This is going to be a six-parter. There is a theme, which I'm not going to disclose yet. I think it will become obvious, but if not, I'll put it out there at the beginning of the next chapter. My plan is to try and post a weekly update. That being said, the holidays might throw off my schedule, but ultimately, it is my intention to post an update every week. To orient everyone, this would take place sometime post 5.11, and the assumption is that the whole Marlo baby thing becomes a non-issue because this story does not address it at all. Thanks for reading!
"So you're missing two rings, a necklace and a pair of pearl earrings?" Andy recited, glancing down at her report to make sure she hadn't missed anything. The suggestion of a smile crossed her lips as she returned her gaze to Hilda Stevenson, all the while thinking that a more accurate moniker for the woman might have been Mother Goose. Plump and powdered with absolutely no aversion to ruffles and lace, she was also disarming, sweet and terribly worried about the jewelry that had gone missing from her third-floor walkup.
"Yes. That's it," Hilda responded, bobbing a head covered in perfectly-placed silver pin curls. "At least, that's all I've noticed. There could be more." She sighed, resting her hands on the counter top between her and Andy. "The rings, in particular, are very dear to me. My Mort gave them to me for our silver and gold anniversaries."
"And you last saw them in your jewelry box?" Andy confirmed, scribbling some notes on the bottom of the form she was filling out.
"Yes. I cleaned my bedroom last Wednesday, and I remember polishing them and putting them back there. They're much too valuable to wear, you understand. Then, when I went looking for my silver broach yesterday morning, I noticed they were missing. So they must have been taken sometime between Wednesday and yesterday morning," Hilda supplied.
"You said you suspect that it might have been, uh . . . ." Andy scanned her notes quickly. "Justin Clark, your dog walker."
Hilda sighed again. "I really do hate to accuse him of something like this. He's been walking Buttons for three years, and there's never been an issue. He's always been such a pleasant young man. I even tried to set him up with my niece a while back, but you know how those things go . . . . Young people are all so busy these days."
"Are you sure he's the only other person who would have had access to your apartment?"
"I'm sure. I gave him a key so that he could come in and take Buttons out when I'm at my ladies' luncheon on Thursdays. So he would've been in my apartment last Thursday."
"Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?" Andy asked, checking her report for any holes.
"I really don't think so. I wish I could offer more. You do understand that the rings really are quite special, don't you?"
"I do," Andy assured her. "And we're going to do our best to help you locate them."
"Does that mean you'll start investigating immediately?"
"Uh, I don't know . . . ." Andy hesitated as her eyes darted around the mostly-empty station.
"I was hoping you'd be able to look into this today. I don't know exactly when they went missing and if Justin did take them, he'll probably try to sell them quickly." Hilda's voice trembled, and she rummaged in her rather large handbag, finally producing a white handkerchief. As she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, she meekly conceded, "Of course, I do understand that you're all very busy with much more important crimes to solve."
Suppressing a groan, Andy noted that the initials on the handkerchief were MES—Mort Stevenson. The woman was completely adorable and she was asking for help. The last thing Andy wanted to tell her was that they just didn't have the resources to make her lost jewelry a priority.
Andy smiled patiently at the rotund, little woman. "We'll do our best, Mrs. Stevenson."
"Please," Hilda begged, seizing Andy's hand in both of her own. "Do you have a special someone in your life, Officer McNally?"
Andy schooled her features into a neutral expression, locking her eyes onto Hilda to keep them from wandering toward the Detectives' office. "I do," she said slowly.
"Then you must know what it feels like when that special person gives you a symbol of that incredible love and commitment. An engagement ring, a wedding ring, an anniversary gift . . . ."
"Actually, it's none of the above. I mean, we're not engaged. Or married. Or anything like that. But, um, there's definitely someone special," she stammered, silently chastising herself for disclosing so many details of her personal life to a stranger.
"Then you understand," Hilda persisted, leaning toward Andy from the other side of the counter. "And you'll help me?"
"Okay. Yes." As Andy heard the words coming out of her mouth, she knew that prioritizing Hilda's case was going to be a long shot. "We'll try to get someone on it this afternoon."
"That would be wonderful," Hilda declared, smiling in relief.
Andy slipped into the Detectives' office, moving with a purposeful stride as she honed in on Sam from behind. She brushed against his shoulder in passing, and he looked up from the file he was reviewing while she settled herself on the corner of his desk.
A slow smile spread across his face. "How's it going out front?"
"Riveting, as always. I've done four shifts out there this month. Do you think it's possible that Oliver secretly hates me?"
"Oh, I know he hates you."
"Really?" she laughed. "And how do you know that?"
"He told me." Sam dropped his voice to a whisper. "But don't mention anything about it because I told him I wouldn't say anything."
"Shut up." She leaned forward and shoved him playfully.
