When in Bruges (Humorous Romantic Mystery) (10 page)

T
here is
a certain hardness that’s typical of a cop’s life. It doesn’t, perhaps, affect the young as much as it affects those growing a bit longer in the tooth. And even though Lauren wasn’t an old copper by any stretch of the imagination, she had been in the game long enough to become acutely aware of the drawbacks of a life on the right side of the law.

Being confronted with the scum of the earth on a daily basis places a heavy burden on the soul, and it’s quite common for the young recruit to start seeing the world with a jaundiced eye. A hardened heart and a crusty demeanor are but one way of dealing with the challenges of a life devoted to fighting crime.

For Lauren, having dated quite a few cops, Kirt represented something she hadn’t even known existed: a cop with a heart as big as a blue whale’s, and not afraid to carry it on his sleeve.

While she’d met plenty of guys who were callous, cynical and hard-hearted, Kirt was exactly the opposite. He looked like a giant teddy bear and that’s what he was. Kirt smiled easily and often, but not because he thought it might score him points with the ladies, but because he was a genuinely happy guy. Over the phone, he’d asked her a million questions about herself, not so he could better manipulate her into his bed, but because he was actually interested. Go figure.

In fact, if she had to sum up Kirt in one word, it would be sincerity. It wasn’t a quality she’d ever looked for in a guy, but now that she found it in Kirt, she knew he had what most other men were sorely missing: Kirt was the real deal. An honest-to-God, kind man with not a devious bone in his body.

No wonder she’d fallen for him, and couldn’t wait to see him again. He made her feel good about herself and about the world. He made her feel at home. He made her feel… loved. And for that, she loved him, too.

She quickly joined him at the counter, where he was in deep conversation with an older couple tending bar.

“Hi, honey,” said the woman, giving the new arrival a jovial wave.

Lauren took a seat next to Kirt, leaned in, and kissed him full on the lips.

The older couple, witnessing the spectacle with raised eyebrows, instantly scooted off to do something very urgent on the other side of the bar.

Lauren was happy to find Kirt kissing her right back, and when they finally came up for air, his face was alive with what could only be described as the light of love.

“Wow,” said Kirt, panting a little. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Just being you,” she said, and she meant it.

“I, erm, was actually just thinking about you,” he said.

“Same here, Mr. Raisin.”

He grinned. “How did you know where to find me?”

She shrugged. “I had a hunch.”

“Kate told you I was meeting Chris, didn’t she?”

She chuckled. “She did. The moment I heard, I hopped onto my bike to beat him to it.” He laughed, and she gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“I just love seeing you on that bike,” he said.

“Well, I happen to love it. Queenie was right. It really is ideal for getting around Bruges.
And
it’s great for the environment.”

“Queenie is always right,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

“So I’ve noticed.” She tapped his bicep and was pleasantly surprised to find it huge and bulging. Investigating further, her hand slid down to his belly, and found that, too, harder than she’d imagined for a guy his size. He wasn’t just a big teddy bear, he was a very muscular bear. “I, erm, wanted to see you about something,” she finally said in a husky voice.

“Oh? I thought you just wanted my body,” he quipped.

“That, too,” she said archly, and leaned in for another kiss. God, this man felt good. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon find herself in his bed. On the other hand, if she played her cards right, she’d soon find herself in his bed.

“Um…” she said, slightly dazed.

“You wanted to see me about something,” he reminded her with a sly grin.

“Right. Right. The thing is, Kate’s my best friend and Chris is yours, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now, I don’t know about Chris, but Kate is about to make a grave mistake.”

“She is?” he said with genuine concern.

“She’s engaged to be married to a man she doesn’t love.”

“That
is
a grave mistake,” he said. “Who’s the guy?”

“Franklin Drub. He works as an accountant for Barners, a big investment bank in Columbus, Ohio. He’s not a bad person. In fact he’s perfectly decent, and I’m sure he cares for her a great deal. But there’s not even a hint of a sparkle between them.” She sighed. “I’m just afraid she’ll get married and have an absolutely miserable life.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“All the time. But she won’t listen. The thing is, she had this… fling with Chris, and I think she really fell for him. But then he dumped her and broke her heart. Now all she wants is some decent guy, stodgy and boring, who won’t let her down. She doesn’t care about love. She just wants security, and she figures Franklin’s the ticket.”

