Cinnamon Girl Read online

  "I'm going in alone?"

  He nodded. "Mr. Smith knows me quite well. I want to surprise him and get some good pictures if he's actually out of the wheelchair and bowling."

  "And supposing I get his picture out of the wheelchair. Then what do I do?"

  "Give me your phone." She took it out of her bag and handed it to him. Mike quickly flipped it opened, punched a few keys, and handed it back. "That's my phone number. Save it and after you either take the pictures or see him in a wheelchair, call me and let me know what's going on. Got it?"

  "Got it," she said smartly. "And I think you'll find I'm worth every penny of my salary."

  "Well soon find out," he promised as he opened the door and hopped out of the truck. After helping Lacy out of the vehicle, Mike walked her to the entry of the bowling alley. "I'll be waiting right here. Call me the minute you have anything."

  "Will do, boss." Then she ducked inside the door.

  Intent on setting up the photo option on her cell phone, Lacy sort of felt her way inside the building. Her ears were assaulted by the thunder of plastic balls crashing into wooden pins along with bits and pieces of conversation, and she picked up a curious odor, a not entirely unpleasant combination of French fries and old socks.

  Distracted as she pushed the button that started the video on her phone, Lacy collided with a man who was coming out of the restroom.

  "Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry," she said, stumbling over her own feet.

  The man caught her by the elbow. "No harm, but I think they ought to outlaw those damn phones," he said good-naturedly. "I hope you don't do that texting thing while you're driving, too."

  Lacy looked up, intending to apologize all over again. Then she realized she was staring into the face of Mr. Smith.

  Chapter 3

  Lacy's mouth dropped opened and she barely managed yet another apology. "Uh, sorry."

  "Don't sweat it." With that, the man turned and continued on his way.

  Over her shock, Lacy kept his image lined up on her phone and carefully followed along behind him. Once he'd arrived at his lane, Mr. Smith skipped down the couple of steps that separated the main room from the bowling lanes and took a seat alongside a middle-aged woman, his wife, she assumed.

  Lacy quickly dropped into a chair provided for spectators, and turned her attention to the phone. First she saved the video, then she played it to make sure she'd gotten a good image of the man walking—she had, and how—and then she sent the video to Mike's cell phone. She also sent a text with the video, a short note that read; If this is your Mr. Smith, I expect a bonus.

  A few moments later she heard the expected 'ping,' and she read Mike's text. Yes! Where r u?

  She let him know that she was sitting in front of lanes five and six, and then sat back to wait. It didn't take long for Mike to saunter up and drop into the chair beside her.

  "How did you find him so fast?" he asked as his gaze sifted through the bowlers before him.

  "I'm an excellent sleuth," she said proudly before adding in a quiet voice, "Also, I almost knocked him down when he came out of the men's room."

  Mike laughed as he raised his camera and fixed it on Mr. Smith. As the man approached the foul line and prepared to toss his ball, Mike began snapping stills of the man, ending with one that made him look like a whooping crane coming in for a landing; arms spread wide, one leg stretched out behind him, the other firmly planted on the polished wooden floor.

  "Now what?" Lacy asked. "Do we call the cops and have him arrested?"

  Mike shook his dark head. "My part of the job is done. I'll just write up a report, include my photos and your video, and let the insurance company take over from there. I have to tell you, this one is particularly satisfying. I can't tell you what an arrogant, nasty... uh, uh..."

  "Pork chop?"

  "Right. This guy's the toughest pork chop I've had the pleasure to carve up in a long time."

  His attention drawn back to the pork chop in question, Lacy took the opportunity to take a better look at Mike. That's when she noticed that he'd also dressed casually for the evening in jeans and a black sweater with two broad red stripes across the chest. Over the odd mélange of odors drifting through the air, she could pick out his slightly spicy scent, subtle, not overpowering. Without a hat, Mike's hair seemed much darker and longer than she remembered with natural waves that looked just days from needing a trim. That together with his dark eyes and brows made Lacy wonder again about his name, this time of its origins. Lindahl screamed of Scandinavian descent, and yet he looked positively Mediterranean.

