CHAPTER ONE

      CHELSEA’S HEART TRIPPED at the sight of the bright yellow Do Not Cross police barricade tape and blue-and-white flashing lights. Peering through her windshield, she couldn’t tell for certain this far down Willowbrook Avenue, but it looked as if all the activity was in front of the Sinclair Art Gallery.

      It was too early for any of her colleagues to be at work. Whatever was going on, at least none of them would be hurt...or worse.

      That was her overactive imagination again, she chastised herself. It was probably something as mundane as a malfunction in the gallery’s security system.

      No. That would explain the police cars but not the barricade tape.

      But what else could it be?

      Then she thought of the gallery’s curator, her friend and mentor, Mr. Hadley, the only person who was occasionally at work before she was.

      Chelsea’s heart rate kicked up another notch, and she had trouble breathing.

      All she could think of was Mr. Hadley.

      Pressing down on the accelerator, she sped toward the gallery. As she got closer, she realized the tape wasn’t in front of the gallery, after all. Her relief was short-lived, since whatever was going on involved the jewelry store next door. She was very fond of Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, the elderly couple who owned All That Glitters and Shines. She didn’t want any harm to befall them, either.

      She slowed her ancient Honda Civic to a crawl near the storefront. Judging by the shards of glass strewn across the sidewalk, it had to be a break-in.

      How many times had she urged Mr. Rochester to install an enclosed display cabinet on the outside wall—or, at a minimum, security bars—so something like this wouldn’t happen? Mr. Rochester always dismissed the idea good-naturedly, saying it wasn’t necessary in a friendly place like Camden Falls.

      Craning her neck to see inside, she could make out shattered cases and toppled shelving before her view was obstructed by a tall man wearing a Camden Falls Police Department jacket. He was assisting someone across the room. As they turned toward a seating area, she glimpsed the other person.

      “Oh, no!” Chelsea quickly pulled over to the curb behind a police cruiser. She slammed her vehicle into Park and jumped out. Ducking under the police tape, she rushed toward the entrance.

      “Ma’am!” a police officer who’d been standing by the door called after her. “Ma’am, that’s a crime scene. You can’t go in there!”

      He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp. Her only thought was of Mr. Rochester. “I most certainly can! I’m a friend of the owner’s,” she stated and pushed her way in through the door.

      She couldn’t hold back a gasp when she saw Mr. Rochester. He was sitting on a settee, slumped over, his normally ruddy complexion parchment white. A paramedic crouched in front of him and was working to staunch the flow of blood from a wound on his temple.

      Ignoring the officer who’d followed her in and dodging another who’d moved to intercept her, she ran over to Mr. Rochester. Dropping to her knees next to where the paramedic was, she touched his knee. “Mr. Roch—”

      Before she could finish, a hand clamped around her upper arm and tugged her back up on her feet.

      “Hey!” she started to protest, but the words died in her throat as her eyes met the steely blue ones of the cop she’d seen through the window. He was wearing plain clothes under his CFPD jacket and exuded an air of authority.

      “Miller!” he called, apparently to the cop who’d been outside. “Who is this and how did she get in here?”

      Miller shot Chelsea an exasperated look. “I have no idea who she is, other than that she says she’s a friend of his.” He pointed at Mr. Rochester. “She ignored the tape and ran past me. I tried to stop her...” He glanced down, but not quickly enough for Chelsea to miss the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. “She got by me, Detective,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

      “You’ve got to be kidding,” the detective retorted. “Well, get her out of here.”

      “No. Wait!” Chelsea interjected. The detective and Miller both turned to her, but she barely noticed Miller. There was something commanding in the detective’s eyes, in his bearing. She supposed he was good-looking, in that tough-and-rugged way, but the frown and obvious exasperation in his eyes didn’t do much for his appeal. “It’s not the officer’s fault,” she said. “So there’s no point scolding him.”

      The detective raised a brow, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

      “I’m Chelsea Owens,” she continued and stuck out her hand with such resolve she didn’t give him much choice but to shake it. “I’m a sales associate at the Sinclair Gallery next door. Please, let me stay with Mr. Rochester. He’s hurt and...” She motioned around them. “And all this. This store means everything to him and Mrs. Rochester. He could use a friend right now,” she said, as the paramedic finished applying a bandage and joined his colleague at a nearby gurney.

      The detective held her gaze for several heartbeats. The strong jaw and sharp features seemed to soften—definitely adding to his attractiveness—and he nodded. “All right. But stay with him. Don’t move around and don’t touch anything. Miller,” he called to the other officer. “Don’t let her contaminate the scene. If she causes any problems, I’m holding you responsible.” Lowering his voice, he murmured something to Miller that Chelsea couldn’t hear.

      “Understood, Detective Eldridge,” Miller responded.

      “Just a minute,” Chelsea interrupted, drawing Detective Eldridge’s attention again. The look in his eyes, not altogether unfriendly but...daunting, made her think better of arguing.

      She remained silent and watched him move away. He was tall. At least a couple of inches over six feet. Broad-shouldered, with a confident, efficient gait. Admonishing herself for getting distracted at a time like this, she turned back to Mr. Rochester.

      * * *

      SAM ELDRIDGE WALKED OVER to a couple of crime scene technicians who were taking pictures and dusting for prints.

      The older technician, Mike Kincaid, looked up at him. “What’s your call on this one?” he asked with a grin. “Prints or no prints?”

      It was a game the techs liked to play with Sam. He was right far more often than he was wrong about whether they’d find any evidence. In this case, he didn’t want to hazard a guess. Pros tended to leave very little behind. He’d dealt with enough of them in Boston to know that for a fact. But he was getting mixed signals about this incident. There were indications that pros were involved. They hadn’t come in through the broken front window. They’d