The Colors of Hate - 35

“So," Dean said, "first off, they wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t smart. Also, no one wants to join the force if they don’t care about people and stopping criminals. Ergo, smart and caring.”

Kirby nodded. “I suppose so. What about the ‘strong’ part?”

“Doesn’t that go without saying for a cop?”

“Not really. Sure, we have to be fit, but strength isn’t a prerequisite. A lot of being an officer is up here'—Kirby tapped his forehead—“as much as in how well we can control a suspect by force or whatever else needs doing on a physical level.”

“All right, that makes sense.”

“Now, your turn. I remember you telling me you went off to college to study art. Why the switch to theater?”

“One of my professors gave us an assignment to design some costumes for an upcoming show at the university’s theater. I discovered I had a flair for it, and the rest, to use the cliché, was history.”

“Much to your father’s disgust I’m sure. Damn. Sorry. That’s a dropped subject.”

Dean nodded. “It’s okay, and you hit it on the head. But by then I was of age and had decided he was not going to control my life any more.”

“So you wound up here with Carrie in tow.”

“More like I was the one in tow. She got hired, heard they also needed a new costumer, since the old one got pregnant and decided to devote herself to her soon-to-be growing family. Carrie suggested me, I sent Frank some of my designs, and he hired me.”

Kirby smiled, saying softly, “I’m glad he did.”

Dean scanned his face before replying, “So am I… now.”

“You weren’t before?” Kirby asked in surprise.

“Oh yeah, I like my job—a lot—and the city. But… well… there’s…” He almost reached for Kirby’s hand which was resting on the table, but didn’t when he realized where they were.

Something must have shown in Dean’s face because Kirby told him, “We’re just two men having dinner together, as far as anyone watching is concerned. It happens all the time, believe it or not.”

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. I’m just… I always have my guard up. Sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about. Believe me I understand.”

The waitress returned at that moment with their meals, setting them down before asking if there was anything else they needed. By the time she left, having been told there wasn’t, the mood had been broken.

“That looks good,” Dean said, eyeing what Kirby had ordered.

“Then maybe you should have ordered it instead of half-raw steak,” Kirby replied with a grin.

“Steak isn’t any good if it’s too cooked. You loose the flavor.”

They continued on in that vein as they ate, bantering about their choices and what other types of food and drink they preferred. Finally Kirby leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. “I’m so stuffed I might explode.”

No way am I touching that one. Then Dean saw the twinkle of amusement it Kirby’s eyes and laughed. “Maybe you should walk it off?”

“Walk or work?” Kirby asked with a straight face.

“Walk,” Dean replied quickly, dropping his napkin on the table beside his plate.

“Walk it is then.” Kirby felt a rush of disappointment but quashed it quickly. Hell, I was lucky he was willing to come to supper with me. Don’t push his limits until he’s ready. He took out his wallet and, despite Dean’s protests, paid for both their meals. “Ready?” he asked, getting up.

“Yes.”

Find out why 'Engagements Can Be Deadly'

Engagements Can Be Deadly

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My name is Brannon "Bran" Walker. I'm a private investigator, hired by Millicent Ashley's father to do a background check on her fiance, Tom Grant. Then Millie dies under suspicious circumstances during the engagement party for her and Tom--a party I attended. Murder? I think so, and I intend to prove it.

Duncan "Dunc" Raines, the lead detective in the case--and my ex-lover--tells me to keep my nose out of his investigation. No surprise, I ignore his order--and try to ignore him--as I begin digging into who might have decided a dead fiancee is preferable to a living bride. Suspects are numerous, and someone wants me to stop looking for the murderer, if they have to kill me to make that happen. As if. I intend to show Dunc that a PI can be just as good as a cop at uncovering a killer.

Excerpt:

"You might want to keep an eye on your fiancee," Tom Grant's brother, Jack, said to him, leaning against the railing of the catamaran.

Tom, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, glanced toward Millicent Ashley and smiled indulgently. "She's just having a bit of fun."