“For the record,” said Kirt, “Chris didn’t dump her. He told me the whole story—about a zillion times in fact. After they spent the night together, he had to leave in a hurry. His mom got really sick. He didn’t want to wake Kate, so he left her a note, asking her to get in touch with him and telling her he loved her.”

“That he loved her?” she repeated, surprised.

“Yeah. He told me he’d fallen head over heels in love with her.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “It happens,” and gave her long level look that sent her heart bopping about in her chest like a pinball.

“It does, does it?” she said softly.

“At least for me it does,” he murmured, taking her hand in his.

“For me, too,” she whispered, and gave him a dazzling smile. It was all happening so fast, but she didn’t mind. She wanted to be swept up in the moment, her pesky mind getting off her back just long enough to enjoy it to the fullest.

“I know Chris,” he said. “When he tells me he left a note, he left a note. He’s not a bullshitter by any stretch of the imagination. He’s a stand-up guy. He fell in love, had a brief night of passion with the girl who stole his heart, and now his life is a shambles, and so is hers.”

“I believe you,” she said, gazing into his soft brown eyes. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“We have to get these two back together again,” he said simply. “They deserve a second chance.”

“I agree,” she said. “And…” She hesitated, casting down her eyes.

“Yes?”

She looked up, uncertainly. “What about… us?”

The goofy, carefree Kirt was all gone when his eyes found hers. “I love you, Lauren Huckleberry,” he said gently, trailing a finger along her cheek.

“I love you, Kirt Raisin,” she breathed, and kissed the palm of his hand, then closed the distance between them, and allowed his lips to claim hers once again, even more eagerly this time.

When they finally broke the kiss, she felt flushed, her heart fluttering, and happier than she’d ever felt before.

“Hey, you two,” sounded a gravelly voice from the far side of the counter. It was a grizzled old man, his grin displaying a single gold tooth. “Get a room, will you?”

A
lfonso Gnat
, that pillar of the community in his capacity of editor-in-chief of Bruges’s foremost periodical, was not having a good day. For one thing, someone had broken into his office the night before and bombed it for no apparent reason—at least according to the police officer investigating the case—other than petty vandalism. Of course, he knew better. The explosion had removed his safe from his office, some vital documents from his safe and consequently a potential source of income from his bank account.

For however noble the profession of reporter might be, it’s not a moneymaker. Long before rising to his post as editor-in-chief, Alfonso’s expenses had far exceeded his income, and now that he’d reached the absolute top of the journalistic food chain, his expenses still outnumbered his revenue stream. So he’d been compelled to become creative and add an extra revenue stream to his existing one.

It hadn’t taken him long to figure out his was a unique position in the Bruges community. As a reporter, it was his job to find out everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets and expose them to the paying public. But what if he offered certain members of that public an opportunity to have what one might call a preview of the coming attractions? And what if he offered this preview for a significant premium?

The first time the idea occurred to him, his conscience had given him a momentary twinge of discomfort. It was when he happened upon the chaplain’s habit of investing a small portion of church money on the horse races. He’d offered the man in question the opportunity to sample the article well before publication and had found him exceedingly agreeable to pay whatever he asked. In return, the cleric had only one stipulation: exclusivity. In other words: the article must never appear in print or be given to anyone else to be read.

Naturally, after cashing his check, Alfonso had gladly accommodated his customer. Though to some extent it did pain him, being the inveterate newspaperman he was, that the article would never see the light of day. Still, the reverend was happy, Alfonso’s banker was happy, and Mrs. Gnat was happy when he presented her with the small gem he bought with the proceeds from the transaction.

Checking the safe that morning, he discovered the absence of not one, but two of his ‘exclusives’. The Peeters file and the Van Damme file. No doubt either Peeters or Van Damme had sent an underling to raid the office and take possession of the merchandise without having to go to the trouble of paying him his dues.

