fence. “I’m Chase Nicholson.”

“Anne Barrett,” she told him—thinking he seemed distracted. But he’d probably been wondering where his daughter was.

“Welcome to the neighborhood.” He smiled, and when he did she had a feeling she was going to like him.

“It looks as if you were trying to get some work done,” he added, glancing first at her laptop, then at Julie.

“Oh, I hadn’t really gotten started, so a little company was fine.”

“Good. But I need her to help me with something.”

“Right now?” Julie asked.

“Uh-huh. We’ve got a deadline looming, remember?”

“My dad designs stuff, and I sometimes help,” she explained.

Anne glanced at Chase again. “What kind of stuff?”

“Office buildings, mostly. I’m an industrial architect.”

“And he has to make models of the buildings,” Julie said. “That’s what I help with, ’cuz he’s got big fingers and for parts of them you need little fingers.”

She pushed her chair away from the table, then whispered, “Can I come over again? After I finish helping my dad?”

“Sure you can,” Anne whispered back. She could hardly say no, although she suspected it would have been the wiser answer.

Things didn’t always occur to her right off the bat, which was one reason she hadn’t been a first-rate P.I. And it hadn’t struck her, until after she’d promised to try to help, that the adults in Julie’s life might not like her turning to a stranger for advice.

Chase opened the gate, and while he waited for Julie to make her way across the yard he did his best to keep his gaze from wandering back to Anne Barrett.

A month or so ago, when Rachel had learned who’d bought the Kitchner house—and that she’d be moving in alone—she’d shown him Anne’s photo on the back of one of Julie’s books. To say it didn’t do her justice was an understatement.

Her dark hair, longer and shaggier than in the picture, framed a face with high cheekbones, big brown eyes, a cute little nose and the sort of lush lips some women acquired through collagen injections.

She didn’t seem the sort who’d do that, though. She was more the casual, natural type. The type he liked.

He mentally shook his head, surprised that thought had even crossed his mind. In the past twenty-four hours, he’d discovered that when you had a sister at risk of being arrested for murder, and an extortionist breathing down your neck, you didn’t think about much else.

“WE’LL HAVE TO BE QUIET,” Chase told Julie as they started up the backstairs. “Rachel’s lying down.”

“Has she got one of her migraines?”

“The beginnings of one. She didn’t sleep well last night.”

“’Cuz she was too worried, right?”

He nodded. His daughter was no dummy, and now that she’d realized Rachel might be in serious trouble there was little point in trying to convince her otherwise.

They headed into his office, where the half-put-together model sat waiting for them. Initially, he’d only begun asking for Julie’s help as a way of spending more time with her, but her little fingers actually did make the jobs easier. And she generally concentrated so hard that she didn’t talk much, which was exactly what he needed today.

As long as he had silence, working with his hands helped him think—and he sure had to do some more thinking about that phone call.

When he’d hung up, he’d simply intended to tell Rachel about it, then call those detectives. But he hadn’t gone beyond step one, because she’d had a fit at the idea of telling the police. And while she’d made a convincing case against it, he wasn’t sure they’d come to the right decision.

Of course, if he called now, the cops would figure it was strange that he’d waited until today to phone them. But if he didn’t do that, what the hell should he do?

“Aren’t we gonna get started?” Julie asked.

“Uh-huh, I was just thinking about which section we’d work on first.” He reached for a tube of glue.

“Dad?” she said as he opened it.

“What?”

“Do the police really think Rachel killed Graham? Like all those reporters are saying?”

He slowly screwed the cap back onto the tube, searching for the right words.

“First off,” he finally said, “that isn’t exactly what the reporters are saying. They’re only suggesting it’s what the police might be thinking. And as I told you yesterday, they speculate about a lot of things when they shouldn’t.”

“But if the police don’t think it, then how come those detectives were here for so long yesterday?”

“Because they had to go over every detail of what happened the other night. Maybe something Graham said or something Rachel noticed will help them with the case.”

“But they were here forever.”

“Well, I think they’re probably even more thorough than usual when someone on the police force has been killed.”

Julie nodded slowly. That was something else scary. Graham knew all about bad people ’cuz he’d been a police detective. So if he could get killed, then anybody could.

She looked at her dad again, thinking he hadn’t exactly answered her question. “But they might be thinking Rachel killed him?”

“Darling…they didn’t tell her that she was under suspicion. And they didn’t say so when they talked to me, either.”

“But—”

“Baby, everything’s going to be just fine. Because she had nothing to do with it.”

“I know, but…” Julie paused, still not sure whether to tell Daddy she’d heard him on the phone. Or what she’d been talking to Anne Barrett about.

When she’d seen Anne sitting in her yard, she’d right away thought that going over and asking her for advice was a great idea. That Anne would know how they could make the police see Rachel hadn’t had anything to do with Graham getting killed.

But now she was thinking how Daddy always said not to talk about family stuff outside the house. So maybe she shouldn’t say she was going next door again until after she’d already been. ’Cuz once Anne told her what they should do to help Rachel, Daddy wouldn’t be mad.

Or maybe he would. She’d still have been talking about family stuff to a stranger.

Rats. She just didn’t know what to do.

“Julie? Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re afraid is going to happen, okay?”

She swallowed hard. Sometimes her dad could read her mind, and she was pretty sure he was doing it right now.

“I’m…I’m mostly afraid they’ll put Rachel in jail.”

“I see. Baby, do you understand what circumstantial evidence is?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, it’s not like someone saying he saw who shot Graham. If anyone had, the police would know Rachel didn’t do it.

“But there wasn’t an eyewitness. And the fact she was with him before he was killed is one of the circumstances in the case. So it’s called circumstantial evidence. And because she was with him, the police have to consider the possibility she might have done it. You follow?”

“I guess. But…Daddy…” She took a deep breath, then let the words tumble out. “I heard you on the phone last night. What you said about fingerprints? And about calling the cops?”

Chase swore to himself.

“I didn’t listen on purpose. I was only coming to tell you dinner was ready.”

“Julie, don’t worry about what you heard, okay? After dinner, Rachel and I talked about it and decided the man who phoned was just some crazy person.”

“Honest?”

“Yes. So you do your best to forget about it. It didn’t mean anything.” He waited, certain his daughter wasn’t done quite yet.

Sure enough, she said, “When you came looking for me? When I was next door?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Anne was just gonna tell me how we could stop the police from thinking Rachel killed Graham.”

Chase simply stared at Julie. If she’d told Anne Barrett that she’d moved in next door to a murder suspect…It was hardly the sort of news flash that would make the woman’s day—to say the least.

“You told Anne that Rachel is the girlfriend the reporters are referring to?” he said at last.

“No, I didn’t get that far. I only got to saying I knew somebody with a problem. And Anne said she’d help me figure out what to do about it. But then you said I had to help you.”

Thank heavens for good timing.

“She said I could come back later, though.”

“Julie…I’m not clear on why you thought you should talk to Anne about this.”

“Because she knows all about what the police do. And about mysteries and stuff. When Penelope Snow figures things out in the books, that’s only make-believe. Really, it’s Anne.”

“I know, baby. But she doesn’t exactly figure things out. When she makes up a story, she puts in details that all fit together—so it seems as if Penelope Snow solves a mystery. That doesn’t mean Anne could figure out a real-life one.”

“Yes, she could. ’Cuz she used to be a private detective.”

Chase shook his head.

“She did! It says on her books. Right under her picture. I can show you.”

“No, it’s okay. Now that you’re saying so, I remember it does. But you can’t believe everything you read. No more than you can believe everything those TV reporters say.”

“But she was one,” Julie insisted. “She told me.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t just pretending?”

“Uh-huh. She told me her father’s one and she used to work for him. Only, then she decided she liked writing books better.”

