PERFECT (2 page)

“I want to know
too.”

“Yes. Yes, you do.
It’s just like when someone is murdered. The first people the police look at
are family members and close friends, because believe it or not, most times the
victim is a victim at the hands of one of them. The same happens with a fire.
If it’s deemed arson, there’s a good chance the owner set it.”

“I-did-not-set-Sweet-Grass-on-fire.”

Boy, he was glad
she called him, because he had a feeling if she hadn’t, she would be calling
him from jail later. He smiled because he could just see her set jaw and arms
folded across her chest. “I know. The fire marshal is usually the head officer
on this type of case. You need to treat him like a good customer. Hell, you
need to treat him like he’s the food critic for the
Charleston Times
.”
That analogy should make her understand exactly how carefully she had to handle
the guy.

Her heavy sigh
whooshed into his ear, a sign he’d finally made connection with the
responsible, level-headed Darcy.

“Okay. He’s just
doing his job. Understood,” she said.

“Good. After
you’re done with him, you go home, take two sleeping pills or knock back a
twelve-ounce glass of good wine, and crawl into bed. When you wake up, call me.
We’ll discuss your next steps.”

Silence.

“Darcy, are you
there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.
It’s just so hard.”

Her little hiccup
of sorrow tore at his heart. “I know. I wish I was there, holding you up.”

“I wish you were
too.”

He stiffened his
spine even though she couldn’t see him. “Chin up. Be the Darcy Witherspoon that
loves to kick ass. This fire is your competition. Don’t let it take you down.”

Her mumble of “I
won’t” was feeble at best, but before Tom could say another word, the line went
dead.

Sweet Grass was
truly Darcy’s life. Besides a mother who lived in her own world in France, an
elderly aunt who spent most of her time traveling and a brother she hadn’t
spoken to in a year, the woman had no one. She was a good person. A loner who
kept the world at bay by being a work-alcoholic junkie. Darcy reminded him of
another friend. One who lived right here in Black Moose, Vermont.

If only the two
could meet, maybe fate would give them both something to live for besides their
jobs. Hmmm. His chin’s stubble rasped as he scratched. To hell with sleep. He
jumped from the bed and headed to the kitchen for a good strong cup of coffee.
He had thinking to do before Darcy called him again.

Did little girls
even like dolls that pissed anymore?

Parked outside of
The Lone Grist Mill, Dylan Kincaid sat alone in his SUV and stared at the
snowflakes drifting onto his warm windshield and melting away. He should go
home before the predicted storm started in earnest, but he needed a few minutes
to himself. Hell, he needed to feel like himself again. The last four months
he’d been running at high gear and his fumes were nearing exhaustion.

He pulled the keys
from the ignition and pushed away tonight’s memory of the pretty snow bunny
offering him her room key. A few seasons ago, he would’ve skied around the girl
all night, flirting, even though it was against the Black Moose Mountain ski
patrol regulations to fraternize with guests of the exclusive Valley View ski
lodge. The urge to rebel against the establishment came from his perpetual flower-child
parents.

Back then, he’d
probably be zeroing in on the little brunette’s sweet spot right about now,
instead of wondering what toys to buy for his nieces other than the dollhouse
furniture he’d ordered. How much of a big ass tree was really necessary for him
to cut down and haul into the living room. And, what the hell he could cook for
Christmas dinner—since the Christmas dinner he wanted to serve the girls didn’t
come in a can.

He scrubbed a hand
over his face, feeling the weight of responsibility bowing his shoulders. How
the hell was he going to pull off a jolly Christmas for Jillian and Katy?

Giving into the
urge for a stiff drink, he shoved the driver’s door open and stepped out into
the frigid Vermont night air. He left the vehicle unlocked. It was Sunday
night, after ten. The mountain top closed down, except for the locals, and he’d
trust anyone of them with his Trailblazer. The crunch his steps made on the
snow-covered parking lot broke the eerie silence that accompanied single-digit
temperatures.

