Robin Hardy Online

Book 2 of the Sammy Series

From the back cover:
You think you have troubles? When Sammy Kidman, Dallas Police Department detective, takes a special undercover assignment as chauffeur to an old-money Dallas family, he tangles with three generations of troublesome women: the matriarch, Dolly Threlkeld, made of steel and made over by plastic surgery; her ex-daughter-in-law Linda Threlkeld-Rains, who deals in suspicious art and con men; and her daughter Jessica Threlkeld, who'll do anything for a little attention. Thank goodness, Sammy has his level-headed, sensible wife, Marni, with him on assignment. But when she gets all hormonal and weird on him—poor Sammy's in for nothing but trouble.
 

Chapter One

Sammy held his wife, Marni, close on the country club dance floor as they swayed to the gentle beat of "To a Dream" played by the hot new band Backlash at this special occasion. There was a loud pop near his shoulder right before they were sprayed with champagne. Marni ducked to safety behind Sammy. "Pruett!" he uttered, turning.

A good-looking, sandy-haired man in a tuxedo similar to Sammy's grinned mischievously as the champagne bubbled from the bottle in his hands. "I wasn't aiming for you, Sambo. You just always seem to get in the line of fire."

A blonde woman in an ankle-length ivory dress and veil turned Sammy by the shoulder. "I owe you something. Excuse us, Marni—" and she kissed Sammy full on the lips.

Marni sighed and rolled her eyes, smiling. Such was life with black-haired, blue-eyed Sammy, who drew feminine attention from anywhere within a three-mile radius. He couldn't help it. "That's okay, Kerry," she murmured.

"Two can play at that game," announced Pruett, and turned Marni around for a kiss.

"Get your mitts off my wife, animal," Sammy ordered, disengaging from the bride. Then he turned back to say, "Congratulations, Kerry. He's a great guy."

A waiter brought up champagne glasses and peremptorily separated Pruett from the bottle. Hannibal, the band's lead singer, announced from the dais, "Okay, people, listen up! Time to toast the bride and groom. Will the best man come take the mike, please?—if you can find your way around on a stage."

A light burst of laughter followed Sammy as he took a glass and trotted up to the dais. Marni watched with a full heart. In the four months since that near-fatal gunshot wound, she had watched Sammy struggle back to health with single-minded determination. All that remained of the trauma was a small scar beneath his left breast, an aversion to breathing cold air, and, a Medal of Honor for placing himself in the line of fire to protect Marni, Kerry, and her son Chris. As a cop, Sammy accepted guns discharging in his direction as an occupational hazard.

"Kerry—Dave," he said at the mike, lifting his glass, "may you find the happiness together you so deserve. May laughter fill your days and love your nights, and may God watch over you and Chris with the shield of His peace." He drained the glass and all those in the room did likewise as Kerry Pruett leaned in her new husband's arms.

Ten-year-old Chris caught Sammy as he was coming down from the dais. "Mom says our house is not far from your new apartment!"

"Right around the corner," Sammy grinned, offering his hand for their new secret handshake.

"When I grow up," Chris sighed, holding his hand, "I'm gonna be a cop just like you and dad. I wish I'd'a been the one to arrest Grip for shooting you."

"That was some trial. Short and sweet," muttered Mike Masterson, coming up behind them. He was Sammy's and Dave's boss, the sergeant in charge of the Targeted Activity Section of the Special Investigations Bureau of the Dallas Police. Mike, an African American, had an authoritative air that masked his deep affection for the officers under his command. "When you walked real slowlike into the courtroom and sat in the witness stand," he said to Sammy, "a couple of the jurors were wiping their eyes. And when the defense started hammering you about provoking Grip, I thought the judge was going to have a coronary."

"Easiest conviction I ever nailed," Sammy said, a corner of his mouth turning up. "All I had to do was look wounded."

"Well then, you could've stayed in Dallas—you didn't have to go on vacation to get all shot up. Then I wouldn't've had to keep hopping back and forth to San Antone," Mike griped, to forestall an alarming slide into sentimentality.

"You love me," Sammy grinned.

"Like a migraine," Mike retorted. "I couldn't care less, but the lieutenant was wondering how you'd feel about returning to work in TAS." Targeted Activity was a proactive, free-rang-ing section that investigated a broad range of illegal activities.

"Sure," Sammy replied, interest clicking in his eyes. "What've you got?"

"Come on in Monday and I'll lay it out for you. This one's gonna take two, Sambo—a man and a woman," Mike said.

"Perfect. Marni and I will be there first thing Monday," Sammy replied, glancing at her across the room.