"I actually kind of like it when you're out front," he confessed, leaning back in his chair and looking out the window beside him. "If I lean back just like this and look straight through the middle of those two columns, I've got a pretty decent view of the desk."
"So you've been spying on me?"
"Sometimes."
"That's sweet," she cooed, "and also a little bit creepy." She nudged his leg with her shoe, and he grabbed it and held it in his lap. "So, um, what are the odds of getting someone to go out and look into a report about some stolen property?"
"When?"
"This afternoon," Andy said hopefully, adding what she assumed to be a fairly persuasive smile.
"What's the property?"
"A couple of rings, some earrings, a necklace . . . ."
"That's all?" Sam asked, seemingly underwhelmed by the items she'd just listed.
"That's it." Andy's smile slowly faded. She'd known that would be his response. It was the same thing she would've said if someone came to her with Hilda's list of stolen property. It would take an incredibly uneventful day to bring Hilda's case to the top of anyone's pile.
"Odds aren't good for today," Sam informed her. "Everyone's tied up with that armed robbery from last night. The kid behind the register's in critical condition, and we're getting a lot of pressure from the media to produce a suspect. I've actually got a guy being brought in for questioning in a few minutes."
"So there's no one?" she asked weakly. She reduced her voice to a near-whisper as she reluctantly admitted, "I know I shouldn't have, but I sort of promised this woman we'd look into it."
The sudden appearance of wide eyes and a slack jaw greeted Andy's admission. "McNally, why would you do that?"
"I honestly don't know," she laughed nervously. "The woman was just really sweet and look, I know I shouldn't have promised her, but I couldn't help it. She hit me with this story about how her dead husband gave her the rings as anniversary gifts. They were married for fifty-two years, Sam. She's worried that the suspect might try to sell them and then they'll be harder to trace."
"You let an elderly woman work you over?" he asked smugly, dropping her foot as he folded his arms across his chest.
"Did I mention there were pictures? An album full of pictures. Them on their wedding day, vacationing in Maui, Mort's retirement party, their fiftieth anniversary . . . . Even you would've been putty in this woman's hands."
"I doubt that." Sam exhaled loudly. "Okay, fine."
"Fine?" Andy definitely hadn't expected that response. What she'd expected was a long lecture and an unsuccessful attempt at convincing him that they should make Hilda's complaint a priority.
"Yeah. Fine. Go out and do some digging. You can take Diaz with you," he told her, looking behind him at the desk where Chris was sitting. "He's ours for the day, so you can have him for a few hours."
"Um, okay. Sure," she responded hesitantly. "But Oliver has me on desk. I can't just take off."
"Don't worry about Oliver. I'll talk to him. I think I saw Peck around here somewhere. She can cover you until you get back. We'll just tell her to lock the door if she sees any little old ladies hobbling toward the building."
Andy rolled her eyes at him. "You're hilarious."
"So what's your plan?"
"She thinks it might've been this guy who walks her dog. He's an art student, mid-twenties, sounds like money's kind of tight . . . ."
"You're going over to talk to him?"
"Maybe. I'm thinking it might be a good idea to check out the woman's apartment first, though," she explained.
"Planning to interview the dog to see if he saw anything?"
"No. I just think I should check out her place and make sure she didn't misplace the jewelry, rule out any signs of forced entry . . . . that sort of thing."
"Makes sense." Sam nodded thoughtfully at her. "You must've had a pretty great training officer."
"Meh. He was okay," she responded with a shrug as she slid off of his desk. "You ready, Chris?"
"Sure thing." Chris stood up and pushed his chair underneath the desk. As he passed Sam on the way to the door he asked, "You're sure you'll be okay without me?"
"We'll manage, Diaz. Just let me know how it goes."
"No wonder you couldn't resist her," Chris told Andy as they pulled away from Hilda's apartment building an hour later. "She's awesome. If I were fifty years older, I'd probably ask for her number."
"I don't think you should let the age difference be a limiting factor," Andy said. "You're single . . . she's single . . . why not just go for it?"
"Unfortunately, the dog's kind of a deal breaker. Did you check out the teeth on Buttons?"
"Who names their Doberman Buttons?"
"Do you think he might've eaten the jewelry?"
"Let's not rule that out as a possibility," Andy muttered as she scanned the next block looking for Justin Clark's address. Slowing down in front of a four-story brick building, she said, "I think this is it. Second floor. 2B."
As Andy pulled into a small lot beside the building, Chris asked, "So this guy's a student?"
"Yeah. Started walking Buttons a few years ago to pick up some extra cash. Hilda thinks he might be having trouble paying his bills because he asked her for a loan last month. "
Finding a parking spot in the middle of the afternoon turned out to be easy, and within minutes, she and Chris were standing in the lobby scanning mailboxes to confirm that they had the right place. "There," Andy said, pointing at a box on the second row. "Justin Clark. 2B."