“Really,” he said again, his brain shifting gears.

Here he was, not knowing what on earth he should do, and he’d suddenly acquired a neighbor who might be able to give him some advice.

She was like a gift from fate. And even though he’d never normally impose on a woman he barely knew, these were hardly normal circumstances.

Surreptitiously, he glanced at Julie. He didn’t want her any more involved in this than she already was. Yet he could hardly tell her to stay here while he went and talked to Anne without her. Not when, if she hadn’t gone over there in the first place…

Deciding he’d just have to play things by ear, and send her home at the first opportune moment, he said, “Julie? Do you think it would be okay if I went back over and talked to Anne with you?”

ANNE HAD BEEN SURE that Julie would reappear, but she hadn’t expected it to be this soon. She’d barely gotten started on the opening scene of her book before the girl came through the gate again—her father in tow.

Closing her laptop, she manufactured a smile.

“This time you were trying to get some work done,” Chase said as they sat down. “So I apologize for bothering you. But Julie tells me you used to be a P.I. And since the problem she wanted to ask you about is a family matter, I thought, if you don’t mind my sitting in…”

“No, of course not,” she lied. In truth, the idea made her very uncomfortable.

Having a child ask for advice was one thing. Adding her father to the mix was something else entirely. Besides which, she’d assumed Julie wanted to talk about some little-girl issue, not an adult-serious problem.

“Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate that,” he added, giving her such an engaging smile she decided she only felt marginally uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you pick up where you left off,” he suggested to Julie.

She nodded, then looked across the table and gnawed on her lower lip for a few seconds. “Have you seen on TV about the man who got killed in High Park?” she finally asked.

“No, my TV’s not hooked up yet. But I heard something about it on the radio last night.” Surely, though, their problem didn’t have anything to do with that. “He was a police detective, wasn’t he?”

“Uh-huh. And he used to be my aunt Rachel’s boyfriend.”

“Really.” She tried not to sound surprised.

“Rachel broke up with him less than a week ago,” Chase added.

“And the TV people keep talking about her,” Julie added. “I mean, they don’t say her name. They only call her his ex-girlfriend. But it’s her. And they’re making it sound like the police think she killed him. And yesterday, two police detectives came to talk to her and my dad. And they had a million questions for both of you. Right, Dad?”

“Right.”

“Why you?” Anne asked him.

“Because Rachel was with Graham for a while on Wednesday evening. And, basically, they wanted my recollection about what time she left and came home.”

“’Cuz they don’t believe what she told them,” Julie said. “That’s why she’s afraid.”

“Julie—”

“Daddy, she is. I can tell.” The girl focused on Anne again. “And I thought you’d know how to make them see she’d never kill anyone.”

Anne looked at Chase once more.

His gaze flickered to his daughter. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly toward their house.

She began breathing more easily. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to say another word about this in front of Julie.

“So…making the police see that someone’s innocent,” she said to the girl. “That sort of thing always needs some thinking time.

“I assume the detectives gave you the standard warning?” she continued, turning toward Chase. “Told you you’re only allowed to discuss what you talked to them about with a lawyer? Or a private investigator?” she added pointedly.

“It’s a good thing you reminded me,” he said, a relieved expression crossing his face.

“But Anne is a private investigator,” Julie told him. “At least, she was. Doesn’t that count, Anne?”

“Yes, it does. But I’m afraid it means your dad won’t be able to tell me about that conversation in front of you.”

“But…that’s not fair!”

“Baby, you wouldn’t want me to get into trouble, would you?”

“N-o-o, but—”

“Then how about if you go home. And after I finish talking to Anne, I’ll tell you what she thinks.”

“Oh, D-a-a-d.”

Chase gave her an exaggerated shrug. “There’s no other way, Julie. Besides, it’s time somebody looked in on Rachel. You could see if she’d like some tea or something.”

With obvious reluctance, the child pushed back her chair.

“Julie?” Anne said. “Do you want to come back after lunch? For a swim?”

She glanced at her father. When he nodded, she shot Anne a small smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

“See you later, then.”

“That was nice of you,” Chase said as Julie started across the yard.

“Well, I’ll want a swim, anyway, and she’s a real sweetheart. I’m just afraid she’s going to be disappointed in me. No matter how much thinking I do, I doubt I’ll figure out a way of convincing the police about Rachel.”

“I know. Hoping you would wasn’t one of her more realistic expectations. But there’s a different problem that I wanted to ask you about.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Something happened last night that I’m not sure how to handle. A man called me, claiming to have the gun that killed Graham Lowe. He told me it’s mine for two hundred thousand bucks. Otherwise, he’ll use it to pin the murder on Rachel.”

CHAPTER TWO

HOW ON EARTH, ANNE ASKED herself, had things escalated so rapidly from a little girl seeking her advice to a man needing it? And not just any man, but one who’d become the victim of an extortion attempt because his sister was a murder suspect.

She gazed across the sun-drenched pool, thinking that when the Nicholsons had a problem it was certainly a major leaguer. And regardless of whether it made her uncomfortable, now that Chase had begun talking about it she had little choice but to hear him out.

“So,” she said, turning toward him with what she hoped was an encouraging expression. “When you said you’re not sure how to handle the phone call, does that mean you haven’t reported it to the police?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Then I guess my first question is, why not?”

Silence stretched between them until he said, “You know, all of a sudden I’m feeling like an idiot—and wondering what the devil possessed me to come over here. I mean, we’ve barely met, so…”

She simply waited, watching him. On the surface, he appeared relaxed, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, but no one looking closely would mistake him for a man at ease. His dark eyes were clouded with worry, and there was a tightness around his mouth.

“When Julie said you’d been a detective…” he finally continued. “But, no. I should have realized that imposing on you was totally inappropriate.” He began to rise. “This doesn’t concern you, and—”

“Wait, it’s all right,” she said, aware as the words came out that she might regret them.

Giving advice to a virtual stranger could be risky business, so she’d probably be wiser to just let him leave. But something about him made her want to help.

Before she could decide exactly what it was, he said, “You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Yes.”

He lowered himself into the chair again, slowly saying, “I would have called the police, but the situation’s a lot more complicated than Julie made it sound.”

“In that case, you’d better start at the beginning. Tell me the whole story. I’ve got time,” she added when he glanced at her laptop. “I was just playing with the opening of a new book. And that was mostly because my house is such a disaster area that I don’t know where to start attacking it.”

“Well…then how about this? After we’re finished discussing my problem, I’ll give you a hand inside. Help you arrange your furniture, or cart boxes to the basement or whatever.”

Her gaze slipped downward from his face. His shoulders were broad, and the way his T-shirt was pulling tautly across his chest emphasized its muscles, leaving little doubt that he’d be a big help.

“All right.” She shot him a smile. “Deal.”

“Great. Then…the beginning would have been Wednesday evening. Graham phoned Rachel after dinner and…I mentioned that she’d recently broken up with him, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well, on Wednesday he phoned after dinner and told her they had to talk—suggested they meet in High Park. She said she’d be there, then had second thoughts and called him back. She couldn’t reach him, though, so she asked me to go with her.

“It wouldn’t have been any problem. Julie was spending the night next door, at her friend’s. But Rachel has a habit of avoiding difficult situations, of always trying to get someone else to take care of them for her. So I said no, and she went alone.”

When Chase paused and caught Anne’s gaze, she felt a flicker of affinity. How often had she made a spur-of-the-moment decision, only to end up wishing she’d decided differently? Far more often than she liked to recall.

“I imagine I’d have told her no, too,” she said—and was glad she had when Chase looked grateful.

