“He must not have seen us—we were blocked by the Dumpster and that edge of the building. But when he broke the window and the alarm went off.” She drew in a breath. “Good thing Carl set the alarm.”
She checked to see whether the door had been jimmied, but the lock was intact. The opening of jagged glass was much too small for any person to pass through. Since the alarm had gone off just after the window was broken, the intruder obviously never made it inside the store.
That was also the conclusion of Wicks Hollow Police Chief Joe Longbow, who arrived moments later, having been notified by the alarm system.
“Store’s still locked up,” he said in his drawling voice. “You say nothing was taken, Miz Murphy?”
“I haven’t been inside, but it doesn’t appear that he made it in.”
“That’s all right, then. You can confirm when you file the report tomorrow up to the office,” Longbow said. He was a rangy man approaching fifty with the high cheekbones and sienna-toned skin of his Native American heritage. His demeanor was calm and professional, and instilled a sense of trust and confidence in Fiona. “If nothing’s taken, we’ll file it as vandalism and suspected attempt of breaking and entering.”
“All right,” she replied. “I’ll be in first thing tomorrow to file the report.”
“Sorry about this being your welcome to Wicks Hollow,” Longbow said with a grim smile. “But I did hear your re-opening was a success. My wife and daughter came in and brought home a small porcelain lamp.” He scratched his head. “Has a turtle for a base,” he added as if uncertain about it.
Fiona smiled. “Oh, I know the one. That turtle was a cheeky little critter. I’m glad he found a home.”
Through their conversation, Gideon had leaned propped against the side of Fiona’s yellow Beetle, holding a rumpled handkerchief to his head and refusing to allow her to minister to him. “Finish up with this first,” he growled when she tried to pry it away to look at it.
Apparently he was not the type that liked to be mothered, yet he looked wan and drawn even in the dim light.
Longbow jerked a look toward him. “Might want to have him looked at by an EMT or at the ER. Nasty cut there.” Then he shook her hand, took a few more photos with an actual camera instead of a mobile phone, and bid them good evening.
“I’m not going to the ER,” Gideon said from between clenched teeth, heedless of the blood that had dried all over his temple and the side of his face.
“All right, then. But at least let me drive you home, Gideon.”
He seemed about to argue, then apparently thought better of it. “Fine,” he said shortly. “It’s about thirty minutes away,” he added as if in warning.
She shrugged. “I figured you lived in Grand Rapids. I’m glad you’re on this side of town and not the other.”
With that, she opened the passenger door of her car. It would be interesting to see how he managed to get all six-foot-plus of himself in the little bucket seat.
She nearly had to shove him into the vehicle, but when he acquiesced with little reluctance, she realized how badly he must feel. He gave her basic directions and they fell silent as she maneuvered the Beetle out of Wicks Hollow to the highway that would take them to his house.
The seriousness of tonight’s events struck her as she was waiting for a light to turn green. Up until now, it had been a foggy realization, overshadowed by the passionate kisses shared with Gideon, concern for him, and her factual conversation with the police.
Now, her focus sharpened as she recognized the hard facts: someone had broken into her shop. A random thief, or maybe even one of her guests from the open house today. Maybe someone had noticed one of the few pieces that caused Carl to positively drool, and decided he didn’t want to pay for it? Regardless, it wasn’t likely the police would ever find him—particularly since neither she nor Gideon had gotten a good look at him. She shivered. She was just so lucky that she hadn’t come back to the shop on her own.
Fiona turned to look at Gideon, whose face was still raised to the ceiling. “Are you sure I can’t take you to the ER?” she asked, noticing the lines of pain etched on his face.
“No. Stupidity does not deserve to be catered to.” His voice was flat, but he lifted his head as they exited the highway and gave her further directions.
Moments later, Fiona pulled into the drive outside the garage to his condo, which overlooked Lake Michigan. “Lake view,” she said, impressed. “Nice.”
He let them into his condo, which was of newer construction, and Fiona had to readjust her previous assumptions about his living space.
It was not the cold, sleek, black-leather-and-chrome decor she’d imagined. Although definitely a bachelor pad, it did, nevertheless, have a warmer feel than she’d anticipated, with plump—not sleek—leather sofas, Scandinavian-style wooden furnishings, and interesting texture everywhere: in a tile display on one wall, on the subway-style backsplash in the kitchen, in an interesting metal piece on a two-storey wall, in a modern fabric tapestry stretched in a mahogany frame.
A small gas fireplace opened on two sides into the living room and kitchen, and a worn armchair was positioned next to a closed, but very large, wall-to-ceiling, entertainment center. The ugliest afghan she’d ever seen—olive green, chartreuse, and off-white—was folded across the back of the rich navy sofa.
“Nice blanket,” she commented sincerely, smoothing her hand over its worn comfort. Ugly though it might be, it had been well-used and obviously provided some great measure of solace to its user.
“My mother made it.”
The level of emotion in his voice told Fiona that it wasn’t just pain from his injury that made it short and flat. She filed the information away for future contemplation and turned her attention from the residence to the man himself.
“Sit down and let me take a look at that. No, better yet, let’s go into the bathroom where I can clean you up right there.” She didn’t wait for him to reply, but started down a hallway that passed a staircase, a den, and ended in a spacious powder room, certain he would follow.