The Lone Grist
Mill, owned by his friend, Tom Angleman, had closed over an hour ago, but he
could see through the large-paned windows that Tom and some of his staff were
still inside.

He needed a drink
because he needed to feel like the carefree guy he used to be. He’d have just
one, because he had to get home to the girls. His sitter, Willa, had to get up
for school tomorrow. Here, in the Green Mountains, schools didn’t cancel
because a few inches of snow had fallen overnight.

One drink.
Something to warm up his toes. Tom wouldn’t have a problem accommodating him.

Through a
dining-room window, he saw Tom directing one of the clean-up staff. The boy
looked as bored as any teenager could look doing a job he had no intention of
making his life’s work.

When the burly man
smiled at the boy, Tom reminded Dylan of Curly, the famed Third Stooge. But Tom
was far from being a stooge. The man was a celebrated chef and a damn smart
business man. Five years ago, he purchased the old grain mill along with twenty
acres for next to nothing and converted the old structure into one fine
restaurant.

Dylan reached
between the snow-laced shrubbery decorated with tiny white lights and rapped on
the glass with his keys to catch Tom’s attention. Tom waved, signaling he’d be
a second, gave the boy a final direction and headed out of the dining room.

Dylan shoved the
keys into parka’s pocket. He blew on his fingers, having left his gloves in the
truck, and stomped his boots clean of snow while waiting at the front entrance.

“What’s up, buddy?
Did you bring the extra greens for the window sills?” Tom said, upon opening
the heavy oak door.

Damn. He forgot
all about lopping off a few branches for his friend. “Sorry. No. I’ll get them
to you tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Tom
clamped his shoulder. “You looked like a man who gambled his last dollar away.”

“I need a drink.”

Tom tilted his
head slightly and studied him. “You haven’t had a drink in months.”

“Exactly!”

“Sounds like you
need an ear, Kincaid.”

“That could be,
but I’d still like the drink.”

Tom nodded,
affirming he understood. “Come on in.”

“Aren’t you going
to lock it, again?” Dylan asked, falling into step behind his friend.

“Nuh. Everyone’s
off the mountain or held up in the lodges. Snow’s coming. Haven’t you heard?”
Tom glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, I’m expecting someone.”

Tom led Dylan into
the bar section of the restaurant where he grabbed the good bottle of whiskey
off the top shelf. He dropped two napkins embossed with a moose munching on a
corn stalk on the spotless wooden bar and then poured two fingers of the amber
liquid into a pair of mugs. Angleman had a rule—no man drank alone. “So are
going to tell me what’s wrong? Some woman turned you down?” He topped the
whiskey with coffee and slid a mug across the bar. “Here you go.”

“Just the
opposite. Tried to turn me on and then I turned her down.” Dylan slipped off
his parka and tossed it on the barstool next to him. Wearily, he slid onto the
barstool and cupped his chilled hands around the steaming cup Tom had placed on
the ivory napkin. He took a sip and relished the heat coating his tongue and
finding its way to his stomach. “Thanksgiving is on my mind.”

“Thanksgiving was
two weeks ago.” Tom chuckled. “It’s history.”

“Yeah. And it was
a disaster.”

“Hey,” Tom’s mug
thudded against the bar’s top. “You and the kids ate here.”

Dylan shook his
head and smiled. “It wasn’t the food. The food was good.”

“Good is okay, I
guess.” The big guy perched his lips and shrugged. “The years I spent at
culinary school weren’t totally wasted.”

“Come on. Don’t
give me shit. You know what I mean. Thanksgiving wasn’t the same for the kids.
They’re used to the big family get together.” He arched his hands in the air,
signifying the grandeur of the family dinner. “Elizabeth always made this huge
feast and Bob would act as the host with the most. Afterwards, they’d all pile
in the hay wagon and head out to the Mini-Moose Point to find the perfect
Christmas tree.”

“You make it sound
like Bob and Elizabeth had Norman Rockwell holidays.”

