Tommy's Mom
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Sure, Holly had heard that was supposed to happen. Other cops’ wives had told her so. The spouses even had a coalition to share mutual concerns. She’d gone to some of their meetings. A bunch were here to show support—including, she’d been told, representatives of a national group for widows of fallen law enforcement officers.
Plus, a collection might be taken up for her. She would want to refuse their check, no matter how kindly it was meant, but she wouldn’t because of Tommy. Thomas had left insurance and sales of her artwork would help, so she wouldn’t need to get a job at least until Tommy was in school. Still, she wanted to start a college fund for Tommy.
But in her experience, anything more—anything requiring more than a check and an occasional visit from the cops themselves—was just another unsubstantiated urban legend, which was fine with her.
Yet Chief McLaren’s gaze was so straightforward that it shouted of sincerity. He meant every word he said. Didn’t he? And if so…
She had sudden disquieting visions of cops everywhere, well-meaning but underfoot, not allowing Tommy and her to get on with their lives.
And that, she was certain, would include Chief Gabe McLaren—perhaps the most disquieting of them all.
HE WASN’T her family. He didn’t even know her. But to emphasize his words, the show of support he’d offered, Gabe took his place beside Holly Poston in the makeshift receiving line.
He caught her sideways, questioning glance—like, who was he to hang around her?
“I know there’re a lot of people here, Mrs. Poston,” he said. “They all want to say how sorry they are for your loss. If you don’t feel like talking to any of them, you don’t have to. I’ll thank them for you. Or you can wait till later, after the service. Just let me know. We’ve already excluded the media from the chapel.”
She faced him directly, her expression surprised and, if he read it right, outraged at his audacity. But then it softened. She even managed a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Chief McLaren.”
“Call me Gabe,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment.
Sure, it was damned presumptuous for him to stand here with her, but his presence emphasized a message he’d already communicated to his own officers: we’re all members of the same family, and families stick together.
Holly Poston appeared exhausted, with dark circles beneath her stunningly doelike brown eyes. She was most definitely a beautiful brunette. Her hair was a shade of brown he’d describe as deepest, darkest chocolate. It was cut unevenly in a becoming style, longer in back, swept away slightly to show her ears, and fringed along her forehead. Her eyebrows were an even darker shade, arched but not plucked thin the way so many women did. Her mouth was full and lush, moist-looking despite the fact she wore no lipstick. Her cheekbones—well, he’d never really noticed cheekbones much, but he noticed hers. They helped to add definition to the oval shape of her face.
All in all, she was a stunningly beautiful lady despite the pain so obvious in her eyes.
Thomas Poston had been a lucky man—until someone had stabbed him to death four days ago.
Poston was the first police officer lost during Gabe’s tenure as chief, though he wasn’t the only one whose death had been suspicious lately. Gabe hoped Poston would be the last, but he, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous being a cop could be. Even in an area as laid back as Naranja Beach.
He didn’t know whether Poston had been murdered because he was a cop, but Gabe sure as hell would find out.
REVEREND MILLER had appeared. It was time for the funeral service to begin.
“Excuse me,” Holly said. “I have to get my son.” A small sense of relief passed through her at this perfectly logical reason to flee not only the continuing parade of well-wishers but also the presence of this intense and disturbing man.
This man who wasn’t merely a cop, but a leader of cops.
Who had made it clear he intended to inflict more cops on her, in the name of helping her.
The kind of help she really needed required that she never again, for the rest of her life, see a policeman.
“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can—” But he took her elbow and began politely bulldozing a path through the crowd toward the door from which she had previously emerged.
She should despise his take-charge attitude. And yet, for this moment, at least, it felt good to have someone deal with the crowd on her behalf.
She’d been handling ninety percent of the things in her life and Tommy’s by herself for quite a while now. There was time enough for her to learn to deal with the other ten percent alone.
But perhaps she should just let Tommy stay outside during the memorial service. She knew Edie would continue to watch him, for her friend was like a second mother to her son. He was so young, after all. The funeral wouldn’t bring any closure to someone so unknowledgeable about what it was supposed to mean. And although Holly had checked with the child psychologist and been given the go-ahead, she wondered if it was a good idea to have him here after what he’d gone through.