As they headed for a door marked Stairs, Chris asked, "Do we have a plan?"
"Nope."
"We're just gonna knock on the door and ask the guy if he stole his employer's jewelry?"
"Pretty much. Except with more tact, of course."
When they were two flights up, they opened the door to the second floor and entered a long hallway with seven or eight apartments off of it. The carpet was a dark orange, which did very little to improve the appearance of the dull, poorly-lit corridor. Andy curled her lip in distaste. "Gotta love crappy student housing."
"2B," Chris announced, tapping a tarnished number attached to the second door on the left.
From the other side of the door, Andy heard the competing sounds of daytime TV and a blender. As she raised her hand and knocked several times, the blender noise stopped abruptly. Within seconds, the door slowly opened.
"Good morning, Officers." It was the slow drawl of a guy who had only recently dragged himself out of bed—or perhaps off of the floor, as the case may be. A severe case of bed head and faded black flip-flops bookended an ensemble consisting of a wrinkled white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, leading one to deduce that for this guy, morning was a fluid concept. Andy glanced at her watch, confirming that it was, in fact, one-thirty in the afternoon.
"Justin Clark?" Andy asked.
"Yeah," he answered warily. "Everything okay?"
"We just need to ask you some questions," Chris supplied. "Can we come in?"
"Sure, but I only have a few minutes. I've got this art show at—" The statement hung loosely in the air as he suddenly ducked past Andy and ran toward the door to the stairwell.
Andy stared at Chris in confusion. "Did that just happen?"
"Think so."
"Great." She shook her head in disbelief, already starting to jog down the hallway after the suspect. "Are you coming?" she called back over her shoulder.
When she reached the stairwell Andy could hear Justin's feet pounding against the stairs below and she quickened her pace. "Hey!" she yelled. "We just wanna talk to you."
Her feet banged out an urgent, staccato rhythm against the stairs as she closed the gap between her and Justin, but just when she caught sight of him on the last set of stairs, he disappeared through the door to the lobby. Andy pushed herself harder and finally managed to catch up to him as he exited the building onto the sidewalk. She knew that if she didn't take him down quickly they risked the possibility that he might dissolve into a crowd of people, so she lunged forward, easily knocking him to the ground with barely an "oomph." By the time Chris reached them, her breathing was returning to normal and she was sitting upright on the suspect's back with his arms pinned neatly in her grasp.
"Take it easy," Justin whimpered, struggling beneath her. "You're hurting me."
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you run away from a couple of cops who just came by to ask you some questions," she informed him as she tightened her grip.
"Fine. What do you wanna know? You really are hurting my arms . . . ."
"If I let go, how do we know you won't take off again?" Andy demanded, loosening her hold on him.
"I won't," he moaned. "Just get off of me. Please."
As Andy rolled off of his back, Chris crouched down and dragged Justin to his feet. "Don't even think about running again," Chris warned him in a clipped tone.
Justin dusted off his pants and stood up, scowling at Andy. "Why did you have to tackle me?"
"What did you think was going to happen when you took off running?" Andy responded coolly as her thoughts involuntarily slipped to Sam and her first day on the job. It wasn't often that she had to tackle a suspect, but every time she did, she thought back to their beginning that day in the alley.
The relentless griping of Justin Clark snapped her back to the present as he provided his own sullen suggestion. "Well your technique could use some finesse." Making no secret of his displeasure, he said, "Let's just get this over with. What did you want to ask me about?"
"For starters, why did you run?" Andy asked.
"I don't know. I guess I thought you were here about this party my roommate had at our place last night."
Chris raised an eyebrow and gruffly inquired, "What kind of party?"
"The kind of party you don't invite cops to." When his response earned him a stern look from Chris, he said, "Okay, okay . . . so there was some stuff being passed around and I just thought maybe Reynolds called the cops about it."
"Who's Reynolds?" Andy asked.
"Just a kid someone invited. A real straight-laced, button-up type, y'know? He seemed kind of freaked out about what was going on."
"Sounds like maybe he was right to be freaked out," Andy noted.
"Look, are you planning to arrest me for the party or not?" Justin asked, issuing the ultimatum with an impatient assertiveness that was as audacious as it was ill-advised.
Andy sneered at him. "For a guy who just ran from the cops and then admitted to peddling drugs out of his apartment—"
"Hey, I didn't say anything about selling the stuff," he responded in a shrill tone. "See, these guys from down the hall showed up bearing gifts . . . . What were we supposed to do? Tell them to leave? That's not exactly the neighborly thing to do, if you know what I mean."
"No, we don't know," Andy said. "But it's your lucky day, because as it turns out, that's not why we're here."
