Daddy Protector

“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 had run out of questions. Wanted to keep her talking, though. Maybe he felt a little protective, seeing her here alone on a Saturday evening. And the cozy scents of cinnamon and peppermint hinted at a childhood he barely remembered. Also, he wasn’t too keen on the dull evening ahead.

“So are you planning any more—” Hale halted at a peculiar scraping noise from the back of the store.

Connie shifted uneasily. “Sounds like someone’s in the storage room. Or it could be an animal, I suppose. A cat might have sneaked in from the alley.”

Hale kept his voice low. “How about an employee?”

A headshake. “Jo Anne left a while ago.” Her fists tightened atop the counter. “We had a break-in attempt from the alley a few nights ago after hours. The alarm scared off whoever it was.”

He reached into his jacket for the holstered gun he always carried. “You leave the back unlocked during working hours?”

“No, but Jo Anne put out the trash. Maybe she forgot to lock up.”

“Who else has a key?”

“Just Jo Anne.” She gave a little cough before continuing. “She wouldn’t enter that way without letting me know.” She shot a glance at Skip, who remained fixed on the TV screen.

Through the glass front, the parking lot appeared as sparsely occupied as when Hale had arrived. No sign of trouble there.

“I’ll check it out.” He pointed the gun’s barrel toward the floor. “Might be a rodent or some merchandise falling over.”

“Let’s hope…” Connie halted at another noise from the storeroom. It sounded to Hale like the scuff of a shoe.

“Call 911,” he ordered tensely. “Stay low behind the counter, out of the line of fire. Leave Skip where he is.” There was no time. Someone might burst out at any second.

Connie reached for the phone. No hysterics or nonsense. Hale appreciated that.

Raising the gun, he approached the rear door at an angle, kicked it open, shouted, “Police! Come out with your hands up!” and braced for action.

Chapter Two

Credit card fraud. Shoplifting. Vandalism and burglary. They were all issues Connie had prepared for when she opened a shop. The classes she’d taken had even instructed her how to handle a break-in: “Don’t keep much money in the till. If a robber demands it, give him everything on hand.”

But a furtive intruder from the alley, on a Saturday night when she might have been the only adult present? Terrifying.

She forced herself to breathe steadily as she provided the dispatcher with her name and location. “I think someone’s broken into my storeroom. An off-duty officer is checking it out. Hale Crandall. He requested backup.”

“I’m sending it now,” the woman responded. “Please stay on the line.”

No one had responded to Hale’s verbal challenge. Instead, she’d heard a scuffling noise as if the intruder was retreating.

After a split second, Hale had gone after him. Typical testosterone-infused male, running an unnecessary risk, except that, perversely, Connie admired the heck out of him for doing it. Much as she normally preferred standing on her own two feet, she felt a surge of gratitude for Hale. Certainly not an emotion she usually associated with her neighbor.

As a siren wailed in the distance, Connie wondered what was happening out of her sight. She thought she heard men speaking in the alley, or was that the TV?

Across the shop, Skip got up and trotted between the displays to join her. “Where’d Hale go, Connie?”

“We heard a noise,” she told him.

“Wow! I saw his gun!” He beamed, too young to grasp that his new friend might get killed. But Connie remained all too aware of the danger.

For the three years of her marriage, she’d lived with the fear of a knock at the door and the news that Joel was dead or wounded, and she’d vowed never to forget that life was fragile. But she’d never once worried about Hale. A moment before, he’d stood in front of her, tall and cheerful and seemingly indestructible. Now she might lose him, and that possibility scared her more than she would have expected. A lot more.

She heard footsteps coming through the storage room. A moment’s tension, and then Hale called out, “Tell dispatch to cancel the cavalry. I’m okay.”

“Hale says everything’s fine,” she informed the woman on the phone.

“May I speak to him, please?”

He entered, grinning. The cocky expression gave Connie an urge to slap him for provoking such anxiety.

Behind him trailed a sheepish Vince Borrego, the town’s former police chief who, since being forced to resign, had worked as a private investigator. His office lay across the alley in the building behind the shop, and he occasionally visited to pick up treats for his daughter and grandchildren.

She thrust out the phone to Hale. He stepped aside with it, leaving her to face the older man.

“Sorry for the ruckus.” In his late fifties, Vince had a gravelly voice and deep wrinkles, souvenirs of his former heavy smoking and drinking. “I was leaving my office and noticed your rear door ajar. Decided to make sure nobody’d sneaked inside, but when Hale shouted a warning, it startled me. I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble, given my history in this town, so I skedaddled. Dumb move.”

“Thanks for your concern. About the open door, I mean.” Connie found it reassuring that the ex-chief had been looking out for her security.

“Glad to help.”

In front, a police cruiser halted. Hale concluded his discussion with the dispatcher and went to consult with the officer.

“Hi, Vince!” Skip high-fived the older man, who lived in the same fourplex as the Laytons. Connie had bumped into him a few weeks earlier when she dropped her student off after a tutoring session, and discovered that she and Vince shared similar concerns about the boy.

“Good to see you, fella.” To complete the greeting, Vince lightly slapped the little hand down low, as well as on high. “Got to get you together with my grandson. You’re close to the same age.”

“Cool!” With Connie’s permission, the little boy chose a couple of hard candies and trotted back to the TV.

“What brings our little man to Connie’s Curios?” Vince asked as he picked out several chocolate bars.

She explained about Paula’s dropping him off at Hale’s house. “I’m glad she didn’t leave him alone in the apartment,” he responded. “She does that on occasion, although usually for less than an hour.”

“Even so, that’s disturbing.” When Connie had asked her lawyer about the matter, he’d explained that the law didn’t specify a minimum age at which a child had to be supervised. Once children reached school age, authorities generally didn’t crack down unless harm resulted.

Fortunately, the fourplex where Skip lived belonged to Yolanda Rios, co-founder of the homework center, and she helped keep an eye on the boy. It was she who’d discovered he was having problems in kindergarten the previous year and brought him in for tutoring.

“I talked to a lawyer about adopting. If Paula’s not going to make a real home for him, I wish she’d give me a chance,” Connie grumbled.