Still, whatever he experienced here might allow him in the future to deal with his father’s death better. Thomas was about to be given a hero’s sendoff. That might help little Tommy remember his daddy. Whatever else Thomas had been, he had been a good cop.
Chief Gabe McLaren’s vast shoulders appeared to shrink the size of the already small waiting room once more as he led her through it and outside the door to the adjoining garden. There, Edie was pointing to something on a flower. As Holly drew closer, she saw it was a butterfly.
Tommy was laughing, and Holly felt herself smile in response. It was the first laughter she had heard from her son since that awful morning four days earlier. She soaked it in as if she was the butterfly, and the sound was the nectar from the loveliest of blossoms.
Edie looked toward her, and their eyes met. “It’s time,” Holly mouthed. Edie’s nod didn’t dislodge one hair in her short pixie hairdo, and she stood.
Even as tall as her friend was, she still seemed almost petite compared with Gabe McLaren. Edie clearly noticed, for she smiled up at the chief from beneath flirtatiously lowered lashes and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said, and introduced herself.
“Hi,” Chief McLaren said in return. He extracted his hand from Edie’s and extended it to Tommy. “I saw you before, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. You’re Tommy, aren’t you? I’m Chief McLaren. Your dad and I worked together.”
Tommy’s smile faded. He regarded the large man with huge, solemn eyes. He held out his small hand that was dwarfed by Gabe McLaren’s much greater one and received the polite handshake in an adult manner that nearly made Holly cry.
Holly couldn’t help liking the way Gabe hadn’t diminished Thomas in his son’s eyes by stating the truth: that his daddy had worked for him.
“It’s time to go inside, Tommy,” Gabe said. “Is that all right with you?”
Tommy nodded, still not speaking, not even to another man. But of course this man was a stranger. Holly took her son’s hand and together they walked toward the chapel. She didn’t look to see if anyone followed. She knew Edie would, and most likely Gabe McLaren would, too. Maybe she shouldn’t leave the flirtatious Edie behind. She certainly didn’t want her best friend to wind up involved with a cop.
What was she thinking? This wasn’t a singles bar. Edie and the chief weren’t here to make small talk to one another. This was a funeral. Thomas’s funeral. And Chief McLaren was probably already married.
Holly felt sorry for his wife…didn’t she?
They went through the door from the small waiting room into the chapel. The minister stood at the front of the room at the pulpit overlooking the closed casket and its surrounding garden of aromatic, dying flowers.
Holly took a deep breath as a thick lump formed in her throat. She somehow had to get through this.
The seats right beside the door where they entered were all occupied by police officers. As Tommy and she entered, everyone stood. A sea of uniforms surrounded them.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, Tommy began to scream.
Chapter Two
Holly quickly knelt before her son, held his small, shaking body against hers as he continued to sob and shriek wordlessly. “What is it, honey? Tell Mommy. Please, Tommy, it’ll be all right.” Her own voice cracked with all the emotions evoked by Tommy’s terrified screams. The loud, heart-rending noise resounded in her ear, pulsed through her brain like a siren that was the herald of an indescribable disaster.
But even her tight hug, the attempt to soothe her panicky son with quiet, loving words, didn’t calm him.
“What’s wrong?” Edie stood beside them, her hand lightly on Tommy’s head. Tears filled her wide eyes as she caught Holly’s gaze. “What can I do to help?”
Holly didn’t know. She noticed Sheldon and Evangeline hovering about, too. Evangeline turned and began talking to Reverend Miller, taking charge of the situation, as usual.
But still Tommy screamed.
“Tommy?” Holly said. “Tommy, please hush, honey. I can’t help you while you’re crying so loud. I need to understand what’s wrong.”
She knew what was wrong. His daddy was dead. Tommy had probably seen Thomas’s bleeding body. There was even the possibility that he had seen his father being murdered, though Al Sharp and the others had reassured Holly it was unlikely. Someone with as little compunction about killing as the fiend who’d stabbed Thomas would probably have had no scruples against killing any eyewitnesses—even one as young as Tommy.
