CHAPTER TEN

Sam appeared from the meat counter where he’d just hung up the phone. “It’s okay, Valentine. Main thing is you’re not hurt.” He ushered his mother away, looking back over his shoulder. “The police will be here shortly.”

In record time, a couple of cruisers squealed to a stop in front of the deli, followed by the ID unit and a TV van. Huh. Maybe Officer Martoli could catch a double feature on the news. I could see the headlines now. BEAUTICIAN CRACKS KEG, THEN CRACKS CROOK.

Lovely.

The crime scene tape went up, and the ID unit unpacked their tool kits and cameras. I ignored all the frenzy and returned to Tantig again. She was in the aisle where I’d left her, looking at items on a shelf that hadn’t been shot.

Relieved that the impact of all this hadn’t shaken her, I called her name, then slipped in a puddle of oil and crashed, ass to the floor. My head hit the ground with a whack, and the wind got knocked out of me. I lay there almost comatose, staring straight up at the ceiling fans going ’round and ’round.

Tantig rambled over and blinked calmly. “What are you do-ink?”

I rolled my tongue across my teeth, making sure they were all there. “I…uh…thought I saw a big mouse…or a small cat.”

“Oh…my…Gaaad.” Her tone was flat, her eyes did a half roll.

Being present during a shooting didn’t faze her. This elicited a dismayed response. Tantig had no use for animals, big or small. In the old country, she claimed, cats and dogs ran rabid, and no self-respecting human paid attention to them, let alone had one for a pet.

I got to my feet, picked up the tweezers and paper bag, and hitched my beauty bag over my shoulder. Then I took a good look at Tantig.

She had globs of oil on her face and hair…and shoulders…and sleeves. And there was a chunk of tomato on her crown. Swell. Wait till my mother saw her. I groaned, not allowing myself to go there. I had bigger issues on my mind.

Tantig stared at the paper bag, unaware she looked like a white goose ready for the oven. “Is that for my groceries?”

I glanced down at the bag. “No. This one has holes in it.” Wishing I could see the humor in that, I limped over to our cart, chucked the thing inside, then shoved the tweezers in my black bag.

I brushed the tomato off her head and finished wiping oil off her face when a uniform trooped down the aisle. He escorted Tantig to a cruiser so she could rest while I went through specifics with another officer.

Most of the shoppers had been marshaled out, the last handful offering cops what little they’d seen. I was finishing up my statement when Romero hustled through the doors. He stopped to confer with one of his men who was questioning Sam Kuruc.

Automatically, I ducked, my heart going pa-bum at the sight of him, my stomach lurching at the expected reaction when he saw me.

I leaned closer to the shelves and watched Romero pat Sam’s shoulder, then take notes from him and the cop. He did some nodding and said a few words to Sam, which brought a look of relief to Sam’s face. Then, as if sensing he was being watched, he turned his head and caught my eye.

I leaped back and bashed into the cart, an instant blaze burning through me. A “gotcha” smile curved on his lips. If I were smart, I would’ve scrammed out the back door, but I was too exhausted to make the effort.

Romero wrapped it up with Sam and the cop, shuffled past several employees and spilled items, and headed my way. His set shoulders and heavy stride said he’d had better days. I wasn’t about to argue that…or incidentally bring up his hurt foot.

He paused three feet from me and looked from my head to my toes. I hadn’t taken stock of my appearance since the attack, so I took the opportunity and peeked down at myself.

My hair on my shoulders was matted and greasy, my pants were slimy, and my jacket was blotched with tomato goop. Plus, there was an olive stuck to my zipper. Okay, so I didn’t look like I was going to the ball.

He plucked the olive off my coat and popped it in his mouth. “You ready to talk to me now?”

Aha. The “gotcha” look. Figured he wouldn’t forget about our earlier exchange.

I gulped at the power and size of his mere presence, refusing to let his strength or authority intimidate me. “Fine. You’re upset with me.” I let out a breath, feeling myself getting worked up again. “Maybe I did go to see Luther Boyle. Big deal! You had a lot of nerve asking Max and Jock to watch over me.”

