Marked for Murder. Lauren Nichols
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had been quite an adventure, with both of them sidestepping and bumping into each other as they worked. He used to laugh that he couldn’t wait until they moved into their dream home where they’d be cooking in a kitchen larger than a postage stamp. So much for dreams.
Cole turned around, breaking her thoughts and wiping his hands on a dish towel. His dark brown hair was longer now that he didn’t have to comply with department policy. But if anything, the slightly shaggy look made him even more attractive.
“Okay, everything’s ready for the pan, and your tea’s decaf.” He nodded at the steaming stoneware mug on the counter. “It won’t keep you up.”
No, but having him back in town would. “Great. Can I help?”
“Sure. Want to sauté the vegetables?”
The way she once did? Yes, she would.
The theme from an old TV detective series pounded from the cell phone clipped to Cole’s belt. Pulling it from its case, he checked the number and frowned. “Sorry. I need a few minutes. It’s a callback from a new client.”
She hesitated. “A new client? Sounds like things are going well at Sharp.”
“Well enough,” he replied quietly.
They both knew what she’d meant. Are you happy there? Is the work satisfying? Do you still think about returning to your old precinct in Manhattan?
Henry Mancini’s Peter Gunn theme continued to play in Cole’s hand. “I’d better get this,” he said. Then he flipped open his phone and went into the living room, his low baritone fading. “Mrs. Farley. Yes, I did call. Thanks for getting back to me.”
Margo moved to the range, adjusted the flame under the skillet, added a little butter and olive oil and then tossed in the crisp vegetables.
Was he happy at Sharp Investigations? Could he be happy doing anything but police work? He’d come from a long line of tough city cops. His dad, uncles and grand-dad had all served, and from them had sprung a handful of rowdy cop cousins—incurable jokesters who loved saying that Cole had shed his Andy Sipowicz image to be Charity’s Barney Fife.
She’d known his history when they’d fallen in love and he’d chosen to move here. She just hadn’t known that being a cop was such a large part of who he was as a man. She heard his voice again, as clearly as if their first real disagreement had happened only days ago.
“You know Wilcox was wrong,” he’d said. “I can’t believe you want to stay. Is that the kind of man you want to work for?”
“Yes, he was wrong,” she’d returned. “He should’ve asked for help from the state guys before the case went cold. But it doesn’t make any sense for both of us to be without jobs. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you know this was the first time John made a misstep.”
“Yeah, John’s a saint,” he’d snapped, shutting her down.
After a thoughtful moment, he’d said quietly, “I spoke with my precinct captain yesterday. I can have my old job back if I want it. All I have to do is say the word.”
Fear had nearly taken her breath away. “In Manhattan. Constantly putting your life on the line.”
“I’d be a cop again.”
“And I’d be terrified every time you walked out the door.”
The nerve in his jaw worked. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you’re building a home we already love. And I’m saying we want children. Cole, I don’t want to raise them in a city.”
“I need to work, Margo. I can’t go on like this in definitely.”
“I know,” she’d whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
They might’ve been able to get past that, Margo thought, pushing the ham and veggies around in the pan. But he’d grown up in a household with old-fashioned parents with old-fashioned values. The Blackburn code was simple: the husband provided for his family. Any man who couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain wasn’t worthy of the name.
Despite her prayers that God would send an answer, no help came, and they began to argue about everything. By the time he was offered a job with Sharp Investigations in Pittsburgh and started talking about buying a home there, she was so afraid of being uprooted and jobless if their upcoming marriage failed, she balked. Though it broke her heart, she said no again. For the time being, she would stay in Charity. She saw it as logical. He saw it as betrayal.
“It would only be temporary,” she’d said. “Just until you’re sure that P.I. work is what you want to do.”
He’d kept tossing clothes into a suitcase. “We can’t fix what’s wrong between us, living apart. Whatever happened to whither thou goest, Margo?”
“We wouldn’t be apart that often,” she’d insisted. “A lot of P.I. work is done on the phone and Internet these days, and Pittsburgh is only two hours away. You could drive back any night you wanted to, and I could visit you on my days off.”
That’s when he’d turned around, met her eyes and said, “Fine. If you want to stay, stay. I just have one question.”
“What?” she’d replied on a nervous breath.
“Are we still getting married or not?”
Blinking away the sting in her eyes, Margo moved the ham and vegetables to a plate, then slid the bowl of eggs closer, grabbed a wire whisk and put it to work.
If only he’d listened to her, and not gone head-to-head with John.
If only he’d been able to find more police work in the area.
If only her father hadn’t died, leaving behind a grief-stricken wife who couldn’t cope.
If only the God she’d loved and revered since her childhood hadn’t ignored her prayers.
When Cole finally returned, the omelets were done—and her round resin table outside was set. “Everything’s ready,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we’d eat on the deck.”
Cole glanced through the window, his gaze narrowing. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“I know. But it’s pretty outside, and the mosquitoes haven’t shown up yet.” She couldn’t very well say she felt his presence so acutely that if they ate in her tiny kitchen she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite. Outside in the evening air, she at least had a chance.
“Okay,” he said amiably. “The deck it is.”
The blue sky was darkening as they settled at the table and pulled in their chairs, while above the trees, a white smudge of a moon had appeared. Cole picked up the lighter she’d left on the table, lit the citronella candle between them, then set the lighter aside.
Eleven months ago, Margo with her deep connection to God, and Cole with his lukewarm faith would’ve joined hands and asked the blessing on their meal. Now, after too many unanswered prayers and too many losses, they simply ate, while Cole kept the conversation going and they avoided anything that approached real eye contact.
She was still picking at her food when Cole pushed his plate back, drained the last of his milk and spoke. If they’d been at a Renaissance fair, blaring trumpets would’ve announced to one and all that something important was coming.
His gaze drifted briefly over her damp, shoulder-length hair, gray sweats and pink T-shirt. “So, how did it go with the victim’s roommate today?” he asked. “Was she helpful?”
The question was so pointed that, after their casual discussions about Charity’s suddenly bustling lumber business and the friends they had in common, Margo did make real eye contact. That was when she saw the intense interest on his face. He wasn’t just making idle chitchat. The Hudson girl’s death was the main thing