"Fun? She's three sheets to the wind."

I looked at the woman in question, a lovely long-haired brunette wearing a sleeveless, blue floral dress that definitely accentuated her figure. There was no doubt in my mind she was enjoying her engagement party, which was being held on the catamaran at the reservoir at Cherry Creek State Park. But was she really drunk? I didn't think so. She was likely just elated that she had hooked a very eligible and handsome bachelor who loved her as much as she loved him--and sharing her joy with her friends.

The music was loud, the voices of the revelers even louder. I wouldn't have overheard Tom and his brother if I hadn't been standing close to them. Tom took another drink of his beer before wandering in Millicent's direction, only to be stopped by one of the female guests. I couldn't hear what she said, but whatever it was, it caused Tom to smile and take her hand, leading her to the top deck of the catamaran where several other people were dancing.

"Millie is not going to be happy about that," I heard Jack mutter.

"Possessive?" I asked, joining him.

"I take it you don't know her," Jack replied.

I spread my hands. "I've met her, of course."

Jack gave me a look that said he wondered why I was here. So I said, "I'm a friend of Janie's. She wanted an escort and..." I shrugged. Janie was one of the over two-dozen female guests--and single, as I'd found out from talking to her.

I hope Jack doesn't decide to check with her to find out if I'm telling the truth.

"You figured free food and drinks, so why not?" Jack nodded knowingly.

"Got it in one."

"Enjoying yourself?"

"As much as I can, considering my date is spending more time with her friends than with me."

"It happens. Have a couple more drinks"--he grinned--"and you won't give a damn."

"I think I will."

I'd just said that when a woman screamed, "Millie!" followed by another one shouting, "Someone help her!"

Jack and I raced toward the rear of the boat, where the panicked voices had come from. We arrived just in time to see two men dive into the water while several of the guests hung over the railing. We joined them, watching as the rescuers swam toward Millicent, who was floating, face-down, several yards behind the catamaran in the deep water at the center of the reservoir. The men reached her, one of them lifting her head out of the water, just as a crew member threw them a ring buoy. The men grabbed it, holding Millicent as they were pulled back to the steps at the rear of the catamaran.

Tom was at the top of the steps by then. He climbed down then wrapped Millicent in a tight hold to carry her onto the deck. Immediately laying her down, he began CPR with Jack's help, while the guests hovered around them. The catamaran's captain pushed his way through the crowd, leaned over Millicent for a moment as if assessing her condition then said something to Tom. Tom shook his head violently and I heard him say, "No! She can't be."

Jack put his hand on Tom's shoulder while the bystanders reacted to the captain's words with varying shades of dismay.

*****

Allow me to backtrack and explain who I am, and why I was there when Millicent died.

My name is Brannon Walker, although most people call me Bran. I'm a private detective, thirty-four, six-foot even, brown-haired, and with what someone once called "wicked" green eyes.

Four days ago, which was Tuesday, Stuart Ashley--a partner in the architectural firm Ashley, Morgan, and Prince--had hired me to do a background check on his daughter Millicent's fiance, Tom Grant. It wasn't, he'd said, that he didn't trust Tom, but...

"Millie stands to inherit a large amount of money from her grandmother, who is extremely ill and not likely to live much longer," he'd told me sadly. "I'm wealthy enough in my own right, so my mother decided to leave everything to Millie, as she's her only grandchild."

"And you want to find out if Mr Grant asked your daughter to marry him in order to get his hands on her money?"

"That thought had occurred to me," he'd admitted. "Of course, as you'll find out, Tom is fairly well-off. But that doesn't negate the fact that he would undoubtedly like more cash to infuse into his business."

"Which is?"

"He owns an advertising firm--one of the most prestigious in the city and the state."

The city is Denver, where I have my office on the ground floor of my home, a few blocks east of the capitol. I live on the second floor, in what basically would be an apartment setup--if the house were broken up that way--with a kitchen where one of the bedrooms had been, off what was now the living room. I use the entire first floor for my business. What had been the kitchen down there was now...a break room, I guess you'd call it.