“It was for your own protection.” His daring blue-eyed stare seemed to look straight into my soul.

I stood my ground, not willing to be sucked in by his good looks or overbearing concern. “In spite of that, what happened here today proves Ziggy’s at the bottom of this.”

He blew out air. “Nobody’s disputing that. But you’re like a walking target. Everywhere you go, disaster follows.”

“That’s not true.” I shoved my hands on my hips in defiance. They slid right off from the oil coating me, but the effort was real. “I was at my parents’ an hour ago and nothing happened there.” I crossed my arms cheekily to seal the point.

He stood cocky-like, hand on his gun hip. “Pardon my mistake.”

“You’re pardoned.” My voice was raspy, which meant I was close to tears…again. But I scrounged up my inner strength and gave him a bold stare.

His face relaxed like he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere by playing the tough cop. “Okay. Want to tell me what happened?”

I filled him in on the shooting, not seeing any point in bringing up my actions in self-defense.

After I was done, his gaze took in the whole store, then narrowed on the leaking bottles on the shelves. He glanced at me and back at the shelves. Without a word, he reached his arm past a mess of broken items and retrieved a white plastic tube with orange writing on it.

He sniffed the opening and flicked the lid shut, eyes riveted on me. “Gingerbread.”

My cheeks burned. Damn cream. Why hadn’t I pocketed it?

“Yours?” His voice was deep, steady.

I nodded.

He kept himself in check, but his frustration was evident. “Is there a reason your hand cream was on the shelf?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Care to let me in on it? Or should I assume we’ll be looking for a perp ready for the spa?”

My nostrils flared in anger. “I didn’t rub him down with it, if that’s what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think. Please enlighten me.”

“I shot it in his mouth,” I blurted.

There was a pause, and I hesitantly peeked up into his eyes, waiting for a response. All I got was a raised eyebrow, which highlighted that darn racy scar on his cheekbone.

“It wasn’t that bizarre,” I argued. “He was wearing a paper bag over his head, and I aimed it at the hole cut out for the mouth.”

“A paper bag,” he repeated, “with a hole cut for the mouth.”

“That’s right.”

“Did it have holes cut for the eyes, ears, and nose?”

I sliced him a mean look. “Just the eyes.”

“Why didn’t you shoot him in the eye?”

I gave an innocent shrug. “The mouth was a better target. Then he choked on the cream and threw up.”

He angled his head down and rubbed the back of his neck. I couldn’t tell if he was grinning or grimacing, so I waited with uncertainty, rolling my tongue inside my cheek.

He lifted his gaze to me in that damn sexy way. “You sure you don’t want to ditch hairdressing for a career as a marksman? You’d probably get hired on the spot.”

“No, thank you.”

I went to snatch the cream, having enough of his sarcasm, but he slid it in his pocket, telling me I’d get it back later. I huffed at that, suddenly remembering flinging the paper bag in the cart.

I spun around and pointed down at the bag. “Said bag. I found it in the Dumpster out back.”

He leaned in beside me, hooked the bag into the air with the tip of his pen, and studied all sides of it. “Good work, Tex.”

“I only used the cream in self-defense,” I continued, feeling the need to explain my actions. “And his gun was pointed at my head.”

“I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

I blinked in astonishment. “You would’ve?”

“No.” He placed the bag back in the cart. “I would’ve fired a gun.”

“I don’t have a gun, may I remind you.”

He choked out a cough. “Good thing. You’re too impulsive to own a gun.”

I balled my hands into fists. “A moment ago, you said I should be a marksman.”

“I’ve reconsidered. I think archery may be more your style. The kind with those suction cups on the tip of the arrow.”

Mr. Hilarious.

He was so close his masculine scent penetrated my senses. But I stood squarely, pretending to ignore the jibe.

