More Than Great Riches (2 page)

She felt as though she should tiptoe as she wandered through the lonely rooms. She was
stepping back in time. The house was furnished in an assortment of styles and periods that
Tracy called Early Thrift Shop. Everything smelled musty and unused. Nothing had been
moved or changed in the three years since she left Allerton.

Six months ago her mother had fled Allerton, too, no longer able to endure the humiliation
that her family had brought upon her good name. Tracy’s father had disappeared in an
alcoholic fog when she and Jeff were still in grade school. Her brother fell into the same
alcoholic trap while the rumors about Tracy’s reputation seemed to multiply. Now only Jeff
remained in the house alone, living on his service disability pension and picking up odd
jobs.

But this wasn’t the time to stand here mourning the past. She needed to call Maggie and
find out where Jeff was. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. It was dead. In all
the craziness of the past few days, she forgot to charge it. Crossing her fingers, she
picked up the phone in the living room and heard the blessed sound of a dial tone.

She tried to swallow her disappointment when she reached a recording. Scalia’s Kennels,
announced Maggie’s cheerful voice. Your dog’s home away from home. Leave your name and
phone number, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

There was nothing to do but leave a message.

Surveying the living room, she stopped to strike a few chords on the little spinet piano.
As she expected, it was hopelessly out of tune.

She dropped wearily into an easy chair and then stifled a sneeze as she was enveloped in a
cloud of dust. Apparently the house hadn’t been cleaned since her mother left. She eyed
the clock. Eight p.m. already. Surely Maggie would call back soon. The Scalias were
probably just outside in the kennels.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Lord, she whispered, please keep Jeff safe
in your arms. He means more than life to me. Watch over him and give the doctors the
wisdom to save him.

Waiting for Maggie’s call was torture. She needed to do something—take some action. Should
she call her mother? Faith Dixon had taken refuge with her sister Grace in St. Petersburg,
Florida. Tracy could almost hear her mother’s voice. How did it happen? Was Jeff drunk?
What will people say? No, it would be better to wait and call when she knew more about her
brother’s condition.

Her stomach groaned for attention, and she realized she hadn’t eaten a bite since gulping
down a bowl of cereal at her apartment that morning. She pushed herself to her feet and
headed for the kitchen. Maybe there would be something in the pantry besides a six pack of
beer.

She opened the kitchen door and skidded to a dead stop. She was staring directly into the
muzzle of a gun.

Paralyzed, Tracy could barely draw a breath. The gun was the size of a cannon. She was
ready to meet God, but she would prefer to wait until another time. Her eyesight grew
blurry as her legs turned to rubber.

And then the rumble of a deep voice penetrated the fog. Hold it right there.

She dragged her gaze away from the gun and looked up. She made out the menacing figure of
a man in a dark windbreaker and jeans. The room began to spin in dizzying circles. She was
going to faint. She clutched at the doorjamb to keep the world from tipping over.

Through the haze, she saw him jam the pistol into its holster. Her knees crumbled, but he
caught her before she hit the floor. As though she were a child, he swept her up in his
arms. Barely conscious, she tried not to cling to his neck as he carried her back to the
living room. Crushed against his broad chest, she was much too aware of the power in those
wide shoulders. The muscular arms that gently eased her down onto the sofa could break her
into little pieces.

She kept her eyes tightly closed, but sensed him looming over her. Was he trying to decide
if he should put her out of her misery? And then she heard heavy footsteps as he strode
out of the room.

Too weak and shaky to move, she clenched her fists as the footsteps returned. Suddenly she
felt the coolness of a damp cloth across her forehead. The wave of dizziness began to
recede.

Clutching at the shredded remnants of her courage, she opened her eyes a crack. He was
holding a small leather folder under her nose - a badge attached to an I.D. card. She made
out the words Leif Ericson, Chief of Police.

Police, she thought groggily. It didn’t take them long to track me down.

Cautiously she studied her captor. Leif Ericson. Right out of the history books. He
definitely looked like a Viking with that rough-hewn face, powerful build, tawny hair, and
eyes the color of a stormy ocean. His five o’clock shadow looked more like seven o’clock
or eight, which only enhanced the image. A helmet with horns would complete the picture.

Should she be relieved that she wasn’t about to be shot or fearful that he would drag her
back to New York before she had a chance to see Jeff?

Peering up at him, she thought she caught a glimpse of concern. I’ve never fainted in my
entire life, she whispered.

A Smith and Wesson has that effect on people, he growled. He snatched the ladderback chair
away from the desk, placed it backward in front of her, and then straddled it with his
arms across the top rung.

The concern she had seen just a moment before had vanished, replaced by a scowl of
suspicion. A storm brewed in those sea-gray eyes. Deliberately he invaded her space.