"It's not?"
"We're investigating some missing property," Andy said, watching his eyes closely to gauge his reaction.
"What property?" His eyebrows were drawn together in confusion, and Andy was forced to acknowledge that he did seem genuinely surprised.
"Some things that belong to Hilda Stevenson."
"Wait. Hilda sent you here?"
"Yes. Hilda," Andy said, snapping off each word. "Some of her jewelry's missing and since you were the only other person who has access to her apartment—"
"What're you talking about?" Justin scoffed. "I didn't take anything from Hilda's place, and I'm not the only person with a key."
Andy regarded him with a mixture of interest and doubt. "You're not?" On that point, Hilda had been clear. She'd said Justin was the only other person who had a key to her apartment.
"No. Her niece is over there all the time. Why wouldn't her own niece have a key to her place? Doesn't exactly make sense, does it?"
"Maybe they're not close," Chris suggested.
"Trust me. They're tight. You really should be talking to her because I'm telling you, I didn't steal Hilda's stuff," he huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "I can't even believe she's accusing me of something like that. I've been walking that dog for four—no, three—years. That's some way to say thanks." He looked wounded by the insinuation, and Andy had to admit that he seemed to be truly bothered by it.
"Woah. Back up," Andy said. "She's not accusing you of anything. We just came by to talk to you because you have a key to her apartment and you were there during the time when the jewelry went missing."
"When would that be?" he asked.
"Within the past four or five days."
"Then I don't know why she'd send you to me. I wasn't even around last week. You can ask my roommate. We went camping with our buddy Virgil . . . just got back yesterday afternoon. Hilda knew that because I told her I wouldn't be coming by to walk the dog."
Andy narrowed her eyes at Justin. "What?"
"I wasn't here," he repeated.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Chris whispered, leaning in close to Andy. Turning his attention to Justin, he said, "And you, don't even think about running."
Justin rolled his eyes, tapping a foot impatiently against the sidewalk. "Relax, man—Officer. I'm not going anywhere."
Chris took Andy's arm and steered her a few feet away from Justin. "I don't think he's our guy," he muttered in a low voice.
"Yeah. Me either," she agreed with some reluctance. "Something like that would require him to get up before noon, and the guy's just not that motivated. And it sounds like he might actually have an alibi. He didn't even walk her dog last week. Why would she tell me he was there?"
"We should probably talk to the niece. See if she knows anything," Chris said.
"Yeah. What about this guy? Do you think it's okay to cut him loose? I mean, we could haul him in on the drug stuff, but what do we really have for evidence? Supposedly, there was a party at his apartment, and there was something illegal being passed around. We don't know what, how much or who was doing it. We have no witnesses other than Justin himself, and as soon as his lawyer shows up, that story's bound to change."
"Right," Chris agreed. "So let's just get what we can from him about the niece and let him go back to his blender."
As they walked back over to Justin, Andy said, "So tell us about Hilda's niece. Where can we find her?"
"How would I know? I barely know her."
"Come on, Justin," Andy prodded. "You gotta give us something."
"She could be at work, I guess. She works at that bakery a few blocks down on the right. The one with the cupcakes in the window."
"How about a name and an address?" Chris asked, pulling out a small notepad. "While you're at it, give us the names of the friends who can back up your story, too."
Justin rattled off the names and addresses of two of his friends and then said, "Hilda's niece's name is Brenda, but I don't know where she lives. I already told you, I don't know much about her."
Andy sighed, realizing the well was running dry. "Okay. Here's the deal. We're gonna let you go back to whatever you were doing, but we'll be back if anything you told us doesn't check out."
"And don't even think about disappearing on us," Chris added. "You're not off the hook yet."
"I got it," Justin grumbled. He was already edging toward the door to his building as Andy and Chris turned to walk back to the cruiser.
"None of this makes any sense," Andy said. "Why would Hilda tell me Justin was the only person with a key? She barely even mentioned having a niece. And why didn't she tell me he was out-of-town all last week?"
"Who knows. People have all kinds of reasons for doing things. Maybe she was trying to protect the niece. Maybe she's confused. The only way to know for sure is to head down to that bakery and ask," Chris said firmly.
Andy cut her eyes in his direction, noticing a curious bounce to his step. "You seem strangely motivated today," she observed with a laugh. "Got a hot date tonight?"
"What do you mean? I'm just following the trail of evidence. That's the great thing about police work. You never know where it'll lead you."
"Sure," she said, wrinkling her brow at his sudden burst of positivity. "I just hope there's jewelry at the end of this trail."
"You never know," he told her as they climbed into the car. "I have a good feeling about this one, though."
"Brenda! Some people are out here to see you!" a beleaguered bake shop employee bellowed from behind the rerigerated display case. She looked like she'd gone swimming in a vat of flour and Andy was fairly certain that the patch of hair just above her ponytail was playing host to an as yet undiscovered glob of pink frosting.
