Tommy's Mom

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.

She didn’t wait for his reply but headed there. At least she could be comfortable, in this room she had decorated to feel homey, with its thick russet-colored plush carpeting. She took a seat on the fluffy beige sofa, pushing some of the gold and green throw pillows aside. She slid her shoes off and slipped her feet onto the low coffee table. Knowing she was going to have company, she’d removed the small stack of magazines that she kept on it, piling them in the closet. Usually, she rested her feet right on top of the periodicals. Thomas hadn’t liked that habit. He’d told her so often.

At first, she’d made an effort to comply. Over time, it hadn’t mattered.

Gabe removed his suit jacket and folded it carefully over the back of the reclining leather chair beside the sofa.

Then he sat on that chair. It had been Thomas’s chair. Exclusively.

But Thomas wouldn’t mind now.

Did she? This man was making himself right at home.

Thomas had worked out a lot. He’d been five-eleven and muscular. But the substantial chair that had once belonged only to him now seemed a lot smaller with Gabe occupying it.

She caught the glint of amusement in Gabe’s eyes as he glanced at her bare toes, with their bright red polish, then back up at her face.

So what if she didn’t take as much care with her fingernails as she did with her toes? She couldn’t reach her toenails as easily to pick off the polish when she was upset or nervous.