"If he's doing well, why would he--" I'd started to say. "Nevermind. Anyone who owns their own business would like to be able to improve it."

"Exactly," Mr Ashley had replied. "I'm not saying that's the case with him, but I do want to be certain. I also want to find out if there will be problems with his ex-wife. He divorced her just after he met Millie."

"That couldn't have made her happy."

"It seemed to be by mutual consent. She didn't contest it. But--"

"I'll check into it."

We'd gone through the usual rigmarole involved with his hiring me then I'd set to work checking out Tom Grant.

Thus the reason I was on the catamaran for the engagement party early Friday evening. I wanted to get up close and personal with the members of Tom's and Millicent's families in a relatively casual setting, if you can call a wild party casual. I was surprised to discover Tom's ex-wife, Carrie, was one of the revelers, as well as a young woman from his company who--according to what I'd found out--had been rumored to have been his mistress while he'd still been married to Carrie.

 

The Colors of Hate - 34

Dean hesitated at the door to the restaurant, checking the time. He was late—again. Not by much, but it had taken him longer than expected to find a parking place, which considering it was a Sunday had surprised him. As if that weren’t enough he’d gotten a creepy feeling as he left his car. It made him wonder just how much Kirby’s words about Richard Jones were affecting him.

Imagination, pure and simple.

He hurried down the crowded sidewalk and across the intersection. Seeing the restaurant brought a flood of relief, and then a flash of anticipation as he pictured Kirby waiting inside for him to arrive.

Pulling the door open, Dean walked in, smiling when he saw Kirby a few feet away.

Kirby glanced at him then pointedly at his watch before grinning. “Do you ever arrive anywhere on time?”

“I’ve been known to, back in my youth and childhood.” Dean paused for a moment, wondering if Kirby would get the reference, certain he wouldn’t.

Kirby chuckled. “’Sound of Music’, and don’t look so surprised. I have nieces and nephews who insist on watching it every Christmas season so I’ve seen it a few times.”    

“You have a large family?”

Kirby started to reply just before the hostess arrived to tell them their table was ready. “I do,” he said as they followed her back. “Three brothers and a sister,” he added once they were seated.

“And they all know?”

“The adults, yes, and a couple of my nephews who are old enough.”

“It must be nice,” Dean said wistfully. “Well, if they all accept it that is. Then it would be great.”

“On the whole they do.”

“Lucky you. And enough of my feeling sorry for myself. This discussion is officially shelved.” Dean rested his elbows on the table. “So why did you decide to become a cop.” He waggled a finger at Kirby. “Do not say ‘because everyone else in the family is’. That is so stereotypical.”

Kirby laughed. “Nope, I’m the odd man out on that, too. Most of the males in my family are businessmen, although one uncle’s a farmer, believe it or not.”

“With that sort of background, why choose law enforcement?”

“For truth, justice and… all that jazz,” Kirby replied, slapping his hand to his chest. “No, seriously, I guess I never grew out of the kid thing of wanting to be a cop or a fireman. I settled on cop.”

“I think you made a wise choice.” When Kirby cocked an eyebrow in question, Dean told him, “You’re smart, strong, you care about people, all the things cops should be.”

“Just what do you base that assessment on?”

Dean was about to answer when their waitress came over. They both knew what they wanted, having been there before, and quickly placed their orders.

“So?” Kirby asked when she was gone.

The Colors of Hate - 33

Dean immediately got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not. He’s still here, somewhere.”

“You’re certain? What if he used an alias to leave the city? Or… or drove… or something.”

“He used his own name when he flew in. That’s not to say he couldn’t have an alias for emergencies that he used to leave, but we printed up photos of him and had them taken around to the airlines. No one recognized him—at least not as someone heading to Colorado.”

“What about… anywhere else?”

“We’re a small city, Dean, there aren’t that many airlines to check. He hasn’t flown out since Ms Westcott’s murder.”

