Killer Keepsakes by Jane K. Cleland Read Free Book Online

who wants to kill her. Or maybe she recognizes the killer from something he left behind—like his gun. Under those circumstances, she might flee. That’s plausible, isn’t it?”
    “Sure, but there’s another possibility, too,” Zoë said. “Whenever you talk about Gretchen, there’s one attribute that you always mention—her caretaking nature. Maybe she didn’t kill that man and no one is out to kill her. Rather, what if she loves the person who did kill him? What would she do then?”
    “She’d do everything she could to protect him,” I acknowledged, following Zoë’s logic. “ If there is someone she cares about that much.” I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head. “Since she’s worked for me for four years without mentioning anyone who qualifies, I think it’s a stretch. Just because something is conceivable doesn’t mean it’s credible.”
    Gretchen was a kind, generous, and loving person by nature, but I didn’t delude myself that she was a saint—and she certainly wouldn’t be the first woman to do something foolish, even illegal, to help a murderer. I’d just read an article about women who love men who murder. One woman the author interviewed had chartered a helicopter to hover over the prison yard at a time when her boyfriend, a three-time convicted killer, was outside exercising. She’d lowered a rope, he’d quick-climbed high enough to clear the wall, and off they’d flown. The police caught up with them five days later, thirty miles away, in a motel room. In a jailhouse interview after she’d been convicted of multiple felonies and sentenced to fifteen years in prison, the woman claimed to feel no regrets, explaining that after years of mind-numbing boredom as a clerk in an insurance company, she’d had five days of bliss—and that was five more than anyone she knew had ever had.
    Which is it? I asked myself as I resumed chopping chives. Had Gretchen been kidnapped for reasons too horrendous to mention? Was she a killer on the run? Was she shielding a lover in a misguided effort to help? Or was she herself running from a killer?
    I turned to Zoë. “I just pray she’s safe.”

    Ty walked in amid a blast of cold air. There was no longer any hint of spring warmth.
    “Hey,” he said, smiling and handing me a grocery bag. “Hey, Zoë.”
    Ty was just over six feet tall, broad, and fit. His dark brown hair was cut short, and his eyes were deep-set and almost black. His skin was weathered, not tanned, and his features were irregular. Just seeing him took my breath away.
    “Hey,” I replied. I pulled the bottle of truffle oil from the bag and held it high over my head like a trophy. “Good news. With this magic potion, I will create food fit for a king and,” I said, turning to Zoë, “a queen.”
    While I finished cooking, Ty and Zoë dragged the twin-sized futons I kept rolled up in the front hall closet into the living room and settled the kids in front of a Disney movie. Between stirrings, I watched them snuggling under afghans.
    After dinner, with an old Gerry Mulligan CD playing softly in the background, I sipped my second apple martini and kept Ty company as he loaded the dishwasher.
    “I think they’re down for the count,” Zoë said, joining me at the table. She poured herself a refill and turned to me. “So, my friend, how are you holding up?”
    Ty didn’t speak, but I could sense his intense attention as he listened in.
    “Not so well, actually,” I replied. “I hate not knowing where Gretchen is, and I hate worrying. It’s exhausting.” I raised my glass. “As my father often said, ‘Here’s to silver light in the dark of night.’ ”
    “Hear, hear!” Zoë toasted. “To no dark nights.”
    Ty started the dishwasher and joined us at the table with a mug of coffee. “Nothing dark about a night when Josie cooks.”
    “Aw, shucks,” I said, pleased with the compliment. “Thanks.”
    Later, after Ty had carried both kids home and I’d