Dying to Please Read online

  “Are you the one who discovered the break-in?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you know approximately what time it was?”

  “No, my bedside clock is electric, but I estimate it has been about thirty minutes since I woke.”

  “What woke you? Did you hear a noise?”

  “No. My quarters are over the garage; I can't hear anything from there. When they cut the power line, my ceiling fan stopped. That's what woke me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Sarah related the course of events as concisely as possible, though she was acutely aware of her thin pajamas and bare feet. She wished she had taken the time to put on a robe and slippers, or pull a brush through her hair. Or maybe even do a full makeup job and slip into a negligee, spray herself with perfume, and hang an “I'm available” sign around her neck. Then she could take Detective Cahill to her quarters and sit on the side of the bed while she gave him her statement.

  She smiled inwardly at her own silliness, but her heartbeat had started racing at the sight of him and was still tripping along at too fast a pace. Through whatever quirk of chemistry or biology, or maybe a combination of the two, she felt an instant physical attraction to him. It happened occasionally—this sudden little buzz that made her remember what made the world go 'round—though not for a while, and never before this strongly. She enjoyed the private thrill; it was like riding a roller coaster without having to leave the ground.

  She glanced at his left hand. It was bare, though that didn't necessarily mean he was single, or uninvolved. Men who looked like he did were seldom totally unattached. Not that he was handsome; his face was kind of rough, his beard was about eight hours past being a five-o'clock shadow, and his dark hair was too short. But he was one of those men who somehow seemed more male than the other men around him, almost as if he had testosterone oozing from his pores, and women definitely noticed that. Plus his body looked totally ripped; the jacket he wore over his black T-shirt disguised that somewhat, but she had grown up around men who made it a point to be in top physical condition, and she knew the way they moved and carried themselves. Unfortunately, he also looked as if his face would break if he smiled. She could appreciate his body, but from what she could see, his personality sucked.

  “What's your relationship with Judge Roberts?” he asked, his tone so neutral as to border on uninterested. He glanced up at her, his face delineated by harsh shadows that made it impossible to read his expression.

  “He's my employer.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I'm a butler.”

  “A butler.” He said it as if he'd never before heard the word.

  “I manage the household,” she explained.

  “And that involves . . . ?”

  “A lot, such as overseeing the rest of the staff; scheduling repairs and services; some cooking; making certain his clothes are clean and his shoes shined, his car serviced and washed regularly, bills are paid, and in general that he isn't bothered by anything that he doesn't want to bother him.”

  “Other staff?”

  “No one full-time. I count as staff the cleaning service, two women who come in twice a week; the gardener, who works three days a week; his office temp, who comes in once a week; and the cook—Monday through Friday, lunch and dinner.”

  “I see.” He consulted his notes, as if rechecking a detail. “Does being a butler also require you to study martial arts?”

  Ah. She wondered what had given her away. She had noticed, of course, that beautifully judged kick with which he had taken down the big burglar and known immediately that he did his own share of training.

  “No,” she said mildly.

  “It's an interest you pursue on your own time?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I'm also a trained bodyguard.” She kept her voice soft, so it wouldn't carry. “The Judge doesn't like it broadcast, but he's received some death threats in the past and his family insisted he have someone trained in personal security.”

  He had been totally professional before, but now he looked at her with frank interest, and a little surprise. “Have any of those threats been recent?”

  “No. I honestly don't think he's in active danger. I've been with him for almost three years, and in that time he hasn't received any new threats. But when he was on the bench, several people did threaten to kill him, and his daughter in particular was uneasy about his safety.”

  He glanced at his notes again. “So that wasn't exactly a lucky punch you threw, was it?”

  She smiled faintly. “I hope not. Just as your kick wasn't just luck.”

  “What discipline do you practice?”

  “Karate, mainly, to stay in shape.”

  “What degree?”

  “Brown.”

  He gave a brief nod. “Anything else? You said ‘mainly.'”

  “I do kick-boxing, too. How does this pertain to the investigation?”

  “It doesn't. I was just curious.” He closed the little notebook. “And there isn't an investigation; I was getting a preliminary statement. It all goes in the report.”

  “Why isn't there an investigation?” she asked indignantly.

  “They were caught in the act, with Judge Roberts's property loaded in their pickup. There's nothing to investigate. All that's left to do is the paperwork.”

  For him, maybe; she still had to deal with the insurance company and getting the sliding glass doors in the sunroom repaired, not to mention replacing the broken television. The Judge, typical man, had loved his big screen and had already mentioned that he was thinking about getting a high-definition television this time.

  “Does the fact that I'm also the Judge's bodyguard have to go in the report?” she asked.

  He had been about to move away; he paused, looking down at her. “Why?”

  She lowered her voice even more. “The Judge prefers his friends don't know. I think it embarrasses him that his kids nagged him into hiring a bodyguard. As it is, he's the envy of his crowd because he has a female butler; you can imagine the jokes they make. Plus, if there is any sort of threat to him, it gives me an edge if no one knows I'm trained to guard him.”

  He tapped the notebook against his palm, his expression still unreadable, but then he shrugged and said, “It isn't relevant to the case. As I said, I was just curious.”

  He might never smile, but she did; she gave him a big, relieved one. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and walked away, and Sarah sighed in regret. The packaging was fine, but the contents were blah.

  The morning was beyond hectic. Getting any more sleep was impossible, of course, but getting anything accomplished was equally so. Without electricity she couldn't prepare the Judge's preferred breakfast, cinnamon French toast, or do laundry or even iron his morning newspaper so the ink didn't rub off on his fingers. She served him cold cereal, fat-free yogurt, and fresh fruit, which made him grumble about healthy food being the death of him. Nor was there hot coffee, which made them both very unhappy.

  An enterprising idea sent her next door to the Cheatwoods' house, where she made a trade with the cook, Martha: the inside skinny on the night's happenings for a thermos of fresh coffee. Armed with caffeine, she returned home and calmed the troubled waters. After her own second cup, she was ready to tackle the day's problems again.

  She didn't mind making a pest of herself, if she got the desired results. Two more phone calls to the power company produced a repair truck and a lanky man who without haste set to work. Half an hour later, the house hummed to life and he moseyed away.

  Harassing the phone company was more trouble; they—the unknown “they” in charge—had so arranged things that either one could leave a voice mail message, forgoing the comfort of speaking to a real human in favor of saving time, or one could tolerate being put on hold for an obscene amount of time waiting for said real human to become available for haranguing. Sarah was stubb