When a string of bells attached to the front door signaled the entry of another customer, the girl muttered something inaudible and rolled her eyes as she pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Andy's eyes wandered to Chris and she stifled a laugh when she saw him trading uncomfortable smiles with the man behind them.
The sudden swish of a swinging door behind the counter drew their attention to a second employee, this one slightly less disheveled than the other. Her thick mound of dark hair was swept up into a hairnet and most of her body was concealed by a roomy white smock with only a few smudges of colored frosting on the sleeves. She looked at the other girl behind the counter expectantly.
"They're here to see you," the girl said absently, barely sparing Chris and Andy a sideways glance.
"Officers?" Brenda asked. Her smile was pleasant enough but it did nothing to mask the confusion in her voice.
Andy spoke up immediately. "We just have a few questions. Is there a private place where we can talk?"
"Sure. Why don't you come back here and we can talk while I work." She motioned for them to follow her to the back of the bakery.
As the door swung shut behind them, Brenda looked back over her shoulder. "I'm sorry about Lacey. The other person who works the front with her called in sick and she's been out there alone for most of the day. We've got five wedding cakes in the works for this weekend or I'd go out and help her myself."
Brenda stopped beside a stainless steel table with a white, multi-tiered concoction towering up from its center. "So what can I do for you?"
Andy pulled out her notepad and flipped it open. "Well . . . your aunt reported some missing jewelry, and we were hoping you might be able to help us figure out what happened to it."
"Hilda?" Brenda asked, settling onto a stool beside the table. "She didn't say anything to me about that. What happened?"
"She thinks someone might've stolen it," Chris offered. "Someone who had access to her apartment when she wasn't home."
"Oh, and I have a key . . . ."
"Hilda didn't accuse you of taking her jewelry," Andy amended quickly. "We just happened to hear from another source that you have access to her apartment, and we were hoping you might be able to help."
Brenda shrugged. "Well, I can tell you I didn't take anything from my aunt's apartment. Beyond that, I probably don't know much. It's actually been a couple of weeks since I've been over there."
"Can you think of anyone else who might be involved?" Chris asked.
"Not really. Are you sure she didn't misplace it?"
"At this point, we're not sure of anything," Andy responded, looking down at her notepad, which was full of information she'd taken from Hilda—incomplete and incorrect information, as it turned out.
"Have you talked to her son?" Brenda asked.
Andy scrunched up her nose. "Whose son?"
"Hilda's."
"You're kidding, right? Hilda has a son?" Andy repeated, forcing her voice to stay level.
"Yeah," Brenda laughed. "She didn't mention him?"
"She, uh, appears to have overlooked some information," Andy explained, clenching and unclenching her jaw. "I assume he has a key to her apartment."
Brenda nodded and Andy fought the temptation to groan. "How many people have access to Hilda's place?" Andy asked.
"I really couldn't say. Three or four? Maybe more? Brian—her son—would definitely know, though. You'll probably want to talk to him."
"Can you tell us where we can find him?" Andy asked.
"Sure." Brenda got up and walked to a nearby desk. Rummaging around on the desktop, she finally located a pad of paper and scribbled some information on it. As she extended the paper toward Andy, she looked hesitant. "You know, Officers, Hilda's a great lady, but she's alone a lot. It's just her and Muffin in the apartment most of the time."
"Don't you mean Buttons?" Chris corrected her.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead and smiled apologetically. "Yeah, Buttons, of course. That's what happens when you get up at 4 a.m. and stare at nothing but wedding cakes all day. Anyway, the point is, she's by herself most of the time with no one to bounce things off of. Sometimes that leads her to jump to conclusions."
"Okay. We'll keep that in mind," Andy said, looking over the name and number Brenda had given them.
"Hey, Andy," Chris interrupted, picking up a bride and groom cake topper from the table. "This one looks a lot like you and Swarek."
"You think so?" Andy laughed, noting with some surprise that it did look a lot like her and Sam.
Brenda took the cake topper from Chris and examined it. "He's right, Officer McNally. There's definitely a strong resemblance. If you're planning to get married soon, let me know and I'll put one aside for you."
"I'm good, but thanks," Andy said, ducking her head to look at her notes so that Brenda and Chris wouldn't see the blush she felt sweeping across her cheeks. "If you think of anything else, will you call us?" She dug into her pants pocket and pulled out a card.
"Of course," Brenda promised. "Good luck with your investigation."
"I don't know what to tell you, Officers. It's certainly possible that someone stole my mother's jewelry, but I'd lay odds on her having misplaced it. This isn't the first time something's gone missing only to magically reappear in a week or two."
"So this kind of thing has happened before?" Andy asked.
