A Perfect Mess Read online

  A Perfect Mess

  Sienna Waters

  Copyright © 2021 Sienna Waters

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  All characters are 18 years of age or over unless otherwise noted.

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  To N.–

  My home, my heart, where I belong

  xxx

  Chapter One

  Her hand hovered over the holster, fingers itching with indecision.

  She swallowed, trying desperately to solve the riddle in front of her.

  Someone had stabbed the shopkeeper. He was wailing on the floor, head in the hands of his worried-looking wife. Del had already dealt with the paramedics, they'd be there any second, though in her far from expert opinion the wound was nothing more than a scratch. It had stopped bleeding at any rate.

  Which, of course, didn't make the crime any less severe. People couldn't just go around stabbing other people, that was one of the basics. Her hand lowered a half-inch over the holster and she swallowed yet again.

  “Drop the weapon.”

  Her voice was strong and forceful, sounding way better than she'd have expected. In response, the two figures in front of her leaned back, like that would protect them from her ire.

  “Drop. The. Weapon.”

  One of the two of them had to be holding the knife. Other than the shopkeeper's wife, they were the only people in the store. It stood to reason that these two were the prime suspects. Her blood boiled at the thought of one of them daring to harm the innocent man.

  The two people looked at her and she stared right on back, narrowing her eyes, gauging their reactions, trying to figure out just which of the two was carrying. The one on the right was obviously

  terrified, shaking and raising her hands. The one on the left, however, was starting to look shifty.

  Go with your gut. That's what her training officer had told her.

  When in doubt, go with your gut. And her gut was screaming at her to make the right decision. Except she didn't know it was the right decision. But then, did anyone ever really know what was right and what was wrong? Jesus, she was starting to sound like her father.

  That made the decision for her. She definitely knew the difference between right and wrong and that just meant that she needed to trust her gut, just like she'd been told in training.

  On the floor, the shopkeeper groaned again and she could hear the sirens of the ambulance in the distance and her stomach clenched at the thought of the knife still being in play. She took a deep breath before she let her hand clasp her weapon.

  There was a shushing noise as she pulled the gun from its holster.

  “YOU SHOT an old lady.”

  Kempton, her erstwhile partner and current top of her pain in the ass list, was giggling like a girl and about to topple off his chair.

  She glared at him, but he was a snotty, snorting mess and barely took it in.

  “No, I didn't shoot an old lady,” she said. “I did, however, draw my weapon on a woman of the elderly persuasion.”

  Kempton snorted again and he was starting to hiccup. All of six weeks she'd known him and she knew that the captain had been taking a chance on her. Letting her mentor a new recruit was a sign that maybe, finally, he was starting to trust her. Or that Kempton

  had already irritated three other patrol-men and she was the only one willing to take him on. Whatever.

  “Old lady shooter,” Kempton managed to choke out.

  Del rolled her eyes.

  She hadn't, in fact, shot anyone. Probably because the paramedics had arrived and then the hissing of her radio informed her that a suspect had already been caught and she'd paused just long enough to reconsider what the hell she was doing. Drawing a weapon on an old lady.

  To be fair, out of the two possible suspects in front of her, the old woman had been the better choice. The six year old standing next to the woman hadn't been tall enough to inflict the stab wound, she was fairly sure. She was also fairly sure that the kid had been scared witless and would have dropped the knife if she'd had it.

  And she'd gone with her gut. Just like she was supposed to.

  Kempton hiccuped again and then in the space of an eye-blink managed to transform himself back into a sensible member of society. Del felt a chill go down her back. Footsteps sounded from behind her and she didn't need to turn around to know that the captain was back.

  “Officer Romano, my office, now.”

  She waited until the footsteps were gone before she let out the breath she'd been holding.

  “Granny killer,” Kempton whispered.

  She gave him a final glare before she spun on her heel and marched herself into the captain's office.

  Feet a shoulder-width apart, hands behind her back, spine straight and eyes forward. She fell into the position naturally, letting her gaze rest on the certificate of excellence that was framed on the wall just above the captain's desk chair.

  You'd almost think she'd been here before. She controlled a sigh.

  The hard linoleum under her feet, the stink of the bullpen waving through the door all egg sandwiches and sweaty t-shirts, the squeal as the door closed and the creak as the captain settled into his seat.

  “Officer Romano, you pulled your weapon on an elderly woman.

  A woman who, thanks be to all the Gods, didn't have a heart attack.

  Anything to say for yourself?”

  Del swallowed and didn't let her eyes stray from the curling calligraphy of the certificate on the wall. “I, uh, didn't draw on the kid,” she said.

  She felt the captain's sigh, an outpouring of breath full of irritation, confusion, and the bitterness of a man at the end of his patience.

  “It didn't occur to you when faced with an old woman and a small child that perhaps neither of them had committed the crime?

  That perhaps the real perpetrator was a sixteen year old hopped up on God-knows-what who had actually had the presence of mind to skip out of the back entrance when he saw you come up to the front?”