Scant comfort, but Holly had understood its logic. And it had given her hope that whoever it was would not, after the fact, harm her son.
But what had triggered Tommy’s agonized reaction now? Had the sight of the coffin upset him so much? Did a four-year-old even understand the significance of a coffin?
“Hey, sport.” Gabe McLaren knelt beside them, talking softly despite the likelihood that Tommy could not completely hear him over his own screams. “Know what? You’re right. This place sucks. I noticed you were in that garden outside. I liked it, too. And those butterflies? Awesome. Would you like to see if they’re still there? I’m not from this area. Are there monarch butterflies around here? They’re those pretty, bright-colored ones, oranges and browns and yellows.”
That had been the exact right thing to say to distract Tommy, though Holly doubted that Gabe realized it. Her son liked nothing in this world more than colors, the brighter the better.
Tommy’s screams subsided into sobs that indicated he was gasping for breath. He seemed near hyperventilation.
“Slowly,” Gabe said. He reached over and gently took Tommy from her. He held his shoulders. “I was taught in police school how to breathe when I’m upset.”
Holly doubted it, but this wasn’t the time to call him on his veracity. Unless maybe he had paramedic training, too. She looked around. No paper bags here. Wasn’t that what was needed when a person hyperventilated, to breathe into a bag?
Tommy regarded Gabe with wide, frightened eyes that asked a question.
“Here. Like this.” Gabe took an exaggeratedly deep breath, and let it out very slowly. And then another. “You try it.”
Tommy coughed, then stilled his panting long enough to studiously inhale, then exhale.
“Hey, that’s great! It took me a lot of practice to get it right, and here you’re doing it first thing.”
Tommy smiled as he breathed the same embellished way once more. His respiration grew more regular.
“Good deal,” Gabe said. “Now, are you ready to see if we can find some of those butterflies?”
Tommy gave one decisive nod.
“Do you remember their names, the kind I told you about?”
Again, Tommy nodded.
“And what is it?”
Tommy stopped smiling. He blinked.
He obviously wasn’t ready to talk yet.
“You can tell us later, okay?” Holly said.
He nodded and held out his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, then glanced around. Edie still stood beside them. Reverend Miller, on the pulpit, regarded her questioningly, with Evangeline standing beside him. Sheldon had taken a seat nearby.
Holly knew the eyes of all the hundreds of funeral attendees were on Tommy and her. She couldn’t exactly take Tommy out into the garden for a lesson in entomology right now. But she couldn’t abandon him, either.
Gabe apparently understood her ambivalence. “Tell you what, sport,” he said to Tommy. “I think your mom needs to stay in here for now. Grown-up rules and all. But for the moment they don’t apply to me, so just you and I will go outside, okay?”
Tommy looked at her, appeal in his gaze. He obviously wanted to go with this man. Speaking of ambivalence—was Holly ready to let her frightened son out of her sight? Especially now?
But he couldn’t be in any safer hands than those of the chief of police, could he? And this man, this stranger, had somehow known exactly what to say to calm her son.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, her words stronger than her conviction.
“Great. Come on, Tommy. I guess this isn’t a good place for a race, so we can’t see who can get out there fastest. Maybe once we’re outside we can play a game. Okay?”
Tommy grinned and nodded yet again.
Gabe McLaren had to be married and have a houseful of kids, Holly thought as she watched Tommy tuck one small hand into Gabe’s huge one. How else could he know how to deal with a terrified child that way?
And why did the thought of his active marital status send a pang of disappointment through her?
The very large man and the very small child walked hand-in-hand out of the crowded chapel. As they reached the door, she saw Tommy turn back and glance not toward her, but toward the crowd. His sweet face screwed up again as if he was going to cry once more.
Gabe apparently noticed, for in a moment he swept Tommy into his arms as if he were as light as meringue, and they disappeared through the door.
NINE O’CLOCK in the evening was too late to come to the Poston house. Gabe knew it, even as he pulled his blue Mustang up to the house with the number he’d been searching for. He could see by the streetlight that it was an attractive pale blue stucco home with white trim. As with the rest of the eclectic residential neighborhood a couple of miles inland from the beach, the Poston house resembled none of its neighbors. Gabe had to drive around the block, looking for a parking space.