"On occasion. Mom's getting older, and she likes to rearrange things. Sometimes that means misplacing them for a while."
"Okay," she said, resigning herself to the truth, which was that they'd probably wasted their afternoon looking for stolen property that wasn't actually stolen. "Well, we appreciate your time."
"No problem. Hey, I don't suppose either of you is in the market for a house?"
Chris shook his head as Andy answered, "Sorry, but no."
"That's a shame," Brian told them. "This place is a real find. It won't stay on the market long."
"Believe me. I know," Andy agreed. "Great neighborhood. Great schools. Tree-lined streets. Lots of kids. This would be the perfect place to start a family." She'd often thought that when she rode through the area, and the house Brian was selling was certainly the type of place where she could see herself living someday. More specifically, she could see herself living in a house like that with Sam.
"You put together a pretty good sales pitch, Officer McNally," Brian observed. "Maybe you should stick around for the rest of the open house and help me sell this place."
Andy laughed. "It would probably be more fun than investigating a jewelry theft that may not have happened."
"Yeah, sorry about that. I'll let you know if I think of anything else."
"Thanks," Andy said, shaking his hand as she and Chris walked back out onto the front porch.
"Thanks for a great afternoon, Hilda," she murmured, allowing the bitterness to seep into her tone. "You know, part of me wants to just go over to her place right now and be like, 'What the hell, lady?'"
"So you don't think the niece or the son is responsible?"
Andy looked thoughtful before finally answering. "I guess it's possible, but I just didn't get that vibe from either of them. Did you?"
"Not really. And Brian doesn't think anyone else had access to the apartment, so it does seem like she might've just misplaced it. Do you wanna head over to her place to talk to her again?"
"Not really," Andy said. "Why don't we just let this be tomorrow's problem?"
Chris smiled. "Why do it today if we can put it off until tomorrow?"
"Exactly."
Andy slumped against her front door, forcing it closed with her back. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, gradually traveling to a world in which Hilda Stevenson and her missing jewelry ceased to exist.
"Tired?"
Andy opened one eye, and her lips curled into a half smile. "I saw your truck outside." She pushed herself away from the door and approached the couch, dropping down beside Sam and collapsing backwards into the cushions. An array of takeout containers, plates and utensils was spread out on the coffee table in front of them. She sighed, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. "You brought me dinner?"
"I did," he confirmed as he slid down onto the floor between the couch and the table and popped open a container.
"Wait," Andy said suddenly, leaning forward to inspect one of the cartons. "Is that from Siam Orchid?"
"Yep." He handed her a plate as she eagerly joined him on the floor. "Hungry?"
"Duh. Yes," she laughed, sliding the plate onto the coffee table and dumping a heaping portion of noodles onto it. "I can't believe you got my favorite. Siam Orchid isn't exactly in the neighborhood."
"Nothing but the best . . . ." He leaned in and kissed her. It was slow and smooth, virtually erasing all thoughts of her wasted afternoon.
"That's nice," she breathed. When he kissed her again, she hummed appreciatively. "Keep 'em coming."
"One more," he said, smiling smugly as he held up a single finger to illustrate his point.
"Three."
"Two," he mouthed, brushing his lips against hers again.
When he pulled away, he left behind a saucy grin on her face as she informed him, "Two was my goal all along."
Looking equally satisfied with himself, Sam leaned in and whispered, "Mine, too."
"Then we both got what we wanted, I guess. Want a beer?" Andy began pushing herself up from the floor but fell back into place when he held out a hand to stop her.
"Got it covered," he explained. Reaching behind him, he retrieved two bottles and an opener, holding them up for her inspection.
"Wow. I guess you do," she said. "Thanks for bringing me dinner. I had a really weird afternoon, but this kind of makes it all better."
He shrugged. "Not really a big deal. I finished up early and I just thought you might be hungry when you got home."
"You got that right." She glanced at his empty plate. "Are you not eating?"
"In a minute," he said simply, resting one arm on the coffee table and one arm on the couch as he leaned toward her.
"Aren't you worried the food will get cold?"
He shook his head, dropping his eyes for several seconds as he said, "I actually wanted to talk to you about something."
He swallowed and when he looked back up at her, Andy didn't miss the uneasiness that flickered in his eyes. He almost seemed . . . nervous? "Sam, what's wrong?"
His response was immediate and definitive as if he wanted to head off any growing concern that he might be causing. "Nothing. Andy, nothing's wrong." He rested one hand on her shoulder, drawing long, soothing circles there with his thumb.
When he offered nothing else, Andy cleared her throat. "Nothing's wrong?" she countered. "Clearly something's up. I can tell."