  Mike turned suddenly and caught her staring. She didn't know what to say or do. Instead of doing the smart thing and holding her tongue, Lacy blurted out a perfectly inappropriate comment. "You don't look much like a Lindahl."

  Mike nodded sagely. "My father said that to my mother once, and that's the last we saw of him."

  "Oh, how awful." Thoughts of cutting out her own tongue crossed Lacy's mind. "I shouldn't have said that."

  "Actually," he said with a grin. "My father did mention that to my mother a time or two, but we saw plenty of him afterwards. My mother is Greek, through and through, and I happen to look a lot like her. Not nearly as pretty, of course."

  "Ah. Hence the olive skin and dark eyes."

  "Hence," he agreed as he turned his attention back to the lanes again. "Just give me one more minute here and then we can go get a bite to eat."

  Lacy thought of asking what else needed doing when it all became clear. Mr. Smith was walking in their general direction, apparently headed for the fresh tray of beers that had been delivered for his team a few moments earlier. As he lifted a frosty mug from the tray, Mike raised his arm and waved. This caught Mr. Smith's attention. He turned and looked directly at Mike.

  At first there was recognition in the man's expression, and for a moment, it looked as if he might wave back. Then he clearly recalled where he'd seen Mike before. His jowls, shoulders, his entire body sagged as one, and he heaved a heavy sigh.

  Mike raised his camera and pointed it toward Mr. Smith. Then he said, "Say cheese."

  Mission accomplished, he slipped the camera into his pocket and turned to Lacy. "All this working has made me really hungry. Are you ready for a big fat steak?"

  Behind Mike, Lacy could see the scofflaw bearing down on him. She canted her head his way. "I think supper is going to have to wait a little longer."

  Mike turned as Smith approached the counter. "Come on, man," he said to Mike. "It's not what it looks like. I have good days, I have bad days."

  Mike barked a laugh. "What's this? One of your miracle days?"

  Smith sighed. "Can't you give a fellah a break?"

  "It's not up to me. Take it up with the insurance company."

  Smith thought about that a minute. Spots of color bloomed on his veined cheeks and his close-set eyes went hard and flat, button-eyes. "This ain't fair." The warning in his tone couldn't have been any clearer. "Gimme that camera."

  Mike got to his feet in one swift movement. He took hold of Lacy's elbow, urging her to rise as he said to Smith, "Back off, Norman. It's over. You're done. My advice? Go home and start selling your illegally purchased goods. You're going to need a lot of cash real soon."

  Then, without a look back, he quickly ushered Lacy out of the bowling alley.

  * * *

  Mike drove to a nice restaurant, a small, cozy place with weathered barn wood planks on the walls and a two-way fireplace planted in the middle of the room. They were seated at a table for two not far from the fire. The nearest diners, of which there were few, weren't close enough for conversations to overlap or interfere.

  "Ribeye, medium rare, okay with you?" Mike asked Lacy as the waitress approached.

  "Sounds great."

  He quickly ordered the two steaks with all the trimmings, and then sat back in his chair, determined to relax. Just as abruptly, Mike straightened.

  "I forgot to ask if you'd like something to drink.
Would you like a glass of wine with your steak?"

  Lacy stiffened and warily asked, "Are you having one?"

  "No." Mike waved her off. "After a great deal of experimenting, I have come to understand that alcohol in any form is not my friend. I don't mind if you indulge though."

  She shook her head. "I'm not much of a drinker either. This is fine with me."

  With that, she hoisted the glass of water the waitress brought for them when they arrived, and offered a toast.

  "To... to a job well done. "

  "And to a great beginning for the best assistant I've ever had," Mike added.

  Lacy raised her glass and touched it to the rim of Mike's. "Thanks, but before my ego gets out of hand, mind telling me how many assistants you've had in the past?"

