“Everybody knows,” Eli said.
“I guess the secret’s out,” Kacey said with a grin, then told Eli, “But I wouldn’t worry about Cory. . uh. .”
“Deter,” Trace supplied.
“Right. I think your dad will handle any trouble you have from him. I heard that he was an Army Ranger. From what I understand, those guys are pretty tough.”
“They are!” Eli declared, and Trace looked as if he wanted to fall through the floor.
“I think that’s enough,” he said, reaching for his son’s jacket when the boy blurted, “You look like Miss Wallis.”
Kacey glanced up at the father, who visibly winced. “Is that a good thing?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Trace nodded without a lot of conviction.
“Great.” First Shelly Bonaventure, now the unknown Miss Wallis. It seemed to be her week for resembling someone else.
Eli announced, “She’s my dad’s girlfriend.”
Every muscle in Trace’s body appeared to stiffen. “Eli, I told you that Miss Wallis and I — we’re not dating. She’s not my girlfriend.” Totally abashed, he said, “Sorry. Miss Wallis was Eli’s teacher last year, when he was in first grade.”
“And you went out on dates!” Eli glared up at his father.
He gazed apologetically at Kacey. “She and I did go out a couple of times, and yes, you do look a little like her.”
“I must have a face that looks familiar.”
He closed his eyes for half a second and shook his head, the overhead light catching in the blonder strands of his hair. “So, now that I’m completely embarrassed, can you tell me how to slow an active seven-year-old down?”
“It’s probably impossible, but you, Eli, remember to take it easy. No roughhousing. Got that?” She leaned down to meet the boy’s gaze, eye-to-eye once more.
He nodded solemnly.
“Promise? Scout’s honor?”
“I’m not a Cub Scout.”
“Okay, I’ll believe you,” she said, raising her eyebrows as if she really didn’t trust him, not quite.
“I will!” Eli was completely earnest.
“Good. ’Cuz your dad’ll be reporting to me.” She smiled at Trace, who started to smile back, then thought better of it when she told him that if the pain in his son’s arm was so great that over-the-counter pain medication didn’t help, he should call her. He nodded grimly.
As she wrote out the prescription, she added, “I’ll call about the throat culture. I’ll want to see you again”—she pointed her pen at Eli—“in about ten days. Can you do that?” The boy was nodding vigorously. “Good.” She ripped off the prescription and handed it to his father. “He’s going to be okay, though I think he should stay home from school for a couple of days.”
“Yessss!” Eli said and pumped his good arm, which suggested to Kacey that he was feeling better.
“Anyway,” she said to Trace, “call me if he’s in a lot of pain or something looks wrong to you. You’ll know. My service can reach me twenty-four-seven, and either Dr. Cortez or I will call you back ASAP.”
Trace tucked the prescription into his pocket and seemed a little less uptight than when she’d first examined his son a couple of hours earlier. He dropped Eli’s jacket over the boy’s shoulders.
“Now, Eli, you be good, okay? Do as your father says, and don’t give him any trouble. And, oh, stay away from bullies,” Kacey advised.
“Thanks.” Trace’s intense blue eyes were sincere, and when he shook her hand again, she thought the clasp lasted a bit longer than normal. Then again, maybe she was imagining things.
She exited the room as Randy made notes on the computer and followed her into exam room two. Attempting to push all thoughts of the rangy cowboy from her mind, she turned her attention to Delores Sweeney, a mother of four who was always battling a cold, the flu, or a yeast infection. . or something….
CHAPTER 5
“ The drawing for Secret Santas was this morning!”
Joelle scolded as Pescoli walked into the lunchroom to fill her coffee cup in the early afternoon. The entire cafeteria area was what Pescoli had termed “Joelled.” Christmas lights winked around every surface, the tables all had little snowmen centerpieces, fir boughs festooned with ribbons had been swagged over the doorway, and the regular white napkins in the coffee station had been replaced with red and green.
Even so, Pescoli suspected, the decorating wasn’t yet finished; it would soon spill into the hallways, offices, and reception area, where already a ten-foot, yet-to-be-adorned tree stood near the bulletproof glass that had been installed over the counter this past spring.
“I was here at seven, then had work out of the office,” Pescoli said, then gave herself a swift mental kick. She didn’t need to explain her whereabouts to the receptionist.
“Well, you’re not the only one who missed out.” Joelle’s eyes twinkled, and Pescoli inwardly groaned, knowing she hadn’t escaped. “So here. .” She picked up a basket decorated with candy canes and held it high over her head, as if she truly expected Pescoli to cheat and look at the names she’d scribbled on the scraps of paper.
“Seriously? Everyone’s doing this?” Pescoli asked suspiciously.
“Of course!”
“Including the sheriff?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Rule?” Pescoli asked, mentioning Kayan Rule, a strapping African American man who had no use for any kind of silliness. One of the more independent of the road deputies, Rule was as unlikely as anyone to be involved in Joelle’s stupid games.
“Already drew his name this morning, as did Selena.”
Great, Pescoli thought but, deciding she had been accused too many times of not being a team player, lifted her arm and reached into the basket, where she plucked one of the few remaining scraps of paper with her fingertips.
“Wonderful!” Joelle was pleased with herself. “Now, don’t forget to leave him or her little gifts at least one a week, until Christmas!”
Pescoli unfolded the piece of paper, and her stomach dropped as she read the name scrawled across the small scrap:
Cort Brewster.
“I have to draw again!” she blurted.
Joelle snatched back the basket and raised a condescending, if perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “There are no doovers, Detective. That’s what happens when you come late to the party.”
Pescoli wanted to argue the point but decided she couldn’t stoop to groveling over something so trivial. She nearly forgot her cup of coffee as she left the lunchroom, with its festive snowmen and sparkling lights, and made her way to Alvarez’s cubicle.
Her partner, as usual, was bent over paperwork. “Trade with me,” Pescoli said.
“What?” Alvarez glanced up.
“For the Secret Santa thing. Trade with me.”
For once, Alvarez actually laughed. “No way.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“The whole thing is ridiculous,” Pescoli grumbled.
“So don’t worry about it. Just buy some candy or a DVD or something, leave it on Brewster’s desk, and call it good.”
“You know?”
“I am a detective. No one else’s name would get you so agitated.” Her smile was knowing. “You could have some fun with this, you know.”
“It’s not that easy,” Pescoli said, thinking of how the undersheriff and she hadn’t gotten along since the debacle last year, when Jeremy had been arrested. At the time he’d been with Heidi Brewster, and her father had intervened. Pescoli hadn’t, and her son hadn’t really ever forgiven her. Nor had Cort. He seemed to blame Pescoli for her son’s and his daughter’s bad behavior.