Mike paused. "That—won't work, Kidman. Marni's been helpful to us, but she's a civilian. This one calls for a professional."

Sammy inhaled. "I know she doesn't have the paperwork, Mike, but we don't work like you think. Marni doesn't touch a gun or try to make arrests. She's my eyes and ears, and she's got unbelievable instincts. I'd'a never pulled off that job at the theater without her—not that the results made you look top notch, or anything, not to mention all the publicity we got on rescuing that baby and all," he casually elaborated.

Mike shook his head heavily. "I'm sorry, Sammy; you can't bring a civilian into official police business. The liability is unacceptable."

Sammy eyed Mike coolly. "I work with Marni, or not at all."

"Don't start giving me ultimatums, Sammy," Mike warned. "The lieutenant—"

"You tell the lieutenant," Sammy said with a stony edge, "that if it weren't for Marni, I'd be spread across several cemeteries by now. That may not seem like such a big deal to him, but it is to me. You let me work alone, and bring in Marni however it suits me, or I walk."

"Sammy—"

"Did you know the chief of police of the San Antonio department came to see me while I was in the hospital down there? They offered me a detective's position, with complete freedom and more money. Whether we went would depend on Marni, of course. By the way, she hasn't stopped talking about San Antonio since we came home. All I have to do to make her pliable, if you know what I mean, is talk about taking her back," Sammy said, a silly grin spreading across his face.

Mike drooped in resignation. "Let me call the lieutenant, but I'll probably have to take it up to the captain or deputy chief to get approval on this one."

"Whatever suits you," Sammy said aloofly, and turned to claim his dance with the bride as Mike left the banquet room to make his call in private.

By the time Sammy had relinquished Kerry with an affectionate kiss on her cheek, Mike had reentered the room. He gave Sammy a curt nod, then collared him to add firmly, "But Lieutenant Kerr wants it understood that the city assumes no responsibility for Marni. Officially, he doesn't even know what you're doing."

"My man!" Sammy exulted, grabbing Mike's head and planting a kiss on his bristly face.

"Cut that out!" Mike demanded, glancing around self-con-sciously.

"I'm jealous," purred Marni, sidling up. "You've been ignoring me for the last thirty minutes."

Sammy looked down at his kittenish wife, with her shoul-der-length brown hair and almond eyes. "Ignoring you? Not possible. Mike here was just telling me that he's got a special assignment for us."

"Us?" Marni cocked a brow skeptically at him.

"Uh-huh. Ain't that so, Mike?" Sammy beamed triumphantly at him.

"Sammy's getting away with murder, Marni," Mike confessed in a mutter. "Just please don't get hurt. And—we'll need passport photos of you both."

Monday morning Sammy and Marni were sitting down in Mike's office in the Big Building Downtown, the Police and Courts Building. As an undercover unit, Targeted Activity was supposed to be housed along with Narcotics, Vice, and Criminal Investigations in another downtown building that had no external connection with the police department. However, there wasn't room, and until the building space could be reallocated or another one leased, TAS was stuck in the first available space in the Big Building.

Meeting with Sammy, Marni, and Mike was another gentlemen whom Mike introduced as an investigative agent with a large insurance company. "This will be a fact-gathering assignment, Sammy," Mike said, laying a file in front of him and Marni. "Mutual Life asked us for local support in the initial phase of investigation. Whatever you uncover needs to be turned over to Foster here."

"I thought you people conducted your own investigations. Why should Dallas taxpayers foot the bill for this?" Sammy asked, perusing the folder, and Marni shifted in discomfort.

"Good question. Maybe your superiors agreed that the problem was serious enough to warrant it," Foster said. Then he added drily, "Congratulations on your Medal of Honor, coming on top of your lifesaving award. This department is mighty generous with the awards, isn't it?" Sammy looked at him over the folder.

"Yes, well—you're familiar with the Threlkelds, aren't you?" Mike continued.

"Anybody who reads the Sun-Times knows the Threlkelds," Sammy muttered. "Wealthy oil family. Real estate developers. High society and investments. What's this about art?"

Mike opened his mouth but Foster answered, "We've gotten a tip that the Threlkelds have had their hands on some major art works that have been stolen from museums and private collections. However, we can't verify this without some inside help. That's you." Foster leaned back, looking from Sammy to Marni. He was a lean, self-confident man with a hawklike demeanor.

