Murder Madness & Love: A Detective Quaid Mystery, #1

By Yolanda Renee

A killer plays cat and mouse with a young widow against the snowy backdrop of an Alaskan winter. Branded a black widow after her millionaire husband's suspicious death, Sarah Palmer flees Seattle for Anchorage. However, the peace and quiet she hoped to enjoy in her hometown were soon shattered. A killer is murdering Sarah look-alikes on the 14th of each month, taunting Sarah with a valentine of evidence. After her experiences in Seattle, Sarah is slow to go to the police. When she finally does, she finds Detective Steven Quaid—Anchorage P D's hotshot investigator—hasn't only heard the rumors, but he also believes them. Worse, her aloofness and composure only confirm his suspicions. Is Sarah a victim or a very skilled manipulator?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yolanda Renee
• Release date: May 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201487041

Yolanda Renee

As a girl from Pennsylvania who would do almost anything on a dare, I flew to Alaska for a two-week vacation and stayed for four years. I learned to sleep under the midnight sun, survive below zero temperatures, and hike the Mountain Ranges. I've traveled from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and the memories are some of my most valued. The wonders, mysteries, and incredible beauty of Alaska have never left me and thus now influence my writing. Despite my adventurous spirit, I achieved my educational goals with a bachelor's and master’s degree. I still hope to get my Ph.D. I'm married and have two wonderful sons. Writing is now my focus, my newest adventure. Please connect with me at: [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Black Widow Flees Seattle

Sarah Palmer becomes Chairman of the Board

as investigations into her husband's death continue.

(U PDATE NEWS – September 21, 20XX) Sarah Palmer, the widow of Michael Palmer, has taken on the role of Chairman of the Board for the Palmer Corporation one year after the death of her husband. The company, which her husband built from a one-room storefront to a multi-million-dollar business resource company, has flourished under the guidance of the former corporate attorney and his best friend, Gerald Kessler. Mrs. Palmer, a graduate of the University of Washington, recently moved back to Anchorage, Alaska. Is it possible this talented artist is getting away with murder?

Despite labeling Michael Palmer’s death an accident, official sources have reported an ongoing investigation into the unusual circumstances. Netta Greenwald, Michael Palmer’s aunt, has also hired private investigators to look into her nephew’s death. Mrs. Greenwald claims Michael Palmer wanted to end his marriage, a plan he shared with her just a week before his death.

Thrown clear of the Porsche 918 Spyder, Michael Palmer died of a broken neck when his vehicle careened off the road and into a stand of trees. His young wife, Sarah Davis, had generously presented him with the Spyder after his thirty-eighth birthday luncheon at the Herbfarm Restaurant in Woodinville, Washington.

As Palmer broke in his gift, estimated speeds were as high as 90 mph, but speed was only a contributing factor. To avoid children exiting a school bus, he swerved off the road, at which point the vehicle hit a tree and was engulfed in flames.

While experts believe the car’s brakes malfunctioned, the fire destroyed any evidence of tampering. So, the question remains: how could a brand-new Porsche, just delivered from the showroom floor, not have working brakes? Various local media outlets suspect Mrs. Palmer of foul play, labeling her a black widow seeking total control of her late husband’s millions and the corporation.

Despite not fitting the true definition of a black widow, which requires two dead husbands, Sarah Davis Palmer has won the title because of the money involved.

Will these questions ever be answered"? Will justice be found for the young entrepreneur? Will Sarah Palmer ever be free of the black widow label? Police Detective Terry O’Conner believes that the evidence is out there. But, while the case has gone cold, secrets never stay secrets forever.

CHAPTER TWO

G od, I hate Alaska ! Debra grumbled. Debra leaned into the wind, pushed forward against the stinging wind and sleet, and resolved that Alaska’s elements would not beat her this time. Her mood quickly shifted from resolve to irritation when the frigid air tore at her clothes. Sharp fingers of ice brutally needled her in places familiar only to warmth.