  Del frowned. “No, sir.”

  There was a long, long moment of silence and Del felt the strain in her knees and kept her eyes firmly on the wall. Then the captain spoke again.

  “Officer Romano, Del, take a seat.”

  He was a kindly man really. Hair grey above his temples, face easy to break into a smile. Sure, he was a hard-ass, but then you didn't get to become a police captain by being soft and fluffy. And he had right on his side. And his gut feelings, Del supposed, a gut that didn't lie to him or push him in the wrong direction.

  “You did great at the academy,” the captain started. “But...” He trailed off.

  Del nodded. But.

  He tried again. “You just, you're too eager, Del. You try too hard. Whatever it is that you're trying to make amends for, you can't use the police department as your way of making penance.”

  “I just want justice,” she said, teeth gritted.

  “I know that. And that's kind of the problem. You push for justice, you try too much. Like when you pulled in that guy for stealing cars on fifth street.”

  “He was clearly observed attempting to force entry.”

  “Into his own car, Del. His car that he'd locked his keys inside.

  Something that you'd have figured out
if you'd listened to him and asked him for proof of ownership.”

  She bit her lip.

  “And that's not the only occasion. There have been multiple incidents over the year that you've been with the precinct. Multiple times where you have jumped to the wrong conclusion and used your powers as an officer to arrest or detain those that were innocent, or drawn your weapon on the undeserving.”

  Del's stomach sank. She had a feeling that she knew where this was going. She took a second before she spoke, controlling herself

  as well as she could before she asked: “Are you firing me, sir?”

  The captain took off his glasses and pinched his nose between his finger and thumb. She let him brood for a moment. Eventually, he shook his head.

  “No, Del. Not quite. I'm putting you on report and giving you a final warning, but I'm not firing you.”

  She lightened immediately, felt a smile start, felt her shoulders lift. But the captain wasn't smiling.

  “Del, this isn't a reprieve. If anything, it's only delaying the inevitable. I'm being honest with you because I think you deserve that. You're not a bad cop, not in the sense that you beat people or take back-handers or anything like that. On the other hand, you're not a good cop. You're just not cut out for the street, no matter what your training results were like.”

  “What are you saying?” The lightness was drifting away again now.

  “I'm saying that I'm not firing you this time. But the next time I'll have to, or the time after that. And not because I don't like you. I do like you, Del. You've got an over-developed sense of justice, you think that you're some kind of crime-fighting superhero, but I like you. And that's why I'm telling you that you really need to give some serious thought to quitting the department.”

  Her mouth was dry. “Quitting the department?” she croaked.

  The captain sighed but nodded.

  “Quitting the department and doing what?” she prodded.

  The question hung in the air until it was clear that neither one of them had an answer to it.

  Chapter Two

  Bree was bending over the shop counter, eyes glued to the crossword in the local paper. Afternoon sunlight beamed through the windows, catching on her long blonde hair. Eyes unmoving, she hooked the strands back behind her ear.

  She was just penning in Arno (clue: the river that flows through Florence) when the shop bell rang. She looked up with a helpful smile.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Jefferson. What can I help you with today?”

  The old woman grunted, her beady eyes roaming around the small store. Even Bree, who mostly liked everyone, had to admit that Mrs. Jefferson was a grump. Nothing seemed to make her smile. No, tell a lie, there was that one time. Dr. Hitton had been taking his turn at the 'throw the wet sponge' booth during the autumn fair and Mrs. Jefferson had thrown with unholy accuracy and Doc Hitton had gotten a face-full of dripping sponge. Mrs.

  Jefferson had smiled then. Whooped and hollered in glee actually.

  “We've got some of those cinnamon buns you like, fresh in,”

  Bree said, trying to remain helpful.

  “I'll take two.”

  Bree got to wrapping them up as Mrs. Jefferson finished her look around the store. Not that there was that much to look at. Flowers mostly, since that was what Ronnie really loved. Lots of flowers and bouquets and they took special orders for weddings and the like. And then there were the little things, a fridge of milk, the cakes delivered by the café down the street, a few bags of pasta and some baby food, the kind of things that folk forgot and didn't want

  to go all the way to the grocery store on the outskirts of town for.

  Flowers Etc. That was what the sign outside said. Though Bree thought that perhaps it should say Etc. and Flowers instead, since it was the Etc. that made up most of their business.

  Mrs. Jefferson put a carton of milk on the counter and slid across a newspaper as well. “I'll take some of those big daisies if you've got them,” she said. “Brighten my place up.”

  Bree went for the flowers. In her opinion, a smile would do a better job of brightening up Mrs. Jefferson's cottage than flowers would, but she wasn't going to begrudge the old woman a bunch of daisies. As she wrapped the dripping stems, she wondered just how old Mrs. Jefferson was.

  Bree had lived in Briar's Glen her entire life and Mrs. Jefferson had been ancient when she was a kid. She had to be the walking dead at this point. Though, she guessed, anyone over the age of thirty looked ancient to a kid.