If you tell me that you broke into this house to get warm, I’m not going to believe you.
So why don’t you tell me what you are doing here.

Tracy gaped at him.
What am I doing here? I’m minding my own business in my own house. When did that become
a crime?

She struggled to a sitting position, lifting her chin in defiance. I’m Tracy Dixon, and
this is my home. She paused. I mean it’s my mother’s home. Well, actually it’s my
brother’s home.
He must think I’m a raving lunatic.

Dixon! He eyed her with disbelief. You’re Tracy Dixon? He glared at her as though he
expected her nose to start growing.

Tracy didn’t know why she was on the defensive. She should be the one giving him the third
degree. I’m trying to find out where my brother is. He’s been badly injured in an
accident.

How did you hear about the accident? The Viking snapped the question like a whip.

My friend Maggie Scalia called me. I don’t understand why there’s a problem here.

So you came home to see your brother?

Tracy merely nodded. She should have added, That’s the only reason I would set foot in
Allerton again.

And your mother. Where is she?

My mother moved to Florida. She left the house for Jeff to use.

So you’re just visiting?

Just visiting, she echoed.

After a long pause, the Viking stood up. He swung his chair back into place at the desk
and announced calmly, They moved Jeff to the burn center at Mass. General in Boston today.
He headed for the door and then turned. I saw the lights in the house and thought there
was an intruder. I’m sorry to have frightened you, Miss Dixon.

Tracy sat open-mouthed, watching him leave. So, the NYPD didn’t send him. Apparently he
had no clue that she was under suspicion in the jewelry theft.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she held her breath until she caught the sound of an
engine roaring to life. He came in to investigate the lights in the house, but how had he
gained entry? Her nerves couldn’t take another home invasion. If she stayed here any
length of time, she would have to do something about the locks on the doors.

Leif Ericson. She whispered the name under her breath. If he weren’t so scary, he would be
a good-looking man. And if he ever cracked a smile, he’d be downright gorgeous. Not that
she was looking for romance. The men in her life had given her nothing but trouble and
betrayal. Sometimes she pictured a big Kick Me sign pinned to her back. And police
officers meant double trouble. Leif Ericson was just one big complication. She came home
to see her brother, and no Neanderthal with a badge was going to stop her.

 
****

Leif maneuvered his SUV into the parking lot behind the one-story brick building which the
Allerton police shared with the fire department. He had discovered that being police chief
in a small town involved more than burglaries and accidents. Today included breakfast at
the Elk’s Club, explaining why the police department needed to upgrade its computer
programs. Allerton was at least five years behind the rest of the state. He was struggling
to drag the town, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.

He limped up the steps to the back door to find Lucille on the phone, as usual. She was
his dispatcher as well as his clerk, computer nerd, and right hand. The headset was as
much a part of her hairdo as the prim bun of gray hair at the back of her neck.

He inherited Lucille along with his office when he accepted the job of police chief six
months ago. She was probably eighty years old, but he didn’t dare to ask. Some old timers
in town insisted that Lucille waited on Plymouth Rock to welcome the Pilgrims when they
stepped off the Mayflower.

Leland, she greeted him. There’s a detective on the phone calling from New York. Lucille
was the only person in town who dared to call him by his given name.

Thanks, I’ll take it in my office. Leif closed the door behind him and settled at his
desk. New York, he puzzled, picking up the phone. He didn’t think a New Yorker could find
Allerton on the map.

Chief Ericson here, he said briskly.

Chief, this is Detective Diaz, NYPD. We need your assistance.

Glad to help. What can we do for you?

The detective’s voice sounded like coarse sandpaper. You’ve probably heard about the theft
of jewelry from Ronda Starr’s home.

It made all the papers here.

We’re trying to trace the whereabouts of the suspect, Rick Timmons.

Leif came to full alert. Do you have reason to believe he’s in this area?

I’ve been questioning a young woman named Tracy Dixon who attended Ronda Starr’s reception
with Timmons. She nearly convinced me that she was an innocent dupe, but now she’s skipped
town. She left me a message with some cockamamie story about her brother in Allerton
having an accident.

Tracy Dixon, Leif muttered.
What a dim bulb I am.
He was probably the only one in Allerton who didn’t make the connection between his Tracy
Dixon and the woman in the news articles about the theft.

She told you the truth about the accident, Detective Diaz. Her brother is in the burn unit
at Massachusetts General.

Diaz sounded skeptical. Well, maybe she is on the level, but she picked an interesting
time to leave New York.

So, how can we help you?

Keep an eye out for Rick Timmons. If Miss Dixon was his accomplice, he may try to contact
her.

Leif picked up his pen and a notepad. Give me a description. Do you have a picture?