"The Threlkelds have requested domestics from a local employment agency—specifically, they need a maid and a chauffeur. We've got the paperwork all set up for you and Marni to go over there this afternoon at three," Mike said, pointing out some forms in the file. "Sammy, your name is Jim Brandon. Marni is your wife Melody." Marni smiled up at Mike. "You've got driver's licenses, social security cards, pass-ports—the works," Mike pointed out.

Sammy slowly closed the file and leaned forward on his knees in his contemplating-the-distasteful posture. "Since when did we start placing cops in families on the basis of a tip?" he asked.

"There have been three heists from major collections in the past six weeks alone," Foster said, jabbing the file with a forefinger. "The Threlkelds have been strongly implicated as having possession of two of those pieces."

"By whom?" Sammy asked skeptically.

"That's not for you to know, cop. You just do your job and leave the rest to us." Foster glanced at Mike as if to say, This is the best you've got?

"Sammy," Mike said, forestalling Foster with a look, "it's really important to a lot of people to get these thefts cleared up. Nobody's asking you to go on a fishing expedition—the art is our sole target. And, if you're there long enough, you can just as well clear the Threlkelds."

Sammy looked at Mike for a moment, then stood with the file. "We'll see what we can do."

At three o'clock that afternoon, Sammy and Marni were driving up to the Threlkeld estate in Sammy's classic '66 Mustang convertible. He pulled up to the huge wrought-iron gates and leaned over to push the intercom button. "Yes?" came the response.

"Jim and Melody Brandon. We're from the employment agency," Sammy said. A moment later there was a click and the gates laboriously opened. Sammy drove up a long cobbled driveway past a fountain and sculptured gardens to the front of the whitewashed mansion. They got out of the car, Marni straining to look everywhere at once, and mounted broad, flat steps toward twenty-foot-tall doors.

Sammy rang the doorbell and stepped back with an "ain't-this-something" look at Marni. A uniformed butler opened the door. "I'm Jim Brandon, and this is my wife, Melody. The employment agency sent us," Sammy said.

"Where are your papers?" the butler asked severely, and Sammy withdrew them from his sports coat pocket and handed them over. The butler scrutinized the documents while they waited at the door, then stepped back to let them in. Marni's jaw dropped as she gazed around the vast white marble floor, thirty-foot ceilings, and elaborate oaken wall moldings.

"You will never come through the front door again, unless you are escorting one of the Family in or out. You will use the rear entrance exclusively, and you will not be seen in any part of the house in which you have not been summoned. Is that clear?" the butler said ominously.

"Yes, sir," Sammy replied, and Marni managed a nod.

The butler took them to the rear of the house and sat them at a long wooden table in the kitchen. "Wait here. Mrs. Threlkeld will be down presently to interview you," he instructed, then departed. Marni and Sammy looked at each other, and waited.

For a while, the house was as quiet as if she and Sammy were the only living beings in it. The kitchen wall clock ticked loudly. A clothes dryer in the laundry room nearby hummed. A leaf blower growled faintly from the back lawn. Suddenly there were piercing screams and running footsteps.

Sammy and Marni sat up and looked out the doors to the sunroom beyond. "You jerk!" a girl's voice screamed. There was a crash, young masculine laughter, and a lanky teenaged boy shot out the back door and disappeared past the startled gardener on the exquisite grounds.

His pursuer, a young woman, halted at the door, disheveled and panting. "I'm gonna flush everything you own, you—" She then caught sight of Sammy and Marni staring from the kitchen, and she marched into the kitchen, demanding of Sammy, "Who are you?"

He stood, and Marni did, too. "I'm Jim Brandon, the new chauffeur. This is—"

"You've got to be the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. Do you work out?" she demanded.

"A little," he admitted. She appraised him and he shifted. She looked about eighteen, with carefully frizzled dark brown hair, painstaking makeup, and a skillfully bobbed nose. She smiled in satisfaction (or anticipation), then glimpsed the object of her wrath lurking behind the hedges around the pool. "Bobby! You pervert!" she screamed from the kitchen, causing Marni to flinch. With that, she ran out in pursuit of feckless Bobby.

Sammy and Marni dropped back to the hard wooden chairs to wait. Over the next forty minutes, they heard nothing human other than muted footsteps and occasional disembodied voices.

All at once the butler appeared in the kitchen and stepped aside. Following him was obviously Mrs. Threlkeld—a woman with precisely coiffed silver-gray hair, stern eyes, and tight skin. Sammy and Marni stood, and he held out his hand. "Mrs. Threlkeld, I'm Jim Brandon, and this is my wife—"

"Let's begin with some basic ground rules," she said curtly, ignoring his hand. He quietly withdrew it. "You are not a person here. You are a piece of equipment necessary in the service of this Family. You and your wife will be given quarters here in this house, and you will be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You may not have anyone over without special permission. You may take one day off every two weeks, when requested in writing three days in advance.