  “Here we go then,” she said, chirpily, beeping the prices into the cash register. “That'll be nine bucks even.”

  Mrs. Jefferson grunted again and pulled out her battered purse.

  As she did so, her eyes caught the poster on the back of the cash register.

  Bree's heart broke just a little. She knew what was on the poster.

  She'd been the one to tack it up just that morning. The determined face, eyes squinted a little against the sunshine, dark hair curling to her shoulders, the smile that said nothing could ever go wrong, a face that had a charmed look.

  “Still not found her then?” Mrs. Jefferson said, handing over her money.

  “No,” said Bree. “Such a shame.”

  Yet another grunt. “Wouldn't be so sure, myself.”

  Bree let her eyebrows raise. “Really?” she said in a tone that she wouldn't normally use to a customer.

  There was something about the old woman being so care-free on the subject of the girl's disappearance that didn't sit right with her.

  “Chip off the old block, is that one,” said Mrs. Jefferson, ignoring Bree's coldness. “Trust me, no good comes of the Bedfords. I can remember her mother, flighty as she was. And that little Katie, she was no better. Saw her one day kicking at the ducks in the pond, laughing just as loud as can be. And she was never in school half the time.”

  “Just how would you know that?” Bree said, handing back her change.

  “Because the little path all the kids use to get back into the woods runs around the end of my garden,” Mrs. Jefferson said.

  “And I saw her regular like, at least once a week, skipping off back there when she should have been in school.”

  Bree said nothing to this. She didn't believe it, not a hundred percent. Mrs. Jefferson had a solid reputation for making trouble and Bree wasn't about to buy into gossip.

  She didn't completely disbelieve it either though, if she were honest with herself.

  Katie Bedford had disappeared two weeks ago now. Not a word had been heard from her after she failed to come home from school one late Wednesday afternoon. Search parties had been sent out, the police had been called, but still nothing.

  Too late, people were starting to think. It had been too long. The chances of good news narrowed as time went on and by now it had to be too late.

  “Afternoon then,” Mrs. Jefferson said.

  The shop bell rang again as she let herself out.

  A charmed face, Bree had thought as she hung the missing poster. A look she recognized, because she'd once had it herself.

  She'd been Katie Bedford, back, oh, fifteen years ago or so. Head cheerleader at the local high school, short skirts swinging and shiny hair tied up in a ponytail and in love with the quarterback.

  Hell, she'd had Katie Bedford's future until just a few months ago.

  She'd married her quarterback, had had the perfect life, had smiled that same perfect smile. Her stomach turned a little at the thought of Gabe now. Gabriel Hampton, shining star of the Briar's Glen High football team turned star of the sales team at his father's car lot.

  She could spit just thinking about him.

  Yes, she'd been charmed once. And now here she was working the register of a shop and hoping that she'd have enough cash to pay the rent on a tiny postage stamp of an apartment and wishing, really wishing, that half the customers didn't stare at her like she had a big red A sewn onto her shirt.

  She took a breath and picked up her pen, ben
ding back down over her crossword. Something was wrong, she could see that now.

  The letters just didn't add up. Arno? No, she knew that one for definite. Knew because she'd bought the guide book when Gabe had promised that they'd go to Florence for their anniversary. Just a

  week before... before what had happened.

  Her eyes ranged over the puzzle. Ah. There. The clue “chap”

  must be “man” not “lad” as she'd filled in. She opened a drawer under the counter and pulled an eraser from its space in the neatly arranged supplies. With a careful hand she erased her mistakes completely before filling in the correct answer.

  After that, it was simple. A mere five minutes later she was refolding the paper and laying it on the shelf, careful to ensure that it was straight. She sharpened her pencil carefully before putting it back in the drawer where it belonged.

  Still her mind came back to Katie Bedford.

  She didn't quite disbelieve Mrs. Jefferson.

  One afternoon a month or so ago now the girl had come into the shop. She'd smiled politely and put a pack of gum on the counter and said her pleases and thank yous. But there'd been something about her and later Bree was sure that some of the candy displayed under the register was missing. Sure because she always knew exact numbers, sure because she did the record-keeping.

  She couldn't prove anything though and in the end had put a couple of dollars into the cash register herself to pay for them because she couldn't think what else to do. She knew Ronnie would have laughed it off, told her not to bother. But her boss's lack of precision when it came to things like that irked her enough that she just hadn't told him.

  Even with a charmed life, things could go wrong.

  She shook her head at herself. She of all people should know that.

  The shop bell rang again and she looked up with a smile.

  But the customer was a stranger, a tall man in a grey suit and a shirt that wasn't quite white enough.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I'm looking for Ronald Romano.” His voice was clipped and short.

  “For Ronnie?” Bree asked, surprised because Ronnie's friends weren't generally so... clean-cut.

  “If you please.”

  She paused for a second, wondering if she should go through to the back room and warn Ronnie before she let the man through.