Determination pushed her forward when common sense should have won out and sent her back inside. Halfway through the alley, Debra spotted her car. A co-worker had cleared the SUV of snow. Thank God for friends. Debra pushed the remote button on her keychain and saw the lights blink as the engine came to life. Now all she had to do was master the drive home. But unfortunately, her joy was fleeting as hands clamped down on her shoulders.

Hey, wait a minute! She barely had the words out before a gloved hand closed over her mouth. Utter helplessness and cold steel slicing deep registered in her mind as reality changed from surviving a winter storm to sheer terror.

Oh, God. She wanted to cry, but her stifled screams became gurgles as Debra choked on blood.

Released from captivity, she sank to the ground like a deflated balloon. Her hands, finally free from immobilizing fear, reached for her throat. Lifeblood poured between her fingers, and her final seconds moved in slow, deliberate steps. God! Please, don’t let me die. She screamed in her mind because her larynx no longer worked.

A shadow appeared. Debra tried to raise her leaden arms skyward, reaching for rescue, but they fell limply at her sides when she realized her attacker stood above her.

Why? Why me? She tried to speak, but Debra’s jaw only lamely jerked, the words bouncing soundlessly in her skull. Critically weakened, she fought to hold tightly to the life so savagely stolen from her.

She stared at the falling snow but could no longer feel the sting of its chill. The arctic air rapidly extinguished the last embers of her life. Tears froze on her eyelashes, and snowflakes—numerous and unrelenting—began to cover her with an icy blanket. Blood poured from the open wound, sending spirals of steam, and Debra’s essence, heavenward.

CHAPTER THREE

Detective Steven Quaid used the light and siren to do what he had no time for— frightening the young lady creating snow angels in the city park. He wanted her to go home. It worked. She stopped playing and started walking—he hoped—home. Unfortunately, midnight was not a suitable hour to be alone anywhere in the city. And while Steven understood the draw of the season's first snowfall, he also knew firsthand the craziness the first snowstorm inspired as witnessed by his destination. The scene of a brutal murder near a downtown bar.

He drove by slowly. Hoping a stern look would impart more of his intent, but when she looked directly at him, Steven found himself smiling and nodding. Not the teenager he expected: the woman’s eyes held a sparkle that was evident, even in the subdued light, and he was sure he saw a look of confident defiance in them. He slowed and turned in his seat for another look. But his view of long hair turned white from the snowflakes caught in the curls, while lovely, disappointed. He wanted to see her face, had to see her face. Regret filled him.

Well, I’ll be damned, he said and whistled low and long. Again, thoughts of the mysterious beauty wiped out all notions of the murder he was driving to investigate.

But once on site, Steven located the officer in charge. Anderson, you the first on the scene?

Hawk...I mean, yes, sir. The sergeant shook Steven’s hand.

How’d they ever find her in this blizzard? Steven asked.

A city worker ready to clear the alley did his usual walkthrough for drunks. He noticed bloody tracks and called 9-1-1 immediately. The snow covered her well, but it took no time to locate the body with some probing and a snowblower. We’re lucky this is a busy alley; otherwise, she might have been here until the spring thaw. Sergeant Anderson paused for a moment, then continued. The assailant cut her throat, and...well, you can see for yourself the damage inflicted.

A once lovely young woman rested in a puddle of red slush. The spilled blood stood out sharply against the whiteness of the freshly fallen snow, and Steven experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu. Thoughts of his first case haunted him.

Cheechako?

Yeah, cheechako fits, Anderson confirmed.

What else do we know? Steven asked.

D. J. Anderson, a five-year veteran of the force and determined to make detective, was eager to please. So, it didn’t surprise Steven when D. J. pulled out his notebook full of detailed notes. A native Alaskan from the Inuit tribe, D. J. worked harder than most.

