Chapter Three

“Knock, knock.”

“Door’s open, Aunt Philly.”

Phyllis used the toe of her shoe to nudge the bedroom door completely open. She set the tray containing two cups, a small teapot, and a canister of whipped cream on the end of the bed. “I thought you might like a cup of hot chocolate, with a healthy splash of amaretto. It’s my specialty.”

Phyllis sniffed her appreciation for the aromatic fragrance as she lifted the canister. “Whipped cream?”

Laura smiled and nodded. She accepted the cup as she sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, knees drawn up. Her aunt relaxed in the wingbacked chair next to the window.

Neither woman spoke.

Laura closed her eyes and swallowed the knot in the back of her throat. The velvety texture of the chocolate laced with alcohol worked like a magic potion. She set the empty cup aside. A slight blush rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Aunt Philly.”

Phyllis tipped her own cup for the last luscious drop of liquid. “Whatever for?”

“For barging in without an invitation, for being rude to your friends, for…for—” and then like the gates of a dam had burst, her tears flowed and heart-wrenching sobs tore from Laura’s throat. Damn her aunt for unleashing the vulnerability she’d chained down so she could investigate crimes without crumbling under fear.

Phyllis shifted to the bed and opened her arms. She stroked the silken strands of short blonde hair as she cradled her niece. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on you things were not right. I’m a good listener, if you’re of a mind to talk.”

Laura sat up. Between sobs, hiccups, and blowing her nose, she managed to relate about Jolly’s death, about her own injuries, and about the implied threat to her life. “It’s all my fault. I have a knack for plunging ahead without thinking. Max, my editor, warned me. If I had listened, if I had waited for DEA to arrive, Jolly would be celebrating his wedding day instead of lying in a cold grave.”

Phyllis offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about your friend, but what worries me the most is the threat that young punk made about hurting you. At least he’s in prison, and I assume no one knows you’re here. You’re safe.”

Phyllis stared at Laura with genuinely kind eyes. “I’m guessing all this has something to do with you changing your name from Schofield to Friday.”

“The more anonymity, the better. Max helped me make the name change legal. You don’t think Dad would mind, do you?”

“It’s a shame your parents aren’t alive to see the fine young woman you’ve become. In death as well as in life, Tom and June would agree with your decision. Besides, you’ve always been more Friday than Schofield.”

A yawn caught Laura by surprise. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“The amaretto is doing the trick.” She patted her niece’s arm. “Don’t you worry. My lips are sealed. Now, it’s late, and you need to rest. I’ll take the dishes to the kitchen and bring up your bags.”

“I’m serious, Aunt Philly. Not even to old Sheriff Gilman.”

“Amos Gilman had a fatal heart attack a few years back. His daughter, Roberta Gilman, is sheriff now. She’s on temporary leave of absence—honeymoon. Mitchell Carter is the new deputy. He’s arrogant, too handsome for his own good, and behind those baby-blue peepers is a man harboring a sad soul.”

“I don’t remember her. In fact, there isn’t much I do remember about Cole Harbor. Is the new Sheriff Gilman capable?”

“Ayuh. Seemed only reasonable for her to fill Amos’ shoes. She’s more’n qualified.”

“I wondered about the deputy’s southern drawl.”

Phyllis’ eyebrows arched upward. “You met him?”

Laura gave a brief sketch of her encounter with Mitchell Carter, then scooted from the bed. “I’ll get my travel bag, and we can leave the rest of the suitcases until morning.”

The sudden motion of standing caused her to yelp when pain sliced through her thigh and her leg collapsed. She grabbed the bedpost to keep from crumpling to the floor. This time the tears that leaked from her eyes had nothing to do with emotions and everything to do with the multiple gunshot wounds that were still healing.

She swallowed back the bile. Her hands trembled as she reached for her purse and lifted out the bottle of painkillers.

Phyllis took the cue, grabbed the cup off the tray, and rushed next door to the bathroom, to return in seconds with cool water.

Laura swallowed the pills, then settled on the edge of the bed. “I should probably check in with Mr. Fremont tomorrow. How far is it to the newspaper office?”

Phyllis tsked. “Out the bookstore door…into the newspaper’s door. We knew Dan had planned to sell the paper and move out west to live with his daughter. He always was a close-mouthed ole coot. I’m surprised he kept quiet about you being the new owner.”

“He doesn’t know it’s me who bought it. I desperately need anonymity. The purchase was made through a dummy corporation, so that it appears as a subsidiary of the New York Crier. As far as anyone knows anywhere else, I’m merely here to run the one-person operation.”

“Smart girl. You take after me.” Phyllis offered a sly grin, and a wink.

Laura took a deep breath to discredit the statement. She picked at a piece of lint on the quilt. “Do you ever get tired of being alone?”

“Who says I’m alone? I have my friends, regular patrons who enjoy sipping tea and enjoying a pastry while sitting in a comfy chair with their books, and now I have you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course, I do. I loved someone once. He died in Vietnam. I never wanted anyone else. For better or worse, we choose our own paths, Laura. If we’re not happy with the choice, then we work to change it.”

A smile kinked one corner of Laura’s mouth. “At the office they call me the ice maiden. Behind my back, of course.”

“You are no longer in New York. Plus, you said you wanted a new start. Close your eyes, sleep off the exhaustion, and when you wake up it will be a brand-new day, a brand-new job, and a perfect time to become someone other than the ice maiden.”

Phyllis blew a kiss and shut the door behind her.

Laura undressed and stood naked in front of the long mirror behind the bathroom door. She had always taken pride in her early morning runs, keeping her five-seven frame lean and fit. That had been nine weeks ago. Now her eyes held dark shadows, her cheeks were two pale hollows, and her limbs had become almost too thin to bear her weight. In a word, she looked like a scarecrow in dire need of more stuffing.

She traced the line of the long scar that marred her hip and traveled the length to her knee. Bullets from an M-16 had splintered the bone, leaving little for the surgeon to repair. Yet he had saved her leg, merely leaving it shorter than the other. No more early morning runs for her. No more runs, period. She couldn’t stand the sight of her own body, nor the ugly orthopedic shoes that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe.