A Walk in Ashes
Gold has been stunned by the return of Belle French. She seems to know nothing of the brutal murder that has taken place in her apartment and her distressed reaction seems genuine. He questions her at length, trying to discover her actions on the night of the murder (and if she has an alibi). Concerned that she may not be safe to remain in her apartment, he decides that she will spend the night at his house.
Confused, yet intrigued, Miss French agrees to this. She finds the detective attractive and recognizes that he is likely a very capable individual. She is impressed with the renovations he's done on his rescued home. He orders her pizza for a late supper.
Spending the Night
Chapter 9
Damn she made things easy. And he brought back two sturdy paper plates and two beers. Miss French had disappeared. He sat on his sofa and in a moment she returned to join him, sitting on the other end and drawing her legs up under herself.
"I plugged my phone in to recharge," she told him.
"You know you can't call anyone," he corrected her. Did she not understand? Someone had just tried to kill her.
"But . . . but, I've got to let my friends know that I'm alive," she protested.
"Someone just tried to kill you, probably, at least, possibly, one of your so-called friends. You're supposed to be dead and it's a good idea you stay that way for a while! I'm trying to keep you alive and safe."
"But?!" she was preparing to argue but he cut her off.
"I'm sorry, Miss French, but I must insist you do as I say."
"Am I under arrest?" she asked him.
He didn't answer right away, but finally, sitting in the half-dark room and in a quiet voice, he told her, "No, but if anything should happen to you this time, I wouldn't like it."
She sat a moment just looking at him. That was interesting. Then she smiled back at him. "All right. I understand."
No you don't, angel, he thought. You couldn't possibly understand. "There's one more thing," he said aloud, not looking at her. "You may as well know what I know - some of it, at any rate. It'll save time and a lot of unnecessary fencing. I know that you went away to make up your mind whether you'd marry Killian Jones or . . . or not. What did you decide? I want the truth." He looked up into her eyes.
Miss French dropped her eyes, "I decided not to marry him."
His heart skipped a beat. It shouldn't have, but it did.
They finished the pizza off between them. She sipped her beer and he tried to do the same but ended up swilling it. If he'd been by himself he would've gotten a second beer.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she finally asked in a low tone.
"I'll sleep out here on the sofa in case someone does try to come in. I don't think it's likely that anyone will be coming here to get at you, but I still want to be sure you're safe."
"So you'll be out here to protect me," she said more to herself than to him. She looked up at him, "I think I'd like to get that shower now if you don't mind."
"Yes ma'am. There should be some towels in the bathroom."
She got up and cleared their plates, the cans and the empty pizza box, "Do you recycle?" she asked as she carried them into the kitchen.
Recycle? Huh? No. "Yeah," he answered, "leave them on the counter please," he called out to her.
"Lieutenant Gold," she spoke as she came back through the living room.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered.
"Thank you," she smiled at him again before heading back to his bathroom.
He heard the door to the bathroom open and then he heard her voice, "Why hello little kitty."
Oh shit. "I forgot I just rescued a kitten. Let me feed her again and move her out of the bathroom," he was preparing to follow her into the bathroom for the little feline, but Miss French came out cuddling the kitten.
"She's such a sweet little thing, but so skinny. Where'd you find her?"
He hesitated, "Lacey Redfern's apartment."
"Poor dear," she said and patted the kitten who was clearly enjoying the gentle attentions of Miss French.
Gold had opened another can of food and put it in the cereal bowl from the bathroom which he'd moved out to the kitchen. He replenished the kitten's water and allowed her free reign while he prepped the sofa into his bed for the night. Soon enough, he saw the kitten come into the living area where he was getting settled for the night.
He took an old blanket out of his linen closet and laid it on the sofa and set down a pillow. He slipped off his day clothes and into a pair of sleep pants, keeping on the tee-shirt he'd worn during the day. Then he lay down on the sofa, sliding under the blanket.
Belle had gone on into his bathroom. She looked it over. It proved to be a visual experience. There were tiny black and white octagonal tiles in a geometric pattern on the floor. There were larger black, white and not-to-be-believed turquoise tiles two-thirds of the way up the wall. There was also an amazing turquoise bathtub but the toilet and free-standing sink were white porcelain. It reminded her of 50's, even 40's, styling and she suspected that was the last time the bathroom had been updated. There were a couple of towel racks with clean white towels hanging here and there. There was an old nightstand that had been upcycled to stand in for a counter next to the sink. She looked over the cabinet top – a deodorant, a hair brush, comb, shaving supplies, sunscreen, drug store shampoo and conditioner, Dial bar soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. Everything that was absolutely needed and nothing that was absolutely not needed – a man's bathroom. She also spotted the litter box and the old blanket which the man had used for the kitten.
From what she had seen of the rest of the house, well, the kitchen was pure industrial chic with bottom line basic appliances and the living room, was . . . well . . . Sears blew up. But there was that bedroom with two hundred plus year old antiques, beautifully restored, the work of a true artist. There was a staircase and she knew there was at least one more floor, but it didn't seem quite the time to ask for a tour.
Belle thought about the man. She had been frightened when she came into her own apartment and found him sitting there, his eyes glinting in the reflected light from the street, his gun in his hand even though it was not pointing at her. He had shown her his badge, given her that terrible news and then his soft voice and strong arms had comforted her.
Good lord! She realized that she was attracted to him! Really attracted to the man! On some kind of visceral, purely physical level, or was it on a psychic, higher-plane level? Nothing like she had ever felt for Gaston or even Killian.
She told herself the sensible things, that she had just met the man. And that she was not a floozy. She reminded herself that she was technically still an engaged woman. And that she had just met the man.
But something . . . something was there.
But why? He wasn't her type at all. It was quite apparent that he was a complex dark individual. She knew he was a violent man; he'd already pulled a gun when they were back in her apartment and he made no secret of the fact that he carried one even when he was in his own house.
But this same man had rescued a poor little kitten and taken it home to care for it. And he'd rescued this remarkable house and was taking care of it. Probably had rescued that vintage truck of his.
Odd, she felt somehow connected with the man, as if they were on the same wavelength . . . she'd felt it instantly.
She looked at herself. She thought she looked a fright with dark circles under her eyes and her hair standing out like a halo around her head.
Huh, he probably thought that she was a young, flighty, silly dress designer with equally silly friends. He had poked through her private journal – oh lord, what all had he read in there? She closed her eyes. Hopefully he had missed that rant she'd had about how she might like to do the naughty. That would be totally embarrassing if he'd read all that stuff.
She borrowed his brush and ran it through her hair. He was rather handsome, she remembered her musings in the truck. Not in a traditional manner, but his eyes were pretty and his crooked smile compelling. He was used to telling people what to do, which – another day – might aggravate her. But tonight it had been comforting to turn the control over to him.
Oh and, the intelligence was there, she could tell that. She'd seen copies of The Wall Street Journal on the sofa and a box of Architectural Digests. There had also been copies of Fine Woodworking, Woodcraft, and Arts and Crafts Furniture. She noted that he kept small stacks of hardbacks in the living room – all nonfiction works focusing on politics, economics or foreign policy. She had always been partial to intelligent men. They were few and far between. She sighed.
Maybe he was her type after all.
She stripped off her clothes and began the shower.
Lying there on his sofa, he could hear her in the bathroom, grabbing a warm shower. Good lord, she was naked with just a wall between them. Then the shower stopped and he knew she was changing into some type of sleeping garment and he couldn't prevent himself from wondering what she might be putting on. He remembered the silky, filmy thing that Lacey was found in and he wondered if all her sleepwear was like that. Or would she have on some little sleep shorts that would show off her legs and a tank top that she would wear braless that would show off her sweet rounded breasts? Maybe she slept in an old tee-shirt and just her panties.
She probably thought of him as some crude cop, lacking class, lacking any appreciation for the finer things. Not on any level with her.
He closed his eyes. He didn't have a chance with her.
It got quiet and he realized that now she would be slipping in between the sheets of his bed - his sheets – in his bed.
He felt something land on the sofa beside him and jumped, reaching for his gun. He realized almost immediately that it was the kitten. Making little purry sounds, she walked along the length of his body and then jumped to the top of the sofa. She trilled and settled her little body above his.
Gold realized that he was sweating. He stared at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, calming himself, pushing himself into a meditative state. Finally he fell into a restless sleep populated by dreams of a lush and lovely brunette who hogged the covers and would sometimes give an adorable little snort when she shifted positions.
He was awakened when he felt his phone buzzing.
It was his cell phone. "Yeah?" he recognized the number as Dullward's. God damn, it was two in the morning.
"Gold? This is Dullward. I've been monitoring the cell."
"And?"
"It came alive a little while ago and someone just made a call. Wanna hear it?
"Hell yeah, go ahead," he told the young officer shaking himself awake. This could not be good.
"Hello?
"This is me. I'm . . ."
"Be careful what you say on the phone. Where are you?"
"I'm at the policeman's home in south Asheville. He's here, concerned that I might be in danger. I just wanted you to know . . ."
"Of course. I understand. We'll have to find some place to talk. We'll try to connect some time tomorrow. Let me know the moment you're free."
Gold thanked the officer and then asked them to beef up the watch on Belle's office and her apartment. He wondered if he should include the mountain cabin in the surveillance.
Well shit, he thought as he hung up the phone. This was an unfortunate turn of events.
He'd been hoping she was innocent.
At some point he must have drifted off back asleep. He knew he had fallen asleep because he woke up. The sweet smells of frying bacon and perking coffee assailed his nostrils. Momentarily confused, he leaped from the sofa, grabbing his gun and cane and quickly made his way towards the kitchen, carefully going around the corner to find the delectable Miss French bustling about, pulling down plates, humming some little tune and . . . she was cooking in his kitchen . . . cooking. The kitten was sitting in the kitchen watching the cook.
Miss French glanced first at him as he stepped into the kitchen. Then she glanced at his gun. "What? Did you think somebody had broken in to make you breakfast?" she asked.
He stood a moment in awe. She was wearing one of his black tee-shirts. That seemed to be pretty much all she was wearing. Was she wearing panties under that tee? It covered her butt but left a lot of leg for his viewing pleasure. Plus it was stretched out in a most interesting manner - stretched out in all the right places. She noticed his gawking.
"I hope it was all right I borrowed a tee-shirt. You didn't give me time to re-pack and most of the things I had, I needed them to go into the wash. I went ahead and put a load in your washer and they're going through the dryer now. Then I put the sheets in; they're washing now. And I fed your kitten."
"Fine. It's fine," he somehow had swallowed and found his voice. He double-checked to see if the safety was on, and then put the weapon in the back of his pants. He didn't think shooting his own ass off would impress anyone.
"Does she have a name?" she asked him.
Huh? Oh, the kitten. "No, I just got her yesterday. Any suggestions?"
"Callie, 'cause she's a calico. Or Sugar, 'cause she's so sweet. Or Baby, 'cause she's just a tiny little thing. Or Susie or Sweetie . . ."
The kitten had gone over to rub herself against Gold's leg.
"I'm not good with names," Gold told Miss French. "Dearie, stop that," he spoke to the kitten who was sampling the texture of his pants with her tiny claws.
She meowed at him.
"You like Dearie?" Miss French asked the kitten and the animal mewed again. "Well, that settles it," she told him.
"You didn't have to fix me breakfast," he told her walking over to check out her progress. Damn, she'd fixed him breakfast!
"It's an easy way for me to say thank you. My mother would always listen to my dreams of becoming a designer and then teach me another recipe. How do you like your eggs?"
"Over easy," he said, watching her melt a little butter in his cast iron skillet and crack an egg into it. He had butter in the house?
"Me too," she told him. "Can you make some more coffee?" she asked him.
"I'm a police officer. Of course I can make coffee," he told her.
"Make me another one too, please," she asked him and soon enough he set two cups of hot coffee in front of her.
"How do you like yours?" she asked him.
"I take it black," he told her.
She made a face at him darned if she didn't look adorable – the woman couldn't help herself. "I like mine with lotsa milk and some sugar," she told him. "You didn't have a lot of ingredients, but I did manage to find some flour, eggs, some pre-cooked bacon and a couple of other things."
In no time at all, she had set bacon, home-made biscuits, hashbrowns and eggs in front of him.
He hadn't known that he had the ingredients for such a breakfast. He had cut open one of the soft biscuits that had just a touch of crispness on the outside and put some butter inside it. He watched the butter immediately start to melt into the sponge-like holes that covered the interior surface of the biscuit. Now he knew where the term 'mouthwatering' had come from. "How did you do the potatoes?" he asked her; he knew he hadn't had any of those.
"Canned," she told him, blithely.
She had been through his cabinets. And his fridge.
She was smiling gently at him. It had been a little sad looking for food in the man's house. He had lotsa processed, frozen meals, hamburger helpers and ramen noodles. She'd found a single stick of butter in the freezer. No fresh fruit or vegetables. Nothing organic. He ate like a college student.
It had been a challenge for her to pull together a nutritious breakfast.
She enjoyed the occasional challenge.
Miss French joined him at his little table and served herself a plate. They began eating.
"This is a lovely lot you have. All the trees in the backyard. Like you're in some kind of enchanted forest. You wouldn't know you were just ten minutes from the city," she told him. "I went out on your deck earlier. It's beautiful."
"Yeah, I bought the house because of that deck," he answered stuffing his face with egg, bacon, biscuit and hashbrowns.
"I don't suppose you get enough time to spend on it?" she asked.
"I get enough," he told her, a bit on the grumpy side. She was interrupting his eating.
"I'm sorry, I'm just chattering on here. I guess I'm a morning person," she apologized.
"Ma'am, you can go ahead and sing an aria if you want. You just fixed me breakfast." He swallowed another mouthful. "This bacon is delicious. What did you do to it?"
"Added some of your liquid smoke and rubbed in some black pepper."
"Nice," he said and she beamed back at him.
"What are your plans for me today?" she asked him. She was looking him over. She thought that in his sleep pants and tee-shirt, knowing he was carrying his gun, he managed to look extraordinarily masculine . . . and virile . . . and safe . . . and attractive.
No, this line of thought wasn't safe for her. She shouldn't be looking at his strong, compact body. She could instead focus on his face.
Yes, his face. His hair was all ruffled, brown with little streaks of grey and his cheeks and chin were sporting early morning beard bristle. His eyes still crinkled at the corners and were all soft and brown.
No, stop it. That way lay madness.
Maybe she could focus on his hands with their strong capable fingers. She could just imagine what those agile, slender fingers might do if he started to touch her and trail his hands down her . . .
No, no, no! Perhaps she needed to focus on the food.
"I've got a friend that you can stay with," he told her.
He kept trying not to look at her shapely legs, her very fine ass and her perky breasts that were stretching his shirt way out of shape.
No, no, no! He needed to focus on her face.
Her face, her angel face with her soft curls draping around her features like a burnished silken frame, her eyes, bright and sparkling and her little bow of a mouth, looking full and moist, ready to be kissed and kissed thoroughly.
No, no, no! Maybe he could focus on her hands.
Little but strong and supple. He could only just image those clever fingers wrapping themselves around his . . . .
No, no, no! Better he should focus on his food.
Miss French looked at him for a just a moment. "Sure," responding to his remark about having a friend she could stay with.
"How soon can you be ready?" he asked her.
"Let me finish eating, clean up and see if I can find something to change into. My clothes won't be dry." She suddenly realized, "I probably shouldn't have washed them all." There was that little adorable look again, when she would screw up her nose in a little scowl.
"I'll see if I have something you can borrow. I'll get the other clothes to you later or bring you back here for them," he promised. He thought he could get by touching her undergarments if he picked them up with other clothing.
Miss French nodded. "This . . . this being dead. It's no fun," she told him.
Gold had to agree. He helped her with cleanup. It went quickly since Miss French had already run a sink with hot soapy water to clean up her cookware while she was working. She sent him off when she began to sweep the floor. "You need to shave, sir." She let her hand briefly rest on his cheek, "This is a nice look but I doubt if it's regulation."
His face burned where she had touched him on his cheek. He managed to give her a tight smile before leaving to get ready. He shaved quickly, grabbed a short shower and then dressed, clean boxers and undershirt, pants, shirt, vest, gun, tie and jacket. He ran a toothbrush over his teeth and a comb through his hair.
He got Miss French some of his own sweats to change into and set them out in the bedroom. She had pulled the sheets back to air out and he could still smell her delicate scent in the bed clothes.
He made two quick phone calls while Miss French was brushing her teeth and changing.
