In Harm's Way

Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn’t simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…

She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe. The police! Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.

“It’s safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.

Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.

“They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.

“Shouldn’t you…go after them or something?”

He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”

Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”

“That bastard shot my winder,” she complained, her voice rising as she got up off the floor. Her hair was a worse mess than before, and there was coffee all over the front of her white shirt and red nylon apron. “Broke my coffeepot, too.” Then her gaze jerked toward Robin. “Y’all didn’t get hurt, did ya?”

“No, we’re fine. That silent alarm works pretty good,” Mitch commented. “Quick thinking, Mabel. You’re a peach.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me I needed the thing.” She brushed herself off with a towel and smiled over the counter at Mitch, then at Robin. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffed. “Y’all will have to wait a little bit until I get another carafe out of the back and get some more coffee goin’.”

“Don’t worry about the order,” Mitch told her gently. “You look a little shaky. Why don’t you just relax and catch your breath.”

“Don’t leave!” whined Mabel, reaching out toward Mitch with a trembling hand. “Don’t go now.”

Mitch took it and smiled at her. “I won’t go yet, Mabel. But you go on and take a break, huh? Powder your nose and fix your hair. I’ll be here when you get back.”

She nodded and sidled down the back of the bar, around it and toward the door marked Ladies.

Robin knew how poor Mabel felt. Right now she wanted Mitch Winton and his gun as close by as they could get. He seemed to know that and came over to join her in the booth.

“You’re a scrapper. I wouldn’t have guessed it.” His chuckle was warm, approving. “Surprised the hell out of him, plowing that fork through his hand. Glad you were on my side.”

Robin stared at him, not sure whether she was upset at his apparent calm or reassured by it. She glanced at the door. “They might come back.”

He laughed outright at that, then grimaced, grasping his side.

“You’re hurt!” Robin cried, sliding out of the booth.

“No, no, sit back down. I took a kick to the ribs. Nothing serious. Either those guys really were as big as they looked or I’m gettin’ soft in my old age.”

“They could have shot you!” she cried. “What did you mean rushing them that way?”

He sighed and leaned back, his fingers still exploring the site of his injury. “You made him so mad with that fork, I was afraid he would shoot you if I didn’t move on him right then. They heard the siren and split before I could do much.”

Robin raked her hair back behind her ears, shook her head and gave a deflated sigh. “James’s death and now a robbery. What next?”

He leaned forward over the table and peered into her eyes. “Robin, he went straight for you. Once he had threatened Mabel, he never even looked at her again. His buddy was standing lookout at the door. Neither one asked for the contents of the register. Never demanded my wallet. They knew I was a cop, knew my name, but I’ve never seen them before. I think they knew who you are, too. It was your purse they were after. Didn’t you hear him?”

“No, I wasn’t really listening.” Robin frowned down at the thin strap that lay securely around her neck and across her body, the leather rectangle resting against her hip. “My purse? But why? Do I look rich?”

Mitch smiled. “As a matter of fact you do, but I don’t think it was your money he was after. It was something else. What do you have in there?”

She lifted the purse onto the table and opened it. “Powder, lipstick.” Robin listed the items as she emptied the contents piece by piece. “Credit cards, address book, a bit of cash, James’s CD, a small brush, old theater ticket stubs and,” she said, plunking down a little spray can, “pepper spray.” She frowned and scoffed. “I should have remembered that. I completely forgot I had it. All I could think about was locating the knife.”

Mitch picked up the spray container and turned it around several times, then shot her a questioning look. “Somehow, I don’t believe this was what he was looking for, do you?”

She surveyed the pile of stuff. “The CD, you think? What could anyone possibly want with that?”

“Your husband wanted it badly enough to have you bring it all the way from New York instead of mailing it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. She shoved it toward him. “You take it. Keep it.”

“No,” he said, returning it to her. “Hang on to it until we can have a look at what’s on it.”

Mabel returned from the ladies’ room, obviously relieved that Mitch was still around. “Be just a minute,” she said, pushing through the door to the kitchen. “I’ll get that coffee carafe.”

Robin exhaled and rested her forehead on her hand. “Could we leave, please?”

“No, not yet. We still have to eat, and I don’t think Mabel’s up to winging it with only ol’ Beaner in the back for company. We’d better hang around until Bill and Eddie come back or send word that they caught the bad boys.”

Robin resigned herself. “Somehow I always thought of Nashville as a rather tranquil city full of musicians.”

He laughed. “If that were the case, I’d be playing backup guitar and bemoaning the fact that I can’t sing.”

“You can’t sing?” she asked, eager for any diversion.

“Well, I can, but you wouldn’t want to hear it. Trust me.”

There it was again. Maybe it was only a figure of speech, his saying that so often. If someone was after James’s disk and was willing to go after it with guns, she knew she had to trust someone. Mitch Winton certainly seemed the likeliest candidate in town.

Dawn was about to break when they were finally able to leave the diner. Mitch kept stealing glances at Robin, wondering when she would crash. She seemed to have gotten her second wind by the time Bill and Eddie had come back to interview them about the supposed robbery. The poor girl must have had it up to her ears with cops by this time.

She had separated the miniblinds with one finger and was looking out the window now, probably marveling at how hospitable Nashville and its occupants had been to her since her arrival.

“Why didn’t you tell the officers your theory about the disk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He turned onto the off-ramp leading to his neighborhood. “Because it’s only that. A theory. Besides, they would have wanted to take it with them, see what was on it.” He smiled. “I thought we might do that.”

She remained quiet then, so he turned on the radio. “Fiddle with the stations there and see what you can find,” he suggested, really wanting to see what she would settle on. Her taste in music might tell him a little more about her. Was she really as highbrow as she looked, or was there a closet blues fan inside that slick exterior?

She parked it on the local news, listening intently. When the newscast was over and no mention was made of her husband’s murder, she clicked the radio off. A small frown marred her almost perfect features.

They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.

That made him wonder if she really had enhanced herself with surgery anywhere. Her breasts looked smallish and were probably real. She said she had modeled and small was necessary with braless fashions, he guessed. She might not be absolutely perfect but came a little too close to it for Mitch to believe it was all real. Oh well, models had to use what they had and improve it if they could, he reckoned. It was a business, and he couldn’t fault her for it if she’d resorted to that.

“Nice nose,” he commented. “Mind if I ask what it cost? Mine’s been broken twice and I’d sure like the name of a good doctor, one who wouldn’t do a Michael Jackson on me and make me look like Janet.”