Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride

“This isn’t about Tom. It’s about me.” Her body tensed. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be married.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re a warm, loving woman. Look at what a great job you’ve done with Benjy.”

Without thinking, he dipped his head and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Her hair smelled of lilacs. When she smiled up at him, the gray-green of her eyes seemed as deep as a mountain glen. Holding her felt so damn good; he didn’t want to let her go. But Angela wasn’t his woman. She was about to be married to another man.

“Thanks, Shane. You always know what to say.”

He stepped away from her. “Let me do my job as an almost former deputy and investigate. I want to figure out who messed up your dress, and I’m starting here. At Waffles. Take me inside, and show me where you keep your knives.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you promise not to interrogate anybody?”

“Not unless they come at me with a loaded gun.”

He strode to the rear door of the restaurant and pulled it open. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen flowed around him in a wave of breakfast aromas—bacon, coffee and freshly baked muffins. The back door opened into a hallway between the walk-in refrigeration unit and the office, which was their first stop. The office space had two small desks— one for Angela and one for Yvonne Brighton, her partner. Two tall, metal file cabinets stood beside two lockers.

Angela opened the locker nearest the door.

“You don’t keep anything locked,” he said.

“Sometimes I do. At the end of the day.”

She removed a black cutlery bag from the lower shelf. When she opened it on the desk, he could see the empty slot where the boning knife should have fit with the rest of the set. Angela touched the space and looked up at him. “Now we know for sure. It’s my knife.”

It would have been simple for someone to slip inside the office and steal her knife. The friendly atmosphere of Old South Clarkson Street made for lousy investigating. “I might be able to get fingerprints off the handle.”

“Most people aren’t that dumb,” she said. “We keep a stock of throwaway gloves in the kitchen.”

Though he nodded in agreement, he figured he could stop by the PRESS offices later if he wanted to check for fingerprints. They had a forensics department and computer access that rivaled that of the Denver PD.

Angela’s partner popped into the office. Yvonne Brighton was a tall, big-boned woman who did a killer Julia Child impersonation. A lopsided navy-blue chef hat covered most of her curly brown hair. She gave them a toothy grin. “I thought I heard someone back here.”

She charged at Shane and enveloped him in a giant bear hug which he happily reciprocated. He liked Yvonne. She was funny and smart—too smart to put anything over on. Before she stepped away from him, she patted his shoulder holster and said, “Expecting trouble?”

“Shane has a new job.” Angela rushed to explain. “He’s working for a bodyguard company.”

His new employer was far more complex, but he didn’t correct her. “I’m moving to Denver.”

“Terrific!” Yvonne wiggled her eyebrows. “Or should I say très magnifique! Angela and I have somebody you really need to meet.”

“The French woman.” He gritted his teeth. What was it about a single man that turned women into matchmakers?

“Marie Devereaux. Very pretty. And an excellent baker. She’s doing the wedding cake, which means it’ll be beautiful and taste good, too. You’ll like her.”

“If you say so.”

“I most certainly do.”

Yvonne wasn’t shy about giving orders. When it came to managing the restaurant, she and Angela complemented each other perfectly. Angela provided the empathetic voice of reason, and Yvonne made sure things got done.

She sat in the swivel chair behind her desk. To Angela, she said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a break. Could you take care of the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I chat with the mountain man?”

“No problem.” Angela grabbed her knives and went toward the office door. “I feel guilty about not being here more often this week.”

When she left the office, Shane positioned himself in the doorway so he could keep an eye on her. Despite the cozy atmosphere of Waffles, he hadn’t forgotten the danger.

“We need to talk.” When Yvonne pulled off her chef’s hat and ruffled her hair, he noticed a few more strands of gray. He didn’t know Yvonne’s age, but she had two grown daughters. She exhaled a sigh. “I’m worried about Angela.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s been dragging in here like she’s half-dead. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair hanging limp. I’ve seen her hands trembling. And she must have lost ten pounds in the last two weeks.” Yvonne scowled. “It reminds me of how she fell apart after Tom’s death.”

“I remember.” Though Angela and Yvonne weren’t in business together five years ago, they’d been friends. “You and your husband helped her through that tragedy.”

“And you. In spite of the grief you were carrying, you were one hundred percent there for our girl.”

In the kitchen, he saw Angela step up to the grill. Her hands moved nimbly as she poured batter and flipped pancakes. She sprinkled powdered sugar on one order, dropped a dollop of sour cream topped with three blueberries on another. Graceful and fast, never missing a beat, her food preparation was a virtuoso performance.

Shane turned his attention toward Yvonne. Her concern was obvious and sincere, and she knew Angela better than almost anyone else. “Why do you think she’s upset?”

“It’s almost like she’s haunted.”

“Nervous about getting married again,” he suggested.

“Oh, I don’t think marriage bothers her.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Neil,” she said. “He thinks running Waffles is beneath her. His wife should stay at home and tend to his needs. Can you see Angela doing that? Within a month, she’d be climbing the walls.”

“If Neil gets his way and Angela quits, what happens to Waffles?”

“I’d sell the place,” she said without hesitation. “We’ve had offers.”

Yvonne’s theory didn’t tell him much about possible intruders or the person who slashed the wedding gown. Instead, it pointed back to Angela herself. Her fear of getting married—to Neil or anyone else—was eating at her, making it hard for her to sleep.

Still, he found it hard to believe that she’d destroyed her wedding dress in the throes of a blackout. Whether awake or asleep, Angela wasn’t the type of person who committed outright vandalism.

He turned to Yvonne. “You seem pretty sure about Neil.”

“I am.” For emphasis, she slammed the flat of her hand on the desktop. “She shouldn’t marry him, and I’ll do just about anything to stop her.”

Chapter Five

From his car seat in the back of the van, Benjy chanted in a singsong voice, “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson.”

Angela asked, “And who is president number thirteen?”

“Easy,” Benjy said. “Millard Fillmore. And twenty-three is Benjy Harrison. He’s the best. He’s got my name.”