“They did. Everyone
was sloppy happy.”

Tom swallowed a
gulp of coffee, licked a droplet from his lips and sat the mug down with a
thud. “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He waggled a finger at him. “The perfect
holiday, like the perfect meal, is a myth.”

“Not according to
the Jillian and Katy.”

Tom’s brow shot
north on his wide forehead. “They’re kids. What do they know?”

“I don’t know.
They’re pretty damn smart. They’ve taught me a few things over the past few
months.”

“Well, they’ve
only had what—six or seven Christmases’ to compare anything to? Wait until they
have thirty-some behind them, like us. Then they’ll know holidays are not
perfect.”

Dylan mulled Tom’s
philosophy over for a few seconds while he sipped the hot liquid. His toes were
finally warming. “I think Elizabeth and Bob made a mistake leaving the kids in
my care. Maybe they should’ve sent them off to Scottsdale to be with
Elizabeth’s parents. Or let them travel the country with Mom and Dad.”

Tom’s hearty
chuckle echoed through the bar. “Oh, I’m sure the kids would’ve had a perfect
holiday either way. No snow in middle Arizona and I hear the Baker’s nanny is
real nice.” His brow furrowed. “Why do the Bakers have a nanny anyway?
Elizabeth left home fifteen years ago.”

“They have very
special pets.”

His friend waved
Dylan off before he could go into more detail. “It does matter. And if they
were with your parents… Now, don’t take this the wrong way. I love Gray and
Lilac. They’re a hoot. The girls could mingle with radical groups and decorate
the interior of the mini-van with peace emblems and tie-dye reindeer or elves.
Both scenarios sound like every little girl’s dream Christmas. Don’t you
think?”

Picking up his
mug, Tom poked a finger at him. “Besides the fact that Jillian and Katy adore
you and you them, your brother and Elizabeth decided to leave their children
with you and not with either set of grandparents, or any other relative, for
many reasons. The kids belong on this mountain, just like you. It’s their home.
Elizabeth and Bob knew they could trust you to take care of them while they’re
off serving our country. They’re safe, fed, loved and surrounded by friends
they’ve known all their lives. You’re doing a good job, so stop being an
ass-wipe and stop beating yourself up.”

Tom could be a
damn psychologist. “You’re right. But, if you had seen the girls’ smiles turned
into frowns when they came downstairs on Thanksgiving morning and they didn’t
smell a bird cooking in the oven, you’d know how I feel. Then like a stupid
idiot,” he continued, despite a tightening jaw, “I told them we were going out
to eat and afterwards I had to go to work. Like it was any other day. But it
wasn’t any other day. It was fuckin’ Thanksgiving. I felt like I’d failed them.
Their expressions nearly ripped my heart out.”

He down the last
swallow of Irish coffee and pulled a breath in behind it, before squaring his
shoulders. “Christmas is going to be rough for them, with their mom and dad so
far away. They’ve never been apart from each other. Somehow I need to make the
holiday special.”

“Get them a pair
of kittens. I think Amos Knittle mentioned their cat had a litter a few weeks
back. You know Amos. The town clerk. Little girls love kittens.”

“No.”

“A puppy?”

“No more pets. I
trip over the girls’ rabbit now. They hate seeing Buzzy in a cage. The rabbit
thinks he’s a dog. He follows them around. I never saw a rabbit that liked to
be held and brushed as much as this one does.”

“Okay.” Tom
scratched his chin. “I can help. I’ll make a holiday feast and bring it out to
the house. The local fire company volunteers would appreciate you not
attempting to cook something new.”

Hearing Batmen’s
hearty chuckle, Dylan’s spirits lifted. A smile pulled at his lips. “Funny.
Thanks for the offer, but I can’t ask you to do that. You have your hands full
here. You’re open on Christmas, right?”

“Yeah, the
mountain doesn’t shut down, so neither do I.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle and
placed it back on the shelf. “Look, what’s the difference if you eat my food
here or at your own table?”