The victim is Debra Johnson, a twenty-eight-year-old cocktail waitress. Anderson read from his notes. Married to Cole Johnson. They live in Wasilla and have two children. Employed by The Piano Bar since July. She left at ten o’clock, four hours before the end of her shift, because of the snowstorm. Her purse and car keys were in the snow alongside her. She’s still wearing her jewelry, and her wallet’s full of cash, so the motive wasn’t robbery. I have all her details because Chancy's been very cooperative. Oh, and the Chaplain is on his way to inform the husband. Anderson handed Steven the victim’s driver’s license.

Excellent. He read over the card. And the coroner?

He should be here any minute.

Steven stared intently at the body. His gaze was drawn to the victim’s eyes. Her license told him they were green. Now, they stared heavenward, a muddy gray reflection of the drab concrete buildings that sat like silent sentinels to her horrific death. Steven saw surrender on her face: she had recognized death, stared it down, and accepted her fate. The thought chilled him. They knelt next to her, careful to avoid contact with the blood.

The footprints belong to the city worker, Anderson explained.

Steven noticed they were marked evidence but observed no others. The snow is wet and heavy, obliterating evidence of the killer’s footprints. See the blood on her thigh?

Yeah, like he cleaned his knife there, Anderson surmised.

Exactly, and although she took a few minutes to die, she didn’t have a chance to fight. He came up from behind her. The direction of the cut left to right—one deep, well-placed incision. If we're lucky, the coroner will tell us the weapon and get some evidence off her gloves. Steven stood and looked around, taking in the whole scene.

Her car was running, and it’d been cleared of snow once. You think she forgot something and went back inside? Anderson asked.

Steven pondered the question. She was attacked on her way to the parking lot. Good observation. What else?

Anderson continued his report. We’ve cordoned off the entire alley and the parking lot. I have two men gathering evidence, one searching the general area and the other searching the vehicles. We have the owners' permission. They’re waiting in the bar. You’ve worked with Andy Right and Don McNeil. We’ll collect film from all the security cameras in the area, but there’s not one camera back here—no break there. Still, the others will give us the comings and goings on the main thoroughfare.

Excellent work. Are you interested in seeing this mystery through to completion?

Yes, sir. Sergeant Anderson stood up straight.

Good. I’m going inside. You stay on top of things out here and with the coroner. I’ll see you later with the rest of the team.

You got it.

The police photographer began recording the grisly scene.

Beautiful girl, the photographer commented.

Yeah, Steven grumbled. They always are.

Notice how she fell, the photographer observed. A snow angel. Ironic, isn't it?

Steven took notice and recalled the young woman he had seen playing in the park earlier. She had made a choir of snow angels. He left the scene, snow angels with green eyes occupying his thoughts as he made his way to the bar.

Familiar with The Piano Bar and its reputation as a stylish venue, Steven recalled the last time he’d enjoyed a drink and dance here. He knew the owner, Chancy Forrest. Frequented by the upper class and sometimes referred to as Menopause Alley by the younger generation, it was now a brutal crime scene. A murder on Fourth Avenue, known for its topless entertainment, would not have been a revelation. He wondered how The Piano Bar patrons would receive the news of this killing.

Chancy and his employees had gathered near the kitchen. The customers were at the back, giving their names and addresses to several officers. Steven joined two other members of his homicide team: Helen Gabble and Joe Donner. They divided the work and began questioning the workers and customers individually.

The owner, Chancy, claimed that Debra was a happily married mother of two and the sweetest person in the world with no enemies. Everyone liked Debra, a favorite with the customers, as evidenced by the size of her nightly tips. She planned to work long enough to save for a down payment on some property her husband wanted in Wasilla. He had never noticed any customer problems, and she never complained of harassment.

Steven knew differently. Someone had chosen her for a reason; otherwise, she would not be dead in the alley, her blood spilled on the dirty concrete.

Although upset, her co-workers were willing to help, except for one young woman, who sat alone in the corner. He tried to question her about the evening, but she sat motionless, hardly blinking. He gave her a glass of water and several napkins, gently pressing the glass into her hand.

Drink. It will help. A petite redhead, the woman’s hazel eyes were bloodshot from crying. Are you Ginger?

Yes... I’m sorry, I can’t think I just keep seeing Deb.