“Yeah, well, I figured that was the right way to play it,” he continued. “Until about three minutes after she left, that is. Then I started worrying that I’d made a mistake. See, Graham had a quick temper, and the more I thought about that the more I wished I’d gone.

“Finally, I got in my Jeep and headed to the park. I drove around, checking the lots for their cars, but couldn’t find them. Later, Rachel explained that they met at the entrance to a walking trail, and had both parked in a pull-off near it.”

“So when you couldn’t find them you came home?” Anne prompted after he paused a second time.

“Right. And, eventually, Rachel arrived back, so upset that I knew something was wrong the instant she walked in.

“It turned out Graham had started talking about their getting together again and she’d told him it wouldn’t work. Said they simply weren’t right for each other. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, though, and one thing led to another until, at some point, he shoved her.

“She said he didn’t push her very hard. But they were in a wooded area and she must have slipped on some leaves or something, because she ended up on the ground. And that totally infuriated her, so she didn’t say another word—just picked herself up, marched back to her car and drove home. End of story. Until yesterday morning, when we turned on the news and heard he’d been killed.”

“How did she react?”

“She practically disintegrated. She’d been seeing him for months, and even though she’d decided he wasn’t the love of her life, she still had feelings for him. In any event, the police were issuing their standard request for people who knew anything to contact them.”

“And she did.”

“Of course.”

“Despite her habit of avoiding difficult situations.”

“She realized there was no avoiding this one.”

That, Anne thought, was only too true. Likely, people in the park had seen Rachel and Graham together. Or, at the very least, had seen their cars parked in the same place. Which meant it would only have been a matter of time until the police learned her identity.

“So Rachel called the police,” she said. “And the next thing you knew those detectives were at your house.”

Chase nodded.

“And when Julie told me the ‘TV people’ are implying Rachel did it? Are they really?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that’s just hype, or did the detectives actually seem to suspect her?”

“Well…I’d better fill you in on some of the other details. Graham was killed with a .40-caliber Glock, which, apparently, is standard Toronto police issue. So they assume someone turned his own gun on him and—”

“He had it with him, then?”

“It seems that way. Rachel didn’t see it. But he was wearing a jacket, so it could have been underneath that or in a pocket. At any rate, it wasn’t found at the scene. And since it wasn’t in his car or apartment, the detectives figure he was carrying it. And that the killer took it with him.”

“But if ballistics hasn’t got it, there’s no way of telling whether it’s actually the murder weapon or not.”

“No, and…you know a lot about police procedures?”

“A fair bit.”

“Well, then, if they’d really thought it was Rachel who killed him, wouldn’t they have checked her for gunpowder? Don’t traces of it show up even if somebody’s spent forever scrubbing their hands?”

“Uh-uh. Unless you do a gunshot residue test within a few hours, it’s basically useless. They’d never have bothered with one the morning after, regardless of what they thought.”

“You’re positive?”

“‘Fraid so.”

Chase raked his fingers through his hair, clearly not happy with that bit of information.

“Those detectives kept coming back to one fact,” he finally continued. “Rachel’s the last person who saw Graham alive.”

“Look,” Anne said quietly. “I realize how unnerving this has to be, but they’re only doing their job—trying to establish exactly what happened during the time leading up to his death. And since Rachel was with him…what I’m saying is that her being with him is an entire world away from her having killed him. And they know that.”

“Right. Of course they do. But…”

“But what?”

He hesitated, then said, “The man who phoned me. Who says he has the gun. What if he actually does, and he’s figured out some way he really can use it to implicate her?”

Anne slowly sat back in her chair. If Rachel had absolutely nothing to do with Graham’s murder, why would Chase think there was any way someone could frame her?

Because that’s what his caller threatened to do, she silently answered her own question. And even if it’s not a realistic threat, it’s a very frightening one.

“Have you considered that this guy might just be some crank?” she said. “That he doesn’t have the gun at all? Maybe he only heard about the murder on the news. And with the media insinuating that the ‘girlfriend’ did it, he decided to find out who Rachel was and try a shakedown.”

“Yes, I thought about that. In fact, my first assumption was that he had to be a nutcase. But as he kept talking, I realized he’d actually been close by while Rachel and Graham were arguing. Because he knew Graham had shoved her. Plus, he repeated a couple of things they said.

“As for the gun, I don’t think there’s any doubt he has it. He said Graham’s initials are on the handle. Which is true. According to Rachel, some cops like to have that done, and Graham was one of them.”

Anne nodded, thinking that even if Chase’s caller had the real item, they still had no way of knowing whether it was the murder weapon or not.

“Let’s back up for a minute,” she said. He wasn’t exactly giving her the story in an orderly fashion, and unless he did she was likely to miss more information than she got.

“When you say this guy called you, you mean that you answered the phone and he didn’t ask for Rachel? He just went ahead and laid his story on you?”

“No, I mean he specifically called me. I’ve got a separate line in my office and that’s the one he used, not the house number.”

“And what about his voice? I don’t suppose it sounded even slightly familiar?”

“No. Actually, it barely sounded real. It had a strange, metallic tone.”

“As if he was using some sort of electronic device?”

“Exactly. So even if he was someone I know, I wouldn’t have realized it. But the immediate question’s not, who is he? It’s, what do I do about him? Because he said he’d call back in a couple of days. And if I don’t have the money for him, he’s going to plant the gun someplace that will incriminate Rachel.”

Fleetingly, Anne wondered what sort of place he had in mind, then told herself that wasn’t important and said, “Chase, a lowlife can make any threats he wants. But as long as her fingerprints aren’t on the gun it can’t incriminate her.”

“That’s exactly what I told him.”

“And he said?”

“He…said they are on it.”

“Oh?”

The word came out far less casually than she’d intended, but Chase barely seemed to notice. He just gave her a shrug, then elaborated.

“His version of what happened wasn’t quite the same as Rachel’s. According to him, after Graham pushed her he pulled his gun. She got up and made a grab for it. And while they both had hold of it, it went off. Graham was shot and she ran—leaving the gun lying on the ground. Which is how this jerk claims he ended up with it.”

“Ah.” When no subtle way of wording her next question came to her, Anne simply said, “You’re sure things couldn’t have played out that way? That the gun didn’t accidentally go off, and Rachel’s just too frightened to admit—”

“No. After Graham pushed her, she got up and left. Period. She’d never lie to me about something that important. Whereas this guy wants money from me, so he had to concoct a story he could threaten to tell the police.”

“But…Chase, I know I’m repeating myself, but his claiming Rachel’s fingerprints are on the gun doesn’t make it true. And as long as they really aren’t—”

“That’s what we kept telling ourselves last night. Then we realized it might not matter. I mean, what if nobody’s prints are on it by this point? What if he’s wiped it clean? And then he does plant it? Wouldn’t those detectives figure Rachel was the one who’d wiped off the prints? Because some of them were hers?”

“Not if you tell them about this guy. Not if they’re expecting the gun to turn up someplace that—”

“There’s more,” Chase interrupted.

She looked at him, certain that whatever the “more” was, it wasn’t good.

“He didn’t only talk about planting the gun. He said he’d know, right away, if I told the cops he’d called me. And that if I did, it would be game over. That he had a whole bag of tricks up his sleeve.”

“Chase, regardless of what threats he made it still doesn’t mean—”

“I know. Rationally, both Rachel and I are aware that what you’re saying is right.”

“Then…I guess that gets me back to the question of why you didn’t contact the police.”

He wearily shook his head. “Because when I told her about the call she went into total panic. And by the time we’d finished discussing things I wasn’t sure what the hell to do. We…would you like to hear where we ended up?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, the longer we thought about it, the more logical it seemed that this guy’s the real killer. Our best scenario was that he went to the park looking for someone to mug and just happened to come across Rachel and Graham.

