been given a heads-up about the Wayside Revelers, so he’d been expecting a need to cruise by their dinner-dance during his patrol shift.
The Revelers were all supposed to be retirees, or at least card-carrying members of the AARP. One in particular, however, didn’t fit that profile. Paul hadn’t been prepared for the fiery beauty who stood up to him brandishing a knife.
How was he supposed to have known she was the caterer? Her eyes flashed and she looked as if she were out for blood—his in particular. In the evidence room, he’d taken a look at that knife again. Carving knife or not, it could have done some damage had it truly been used as a weapon.
On the drive home, just one thing stuck with Paul, though, nicking his conscious, pestering his peace of mind, making him doubt what he’d seen with his own two eyes: How could he have grabbed her so hard that he’d left a bruise?
That ate at him like nothing else—even the fact that she kept saying “again.” He searched his memory, but couldn’t recall arresting her in L.A. Granted, he’d arrested a lot of people in his ten years as a cop on the street there. Maybe she’d been in the number. But surely he’d remember someone who looked like Amber Montgomery—like summer and cornfields and blue skies.
She’d caught his eye, all right.
Not remembering her as a suspect in L.A., however, didn’t bother him as much as that bruise on her arm.
The other Revelers tossed food around. Messy, yes. But not necessarily deadly. The knife wielded by Amber Montgomery, well, that piece of business was another story altogether. Despite her objection, the weapon had been bagged, tagged and put into an evidence locker at the police station.
He thought he’d let go of at least some of the wariness and care that had served him well on the LAPD. But apparently, he’d not yet gotten acclimated to Wayside and its considerably lower crime rate.
If a geriatric food fight ranked as serious crime here—serious enough to roust the mayor and get him to police headquarters—Paul had definitely settled in the right place. In a city the size of Los Angeles, only crimes like mass rioting, terrorism or a high-profile celebrity slaying ranked severe enough for top public officials to make an unscheduled appearance at police headquarters.
Yeah, he’d take a food fight any day over what he’d left behind.
Drawing a deep breath, Paul shed the cares of the job in exchange for the role that brought him the greatest sense of satisfaction.
“Hi, Eunice,” he said, walking in his front door. He un-buckled his gun belt, locked both the revolver and the belt in a closet, then tucked the key away on the chain he always wore around his neck.
“Well, howdy, Chief. Busy night, huh? I heard the Revelers got out of control again.”
He nodded. “You could say that. Thanks for staying with the kids.”
She wrapped up the knitting she’d been doing, placed yarn and needles in a large quilted bag at her side. “Not a problem. Sutton and Jonathan are fast asleep, bless their little hearts. You have two fine children there, Chief.”
Paul thought so, too. “I hope they didn’t wear you out too much.”
Eunice pooh-poohed that. “If anything, it’s the other way around,” she said on a chuckle. “We had fun.”
He pulled out his wallet.
“If you hand me any money, Paul Evans, I’m going to be mighty insulted.”
“Eunice, I can’t let you do this and not pay you.”
“You’re new to Wayside,” she said, patting his hand. “You’ll get the hang of the place soon. I left a plate of cookies for you. We made gingerbread men.”
Paul smiled. Having Eunice Gallagher living right across the street was a godsend, one of many he’d encountered in Wayside. She was the secretary at Community Christian Church, where he’d transferred his membership shortly after arriving in Wayside. A native of Wayside, she’d all but adopted him and his kids.
He helped her with her coat.
“Eunice, do you know a woman by the name of Amber Montgomery?”
The older lady beamed. “Of course! Everybody knows Amber. Don’t tell me you haven’t had one of her honey pecan rolls yet.”
“Honey pecan rolls?”
Eunice laughed. “Goodness, how in the world have you lived here for three months and not had one of those yet? Tell you what, I’ll swing by the inn tomorrow and get you some if they’re not sold out by the time I get there. You’re in for a treat.”
He was still trying to understand. “Wait, so she’s the town baker?”
Eunice picked up her knitting bag. “No. She’s a gourmet chef. She runs a catering business called Appetizers & More, but most people know her for the honey pecan rolls and her lemon meringue tarts.” Eunice smacked her lips. “Talk about delicious.”
Since he’d been hit with potatoes and not tarts, Paul couldn’t agree or disagree. He thought back to Amber’s earlier behavior, though, if she hadn’t looked so dazed, he’d have sworn she’d played a tactic used by nonviolent protesters. That going limp bit had been used for decades.
“Shock,” he surmised. She had to have been in shock. Law-abiding citizens could be counted on to react in one of two ways—outrage or polite pacifism—while they waited patiently or impatiently—for things to get sorted out.
He’d spent so many years working the violent streets of South-Central L.A. that he’d forgotten about law-abiding citizens. Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d had a knife in his face. But it probably was the first time in his law enforcement career that the brandisher hadn’t tried to slice him with it.
Paul felt bad—really, really bad—about the bruise he’d put on her arm.
After he watched Eunice cross the street, open her door then flick her front porch light, Paul looked in on his sleeping children. Sutton, whose teddy bear Bentley and rag doll Angel cuddled close to her, looked like an angel herself. Her blond curls spread out over the pillow.
She looked a lot like her mom. Paul’s heart constricted at the thought.
He stood watching her for a while. Then he placed a kiss on her head and whispered “I love you” to the sleeping child.
A bathroom connected the two bedrooms, and the doors always remained open. On the countertop sat Wally, another of Sutton’s stuffed toys—this one a rainbow fish.
With a small chuckle, Paul greeted Wally. “So you’re on the night watch this evening.”
Paul walked through to Jonathan’s room where lights blazed overhead and at the boy’s desk. Sprawled on his twin bed with its cartoon-character sheets, Jonathan had, as usual, kicked all the covers off. Paul tugged the sheet and light blanket up.
The boy stirred. “Izzat you, Unca Pa?”
Paul smiled, easily translating the sleep talk. “Yeah, sport. It’s me. I’m home. Go back to