Not right, he felt. Not playing the game. On the other hand, what could you expect from a politician, and especially one who seemed to favor the company of painted hussies over a loving spouse? For Alfonso was a firm believer in the virtues of exclusivity not only in business, but also in the bedroom. Serial philanderers like Van Damme deserved nothing better than to have their adultery exposed before the world. Unless they paid a hefty sum, of course. Alfonso might be a traditionalist, but he was also a businessman.

He was just lamenting the dark heart of the politician, when a couple of newcomers blew into his office. Or rather, what was left of it.

After the police investigation had gone through the premises with a fine-tooth comb and had come to the groundbreaking conclusion a bomb had gone off, they’d ‘cleared the crime scene’ as the jargon went, and had allowed him to start cleaning up the mess.

“What do you want?” he said when a sturdy young man knocked on the doorjamb.

“Might we have a word?” the young man said politely.

“No, you can’t,” said Alfonso moodily. “I already talked to the police, to the fire department, to the crime scene people, to the press… I’m done talking.”

“Well, you’ll talk to us whether you want to or not,” interrupted a second intruder, this one a female. She was a fiery-looking redhead with a petulant expression on her pretty face.

“Who are you?” said Alfonso. Then his eyes widened. Like any good reporter, he was intimately familiar with every Brugean, whether young or old, male of female, honest or deceitful—though he preferred the latter for their potential earning capacity. “Young Van Damme,” he sneered. “And if I’m not mistaken, the mayor’s daughter. I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” said Van Damme.

“Returning to the scene of the crime, eh?” said Alfonso, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” said Alfonso, his thin lips curling up into a smile.

“You’re right,” said the redhead, cutting to the chase. “We know. And what’s more, we want to know what
you
know about the plot to kill our dads.”

Alfonso’s smile disappeared as if wiped away with a squeegee. “What? Killing? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“It was all in your files,” she said. “So start talking, you little creep!”

“Hey, watch the language!” said the ‘creep’. “Look who’s talking! You two break into my office, bomb my safe and steal my stuff! Why, I should have you arrested on the spot!”

“One word to the police and I’ll have
you
arrested,” said Chris. “For blackmail.”

“Who’s talking about blackmail!” said Alfonso. “I’m just buying and selling information, that’s all. Can I help it if my clients insist on exclusivity?”

“Cut the crap,” said Kate. “Start talking about the murder plot.”

“What murder plot?” cried Alfonso. “There
is
no murder plot!”

“Let’s all calm down,” said Chris, taking a seat on the desk. “Who took those pictures? You?”

“Of course not,” said Alfonso. “Do you think I have time to sneak around following people around all the time? I have a newspaper to run!”

“So who shot them?” said Chris.

Alfonso eyed the young man with malevolence. He stabbed his finger at him. “You cost me a great deal of money, Chris. I paid for those pictures. Now who’s going to pay me back?”

Kate took one step closer, and Alfonso inched back against the wall. That was one mean female. He particularly disliked the way her hand kept going for her purse, where he was sure she had a big gun tucked away. He remembered people saying she was a cop or something, and what was worse, an American cop. He knew all about American cops. ‘Do you feel lucky, punk? Go ahead, make my day’ and all that jazz.

“What if we give you…” Chris took out his wallet, removed a wad of bills and peeled off a couple from the top.

“Chris, are you nuts?” said Kate. “You’re not paying this creep.”

“Hey, lady!” he said. “I’m human. I have feelings.”

“You’re a blackmailing piece of lowlife scum is what you are,” she said.

“Fair enough,” said Alfonso, eagerly watching Chris peel more notes off his stack of bills. A philosopher at heart, he could take the rough with the smooth. “Lay down five more and we’ll call it even,” he said.

Chris obliged, Kate groaning in frustration.

Alfonso quickly picked up the cash, flicked through it and nodded his agreement. He was still going to lose money on this deal, but between Chris’s generosity and Dirty Kate’s trigger-happy demeanor, the loss was justifiable.

“All right,” he said. “You know Zak Street? The guy I got these particular snaps from lives in Number 67. Gabriel Closet. Don’t tell him I said hi.”