“Then, after Rachel left, he decided Graham would make as good a victim as anyone. But instead of cooperating, Graham pulled his gun. And that’s where the story came from about a struggle and the gun going off and…what do you think?”

“I…it’s certainly possible.”

Rapidly, Anne began evaluating just how possible that scenario might be. Assuming Rachel’s version of events was accurate, a mugger theory held water. And, one way or another, the killer could have learned her identity. But beyond what had happened while Rachel was with Graham, they were into pure speculation.

Looking at Chase again, she said, “Was Graham robbed? Was his wallet missing when his body was discovered?”

“I don’t know. The detectives didn’t say anything about that, and we’ve heard nothing on the news. But if it was, then the rest falls neatly into place, doesn’t it? We’ve got some creep lurking in the park, with robbery on his mind, who kills Graham. Then he has the idea of going after serious money with a little extortion.

“And now, assuming he actually can make Rachel appear guilty, that’s exactly what he’ll do if I cross him up. Because if the cops charged her they sure wouldn’t be looking for him. So…well, we just didn’t want to call them and come to regret it.”

Pushing her hair back from her face, Anne tried to consider a hundred different things at once.

“So? What do you think?” Chase asked again.

She hesitated, then said, “You might hate me for this, but I still think you should have talked to the police last night.”

“I just didn’t feel I could,” he said, shaking his head. “Aside from anything else, I wasn’t sure they’d believe me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we got to thinking they might figure I’d only made up the extortionist story—as a way of throwing suspicion off Rachel.

“Don’t look so skeptical,” he added before Anne even realized she was. “When the detectives interviewed her, they asked if she’d seen anyone near the clearing. And she said she hadn’t. So for me to tell them there was someone there, and that he’d phoned me with his threat…”

“Chase, Rachel and Graham were having a heated argument. It’s hardly going to surprise the cops if she didn’t notice someone hiding in the trees.”

“Even so…well, at this point it doesn’t matter. It turns out I’ve got a witness to the guy’s call. Julie overheard me talking to him. But she didn’t tell me she had until after she came over here this morning.

“And, last night, Rachel…I guess what really had her so terrified was not knowing exactly how much this guy might be capable of, or what he had in mind when he talked about having a whole bag of tricks up his sleeve.”

“That’s what intimidation’s all about,” Anne said gently.

“I know. I just hadn’t realized how effective it can be.”

She let the silence grow for a few moments, then said, “You could still call the police now.”

Chase didn’t reply, just stared silently across the pool. Finally, he turned and caught her gaze.

He was clearly both exhausted and troubled, the picture of a man who’d lain awake all night, wrestling with a problem far greater than his coping ability.

She felt badly for him and wished she could do a lot more to help than merely pressing him to call the police.

“What if I phone them and it makes things worse for Rachel?” he said at last. “Even after I explain everything, won’t they suspect I had some other reason for waiting so long? Wonder if she actually does have something to hide? Figure we might have spent last night and this morning trying to decide if we’d be better off keeping quiet?”

Anne didn’t reply, but he was raising a valid concern. It lessened her certainty that calling the cops was the right way to go.

“Hell, maybe they’d even wonder if Julie really did overhear that call,” he was saying. “They might suspect we just told her we needed her help, and coached her about what to say.”

He looked out over the pool once more, then said, “But you’re really convinced I should phone them?”

“Give me a minute to think,” she murmured. A whole lot of questions were drifting in the slipstreams of her mind. One of them, though, overshadowed all the others combined.

How likely was it that Rachel actually had killed Graham Lowe?

CHASE SAT WATCHING ANNE and wishing he could read minds. He didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts, but he was awfully curious about exactly what they were. Awfully curious and awfully worried. Her reaction would be probably much like a jury’s, so…

He stopped himself right there. His sister was innocent, which made thinking along those lines absolutely ridiculous. Still, he had the distinct impression that Anne didn’t entirely believe Rachel’s story.

Not that she seemed anywhere near as suspicious as those detectives had been. On the other hand, she didn’t know all the details yet.

Maybe, before he got into the rest of them, he should explain that Rachel could never in a million years kill a mouse, let alone a man. Tell her, for example, about the time he’d bought a wasp trap for the backyard—and how she’d refused to let him put it up, even though eating outside meant either having to share your food with the damned wasps or risk getting stung.

Finally, he decided that, for the moment, he’d be wise to just keep quiet and see what Anne had to say.

Looking away from her, he ordered himself to think about anything other than Rachel’s problem. He’d been dwelling on it, nonstop, since yesterday morning. If he didn’t start taking the occasional mental break he’d be a basket case in no time.

After rejecting a couple of possible subjects for thought, he settled on the question of why a woman like Anne was unattached. She was great looking, obviously smart, and she had both a friendly manner and a smile that made him feel warm inside whenever she flashed it at him. So why wasn’t there a husband on the scene? Or a boyfriend?

Actually, he knew why there was no husband. She was divorced. Rachel had learned that from the real estate woman—via their ex-neighbor. As for lack of a boyfriend, he was only guessing at that.

If there was one, though, surely he’d be here helping her settle in. Or she’d have said she had someone coming later to help her arrange the furniture. When women were unavailable, or not interested, they always let men know.

But why on earth had he started contemplating the status of Anne Barrett’s love life? He certainly had no ideas about…

No, definitely no ideas along those lines. Not with her or any other woman. Julie, Rachel and he might not add up to a standard household, but their living arrangement worked for all three of them. And…

Rachel. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts returned to the problem at hand. The serious, ugly problem.

He looked across the patio table at Anne again, deciding he would have a shot at telling her what kind of person his sister was. But before he could begin, the gate between the yards creaked. When he glanced over, Rachel was standing in the opening.

“Mind if I join the party?” she asked tentatively. “Julie’s gone next door to play with Becky for a while. But before she left, she told me what you were talking about.”

“My sister,” he said to Anne, even though she’d already have figured that out.

She smiled across the yard at Rachel, which, for some reason, made him feel a touch better about this damn situation.

“I’m Anne Barrett,” she was saying. “And you’re exactly what the party needs.”

While Rachel Nicholson started around the end of the pool, Anne tried to size her up without being totally transparent about it.

Six or seven years younger than her brother, somewhere in her mid-twenties, she had deep brown eyes the same rich chocolate shade as Chase’s. At the moment, there were dark shadows beneath them. That, along with her bleak expression, gave her an utterly stressed-out appearance.

At about Anne’s height, five foot five or six, and as slightly built, she certainly didn’t look like a woman who could wrestle control of a gun from a police detective. Of course, Chase’s caller hadn’t said she’d gotten control of it—only that it had gone off while she’d been trying to.

As Rachel neared the patio, Anne said, “I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but—”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I think at all. Julie explained that she came over because she figured you might be able to help. And if Chase thinks so, too…”

After shooting her brother an anxious glance, Rachel looked at Anne again. “I’ll really appreciate any advice you can give us. Chase and I were even wondering whether we should talk to a lawyer, but I guess he’s mentioned that.”

“I hadn’t quite gotten to it,” he told her.

“We were still trying to decide what you should do about the extortion call,” Anne said.

Not that it was actually a matter of deciding. Rather, it was a matter of convincing them to report it. All taking time to think had done was reassure her that was the only thing to do.

Of course, those detectives would wonder why Chase hadn’t phoned them last night. He was right about that. Still, he had to call them.

“Didn’t Chase tell you we’d already decided?” Rachel was saying uneasily. “We’re going to keep quiet about it.”

“Well…I understand why that seems like a reasonable idea, but—”

“Anne, the guy said he’d know if Chase talked to the police and—”

“Yes, I realize that’s what he said, but it’s awfully unlikely. How would he find out?”