  Mike considered this as he took a sip of water. "Let's see, including you, and if memory serves, I believe it's one."

  She shrugged. "In that case I can't say that sincerity is among your strong points, but at least, you're honest."

  "That I am, especially since our friend Brian has turned me into a church-going man."

  "Yes, he told me he'd been dragging you to his church."

  Which begged the question, "Oh? And what else did he tell you about me?"

  It might have been the fireplace and the fact that she was getting too warm, but Mike was almost certain that the blush on Lacy's cheeks had appeared immediately after he asked his question.

  She took a slow, careful sip of water before saying, "Not too much. Just that he didn't know you all that well."

  This seemed odd to Mike considering the time they'd spent together, but he let it slide. What he didn't much care for was the fact that they'd been talking about him at all.

  "I didn't realize that you and Brian were such good friends. Do you see each other often?"

  She furrowed her brow and cocked her head, a sure sign that he'd let his mouth overrule his brain.

  In a much cooler tone than before, Lacy said, "We don't exactly see each other, Mike. During the week and in my capacity as a reporter, I check in with the sheriff's department on an almost daily basis, and usually wind up talking to Brian. Except for his phone call today, that's the extent of my relationship with him."

  Mike figured he ought to apologize for any innuendos he might have inadvertently made or maybe even slap his own face, but chickened out and instead dug a bigger hole for himself. "He called to warn you about me?"

  She laughed, a short, sarcastic sound. "Interesting choice of words, but no, he called because he told me he would once he had more information on the crime scene at the refuge. During the course of that conversation, I just happened to mention that I was going to Dickinson with you tonight."

  "Is that when he warned you about me?"

  Lacy blew out a forceful sigh, enough of one that it lifted a wave of hair that rested just above her eyebrow. "No, he didn't warn me about you, but maybe he should have at least told me how a career in law enforcement affects even casual friendships. If he had, I probably would have been better prepared for your interrogation."

  Lips pressed firmly together, Mike nodded slowly. Then he said, "I'm making a big pork chop out of myself, aren't I."

  "No." Lacy cracked a tiny smile. "I'd say you're behaving more like a ham, perhaps a Boston butt."

  "Oh, that's good, and I definitely had it coming." He raised his glass. "Touché."

  She raised her glass to his, accepting his white flag, and then Mike felt himself relax again, enough to admit, "It's been a while since I've been in a situation like this, too, Lacy. I'm not handling myself very well and I apologize. What do you say we start over again? My name's Mike and I'm a Boston butt."

  She laughed, a lovely, honest sound. "My name's Lacy. I have red hair and a quick temper to match. I apologize for being so touchy."

  Content just to look at her, Mike studied her hair, dazzled by the coppery shine it took on in the firelight. Then he surprised himself by saying, "Your hair isn't what I'd call red. It's cinnamon-colored, just like your eyes. Does anyone call you the Cinnamon Girl, you know, like the song?"

  "Nobody has, not that I recall anyway. I don't think I know that song."

  "It's a real moldy-oldie, late sixties or early seventies I think."

  "That explains it. I was raised on country music and I'm just now getting around to some of the rock stations."

  Their meals arrived then and that was the end of the conversation about music and old songs. That didn't, however, keep Mike from thinking about Lacy as the Cinnamon Girl. Even if he never saw her again, he had an idea whenever he heard that song, he would think of her. Maybe he would think of her even if he didn't hear the song.

  Most of the conversation during supper centered on talk of the excellent steaks as they each dug into their meal. It wasn't until they were back in the truck and on the return trip to Bismarck that Lacy thought back to the morning and Mike's presence at the refuge.

  Trying not to sound too much like a reporter, she asked, "Did you stay on at the crime scene this morning after I left?"

  "Yeah. I helped search the area for evidence, but we didn't find a thing. And just for your information, it wasn't a crime scene in the usual sense, but more of a body dump. The victim didn't die at the refuge. Didn't Brian tell you?"

  "No. He only gave me the basics and asked me to supply a description of the victim to help get an identity."