Sam took a deep breath and squeezed her shoulder lightly. He smiled to himself and nodded as he reached around behind his back with the other hand and produced a black velvet box. Setting it on the table between them, he locked eyes with her, and the hand on her shoulder slowly crept toward the exposed skin on the side of her neck, gently initiating a steady back and forth rhythm when it reached its mark.
"Sam," Andy said carefully, hearing an involuntary tremor in her voice. "What is this?"
"McNally, you know what this is," he responded, meeting her eyes as understanding passed between them. "This is me asking you to marry me."
Andy blinked once, long and slow, clearing away any confusion that still existed as it hit her full force that this was really happening. Sam was proposing to her. As his words seeped into her consciousness, she half expected them to be greeted by the same mounting fear and anxiety that she'd often known in such situations. It had happened so many times before that Andy instinctively waited for the familiar strains of panic to take over, effectively stifling every impulse but her reflexive need for self-preservation. When they didn't come, however, she found herself in unfamiliar waters—the refreshing stillness of a quiet inlet rather than the tumultuous sea of harsh undercurrents she'd been expecting.
"Are you all right?" Sam asked, examining her face as if he were digging for clues to her reaction.
"Yes," she said quietly and then, because she wasn't sure he'd heard her, she said it again, much clearer and definitely louder. "Yes."
"Yes to which question?" His voice betrayed a trace amount of uncertainty, and the soothing pattern he'd been creating on the side of her neck suddenly stopped.
"Both," she informed him as a small smile evolved into a more confident grin.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes?"
"Yes," she repeated, trying not to sound as giddy as she was beginning to feel. "Did you actually think I would say 'no?'"
He shook his head back and forth slowly, biting back a grin. "I'm never quite sure when it comes to you."
Winding her arms around his neck, she pulled him in closer, looking him squarely in the eye as she said, "In the future, I'll try to be more of a sure thing."
"I doubt that," he returned easily, bumping his forehead against hers and eying her with a dubious expression.
"Just don't ever doubt that I love you, okay?" She kissed him lightly. "Sam, I mean that."
"McNally?"
"Yeah?"
"You're hijacking my proposal."
"Then by all means," she said with a smirk, "please continue."
She released him and dropped her hands to her lap, watching his movements with a curious anticipation as he reached for the box on the table beside them.
Barely capable of suppressing some of her more girly emotions, she stifled a giggle and reminded herself to breathe. "You know, given the afternoon I've had, this is strangely appropriate."
"Probably not what you had in mind when you went looking for rings, though."
"Trust me. This is much better," she said as he slid the ring onto her finger. She extended her arm and flexed her fingers, allowing the diamond to reflect the light from the lamp beside the couch. "How long have you been thinking about this?"
He exhaled slowly. "Too long."
"How long is too long?" she asked. "Are we talking days or weeks?"
It was a calculating look that she received in response—one that told her he was carefully measuring his answer. "Well, it wasn't days and it wasn't weeks . . . . Let's just say I was thinking about it even when things weren't so good between us."
Andy smiled. Hearing him say that their future was on his mind even when everything between them had seemed so dark and hopeless made her happier than almost anything he'd ever told her. For her, it was that one tiny cinder in an otherwise lifeless pile of ash and rubble. It meant that everything about the time they'd been apart wasn't necessarily hollow and dismal.
"Me, too," she admitted sheepishly, watching him from beneath partially-veiled eyelids.
"Really?" The look she saw on his face was one of mild surprise mingled with disbelief.
"Yes, Sam. Of course. I thought about our future a lot. I mean, I didn't think there was much hope for us . . . ."
"Yeah. I didn't either," he agreed, brushing a hand across her forehead as he swept an errant strand hair back behind her ear. "But that didn't stop me from thinking about it."
"Who knew you were such a planner?" Andy said, issuing the gentle tease as his hand slid down the length of her hair and lingered on her shoulder before falling away.
"Only when it really matters." He reached for her beer, sliding it across the table to her before popping the top off of his own and taking a healthy swig.
"We should have a toast," she suggested, grinning uncontrollably at him.
"Okay." He licked his lips and held his bottle close to hers. "To Andy McNally—for agreeing to marry me and for making me happier than I've ever been in my life."
She clinked her bottle against his and said, "To her fiancé Sam Swarek, the only man she could ever imagine spending the rest of her life with." She tapped her bottle against his again and took a long sip, holding his gaze the entire time. To Andy, Sam did look happier than she'd ever seen him. During the months since they'd gotten back together he'd gradually been unlocking more and more of himself to her and now, as she studied him, he seemed almost completely unguarded.
"And to Hilda Stevenson," Sam added, elongating each word as his bottle bumped hers once more.
"Yeah, here's to Hilda. May she find her—wait, what did you say?"
"Hilda Stevenson," he said with a knowing look. "Wasn't she the woman with the missing jewelry?"