“I think he’s a cop.”

The way Rachel said that, with conviction and not a second’s hesitation, told Anne she hadn’t arrived at the conclusion on the spur of the moment.

“There are all kinds of dirty cops,” she continued. “I probably sound paranoid, but I went with Graham for almost six months and I learned an awful lot about them.”

“I don’t think you sound paranoid,” Anne said honestly. “I was a P.I. for long enough to learn a lot about them, too.”

Rachel nodded, looking relieved. “Then you know the kind of scams they’ve got going. Now and then, Graham would tell me about some of them. And about how, if a cop has the right connections, he can find out pretty much whatever he wants. So when this guy says he’ll learn if Chase tells those detectives about the call, then I have to think that maybe he will.”

“I guess it’s possible.”

Anne hesitated, but she didn’t want Rachel thinking that by “possible” she meant “likely,” so she added, “The thing is, I have a problem with the idea of this guy in the park being a cop. Mugging just isn’t the sort of thing dirty cops are normally into.”

“But that doesn’t mean one of them can’t be. Or there could be more than one person involved. What if the mugger wasn’t a cop, but the guy who phoned Chase was? Maybe the mugger told him what had happened and the cop came up with the extortion plan.”

“No,” Anne said. “A mugging goes wrong and turns into a killing, then the killer admits this to a cop? That just doesn’t add up.”

“But…it might. If we’re talking about a crooked cop and a criminal who’ve worked together before. And maybe it was the mugger who came up with the extortion idea, but he realized he’d have a better chance of pulling it off if he had help. So he told the cop exactly what happened, then they came up with their plan to…” As her words trailed off, Rachel shook her head.

“Look,” she continued a moment later, “I know that doesn’t really add up, either. But when someone says that if Chase talks to the police about the phone call I’ll find myself framed for murder, it scares the hell out of me.”

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Anne told her. “And who knows? Maybe a cop is somehow involved.”

It must have been apparent that she was only trying to humor Rachel, because Chase said, “Rachel’s intuition is surprisingly good.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Then let’s assume there is a cop. Let’s even assume he could find out if Chase contacts those detectives.”

Rachel nodded for her to go on.

“After Chase has told them what the guy threatened to do, they’d hardly be surprised if the murder weapon turned up someplace that seemed to incriminate you. Or if it had been wiped clean. And they—”

“They might not be surprised,” Rachel interrupted, her voice quavering a little. “But it would give them one more piece of evidence against me. And even though everything they’ve got is circumstantial, if they end up with enough…”

“Everything?” Anne glanced at Chase, wondering what—and how much—he hadn’t told her.

“We didn’t really get beyond talking about the phone call,” he was saying to his sister. “That and what happened in the park. She doesn’t know about your clothes—yet.”

CHAPTER THREE

WHILE ANNE WAITED TO HEAR about Rachel’s “clothes,” Rachel sat looking as if that was the last topic in the world she wanted to discuss.

Finally, she said, “When Graham and I were arguing…Chase told you the details about that?”

“Everything you told me,” he said before Anne could reply.

“Well…my shorts got torn when I fell, and my top ended up with a grass stain on it. So I just pitched them in the garbage after I came home—didn’t even bother trying to get the stain out.

“Maybe that sounds like an overreaction,” she quickly added, “but I was really upset. And I knew that every time I looked at those clothes they’d remind me of how badly we’d ended things. Of course, I had no idea that Graham…So it just didn’t occur to me that anyone would care about what I’d had on. Not until those detectives asked.

“They said it was strictly routine, that they just wanted to have a look to verify my statement. But as soon as I started explaining that I’d thrown the things away, I knew they were thinking there’d been bloodstains on them. That…I killed Graham.”

“You mean your clothes weren’t still in the trash?” Anne said. “You couldn’t have dug them out and—”

“The garbage gets collected first thing Thursday mornings,” Chase told her. “It was picked up long before they arrived.”

“I see.” The more of this story she heard, the better she understood why the police would consider his sister a serious suspect.

“They wanted to look at the underwear I’d been wearing, too,” Rachel murmured. “They said that maybe there’d be a grass stain where my shorts tore or something.” She shook her head. “They might as well have just said that maybe some blood spatters had soaked through.”

“But at least you still had the underwear to show them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, only I’d washed it. I put a load in the machine before I went to bed on Wednesday. They were suspicious about that, too.”

Hardly surprising. Rachel seemed like an intelligent-enough woman that—if even a speck of Graham’s blood had gotten on her—she’d have disposed of every stitch she’d had on. And, for all the detectives knew, she could have shown them any underwear fresh from the wash.

But if she was guilty, if her clothes had actually been evidence that she’d killed Graham, why admit to throwing them out?

She’d have realized that would make the police suspicious. So why wouldn’t she have done the obvious? Produced clothes that looked similar to what she’d been wearing? Eyewitnesses were notoriously inaccurate, which meant that even if people had seen her in the park…

Chase had been home when she left, though. If she’d tried lying, he’d have known.

Anne glanced at him, remembering he’d also been there waiting when Rachel returned. If she’d arrived back with blood on her clothes, he could hardly have helped noticing. Which meant her story had to be true—unless there’d been only a few, inconspicuous, traces of blood. Or unless Chase was trying to help her cover up what she’d done.

That thought had barely formed before it was joined by another, even more disquieting, one. What if Chase had played a role in Graham’s death?

She licked her suddenly dry lips and surreptitiously looked at him again. She could almost feel his distress, but was he just worried about Rachel? Or was he afraid those detectives figured he might have been involved in the shooting?

He’d admitted going to the park. And she only had his say-so that he hadn’t found Rachel and Graham there. What if he actually had? While they’d been in the midst of their argument? Or maybe after Graham had pushed her down?

Of course, every one of those questions, and then some, would have occurred to the cops. They’d have suspected that Chase might have done a lot more than simply drive around—which was undoubtedly the real reason they’d questioned him at length.

Lord, for all she knew, she was sitting here with not one but two people who were at risk of being charged with murder.

Despite the warmth of the sun, she suddenly felt chilled. She’d barely met Chase and Rachel, knew virtually nothing about either of them. What if they were both lying to her?

She had to figure out whether they were, and to do that she needed more information, so she said to Rachel, “Why don’t you go over what else the detectives asked about. Aside from your clothes. Start at the beginning and try to remember everything.”

“Well…they wanted to know about my relationship with Graham. How long we’d been seeing each other and why we broke up. Then they had me go over what happened on Wednesday. Minute by minute, from the time I met him until I got back to my car.”

“All right, let’s hear what you told them.”

Rachel leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and began.

Her account proved to be a fill-in-the-blanks elaboration of Chase’s. Graham had wanted them to get back together. She’d said it wouldn’t work. That led to their argument, his shoving her and her leaving.

“The detectives already knew I’d fallen,” she continued. “At least they knew someone had. The crime-scene team established that the leaves had been disturbed not far from his body.”

She took a deep breath, then added, “That means he was killed right in the clearing where I left him. And every time I think about that I wonder whether he’d still be alive if I hadn’t just walked away.”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Chase said quietly. “You had no way of knowing anything would happen.”

When Anne glanced at him, his dark eyes were filled with concern. It seemed genuine enough to make her almost certain that he knew nothing about what had happened in the park except what his sister had told him.

But her father’s voice was whispering in her ear, saying, Never trust a brown-eyed man, darling.

It was one of the bits of advice he’d been giving her since he’d first realized she was noticing boys—always delivering the line straight-faced, waiting a beat, then adding, And never trust a blue-eyed one, either.

Turning her mind back to the moment, she focused on Rachel again. “If Graham was killed right in that clearing,” she said, mentally sorting through her thoughts as she spoke, “it couldn’t have happened long after you left. He wouldn’t have just stayed standing where he was indefinitely.”