Seeing her? He asked.

At the door, just before she left. It’s just so hard to believe. I can’t...are you sure she’s dead?

I’m sorry, but yes. There’s no question.

Horrible. I just want to go home, lock the doors, and never leave again, Ginger whispered. It’s just so ... unbelievable. She shivered but continued talking. Deb, she’s...she was my best friend. We traded hours all the time. What if I left early? What if I served a drink to the man...to the monster?

She grabbed his forearm, and her fingers were like ice. He could see the terror on her face.

I mean, if someone could kill Deb – A fresh tear rolled down her cheek.

Steven wanted to assure her he would find the person responsible because he knew he would. But he wasn’t about to take the task before him lightly and gently removed her hand from his arm, continuing the line of questions.

Can you tell me about your best friend?

Sure. Ginger used the napkins he gave her to blow her nose, took a deep breath, and relaxed. I tried to stop her. I tried to get her to wait. I knew the road crews would finish their work by closing, but she wouldn’t listen. She insisted on leaving. Why’d she’d go home early? Ginger looked at Steven as though he would be able to tell her.

Good question. Why did Debra leave before her shift ended?

Deb was unhappy. She had difficulty adjusting to life under the midnight sun and the cold and dark. Deb finally found the courage to tell Cole, but their schedules didn’t always allow them much time together, Cole’s and Deb’s. She wanted to be honest with her husband, and a slow night gave her that opportunity. Chancy’s nice about letting us leave early if it’s slow, and we have family stuff to take care of.

Was she going to leave him?

Oh, no, you misunderstand. Deb loved Cole. She would have followed him to the ends of the Earth. She wanted to get over her unhappiness. Deb wanted them to take some of the money they’d been working so hard to save and go home for Christmas. She just wanted to see her family. Homesick is all but afraid to tell him.

What made her afraid?

She didn’t want to disappoint him. She knew how much he loved Alaska and thought he’d know she hated it.

What would’ve happened if he found out?

I’m sure Cole would’ve understood. He’d have given her time. She’d only been in Alaska for eight months. She just wanted to take the children home for the holidays. Oh, dear, those poor little ones, she said mournfully, tears gathering again.

Steven gave her another cocktail napkin and waited. Were you the last person to talk to Debra?

I think so ... no ... Jim. He spoke to her. He has a crush on her and would have driven her home if she’d asked him to.

Which one is Jim?

She glanced around the room and pointed him out. He’s the guy at the corner table with his head in his hands. He’s devastated.

Thank you, Ms. Hardin. You’ve been a big help. Please be patient. We’ll need a formal statement.

He moved to Jim’s table. Pulling out a chair, he straddled it and stared coldly at the young man. Jim glared at him. His eyes were red from tears. He blew his large nose on a used-up hanky and waited for Steven to begin.

Steven looked him over. He was average, pudgy, about twenty-two years old. His dark hair stuck out messily from under an Ohio State baseball cap. The apron he wore had a variety of stains on it, some resembling blood. Quaid motioned another officer over.

Son, can you give me your apron. The young man removed his apron, and the officer placed the heavily stained article in an evidence bag.

You think I killed Deb? Honest, I didn’t.

Just routine. Jim, can you give me your last name?

Lawrence. James Lawrence, sir.

You spoke to Debra before she left?

Yes, sir, just before she left. I cleared the snow off her car. She wasn't ready for this weather. I didn’t want her out there in that blizzard.

You cared about her.

She worked hard, long hours, here and at home. She deserved a break. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more determined. She just wanted to buy the land and raise her kids.

When you cleared her car of snow, did you see anyone?

Jim thought for a moment. No, sir, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

What about in the bar, right before she left? Anyone leave right before or after her? Steven asked, observing the young man.

Mr. Jacobs. He’s sixty-something, comes in every day on his way home from his janitor’s job, and gets a shot and a cup of coffee. Nice guy. No way he could hurt Deb. Besides, I think he teased the other girls until 10:30. Chancy let Deb go, but I should’ve driven her home. I never should’ve let her go out there all by herself! Jim rubbed his temples.