"Yeah, it's Gold . . . Yeah, it's me. Fat good you've been on this case! . . . Yeah, I know you had that fiery six-car pileup to deal with. . . I already know. . . Well, because I ran into the live item last night. . . Uh huh . . . No joke, I'll want your complete report when I get in. Right now, I need a place. . . now . . . wait . . . wait . . . wait a minute. . . you don't even know what I'm going to ask for . . . . . . . . . well, yeah . . . and you know you're the best person . . . it will only be for today, at most . . . No, I don't think she'll mind."
The second phone call was to a friendly judge.
Satisfied that he was getting his way, he waited for Miss French with a sweatsuit jacket in his hands. She came out wearing a pair of sweatpants with an Asheville City Police logo on the side and another one of his tee-shirts. It said "Trainer" on it. She was wearing the same little flat sandals she'd had on the night before. She'd pulled her hair back and up and had wound it into a bun.
If she had makeup on, he couldn't tell. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Before they left out he settled Dearie back in the bathroom with her towel, food and water.
"All right," Belle told him. "I'm ready. Where are we going?"
"To a place nobody goes unless they have to," he told her. "The M. E.'s office."
"M.E.? Isn't that like the Medical Examiner?" she asked trailing him into the garage.
"Yup," he answered, opening the door of his truck for her.
"That's the person who deals with dead bodies and stuff, right?" Miss French asked him.
"Yup," he answered, getting in on the driver's side and cranking up the truck.
"All right," she finally said. She did look back once at the house in the morning light. "Good lord, your house is a Gothic Revival! Absolutely remarkable. They were gonna bulldoze this?"
He nodded.
Miss French continued looking back at the house as they pulled out. It was stunning with striking iron railings, narrow windows, high arches, multiple chimneys, dormers, bits of bric-a-brac gingerbread around the front porch. It was a classic design, dark, compelling, complex.
Much like the man that lived in it.
As they drove back into Asheville, the sun began shining through. It had quit raining and was back to hot. With yesterday's moisture and today's heat, the city had been transformed into one giant sultry, insufferable steam bath.
Gold drove the truck with casual assuredness. He glanced over at his passenger and smothered a smile. Miss French had seemed a bit uneasy about his destination but had accepted it nonetheless. Brave girl.
He parked in the asphalt lot and led Miss French into the unremarkable cream-green colored concrete block building. It had a small kelly-green sign designating its purpose but for the most part it seemed to have gone out of its way to try to be invisible. They were halted by two guards staffing a body-scanner. Gold was passed through as he was well recognized, but they insisted Miss French walk through the scanner. Once she was pronounced clean, Gold and Miss French began the trek deep into the building, down a flight of stairs to the basement. There the flickering fluorescent-lite hallways were institutional pale green, sterile and smelling of bleach with faded baseboards and white stipple ceiling tiles. Miss French put her hand on his arm, reaching around and under to come up with her arm around his at the elbow.
"This place is creepy," she whispered to him.
"I've always thought so," he agreed with her wondering if she was aware that the side of her breast was pressed into his arm. They stopped at a locked door, a heavy metal door with a single high window composed of a lattice of metal wire pressed between two layers of thick glass. Gold punched a code into the door lock and, after a buzzer sounded, opened the door.
They stepped into a small refrigerated reception area. Belle shivered from the onslaught of frigid air and gratefully slipped on the jacket that Gold handed her. Set in the arctic anteroom was a two-seater little sofa with dark green vinyl cushions set on a less-than-sturdy frame laminated to look like wood. The dark green marble-patterned tiled floor was clean but all along the edges was built up with wax, dulling its appearance. They were on the other side of a wall with yet another locked door and a wire-within-glass receptionist's window.
"Swan!" Gold called out sharply. "Out here, now!"
"Keep your panties on," came the surly answer.
Again, I have to thank my ever supportive reviewers (many who continue to make guesses as to the identify of the killer—as well as the motivation – and just where is that pesky murder weapon) : onlyinyourdreams77, jewel415, Grace5231973, cynicsquest, OneMagician, MyraValhallah, fulltimefanxgirl, Erik'sTrueAngel, kagi-chan2, orthankg1(Chapter 7), deweymay, Robin4, Chauchi, and Wondermorena
NEXT: Gold makes a profitable trip to Belle's mountain cabin and Emma shares with Belle all about Gold