“It was after I got back to my car and drove off, though. Because I didn’t hear the shot.”

“A few people in the park did,” Chase interjected.

“And none of them investigated?”

“No. According to the news, they all assumed it was a car backfiring. Maybe, if there’d been more than one…”

“Maybe,” she agreed, still wondering exactly what the truth was. “How long did it take to walk back to your car?” she asked Rachel.

“Only three or four minutes.”

That added up. Someone lurking in the trees wouldn’t have stepped out the moment she left the clearing. He’d have held off for a bit, in case she decided to come back, before confronting Graham.

Then the encounter between the two men would have taken a little time. So Rachel could easily have been gone before…The question was, had she been?

“After you finished telling the detectives what happened in the park,” she said, “where did the interview go from there?”

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “They touched on a couple of other things, then they came right out and asked if I’d killed Graham.”

The air turned deathly still. Even the aspens ceased their rustling, as if breathlessly waiting for the tale to continue.

Anne waited, as well. Then, when the silence grew uncomfortable, she said, “You know, asking if you killed him and actually believing you did are two different things. People almost never answer yes to a question like that, even if they’re guilty. But the police always ask. To see what reaction they get. Sometimes, it tells them a lot.”

“My reaction was that I started to cry,” Rachel murmured. “I knew there was no way Graham and I should get back together, but I was still a little in love with him. And even though I was awfully angry the other night…” She paused to wipe away a few tears that were making good their escape, then shook her head as more began to flow.

Her distress reminded Anne what she’d liked least about being a private investigator—having to press people who were so emotionally fragile they shouldn’t be forced to answer questions.

And when it came to Rachel, not only was she upset about Graham’s murder, she knew she was a suspect. That would be more than enough to induce emotional fragility. Regardless of whether she was innocent or guilty.

PEERING THROUGH A CRACK in the gate, Julie watched Rachel cry and tried to keep from crying herself. It was hard to do, now that she knew things were even worse than she’d realized.

When she’d asked Daddy if the police thought Rachel had killed Graham, he’d tried to make it sound as if they didn’t. Not really, at least. But they must. ’Cuz a minute ago, just as she was reaching for the latch, she’d heard Rachel say the detectives came right out and asked her if she’d done it.

After hearing that, Julie just hadn’t been able to open the gate until she’d heard a little more. Then Anne had started saying that maybe the police asking wasn’t as bad as it seemed. And that hadn’t been a good time to interrupt, ’cuz she’d wanted to hear why Anne thought it wasn’t so bad.

But after Anne was finished, Rachel had started crying, and she never liked anyone to see her cry, ‘specially Julie, so—

Her thoughts stopped dead as a wasp zoomed past her nose and began to hover midair, directly above the plate she was carrying. Rats! She should have put plastic wrap on it.

Slowly, she took a step backward. The wasp stayed right with her, only an inch above the sandwiches.

Okay, what should she do? If she stepped forward again and reached for the latch, she might get stung. But if she didn’t, the wasp was going to land. And she could never, ever, not in a zillion years, eat food a wasp had walked on.

Deciding, she called, “Dad? Dad, come open the gate. Fast! But be careful ’cuz there’s a wasp.”

A chair scraped across Anne’s patio; a second later she could see her father heading for the fence.

“Careful,” she said again, as he neared it.

He cautiously opened the gate, then slowly brushed at the air in front of the wasp. It was a trick she’d never dare try, but it sometimes made them back off. When it did this time, she stopped holding her breath.

“I came home from Becky’s ’cuz it was getting near lunchtime,” she explained as he took the plate from her. “But when I looked out from the kitchen you were all sitting there talking. So I made sandwiches and was gonna call you. Then I thought that maybe Anne didn’t have any food in her house, so I made an extra one. That was okay, huh?”

“Of course,” he said as they started toward the patio. “It was very thoughtful. Hope you like peanut butter and jelly,” he added to Anne.

“One of my favorites.”

“It’s grape jelly,” Julie told her, pretending not to notice the way Rachel was wiping her eyes. “And crunchy peanut butter.”

“Mmm. That’s the best combination going.” Anne gave her a friendly smile, then pushed back her chair and said, “I’ll go get us something to drink.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure. You’ll know what everyone would like. Not that I have much to choose from yet, but…” She shrugged and smiled again, then turned toward the house.

Julie followed along inside, not letting herself look back at Rachel.

“A mess, isn’t it.” Anne gestured toward a stack of cartons.

“Kind of. But that’s okay when you just moved in.”

“I guess. Orange juice, iced tea or water,” she added, checking the fridge.

“Ah…juice for me. And iced tea for Dad and Rachel. Please,” she added, remembering her manners.

“Coming right up.” Anne took the two pitchers from the fridge and set them on the counter. “Now, if I can just find some glasses…”

“Anne?”

“Yes?” She looked up from the carton she’d stooped to open.

“You’re gonna be able to help Rachel, aren’t you?”

“Well, I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Promise?”

Anne sat back on her haunches and met Julie’s gaze. “Didn’t I promise earlier?”

“I thought you might have forgotten.”

“No, I take promises very seriously. Rachel hasn’t finished telling me the whole story, though, so I’m still not sure she really needs my help. But whether she does or not, I’ll bet everything’s going to be just fine.”

Julie nodded, thinking “everything’s going to be just fine” were the exact same words her father had used this morning. But what if both he and Anne were wrong?

That possibility made her eyes sting and her throat hurt. She didn’t know what she’d do if the police put Rachel in jail.

Looking at Anne again, she reminded herself that Penelope Snow didn’t really solve all the mysteries in her books. Anne did. So maybe everything would be fine.

“You know what?” she said.

“No, what?”

“Rachel always says that if something’s scary to think about, you should just not let yourself think about it.”

“You mean like noises in the night?”

Even though it wasn’t exactly what she meant, she nodded.

Anne smiled. “Well, that sounds like pretty good advice to me. But here, I haven’t got a clue where to find a tray, so you take a couple of these glasses, okay?”

“Sure.”

She followed Anne back outside, feeling way better. For the whole rest of the day, if even one single thought about anything awful happening to Rachel snuck into her head, she was just going to chase it straight back out.

CHASE DRAINED THE LAST of his iced tea and glanced at his daughter. The sooner Rachel told Anne the rest of the details, the sooner they’d find out just how bad she thought things were. But they certainly couldn’t pick up where they’d left off in front of Julie.

She popped the final bite of sandwich into her mouth, gazed longingly at the pool for a moment, then focused on Anne. “Are we still going swimming?”

“Sure. But we have to wait for a while, don’t we?” she added, glancing at Chase.

He nodded. “For an hour.”

“D-a-a-d, that’s only when it’s a big lake.”

“Really? You mean they changed the rules without telling me?”

Julie grinned. “I guess.”

“I don’t think so,” Rachel told her. “But by the time you go home and change…”

“I hear you’ve got a friend who lives right next door,” Anne said.

“Uh-huh. My best friend. Her name’s Becky.”

“Well, why don’t you see if she’d like a swim, too.”

Way to go, Anne, Chase thought. Every minute longer that Julie was gone gave them another minute to finish talking.

“Take the plate home, hon,” Rachel said as Julie pushed back her chair.

“Aren’t you and Dad coming, too? Aren’t you going to change?”

“Later,” Chase told her.

He waited until she’d disappeared behind the gate, then looked at his sister. “Let’s see how fast we can finish filling Anne in.”

“You’re feeling up to talking again?” she asked Rachel.

“Uh-huh, the sugar hit from that jelly helped a lot. So what else should I tell you?”