No, apparently he’s an old pro. He knows how to blend into the wallpaper, but I’ll fax all
the information we have. He’s well built, about 6’2, blond hair, brown eyes, clean-shaven.
He has probably changed his name and his appearance, but he should be easy to spot in a
small town. If Miss Dixon has a visitor, you’ll know what to look for.

I’ll get the word to my men, Leif assured him.

Better warn them this guy is vicious, Diaz added. We still don’t know if the butler is
going to live. Timmons used the butt of a pistol to beat him senseless. It looks as though
the butler caught him in the act of cracking Miss Starr’s safe.

Do you have a description of the stolen jewelry?

I’ll fax you a list. The street value is probably at least a half million, but most of the
pieces are irreplaceable—family heirlooms, gifts from celebrities, stuff like that.
Priceless.

I’m on it. I’ll stay in touch. Leif jotted down the detective’s phone number and sank back
in his chair. Massaging his bad knee, he considered his strategy. The public tended to
think a crime wave in a small town involved someone spitting on the sidewalk. But this was
grand theft and attempted murder, and Tracy Dixon was right in the middle of it.

He found it hard to believe that someone who looked like a fairy tale princess was aiding
and abetting a dangerous criminal. When he questioned Tracy, he managed to maintain his
professional demeanor, suppressing his normal male weakness for a pretty face, but it
wasn’t easy to keep his focus in the depths of those beautiful eyes. They were a startling
clear blue with a thick fringe of dark lashes. And, when he picked her up, he had almost
lost his objectivity. She was slender, but her curves were in all the right places. A
police officer tried to cultivate his powers of observation, but maybe he had noticed a
little too much about the lovely Miss Dixon.

 A year ago, he let a beautiful face undermine his good judgment, and he paid the price
for his weakness. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Miss Tracy Dixon was
about to acquire an extra shadow.

****

Armed with a map of Boston, Tracy climbed into her car. It was much warmer today. The sun
shone bright in the clear blue sky, and a light breeze from the east brought the scent of
salt air from the bay. The beautiful spring day gave a lift to her spirits.

Maggie had given her a little more information about Jeff’s accident. Witnesses said he
had been driving at a high rate of speed, weaving in and out of traffic on Route 3, when
he spun out of control, plunged off the highway, and plowed into a tree. In an instant the
car was engulfed in flames. A few brave souls risked their lives to pull Jeff out of the
inferno, but not before he was badly burned.

From her earliest years Tracy adored her big brother. Growing up with no close neighbors,
they turned to each other—the two musketeers. When Jeff became the man of the family at
age ten, he became her protector. No one dared to give his sister a hard time. He was her
superhero.

She whispered a prayer. Lord, thank you for those wonderful people who saved Jeff’s life.
He’s been hiding from you, but he needs you now. Keep watching over him. And then she
added a postscript. Please, I want him to know I’m here for him.

She backed out of the driveway and headed for town. Unfortunately she had to pass through
the center of Allerton to get to the interstate. By now, everyone had probably heard the
news of her latest misadventures. She was sure she heard a car driving slowly past her
house several times during the night. Maybe nosy neighbors, but she suspected the police
chief had put her under surveillance.

She felt a tug of nostalgia as she braked for the stoplight at Main Street. Keith Bradford
had smeared her name all over town, but no matter what her reputation in Allerton, it was
home. As far as she knew, the residents who pitied her outnumbered the ones who looked
down their noses. Of course, she wasn’t sure which was worse—pity or disdain.

The center of town looked the same, as though it were caught in a time warp. The tall
white spire of the community church looked out like a benevolent monarch over the
buildings that surrounded the village green—the massive town hall, the gracious eighteenth
century homes, and the inevitable antique shops. Walden’s drugstore was still on the
corner, looking just as it did when she and Maggie had made their regular stop for a soda
after choir practice each week.

As the light changed, she came out of her reverie and accelerated into the intersection.
Crack! A deafening explosion of sound blasted her eardrums. She slammed on the brakes. Was
someone shooting at her? She ducked down behind the steering wheel, waiting for the next
shot. But everything was quiet.

Cautiously she lifted her head and peered out the window. The noise had attracted a few
spectators, but they didn’t seem frightened, just curious. Perhaps it was just a blowout.
Her tire treads were getting thin.

She couldn’t just sit here in the middle of Main Street. Deciding she wasn’t under attack,
she climbed out of the car. But a close inspection showed her tires were intact.

Mr. Walden, the elderly pharmacist, waved at her. Do you want me to call a tow truck,
Tracy?

I’m OK, Tracy assured him. I’ll just drive down to Henry’s garage and have him take a look
at it.

The old man made a wry face. Honey, you won’t be driving anywhere. You just threw a rod.
From the sound of it, I’d say it went right through the engine block.

Tracy gaped at him in disbelief. She needed her car. She couldn’t wait another day for
repairs. She had to get to Boston now—today.

What’s the problem here?