Christmas Cover-up. Cassie Miles

used to call me Uncle Bob when me and Danny would take you to the park. Don’t you remember the Tickle Monster?”

      “Oh, yes.” Moisture from his sweaty palm soaked through her white cotton shirt. The way he leered made her glad that she was wearing loose-fitting black slacks and a long apron that disguised her figure.

      He chuckled. “I used to tickle you until you screamed for me to stop.”

      A memory she didn’t want to dwell on. When she was a kid, she’d sensed that Bob was a jerk. As an adult, she was sure of it.

      Stepping away from his grasp, she said, “I’ll get the cakes.”

      “Need some help?”

      Actually, she did. These two cakes were huge and heavy. One was three tiers iced in fluffy white chocolate and decorated with green holly and red berries. The other was a gluten-free, low-fat almond sheet cake. She called the recipe “Ruth-less” because it was lower in calories. The design on top featured the front range of the Rockies surrounding the words: Congratulations, Danny.

      “I could use a hand.” But she wasn’t going anywhere alone with Uncle Bob. “We’ll need two more helpers.”

      He signaled to a muscular guy in sunglasses who stood nearby. Bob introduced him as Carlos. When he leaned forward to shake her hand, Rue glimpsed a shoulder holster under his sports jacket. Obviously a bodyguard.

      As they exited the ballroom and went through the kitchen, Bob roped in another volunteer. Rue vaguely remembered him as someone she’d known in high school—a football player who now worked as a foreman at one of Bob’s construction sites. His name was Tyler—Tyler Zubek.

      Bob reminisced. “Rue used to wear her hair in two braids. Still keeping it long, huh?”

      When he reached toward her ponytail, Rue took a couple of quick steps forward. His groping hand clutched nothing but air.

      “She was a tomboy,” he said to the other two men. “I never thought our little Rue would end up being something feminine like a baker.”

      If she’d cared about his opinion, she would have run through her credentials: an MBA, culinary school, training as a dessert chef and an apprenticeship with a master baker. She would have talked about the scientific methods she used for testing new ingredients for her cakes and the skilled effort she put into her custom creations.

      Instead, she said nothing and left the kitchen. In spite of the season, the weather was un-Christmasy. Though the leaves were off the trees, the temperature had been in the sixties without a hint of snow.

      She hurried the rest of the way to her burgundy van, parked in the driveway close to the four-car garage. Uncle Bob’s sprawling Colonial redbrick mansion was the only house on this cul-de-sac.

      She turned to her helpers. “It’ll take two of us to carry each cake. It might be kind of tricky to get them through the kitchen.”

      She swung open the van door. The three-tier cake was fantastic with swirls of icing and crystalized sugar snowflakes. Also heavy. And unwieldy.

      “Bob and Carlos,” she said. “You get this one.”

      While Rue gave instructions, they removed the cake from the van. The three-foot-long sheet cake was easier for Rue and her former classmate to handle.

      From the corner of her eye, she saw someone approaching from the street. A man in a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. There was something odd about his face; his nose was a strange color. And he wore sunglasses.

      Carlos saw him, too. He growled, “This is a private party.”

      “Not anymore.”

      Still balancing the cake tray in his left hand, Carlos reached inside his jacket for his gun. The three-tier cake teetered wildly.

      “What’s going on?” Bob demanded. “Who the hell are you?”

      She looked over her shoulder. The man in the sweatshirt held a pistol. He fired once, and Carlos went down. The cake fell with a splat.

      With a strength borne of panic, Rue whipped her end of the tray from her classmate’s hands and hurled it at the gunman. Globs of frosting went flying. Crumbs scattered.

      Undeterred, the gunman fired three more times. Three bullets meant for Bob Lindahl. Uncle Bob toppled to his knees. His mouth gaped. His chest was covered in blood.

      Rue heard herself scream as she dove for the pavement. Her classmate was right beside her.

      The gunman dropped his weapon, pivoted and ran.

      Carlos attempted to get up but fell again. His left trouser leg was bloody where he’d been shot. He shoved his gun toward her. “Get him.”

      Rue knew how to shoot. Danny had taught her. But she had never dreamed of taking aim on another human being. Still, she picked up the gun. Hunched over, she ran to the end of the long driveway. The cul-de-sac was packed with parked cars. Earlier, there had been two young men running a valet service, but they were nowhere to be seen.

      She glimpsed the man in the sweatshirt climbing into a car parked half a block away.

      She lifted the gun. There was no one else in sight. No one she might hit if a bullet went astray. Could she really do this? Shoot at someone else?

      From the back of her mind, she heard a voice. Danny’s voice. When she was a kid, she’d been so proud of him. He was a policeman. Sometimes he had to use his gun to fight the bad guys.

      She had to stop the bad guy. It was up to her. Bracing the gun in both hands, she fired. The blast echoed inside her head. The gun kicked back in her hands. She aimed at the tires and fired again.

      Chapter Two

      Cody was standing near the door when he heard the commotion out front. Gunshots? He dropped the gym bag holding the Santa outfit and went outside onto the long porch that stretched across the front of the house behind six white pillars.

      Other people were pointing, shouting, reacting with varying degrees of panic. Their focus was Rue Harris. She stood in the street, with a gun in her fist. When she gestured helplessly and waved the gun, a woman standing beside Cody shrieked in terror.

      To his left, he saw several people gathered beside the maroon van with the Ruth Ann’s Cakes logo. Someone was yelling for help. He saw Bob Lindahl’s legs in red and green plaid trousers lying on the pavement. What the hell had Rue done?

      She took a step toward the house. The people around him gasped and ducked behind the pillars on the wide verandah. Cowards and imbeciles. Couldn’t they see she was in shock? Her legs wobbled. She could barely stand.

      He went toward her.

      “Rue.” He spoke her name loudly. Her eyes were glassy and dazed. “Rue, are you all right?”

      She nodded.

      “Give me the gun.”

      Eagerly, she held out the black automatic. He took it from her and gathered her into his arms. Her cheek rested against his chest. He could feel her trembling, delicate as a butterfly. “Don’t pass out,” he said.

      “I need to sit down.”

      With his arm around her shoulders, he guided her back toward the house. The crowd parted before them. From far away, he heard the siren of an ambulance.

      When they reached the three steps leading up to the pillared verandah, she sank down onto the stair and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. Her head drooped.

      He sat beside her, arm around her shoulder. “Where did you get the gun, Rue?”

      “Carlos the bodyguard.” Her voice was barely audible. “He was shot in the leg. The bad man was getting away. I tried to stop him. I tried.”

      “Everything is going to be okay,” he reassured her.

      “It’s