A few media vans still lurked here on California Street, but their occupants appeared to be packing up. Gabe had designated an information specialist from his department to deal with reporters. She was to act cooperative while saying as little as possible about the Poston case.
He had meant to arrive earlier, but time had gotten away from him after Thomas Poston’s funeral. There were several administrative matters he’d had to take care of that day, and the memorial service had messed up his schedule.
More importantly, he’d delved further into the investigation of Poston’s murder. Even though the detective in charge was the best, Gabe wasn’t happy about the progress so far.
Especially not when it might relate to the undercover matter that brought him here in the first place.
And so, he’d decided to insinuate himself right, smack into the middle of this one. In fact, he was going to work on it here and now. Tonight. Assuming he found a parking space.
Not that he was about to try to twist Tommy Poston’s arm. Poor little tiger. He was the closest thing to an eyewitness they had. Gabe didn’t completely subscribe to the theory popular around the N.B.P.D. that, if he had witnessed the killing, Tommy would have been dead right alongside his daddy. Maybe it was so. Maybe it wasn’t. In any event, Gabe wouldn’t risk the boy’s life on it. He’d warn Holly Poston not to let Tommy out of her sight unless he was with someone completely trustworthy.
He finally found a parking spot and pulled in. Deciding to leave his holster and 9mm Smith & Wesson in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and swapped them for a smaller pistol. Carrying a weapon was standard procedure, no matter which police force he’d worked on. Here, because of his undercover investigation, it was imperative. He stuffed the pistol in his pants pocket and put his suit jacket back on, his cell phone in an inside pocket.
His thoughts still swirled as he walked the two blocks along the dimly lighted residential streets to the Postons’ house.
Gabe suspected Tommy had seen something, even if it wasn’t the actual murder. That could be why the kid wasn’t talking.
Poor Tommy obviously missed his daddy already. He’d latched onto Gabe in the garden as if he were starved for a man’s attention, hanging onto his hand, listening to everything he said, pointing out all the flowers and butterflies and birds.
He hadn’t spoken at all. That was another thing Gabe needed to talk to Holly about. He’d learned, from the perfunctory report filed by Al Sharp after visiting the boy, that this silence was probably a result of the trauma of losing his father. It wasn’t normal for Tommy Poston. But was Tommy talking to his mother? If so, maybe Gabe could coax him, over time, to describe what he’d seen. Or maybe he’d already told Holly.
Now, Gabe heard the hubbub of voices as he strode up the short, yucca-lined walkway to the Postons’ front door. It might not be too late after all. He’d assumed that neighbors and friends would continue to rally around widow and son after the funeral service, bringing food and whatever cheer they could. He just figured most would be gone long before now.
Maybe that had, in fact, factored into his non-decision to come late. If there were too many people around, he wouldn’t be able to speak much with Holly about Tommy.
Gabe also wanted to know what he and his officers could do to help her, to make sure her chores got done, repairs made, expenses met—everything her fallen husband had done. Except the most important things, of course—companionship, love, sex…
He scoffed at himself even as he rang the bell. Sure, Holly was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, despite the sorrow that shadowed her face. But to think of sex right now in relation to this poor lady—this lovely, provocative, sensuous lady—who’d just lost the man most important in her life… “Pervert,” he whispered aloud to himself.
“Excuse me?” The front door had opened. Holly stood there looking at him. She had changed clothes and now wore brown slacks and a short-sleeved yellow sweater that hugged her slender curves.
He felt his face redden. “Er—Mrs. Poston. Holly. I hope it isn’t too late, but I’ve come to pay my respects.”
There was a wry look of amusement on her face. Damn! She must have heard what he’d said. He only prayed she hadn’t figured out why. “No, it’s not too late. I’ve still got a lot of visitors. Come in.” She stood back to let him walk inside.
Very carefully, he skirted past her. He didn’t want to brush her accidentally. He didn’t want to touch her at all. She might get the wrong idea. He might get the wrong idea.
Of all the women in the world, this one was the farthest off-limits to him, assuming he even wanted a woman. Which he didn’t.
