tantalizing hidden body parts. Because it would be like cheating on my pal.
He and Joel had survived a lot together, including virtual outcast status two years ago when Joel was forced to testify against a lieutenant and the department’s then-chief, Vince Borrego, about their misconduct. The stress had made Joel touchy, for which Connie, still married to Joel, perversely blamed Hale. Easier than accepting the fact that she hadn’t stood by her husband when he needed her.
That might be another reason Hale didn’t allow his daydreams to get too…intimate. Even under the best of conditions, serving on a police force took a heavy toll on relationships. Why waste the effort on a woman who’d already demonstrated an inability to stay the course?
Except that, in the matter of Hale’s taste in women, she fit like a key in a door. The door to the bedroom.
He stuffed the empty bag into the trash, then sauntered toward the hall, stopping to pluck a couple of darts off the sofa and stick them into the dartboard. In the master bedroom, Hale drew the curtains on the side facing Connie’s house. The fact that his window lay directly opposite hers forced them both to be extra careful about privacy.
He’d ordered the heaviest drapes he could find. Black velvet, to match the black satin sheets. Hale took pride in having coordinated at least part of his decor, not that Connie would ever witness it.
Rinsing off in the kitchen hadn’t satisfied him, so he showered, shaved, dashed on cologne and wrestled with a shirt, suit and tie. Might as well get a bit more use out of the outfit he’d bought last month for Officer Rachel Byers’s wedding.
Rachel was one of Connie’s closest friends, as well as a buddy of Hale’s. She’d married the town’s new pediatrician, Dr. Russ McKenzie, at the Villazon Community Church. Big affair, with the entire police department invited, and a blast afterward at the Villa Inn. Weddings were great fun, as long as they were someone else’s.
Hale was striding toward the garage when he spotted Skip’s small duffel bag atop the washing machine. He’d forgotten setting it there after the boy arrived.
A peek inside revealed pajamas printed with cartoon characters. A toothbrush and a couple of toys were tucked underneath. A safe bet the kid would go to bed before Hale made it home.
Returning this stuff meant confronting the dragon lady once more. With a shrug, he let himself out through the garage and spared a longing glance at the motorcycle and all-terrain vehicle he hadn’t had a chance to ride in ages.
At the next house, Connie’s maroon sedan was gone. A wisp of memory flashed through his mind as he stared at the empty driveway: her blond hair caught in the breeze as she zoomed up and parked the red convertible she used to drive. Joel, tuning his car in the garage, had ignored his wife’s struggle with sacks of groceries. Marriage did that to a guy, Hale supposed. Turned him blind, deaf and really, really dumb.
Which was kind of how he felt, standing on the porch ringing the bell when he knew nobody would answer. He supposed he could drop the duffel on her rear porch with a note. But Connie’s Curios was on the way to Frank’s house, and besides, Skip might want his toys.
A visit to the gift shop. Since he’d never set foot inside, this ought to prove interesting.
Hale tooled through the neighborhood past fallen lavender blooms that mirrored the cloudlike shapes of jacaranda trees. A short distance beyond the residential area, a strip mall featured a discount furniture store, a supermarket, the storefront office of the weekly Villazon Voice, and at the corner of the intersection with Arches Avenue, Connie’s Curios. Its red-and-white exterior framed a lacy window display bearing the banner “Welcome June Brides.”
In the parking area, the thin sprinkling of cars gave the place an isolated air. On a weekend, the small office building around the corner and behind the gift store didn’t generate much traffic, either.
Connie should rethink her policy of staying open ’til seven on Fridays and Saturdays. That was only an hour later than usual, but it felt late.
As a cop, Hale knew that Villazon, situated on the eastern rim of Los Angeles County adjacent to Orange County, had a low crime rate. But no telling who might wander into Connie’s Curios looking for a till full of cash.
Joel had disagreed with his wife’s decision to go into business, Hale recalled. She’d insisted she had the right, since she was investing half of an inheritance from her grandparents in it, but he’d have preferred to buy a vacation cabin. If her safety had been a concern, though, Joel hadn’t mentioned it. Since he’d already blown the other half of her inheritance on a bad investment entered into without Connie’s agreement, Joel had reluctantly backed down.
Hale stepped inside to the accompaniment of chimes. The swirl of pinks, reds and lavenders and the array of frilly merchandise made him feel dizzy. Who on earth bought this many greeting cards, stuffed animals, china bells and figurines, mugs, T-shirts, pens, magnets, clocks, key chains, puzzles, scrapbooks and candles? Not to mention comic books, animal characters and action figures.
Still, a fellow could go for the bins of wrapped candies and racks of Swiss and Italian chocolate bars. Might be worth springing for one, except he’d probably arrive at the captain’s house with a smear of chocolate on his tie.
From behind the counter, Connie regarded him frostily. “Something I can do for you, Detective?”
Sure, lots of things. But none of them in public. “Thought you might have some use for this.” Hale swung the duffel onto the counter, dislodging a catalog showing gift baskets. “It belongs to Skip. Where is the little guy?”
She indicated a children’s nook where, ensconced in a beanbag chair, the boy was absorbed in watching a shiny red TV set. “He got tired of helping me count change.”
Hale whistled. “I didn’t expect a store like this to carry electronics.”
“We offer specialty items tailored for kids. Grandparents get a kick out of them. We have gadgets for adults, as well.” Connie appeared to warm to her subject.
“Where do you find stuff like that?” Since the items she stocked bore little resemblance to the products in ordinary stores, Hale supposed she must have special sources.
“Catalogs, sales reps, the Internet and specialty trade shows in Anaheim and L.A.” Both convention centers lay within a forty-five-minute drive.
So far, no customers had entered, and he’d observed none when he arrived. “You earn a living at this?”
Although her forehead puckered, Connie didn’t fling a retort. “There’s a thin margin of profit, but yes. I’m always bringing in new merchandise, so people drop by frequently, and we have regular customers who collect specialty items. Also, I coordinate with party and wedding planners, arrange craft classes and maintain gift registries. Plus, we do about forty percent of our business in November and December.”
“You carry the same stuff at your other stores?” Connie owned the concession at the hospital and a boutique in the town’s funky shopping mart, In a Pickle, which occupied the site of a former pickling plant.
“Each one is unique.” She spoke with uncharacteristic patience. “I encourage my managers to imprint their personality and cater to their clientele. So you’ll find a lot of food items and Latin American imports at the Pickle, and flowers, books and magazines at the medical center.”
Hale