“Well…let’s hear exactly what the detectives asked you about Graham’s gun. Chase said they wanted to know whether he had it with him.”

“Yes, and I told them I didn’t think so. That if he did, I wasn’t aware of it. But I’m not sure they believed me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the next thing they asked was if I knew how to use it. That was just before they asked me if I’d killed him,” she added, staring at a patio stone.

Anne glanced at Chase.

He nodded that she should continue. He doubted Rachel was as up to talking as she wanted them to think, but Anne couldn’t help unless she had the rest of the facts.

“And do you know how to use a gun?” she asked quietly.

“Uh-huh. Graham taught me to shoot. He used to take me to the police target range with him.”

Chase couldn’t stop himself from checking Anne’s reaction to that.

He’d already realized she wasn’t very good at concealing her thoughts—especially considering she’d been a P.I.—and at the moment he could tell precisely what she was thinking. Learning that Rachel knew how to handle a gun would only have made those detectives more convinced she was their killer.

After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Rachel, let’s talk about the would-be extortionist for a minute. You didn’t even think Graham was carrying his gun, yet this guy claimed Graham drew it while you were still there, and—”

“I explained what we figure about that,” Chase reminded her. “He needed a story he could threaten to tell the police, and that’s what he decided on.”

“There’s no truth to the gun part at all,” Rachel said, her voice catching a little. “Graham didn’t draw his gun while I was with him, I didn’t wrestle him for it and I didn’t, didn’t kill him. Anne, everything happened exactly the way I told you.”

When she murmured “I know it did,” Chase wondered if she was actually convinced. No matter how many times he assured himself that the “evidence” against his sister was entirely circumstantial, he knew how things must look to an outsider.

“Okay, then let’s get back to the detectives,” Anne suggested. “You told them that you simply got up and left after Graham pushed you, and what did they say?”

“Nothing.”

“They just let it pass?”

Rachel nodded.

“You figure that’s significant,” Chase said.

“Well…yes. I’ve been assuming they found evidence of a struggle, been assuming that’s why they figure the killer might have turned Graham’s own gun on him. But if there was evidence, why wouldn’t they have pressed Rachel about saying she just got up and walked off?”

Chase considered the question, but couldn’t come up with any logical answer. “They noticed the leaves were disturbed where she fell,” he finally said. “So they’d hardly have missed something more obvious.”

He hesitated then, afraid of jumping to a conclusion just because he wanted it to be true. But since it struck him as the only possible one, he added, “Which means there can’t have been any struggle. And that means,” he continued, looking at Rachel with a sudden sense of euphoria, “we don’t have to worry about our extortionist. Because if he tells the cops you wrestled with Graham for his gun, they’ll know he’s lying.”

“Chase?” Anne said.

When he glanced at her, she said, “Maybe there was no evidence of a struggle. But maybe there was, and the detectives just had some reason for not asking Rachel about it.”

A reason like wanting to give her enough rope to hang herself? he thought, the euphoria gone as quickly as it had come.

“What sort of reason?” Rachel asked.

“Nothing really comes to mind,” Anne told her. “So Chase was probably right—there likely wasn’t any sign of a struggle. But if there wasn’t, why would the cops think Graham might have been shot with his own gun?”

“Because he was killed with a Glock?” Chase said.

“Well…I guess that could be it, although the police are hardly the only people who have Glocks. But let’s get back to why they didn’t ask about a struggle.

“If we assume it was because there wasn’t one, we get an entirely different scenario of what happened in the clearing. In it, the killer would have stepped out of the woods with a gun aimed at Graham, and—”

“No, that doesn’t make sense,” Rachel said. “Because Graham wasn’t stupid. If someone was pointing a gun at him, he’d have simply handed over his wallet. And if he had, why would the guy have killed him?”

When Anne was silent again, Chase’s throat went dry. They were close to something important. He felt certain they were. So why didn’t she know what it was?

As the seconds slowly passed, he told himself she was merely taking time to think. Finally, he couldn’t stop himself from asking what she was thinking about.

“Just something my father used to tell me,” she said. “Do you know he’s a private investigator?”

“Yes, Julie mentioned it. She said you used to work for him. But what did he tell you?”

“That I should always guard against tunnel vision, never lock into only one explanation when there might be others. So I was remembering that—and trying to figure out what others there could be when it comes to Graham’s murder.”

Chase retreated into wait mode once more, simply watching Anne until the silence grew too much for him again.

“And?” he said when it did. “What other explanations are coming to mind?”

“Well, only one, really. That the guy in the park wasn’t a mugger at all. That he followed Graham there with the specific intention of killing him.”

ANNE, RACHEL AND CHASE were still talking when Julie arrived back with Becky in tow.

The two of them proceeded to be as silly as only a couple of little girls can, but even that wasn’t enough to drive away the thought that had been skittering around the fringes of Anne’s mind.

If no one had wrestled with Graham for his gun, then it seemed almost inconceivable that either Rachel or Chase had any involvement in his death. Still, the fact remained that there could have been a struggle. And if there had been, all bets were off.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Becky suddenly screamed, launching herself toward the pool.

Julie cannonballed in after her and they immediately began a game of water volleyball with the beach ball they’d brought over.

“Normally, I’d tell them to keep it down,” Chase said after one of them let out a piercing shriek. “But as long as they’re making noise they won’t be listening to us. So where were we?” he added.

“Anne was saying she wished we had more hard facts,” Rachel reminded him.

“Right,” she agreed, warning herself to be careful.

They’d long ago wandered away from the subject of whether the Nicholsons were going to tell the police about that extortion call, but for the past few minutes she’d been easing the conversation back toward it. And she didn’t want to say anything that might make Rachel even more determined to keep it a secret.

“I’d really like to know whether Graham’s wallet was taken,” she continued. “Because if it was still on his body, that would definitely rule out robbery as a motive. And I’d really, really like to know whether there were signs of a struggle.”

“Oh, I’d give the world to know that,” Rachel said. “If I could just be sure it doesn’t matter whether that guy tells the cops his story, if I was certain they wouldn’t believe him…But is there any way we can find out?”

“Well, it’s pretty tough for an outsider to get crime-scene details. I mean, you can hardly phone those detectives and start asking questions about their investigation.

“But you know, Chase,” she added, sounding as thoughtful as she could, “if you called them about the extortionist, then while you were talking to them you might be able to—”

“No,” Rachel said firmly.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANNE TURNED TO CHASE, thinking that surely, regardless of his sister’s fears, he must realize the only rational way to deal with extortion threats was by reporting them.

However, it was Rachel who spoke. “We talked this into the ground last night,” she said. “And telling those detectives will only make things worse.”

Anne focused on her once more. “Rachel…listen to me, okay? If you keep quiet about this guy you’re putting them at a major disadvantage. And you’re not helping your own situation, either.

“They’re making a whole lot of false assumptions because they aren’t aware someone was in the park watching you. Someone who may have been following Graham, waiting for a chance to kill him. But if Chase told them—”

“If he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.”

“You know, at this point I’m so into overload I can’t even remember why you figure that.”

“Because the guy called me at dinnertime yesterday,” Chase said. “By now, I’d be telling the cops about it almost twenty-four hours later. So, obviously, they’d suspect it was just a story we came up with to throw their suspicions off Rachel.”

“But I really don’t think—”

“Anne?” Rachel said. “Aside from what the police would figure, if the guy really has some way of finding out if Chase calls them—”

“We don’t know he does.”

“But we don’t know he doesn’t! What if he does? Then he follows through on his threat, and it turns out there were signs of a struggle? Those detectives would be certain I’m guilty.”

“But—”

“Look, as I said before, I learned a lot about cops from Graham. And maybe your father used to warn you about tunnel vision, but I doubt either Westin or Providence has the slightest concern about it.”