He surveyed the mess around us, then squatted and motioned to a chunk of glass. “I have a feeling ballistics will tell us the same gun that shot Dooley also shot these bottles.” He gave a head shake. “At least nobody was hurt.”

I didn’t disagree.

While we were talking about shootings, I dug in my bag and tugged out the red booklet.

Romero stood and took the booklet out of my hand. “What’s this?”

“Dooley’s journal. He not only took pictures of me, he also recorded his thoughts.”

Romero flipped through the book, stopping here and there to read a passage. “So Stoaks wanted Dooley to believe you were his girlfriend.”

“Seems that way.”

He rapped the notebook in his hand. “It’s all starting to make sense. Ziggy holds a grudge against you for putting him behind bars. He meets Dooley in prison. Dooley does his time, and when he’s released and headed back to Rueland, Ziggy asks him to keep an eye on you. If he can get Dooley to believe you’re cheating on your poor jailed boyfriend, then maybe he can convince Dooley that you deserve to die.”

“Sounds about right, now that we know they were doing time together.”

He gave me a strange look as if there was no doubt about that in his mind. “But once Dooley starts clicking shots of you left and right, he realizes you’re not—nor have ever been—Ziggy’s girlfriend.”

“Give the man a prize.” I was getting my spunk back, showing all kinds of confidence around Romero.

He tapped me on the head with the booklet, giving me a look that all but melted me. “And when Ziggy escaped and hunted down Dooley, they had words that resulted in Dooley’s murder.”

“That’s how I figured it.”

Romero slipped the booklet in his pocket, then made a show of stroking his unshaved jaw like something else was on his mind. “You want to tell me where Max is?”

I knew where this change of topic was heading. “He’s at Jimmy’s…baking bread.”

“Baking bread.”

“That’s right.”

He gave me a steady look that I could interpret a hundred ways. But I stayed silent, waiting for him to process this.

“And you were here with Tantig because?”

“She needed grape leaves to make Armenian sarma.”

He stared at me.

“Little cabbage-type rolls filled with a meaty, rice filling.”

He nodded carefully. “And you felt it wise to switch traveling companions from a thirty-year-old fit male to an eighty-year-old woman.”

“Max is thirty-one,” I corrected.

His stern expression said he wasn’t amused.

“Look.” I tapped my toe pointedly. “This was supposed to have been a short outing. How did I know Ziggy would come after me in a European deli?”

“Maybe because he’s crazy! Because he’s a murderer! And hey! Just thought of this one. Because he’s been playing games with you all day! He’ll stop at nothing until he kills you.” The veins in his neck bulged, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say Romero was about to blow a gasket.

“Okay already. We still don’t know for sure if it was Ziggy. Calm down.”

“Calm down!” His arms waved madly, grabbing the attention of the cops in the aisle, dusting and collecting evidence. He speared them a look, and they promptly went back to what they were doing.

“My life was a sea of calm,” he said, “until I met you. Now I wake up every day wondering what trouble you’ll get into. I haven’t worried this much about anyone since…” He paused, and his tone wavered. “In a very long time.”

My heart warmed at his confession. He’d gone through a period that had caused him great pain, and I didn’t intentionally want to make life worse for him. But I wasn’t going to cloister myself away either until Ziggy was caught.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. “If I suspect any more trouble, if anyone follows me or calls me or sends me any more presents, I’ll phone you right away. Okay?”

“This is a small town. I’d hear news about you before you even pulled out your phone.” He gripped me by the shoulders, unbothered by the oily feel. Then he whirled us around, away from prying eyes, his voice husky, his stare hungry. “I need you in my life, you know that?”

Without waiting for a response, he dragged me close, bent his head, and gave me a hot-blooded kiss, his tongue possessing mine in a fierce tango.

When we finally broke apart, he stared deep into my eyes. “If calling’s the best you can do, I’ll take it. Just promise you’ll follow through.”

I watched him get called away, my legs wobbly from the kiss, my mouth numb.

“Scout’s honor.” I put my hand to my head and gave his back a woozy two—or was it three?—finger salute.