  Mike took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a long look. "I guess your friendship with Brian can only extend so far professionally."

  She laughed. "That's for sure, but I do feel closer to him than any of my other contacts. I think he fancies himself as my older brother or something, and I... " Lacy paused, thinking it over, and for the first time recognized something deep within. "Even though Brian isn't old enough to fit the bill, I guess I miss my dad more than I realized."

  "I'm sorry," Mike said quietly. "Did he pass recently?"

  "In a manner of speaking, yes," she said, again feeling a revelation. "He's in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's. My mother had to put him in a home this past summer."

  "That's tough."

  "Not so much for my dad. The rest of us, those of us who love him? It's not so good."

  Sounding as if he couldn't change the subject fast enough—and this was just fine with Lacy—Mike reverted to the former subject. "How much of what happened this morning can you write about?"

  "Just that the body of an unidentified pregnant woman was found in the refuge along with her description. It's very carefully worded with no mention of the missing baby."

  "Of course not." He made a mental note to go out and pick up a newspaper after church in the morning. "Will you be writing an article about our perfectly healthy Mr. Smith?"

  Lacy didn't even have to consider the idea. "Absolutely not, and for two reasons. One, he hasn't been arrested yet, so I don't have enough of a story. Two, and far more important, I was an integral part of unveiling Mr. Smith as a scam artist. If he is prosecuted for insurance fraud, it's very likely that I could be called as a witness in the case."

  He shrugged. "So? I don't see the problem."

  "As a journalist," she explained, "I'm supposed to conduct myself as a bystander, you know, uninterested and uninvolved. It's an ethical thing. I even had to discuss the ethics of me writing the story about the dead woman this morning simply because I was the one who happened across the crime scene."

  "And the ethics are okay with that story?"

  "My editor decided that since I hadn't actually seen the body or any crime being committed, that I could write it if I wanted to, and I do want this story."

  "In that case, congratulations. As a former police officer, I know how tough some of these cases can be for those of us who work them. This one definitely qualifies, so I have an idea how hard it might get for you on down the road."

  Lacy found comfort in Mike's words, a professional if not terribly personal kinship. That sense of comfort filled her w
ith a warmth that lasted all through the drive home.

  When they pulled up in front of Lacy's house, she said, "Thank you so much for a very entertaining evening and a great supper."

  As Mike reach for the ignition key, she quickly added, "Don't shut off the truck. I think I can find my way to the door all by myself."

  He ignored her and powered the engine down. Then he inched sideways in his seat and, affecting a drawl, said, "Sorry, Ma'am, but once a cop, always a cop. I'd be derelict in my duties if I didn't make sure you arrived safely at your destination."

  Lacy rolled her eyes. "Fine then."

  She even somehow managed to sit still and allow him to open the door and help her out of the truck. Once she was finally and safely at her stoop, Lacy turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Worried now about the awkward moment of parting, wondering if she ought to invite Mike in for coffee, or shoo him on his way, she forced herself to turn and face him.

  "See?" she said with a nervous twitter in her voice. "No evil lurking in the hallway."

  "Then my job here is done." Mike took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles lightly and then said, "You were a great assistant. I hope to hire you again someday soon."

  Then, with a wink and a short nod of his dark head, he turned and skipped down the stairs.

  * * *

  Lacy spent Sunday the way she usually did. She drove to Napoleon, picked up her mother, and then headed on over to Strasberg, where her father resided in a nursing home. After looking in on him and feeding him a light dinner, she and her mother returned to Napoleon where the two of them dined at a local café. As much as she enjoyed the visits with her mother and catching up on the local gossip, seeing her father in such an advanced state of unawareness generally left Lacy in a pensive and somber mood that lasted for a day or so.

  That dark cloud continued to hover above her early Monday morning as she headed to the Herald offices. As was her wont, Lacy stopped by the Sheriff's Department first to check the criminal log. When she walked up to the front desk, Brian popped around the corner and joined her there.