“Rental car?” Dean asked, grasping at straws.

“Again, the same thing, no one recognized his picture.”

“Damn it! Why’s he still here? Why isn’t he back there reporting in to my father?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“No I don’t, Kirby. I mean, if he was going to try to drag me back home with him, wouldn’t he have done that already? He’s had time.” Dean’s voice rose in panic.

“Calm down.”

Dean took a deep breath then chuckled morosely. “Damn, I’m twenty-six and still acting like a scared kid.”

“I hate to say it, but I suspect you have reason to be scared. As to why he’s still hanging around? From what Mrs Nester told us, he and Ms Westcott were arguing when she saw them. To my way of thinking that might mean she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know about you.”

“How could she? She didn’t know.”

“True, but he didn’t know that, or perhaps didn’t believe her, so he got angry, hit her, and left.”

“And might go after someone else to try to find out.”

“That or just keep hanging around watching you, until you do something to confirm his suspicions. Given the length of time, and the fact he hasn’t contacted you, we can pretty well bet your father did not send him out here to bring you home so you could take over the cult.”

Dean laughed softly. “I could always go public. That would throw a spanner in a lot of works.”

“Not a good idea. I’d like to see you stay alive.”

“Me too.” Dean hesitated, afraid to ask, but he did anyway. “Would you really?”

“Like you alive? Damned straight! Okay, perhaps not the best way to put it, all things considered.”

“Not really,” Dean agreed, chuckling. “All right, so what now?”

“Depends. If you mean as far as keeping you out of his clutches, we should talk about it, but not over the phone. If you mean ‘It’s late, I’m hungry, how about I meet you for supper somewhere’ I’m all for that.”

“Maybe… both?”

“Do you know where The Chop House is?”

Dean smiled. It was one of his favorite small restaurants. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there in, say, half an hour?”

“I’ll be there, and on time for once.”

Kirby laughed. “Now that would be a first. Okay, see you then.”

The Colors of Hate - 32

Part 2 - Red

The show went on as scheduled the night following the arrest of Mrs Nester for Angela Westcott’s murder. As anyone might have guessed, ticket sales jumped, human nature being what it is. When Dean heard he shook his head in disgust.

“It’s times like this I have to wonder about people,” he growled to his sister when she came into his office, late Sunday morning .

Carrie nodded in agreement. “Not the sort of publicity we would have wanted. It was bad enough when Ange’s death kicked up sales a bit.” She rested her hip on the corner of his desk. “Frank’s leaving, or so the rumor goes.”

“Not leaving, just stepping back. He’ll run the day to day business, but he’s turning the directing chores over to Vince.”

“Could be worse. He could have brought in someone new.” Leaning over, she patted his shoulder. “How are you doing?”

Dean shrugged. “All right I guess. I feel like everyone’s watching me now with a jaundiced eye. As if I’m going to catch them out in something bad they might have done and report them.”   

“Oh Dean, I’m sure they aren’t. Just give it time, things will calm down.”

He nodded. “I hope so. But at least for now, I have the designs for the next show to take my mind off things. Meaning I’d better get together with Vince to see what he has in mind.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Carrie stood, bent to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Love you, Dean,” then headed to the door.

“Love you too, Carrie,” he told her with a smile. After she was gone he picked up the preliminary sketches he’d done for Frank, wondering how much Vince would want them changed. "Hopefully not too much," he murmured as he walked from his office down to Vince’s

* * * *

It was mid-afternoon, and Dean was back in his office, when his cell chimed. He pulled it out, smiling when he saw the caller was Kirby, then answered.

“How’s the famous designer?” Kirby asked once they’d both said ‘Hello’.

“Designing,” Dean replied with a laugh.

“On a Sunday?”  

“Yep. With all that happened things are a bit chaotic, so some of us are here trying to pull it back together again.”

“I see.” Kirby paused. “Okay, I promised I’d let you know when we found out anything about Mr Jones.”