You were in love with her?

Jim blushed. No, not in love with, I mean, sure, I liked her. We were both from Ohio and had a lot in common. I knew she was homesick. I had a bad case during my first year, too. But Deb, she’d go out of her way to make you feel good, no matter how bad she felt. She cared about people. I admired her, but she loved Cole. Whenever someone here gave her a tough time—you know, tried to make a pass at her or ask her out—she’d tell him she’s married to an Army Ranger who served in Desert Storm, and he wouldn’t be pleased to learn someone’s harassed her on the job. That alone earned her the biggest tips, and when folks learned of her goals or saw pictures of those two little kids well, Deb quickly earned money for their new home. Special. Yeah, she was. I just can’t understand why. He rubbed his eyes.

Sorry, son. Steven gave Jim a minute to collect himself but observed him with interest. His denial of affection did not ring true, and his tears almost seemed contrived. Is there anyone who gave her a hard time?

I’ve thought about every customer who gave her any reason for grief, and I can’t picture any of them doing to Deb what they say...I just can’t. He buried his head in his hands, but no tears fell.

Give me those names. Let me make that determination. Steven gave him a pen and a piece of paper. Write down every name you can think of, and we’ll check them all out.

Yes, sir. James perked up and took the pen.

Thank you, son. Steven patted him on the shoulder.

After an hour of questioning the staff and customers, Steven gathered his team and compared notes. I have a young man suffering from unrequited love. He needs to go to the station for a formal statement, and the apron is evidence. So, Helen, what’ve you got?

There may have been an affair—Debra’s husband and best friend. Ginger, the young lady you talked to. Helen said, proud of the information she’d retrieved.

The sole woman on the homicide team, Helen, worked hard and had proven herself on more than one occasion. Steven knew the respect she garnered. A former MP with the U. S. Army, wiry and strong, with a sense of humor that kept her in good standing with the other team members. Helen kept her shoulder-length, dirty blond hair in a tight ponytail, with wispy tendrils around her eyes.

Explains why they traded hours instead of working the same schedule, Steven added.

Exactly, and from what I understand, they used to work the same timetable, but Ginger asked for different hours a few months ago.

Bring her in, too, and get on the phone to the chaplain. I want the husband brought in tonight. Tell him it’s to make the ID. Just make sure there’s someone to look after the children.

I’m on it, Helen said.

Good work. We’ll have this one solved before morning. Steven closed his notebook and looked directly at Joe. Well, Joe, what did you get from the customers?

Joe—a fifteen-year veteran police officer who had formerly worked the streets in New York—brought a unique perspective, worked well with large crowds, and his observances were uncanny. He was all brawn and baldheaded, but call him Mr. Clean, and you would regret your words. He had a Brooklyn brogue, leaving no doubt about his origins.

Sorry, Steve, not much, just the usual night out for a drink, first date, or standing dates. Two people were new to the place, and the rest are regulars, but I’ve information for follow-up if we need it. Most surprisingly, no one can imagine anyone threatening the girl.

Sergeant Anderson joined the group. Have you found our killer?

We have a few good leads, Steven said, introducing Anderson to the group. "Joe. Helen. Meet D. J. Anderson. First on the scene. I’ve asked him to join us for the duration of the investigation.

The group shook hands, and Joe asked, What did the coroner say?

Not much. But Stan’s got her now. The alley’s been searched and cleared. No footprints, no trace evidence—at least not yet. The body may give up something. No weapons have been located, but the coroner is betting on a hunting knife. He looked at Steven. Stan said he takes his coffee light and will see you in an hour.

Steven nodded.

We’re done outside, but we still have a few security tapes to collect. Chancy has permitted us to go over the entire establishment. Forensics is on scene.

Good work. Let’s get this place cleared out.