“Those are the detectives who came to the house,” Chase explained.

“All they’re thinking,” Rachel continued, “is that I was with Graham the evening he was killed and that I was furious with him. Plus, they’re convinced he was carrying his gun. A gun I knew how to use. To their minds, that gives me motive, means and opportunity.

“Then we’ve got those damned clothes I threw out. All I need is one more strike against me, whether it’s real or trumped up, and I’ll find myself sitting in a jail cell facing murder charges.”

Taking a long, slow breath, Anne told herself to remain cool and logical. “Rachel,” she said at last, “there’s no way in the world anyone would charge you with murder. Even if those detectives do think you killed Graham—”

“What?” she interrupted, her eyes luminous with tears. “Are you going to say they’d only charge me with manslaughter? Because I killed him in the heat of passion? Or maybe even involuntary manslaughter? Because I was only trying to take the gun away from him when it went off?

“Anne, I didn’t have a thing to do with Graham’s death! And I don’t want to go through the rest of my life with people thinking that I must have because I was charged with…with anything!

“And what if it got to trial and I was headline news? Then I’d always be a killer in people’s eyes, even if I wasn’t convicted. My life would be ruined when I’ve done nothing at all.

“So maybe this guy who phoned would know if Chase told the cops about his call and maybe he wouldn’t. But I’m not taking the chance he would.”

Anne looked at Chase again. “Is that the way you feel, too?”

He shook his head. “How I feel doesn’t matter. I promised Rachel the final decision was hers. After all, she’s the one at risk, the one who could end up sitting in that jail cell. Not me.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“Anne?” Rachel said.

“Yes?”

“I’ve told you about all I can, and…as much as I care about whatever else you’ve got to say, I’m getting a migraine. I thought I’d headed it off this morning, but it’s coming back. So unless there’s anything more you desperately still need to ask me, maybe you and Chase can…”

“We know where to find you if we can’t,” he told her.

She pushed back her chair. “I realize how pig-headed you figure I’m being about that call,” she added to Anne. “But…”

“I understand.” She might not think they were handling this the right way, but she did understand.

“Good. Well…it doesn’t seem like nearly enough to just say thanks. But I’m really, really grateful that you’re trying to help. And whatever—”

“Rachel?” Julie called from the pool. “Are you going home to put on your bathing suit?”

“No, hon, I’m getting migraine flashes, so I’m going to take something and lie down. Maybe I’ll come back over later,” she added, starting for the gate.

Anne watched Rachel skirt the end of the pool, mentally replaying her explanation of why she didn’t want Chase to tell the cops about that call.

Everything she’d said had referred to her—how the police might charge her, how her life could be affected. She hadn’t uttered a single word about the possibility that they suspected Chase, as well.

And he’d said nothing to that effect, either. Rachel’s the one at risk, he’d said. Not me.

So, regardless of how much time those detectives spent questioning him yesterday, and despite knowing he’d gone after his sister, they’d left both Nicholsons with the same message: Rachel was a suspect; Chase wasn’t.

Anne considered that, wondering whether some neighbor had seen him arriving home from the park.

Since people had heard the gunshot, the cops would have an accurate fix on the time. And, quite possibly, they’d ruled out Chase because he’d been back before Graham was killed.

Whatever the reason, though, it seemed obvious they didn’t suspect him.

She was glad of that, but she couldn’t stop wishing they didn’t suspect his sister, either. Or, more accurately, she wished there wasn’t so much evidence pointing toward Rachel’s guilt. Because the way things stood, she might well end up being charged. And now that they’d spent some time together, Anne had a gut feeling Rachel was innocent.

Of course, her instincts about people weren’t always right. And what if she was wrong this time? Lord, she didn’t even want to think about that. By saying she’d try to help before she knew the facts, she’d gotten herself into something worse than she’d expected and in far deeper than she wanted to be.

But while common sense was telling her it was time to back off, what sort of relationship would she have with her new neighbors if she said, “Well, this is as far as I go. See you around”? Not a good one, that was for sure.

Glancing at Chase, she silently admitted there was another reason she didn’t want to back off.

She rarely met a man who interested her. Yet the very first moment she’d seen this man she’d felt a tug of attraction. And getting to know him a little had told her he might be someone she could really come to like.

Actually, to be deep-down honest, she already really liked him. So she hardly wanted to say she’d decided that trying to help his sister was a bad idea.

But what would happen if her “helping” turned up even more evidence of Rachel’s guilt?

The answer was obvious. Rachel would be in jail. And how would Chase feel about someone who’d had a hand in putting her behind bars?

Ordering herself not to go there, Anne forced her mind off the personal aspect of this and back to the broader picture.

“Let me ask you something,” she said to Chase. “If you aren’t going to report your extortionist to the police, what do you intend to do about him?”

CHASE SAT STARING at his daughter, willing her to pick this instant to climb out of the pool and come over to the patio. If he could just manage that minor bit of mental telepathy he wouldn’t have to answer Anne’s question—which he definitely didn’t want to do.

He had no idea how he was going to deal with the extortionist. Hell, he hadn’t even given much thought to what his alternatives were. And if he had to admit that to Anne she’d figure he was an utter moron.

But ever since he’d turned on the news yesterday morning, there’d been so much to worry about that he’d simply penciled the extortion threat in toward the bottom of his list.

After all, the guy had said he’d get back to him in “a couple of days.” And with this being Friday, a couple of days probably meant Monday. Whereas those detectives breathing down Rachel’s neck seemed like a much more immediate threat.

“Can I assume you aren’t going to give him the two hundred thousand?” Anne said.

Damn. His attempt at telepathy had failed. Neither Julie nor Becky had even glanced in his direction.

Resigning himself to his fate, he looked across the table. “I don’t have two hundred thousand dollars. I don’t have anything close to that.”

“Could you come up with it? If you wanted to?”

As she was speaking, a thought struck him. Even if he could, surely no bank would hand him that much money in cash. And cash was what his caller wanted.

After he’d said as much to Anne, she slowly shook her head. “I’m not certain what that tells us. It might mean he doesn’t know much about how banks work, so he doesn’t realize it could be a stumbling block. On the other hand, he might be sophisticated enough to know there’d be ways of arranging it.”

“You really think there would?”

She nodded. “The bank wouldn’t be happy about it. And they’d probably want you to be accompanied by an armed guard, or sign some sort of release. Still, if it was your money, and you insisted on cash…You haven’t answered my question, though. Could you come up with that much?”

When he eyed her uncertainly, she said, “I’m not trying to pry into your personal finances, but could you?”

“Well…probably. I’ve got a good relationship with the manager at my trust company. But you’re not suggesting I pay this jerk, are you?” He couldn’t imagine that was what she had in mind, yet he didn’t know what else she’d be getting at.

“No, of course not. If you did he’d be on your back forever. It’s just that…”

Looking lost in thought, she absently pushed her hair back off her cheek. And as crazy as it seemed, given that they were in the midst of this conversation, he suddenly found himself thinking she was an incredibly sexy woman.

Not that he hadn’t realized it before. Even though his mind had been pretty much occupied with other things from the moment they’d met, he’d certainly noticed she was a terrific-looking woman.

But just a moment ago, something about the fluid motion of her hand, about the way her dark hair danced with auburn highlights as it moved in the sunshine, had gone straight to his groin. And started him imagining her brushing his hair away from his face. As a prelude to a kiss.

He swallowed hard, unable to force his gaze from the lushness of her lips. Then he saw that she was watching him watch her and he felt hot all over.

Scrambling for something—anything—to say, he settled on, “You know what I think Rachel’s biggest fear is? That those detectives are so convinced she killed Graham they won’t be trying to learn who the real killer is.”

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