Holly Poston was a new widow. And on top of that, she was the widow of a cop.
Even if she were ready to entertain the idea of a man’s company again so soon, which was highly unlikely, that man wouldn’t be Gabe. He’d been a rebound lover once. That was one time too many.
He stopped inside the door. The entryway to the two-story home was compact, and it was filled with people. Most women had purses slung over their shoulders.
“You’re just in time to say good-night, Chief,” said Al Sharp. “We were just leaving.”
Good. With this crowd gone, just maybe Gabe would be able to get Holly Poston to himself. For conversation. Only for conversation.
“I SHOULD STAY the night,” Edie Bryerly insisted. She was at the rear of the group of cops and others filing out from Holly’s entryway. “Don’t you want some company?”
“No, but thanks for asking. I need to be alone.” Holly was exhausted. She doubted she’d sleep, but she was ready to curl up with a cup of herbal tea in front of an old movie on television and just rest.
She’d done that many nights when Thomas had come home late. She was used to it.
“Okay, then. You call me if there’s anything you need.” Edie’s eyes, surrounded by a wide swath of liner and mascara, regarded her sympathetically.
“I will. Thanks.”
Holly wondered how Edie could look so stunningly alert and pixielike this late at night, after working her butt off. She had bustled everywhere, helping Holly keep coffee brewing and guests’ plates full of the casseroles and desserts people had brought to the get-together at the Poston home that had begun a couple of hours after the memorial.
“We’ll get together soon, okay?” Edie persisted. “Tomorrow if you’d like. After work.”
“We’ll see,” Holly said. “In any event, I’ll be in touch.”
Edie stooped to press their cheeks together, and then she followed the horde outside.
Even though it was a summer evening, this residential area was only two miles from the Pacific Ocean, and the air was cool. Holly shut the door behind the group as soon as she was able.
Was she alone at last? She had put an exhausted Tommy to bed hours ago. Maybe it was finally her turn to relax.
But as she approached the door to her living room, she heard low voices. As she entered, she saw Sheldon engaged in a conversation with Gabe McLaren. They stood in the corner near the front picture window, with its draperies drawn tightly shut for privacy. Their heads were together, and they each held a glass—Sheldon’s in the hand of the arm that wasn’t in a sling. Both were still dressed in the suits they had worn to Thomas’s memorial service. They were so engrossed in what they were saying that neither looked up as she approached.
“Can I get you anything else to eat or drink, gentlemen?” Holly asked brightly. Playing perfect hostess at this hour might give them the hint that they were about to overstay their welcome.
“No thanks, Holly.” Sheldon was the first to glance at her. Awkwardly, he moved his glass around so he could look at his watch. “It’s late. I’m heading home now.”
“All right,” Holly said, noting that Gabe didn’t echo the sentiment. Instead, he watched her with narrowed eyes. They were green, weren’t they? She couldn’t tell in the room’s dim light, but she had noticed before.
She walked Sheldon to the front door, hoping that Gabe would follow. To her relief, he did.
To her dismay, he didn’t follow Sheldon out.
Inhaling the fresh, ocean-chilled air, she watched Sheldon limp down the front walk. Poor man wasn’t recuperating from his injuries very quickly. His age might be a factor. Sixty-one wasn’t that old, but he certainly had begun to look and act older this week. Plus, he had a heart condition that he kept under control with medication. She would have to help him every way she could. He had been very kind to her, selling her stitchery creations in his shop, promoting them to tourists….
“Can you spare me a few minutes, Holly?” Gabe asked. He still stood behind her at the door.
She turned, wanting to tell him “no” but assuming he had something to discuss with her. Something about Thomas’s death. Why else would he want to talk to her?
Of course she had heard his strange comment as she’d opened the door to let him in: “Pervert.” She’d gathered he was chastising himself for some reason. It had struck her as funny, at a time when her sense of humor had gone on an extended vacation. She’d appreciated it.
“All right,” she responded. She didn’t look at him but regarded the chipped pink nail polish on her right index finger critically. She didn’t suggest further refreshments to Gabe. She hoped he wouldn’t stay long…didn’t she? “Would you like to come back into the living room?” she asked him.