On the way back to his office, he began planning his next step in anticipation of a long night. The computer would help find background and financial information about the victim and suspects. Forensics would give him specific details about her death, but those reports would not be back for hours, even days or weeks. The husband, always the first suspect, claimed to have an alibi—babysitting. He knew a face-to-face interview would tell him much more. Tonight, Steven would find out just how happy the Johnsons were and how good Cole's alibi was. If there had been an affair, he would discover if Debra’s unhappiness, or unrequited love, played a part in her death.

Steven knew a long night waited because getting those haunting green eyes from his thoughts was impossible.

CHAPTER FOUR

Agust of frigid air invaded Sarah’s fur-lined coat just as she opened the door to the lobby of her building. Once inside, she removed her jacket and gloves while waiting for the elevator. She opened her apartment door, and a flash of red caught her eye. Kneeling to pick up the bright envelope just inside the entry, the shrill of the telephone startled her. She quickly raced to answer it. A sense of dread filled her. Calls after midnight usually brought terrible news.

Cautiously, she answered, Hello?

There was no sound, not even breathing from the other side.

Hello? she asked again, a little louder.

On the other end, the individual waited a few moments and then disconnected the call without saying a word. She checked her Caller ID: Caller Unknown, with no number. Sarah put the card on her desk and walked to the fireplace to turn on the gas fire logs. She removed her boots and hung her jacket to dry.

Still captivated by the weather, she watched the clouds sail east over the Anchorage skyline to the mountains. The panoramic view of Cook Inlet to the north and the city to the east usually filled Sarah with peace. But tonight, she watched the flashing lights converge downtown, and trepidation filled her.

Despite the momentary distraction, her attention drifted back to the envelope. Impatient to know its contents, she sliced the card with a silver letter opener from her desk. Sarah pulled out a red Valentine's heart with the words Your Dead Valentine printed in large block letters. Distracted by the horror, she missed the cocktail napkin from The Piano Bar that slid unnoticed into the file on her desk. Instead, the words Your Dead Valentine struck her like an arrow, and anguish she thought she would never feel again stole her breath.

Unable to understand why she jumped when the telephone rang again. Reluctantly she answered as unknown caller flashed on the screen again.

Hello.

Silence and then the click of disconnection. The Valentine and the mysterious calls were frightening. Feeling paranoid, Sarah pushed the negative notions aside, but she disconnected the telephone. Whatever the reason for the card, its intrusion and silent phone calls brought back a deep, piercing sadness, just as the police siren had earlier in the park.

Determined to fight her emotions and a cold that chilled her to the bone, Sarah moved to the bathroom to fill the tub. A bubble bath always chased away the blues. She finished undressing and put a warm terrycloth robe around her chilled body. While the tub filled, Sarah went back into the living room and poured a brandy. Gulping instead of sipping, she winced from the alcohol’s warmth. The liquid coated her throat but failed to chase away the chill. She gazed out at the snow-filled night but could not see anything but the horror of her past.

Remembering her bathwater, she checked the locks on her door and tried to relax amid bubbles, steam, and the scent of roses, but relaxation proved impossible. After putting on a warm flannel nightgown, she wrapped herself in a blanket and settled in front of the fire. Sarah slowly sipped another snifter of brandy. Finally warm, she fell asleep.

The distant ringing of a telephone startled her—it was not the disconnected telephone on her desk, but the phone insisting that she answer—the one in her bedroom. She glanced at the clock and shuddered when she realized the time—2:14 AM.

CHAPTER FIVE

At five the next morning , Sarah stood at that same picture window, sipping a fresh cup of coffee. Snow covered the city, but road crews had already cleared them for the morning commute. She’d barely slept. Each episode of sleep brought another nightmare worse than the last. Dark halls, a masked phantom with a knife, Sarah ran but could not flee the terror. Eager to be free from her prison walls but terrified, her tormentor waited just beyond them. She nonetheless began her day.

The walk to her office had her scrutinizing strangers and only returning their smiles or greeting with suspicious caution. Yet, when she greeted her secretary, Jackson Hyde, her lack of sleep was unnoticeable. The crisp morning air had put the color back in her cheeks.

Jackson reacted with surprise. I didn’t expect you today.