"Sure," Andy said, cocking her head at him, "but I don't remember telling you her name."
"I don't remember it either," he said, sipping his beer calmly as the wheels started turning in Andy's head. Sam had been strangely helpful when it came to the investigation. Uncharacteristically helpful, in fact. She fast-forwarded through her afternoon with Chris, finally groaning loudly. "The whole thing with Hilda . . . that was you?"
His self-satisfied expression told her all she needed to know.
Shoving him lightly in the shoulder, she demanded, "Why?"
"Just a little insurance policy. I wanted to make sure you were in the right frame of mind."
"So Brenda the cake lady, Brian the real estate guy, that idiot Justin Clark . . . all of that was you?"
"All of it."
You planned the whole thing?" she asked again.
"Sure. It was kind of like working a case in reverse. Turns out I'm just as incredible at laying out a crime as I am at solving it."
"Okay, so the wedding cake thing . . . that seems obvious. And the real estate guy . . . that house . . . that was supposed to make me think about the future, right? And, of course, Hilda herself was hammering the marriage angle pretty heavily. But Justin Clark? That wasn't real?"
"Nope. Just a guy who owed me a favor. Now I guess I owe him one because according to him, you weren't exactly gentle."
"Did you tell him to run?" she demanded with a laugh.
"I did."
"Then you knew what was probably going to happen," she surmised. "You assumed I would knock him down."
"I didn't tell him that, though."
"Tackling that guy was supposed to remind me of the way we met, wasn't it?"
"Yes." He smiled indulgently at her.
"What if I'd tried to arrest him?"
"That's why Diaz was there—to make sure you didn't get yourself into trouble."
"So Chris knew none of it was real . . . . No wonder he was in such a good mood. How about Brenda at the bakery? Who was she?"
"Old informant. Also owed me a favor."
"And Hilda Stevenson?"
Sam chuckled, resting a hand on her thigh. "Owed Oliver a favor."
"So Oliver was in on it, too . . . ."
"Well, you know, he's always been a big supporter. Hilda—real name Mary Ellen—is actually a friend of Celery's. Apparently, she's quite a star on the local theatre scene."
"I don't doubt it," Andy reflected. "She really worked me over. She even had pictures. And those stories about her dead husband were so convincing."
"She actually went a lot further than I expected. That photo album was all her."
"What about the dog? Was it even hers?"
"Yeah. That's her real dog. I came up with the name, though."
"Did you know it was a Doberman?"
"I didn't," he said with a grin. "I was picturing something smaller like a poodle."
"Definitely not a poodle," she laughed. "What about the real estate agent? Owed you a favor, too?"
"Nah. He was just willing to play along because he was hoping to sell a house. I told him if things worked out, he might be hearing from us in a few years."
"Well, he was really good, too. You're lucky I didn't sign on the dotted line and buy that place today. I love that neighborhood."
"I know you do," he responded. "The real estate agent's name actually is Brian Stevenson, by the way, but he's not Hilda's—Mary Ellen's—son. I started with him and built the rest of the story from there."
Andy rested her hand on top of his, slowly weaving their fingers together. "So when do you want to get married?" she finally asked, biting her lip as she glanced at the ring on her finger.
"Soon."
"How soon?" she asked, feeling surprised by his readiness.
"I don't know. Maybe late fall?" He squinted at her as if he were testing her reaction. "Summer probably wouldn't give us enough time to pull together a wedding."
"You want a real wedding?"
"Sure." His response was easy and automatic, surprising her yet again.
"An actual wedding with all the trimmings?" she persisted.
"I want what you want, and we both know you want the trimmings. Besides, it might be fun to celebrate. It took us long enough to get here."
"Boutonnieres? Champagne toasts? Real human beings at an actual ceremony? You're okay with all of that?"
"The whole ball of wax," he assured her.
"Okay, then . . . . So late fall . . . six months away . . . difficult but I think we can make it work."
"Do you want to wait longer?" he asked.
"No, I really don't." As soon as she said it, she saw Sam relax in front of her.
"McNally, are you sure you're ready?"
"Yes, I'm ready. Sam, I'd marry you tomorrow if I could."
"That can be arranged, you know."
"No way. If you're offering, I want a wedding," she said quickly. "Something special. Not huge and over-the-top. Just a day that's about us."
"Special it is, then." He nudged her plate toward her. "Now eat. I know you're hungry."
"I am a little hungry," she said with a smile, eying him as she released his hand and turned to her plate. "So how did you get Oliver to let us run around chasing fake leads all afternoon?"
"That was the trickiest part," he told her. "He made me promise to clean up two cold case files by month-end."
Andy grimaced. "Yikes. That won't be easy."
"Nope. Wanna help?"
"I guess." She shrugged. "If I have time. I mean, I do have a wedding to plan . . . ."