I need to take care of a few items before the board meeting, she moved quickly to her office. Sorry to startle you. Just pretend I'm not here.

Nonsense. Just tell me what you need. I'm at your disposal. He bowed at the waist in jest.

Sarah did not respond with her usual smile at his antics. Instead, occupied by her thoughts, she started to close her office door but hesitated to ask Jackson, Would you call John Thomas and ask him to come over as soon as possible?

It's done. Anything else?

No...well, maybe. Can you tell me if you’ve received any curious telephone calls in the last several days?

No, not really. How do you mean ‘curious?

She realized the question made no sense. Wanting to avoid additional inquiry, she turned away.

Never mind. Just see if John can stop by. Show him in when he gets here. She shut the door, leaving Jackson staring after her. Sarah did not mean to be rude, but Jackson liked to gossip, and she did not want to give him more information than necessary.

Enjoying his independence before Sarah arrived, an irritated Jackson placed the call to John Thomas and then made a personal call. He talked for a few moments to another party about Sarah.

She’s here and not in a rare mood. He drummed his fingers on the desktop with impatience. Sure, no problem. No, she asked me to call Master Thomas. Do you think they’re ...? He laughed. Now, don’t go there. I’ll find out. I bet I know the answer before lunch. You’re on. Dinner is on the loser, he chuckled. See you at seven.

He knocked, opened the door to Sarah's office, and discovered her staring out the window, her coat still across her shoulders. She shivered.

If you’re cold, I can turn up the heat. Here, let me make you a cup of tea. He quickly moved to the credenza and began the preparations.

No, I'm fine. Just not acclimated yet.

He ignored her and continued brewing the tea.

Did you reach John?

Yes. Jackson handed Sarah a cup of tea. He's on his way. Let me hang up your coat, and despite what you say, I’m turning up the thermostat. He did just as he said. Now, can I get you anything else?

No. Really, I’m fine. Thank you. She walked him to the door. Please show John in as soon as he arrives.

Jackson’s curiosity grew. He picked up the telephone to make another call, swearing. Push me out the door, bitch.

When John Thomas arrived, Jackson ushered him in. He placed a tray with fresh coffee and doughnuts on the credenza. When he saw Sarah’s appreciative smile, he graciously took credit. Then, he backed out of the room, feeling much better about his place in her life.

Sarah felt immediate relief when she saw John. They had known each other since high school. On her return to Anchorage, she’d hired his security company to provide the cars and drivers for the board members.

After last night’s drama, she was relieved to have someone to confide in, especially John. His reassuring manner was deeply comforting. He stood six foot seven and weighed at least two hundred seventy-five pounds—all muscle. When he entered a room, his size, quick wit, and rugged good looks drew others to him and made everyone want his friendship. Sarah could not imagine him as an enemy. John was imposing but gentle, a former linebacker for his college football team. Sarah felt secure in his presence.

Morning, Sarah, John smiled, enveloping her in a firm hug. What can I do for you today? His deep voice matched his stature.

Thank you for coming right over. I haven't messed up your morning, have I?

Nonsense. You know whenever you call, I’m available. So, tell me, what’s up? His sudden look of concern almost made her lose her nerve.

To be honest, I’m probably overreacting. It's just, Sarah took a deep breath, I don’t trust my judgment. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. Please, have a seat. She moved to the credenza, anxious.

I don’t know why I’m hesitating. Sarah tried to gather the courage to tell John why she’d sent for him. She poured the coffee, sensed his gaze, and then spilled it. Sarah fumbled to clean up the mess.

Sorry, one of those days, she handed him the cup. Here, this should explain what I can’t seem to. Sarah put the red envelope on the table in front of him. I received this last night. Someone slid the damned thing under my door between eleven and midnight.

John slid the valentine out of the envelope. A note from a secret admirer? Oh, well, not exactly a line I’d use. Your Dead Valentine?

John watched Sarah closely as she moved to the windows. He wondered if it was to put some space between herself and the valentine again.

"I