"You will take your meals here in the kitchen and you will confine yourselves to whatever area you have been assigned to work. You and your wife will receive a combined salary of seven-hundred-fifty a week, with the usual deductions for taxes, insurance, and social security. You may be dismissed at any time for any reason, and no explanation need be given. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sammy said with a masked face.

Mrs. Threlkeld gestured at the butler, who withdrew two pages from a file and handed one each to Marni and Sammy. Marni gazed at the single-spaced type. "This is a copy of your employment contract, specifying everything I have just told you. In addition, you agree never to speak with anyone from the media and never to publish anything in any form about the Threlkeld Family. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sammy repeated.

"As servants, you will be available to perform any duty which the Family requires of you. In addition, the chauffeur will maintain all cars in perfect running condition at all times. If you should have any grievances, you will convey them to Mr. Hellier here. At no time will you presume to speak to any member of the Family other than to answer questions. You will never use the front entrance nor the elevator unless I tell you to.

"Your uniforms are provided for you in your quarters, and you will be expected to wear them between the hours of eight

A.M. and nine P.M.—longer if you are on special duty. It will be your responsibility to see that they are altered to fit you, if necessary, and kept clean. After you sign your contracts, you are to move your—vehicle to the back of the house and report in uniform to Mr. Hellier. Are we clearly understood?"

"Yes, Mrs. Threlkeld," Sammy said softly, his face inscrutable.

"Very well." She turned and marched out of the kitchen.

Hellier produced a pen from his jacket pocket, saying, "The contracts are to be signed and dated on the bottom line." Sammy and Marni each signed their copy and handed it to him. Then Hellier directed, "Go get your car and bring it around back. I'll show you where."

As the two headed out to Sammy's convertible, Marni whispered, "Can you believe this?"

"What a trip," he muttered. "As long as we're here, I'm only Jim and you're just Melody," he reminded her.

"The domestic equipment," she snickered in disbelief, and he shook his head.

Sammy started the car and guided it around back, where they saw Hellier motion them beside a five-car garage. Several other cars were scattered around the vehicle court.

While Sammy and Marni got out, Hellier said, "As soon as you change, the vehicles need attention. This way." They followed him to a back door between the sunroom and the kitchen. "This is the service entrance." He went down a hallway and opened a door—"And these are your quarters."

They looked into a bedroom and bath, humbly furnished and left in disarray. Their uniforms were in a rumpled heap on the floor. "Come to the kitchen when you are dressed," Hellier instructed, and left them to themselves.

Sammy shut the door as Marni bent to collect the clothes from the floor. She shook out the chauffeur's jacket and pants and laid them on the unmade bed with the hat as Sammy took off his sports coat. Then she picked up the blue zippered dress and apron. Far from the French maid's uniform she had feared, it was safely dowdy and several sizes too large.

Sammy had less luck: the coat strained around his chest and the pants hung over his feet. "Can you move some buttons and hem these?" he whispered.

"As soon as I find a needle and thread," she answered softly. He nodded, bending to cuff them in the meanwhile.

When they were dressed, they scrutinized each other ruefully. Then Sammy slipped his arms around her and teased, "Mrs. Brandon, we'll make a housewife of you yet."

"I consider it more of an inoculation," she returned, reaching up for a kiss.

"At least we're in this together. I wouldn't want to be an appliance with anybody but you," he murmured.

"You say the sweetest things," she purred.

They went up the hall to the kitchen, where a roly-poly little woman was beginning dinner preparations. She wore her graying hair in a very tight bun, which seemed to emphasize the narrow, suspicious slant of her eyes. Sammy glanced at Marni and nodded toward the cook, so Marni hesitantly approached her. "Hello. I'm Melody Brandon, the new maid."

"I don't have anything to do with you. Mrs. Cox will tell you what to do," the woman said brusquely. Marni nodded and backed off, glancing at Sammy. He cocked a brow.

Several minutes later Hellier was back with the same Mrs. Cox—slender, forty-five, with sleek black hair, she exuded the aura of Friends of the Symphony Co-Chairman. "Hello, dear; you must be Melody," she said, taking Marni's hand in both of hers. "I am Audrey Cox, the Threlkeld family's household manager. Welcome to our little extended family! If you have any questions or problems, please do not hesitate to bring them to myself or Mr. Hellier. Now, here is a list of your daily responsibilities. All cleaning supplies are located in the laundry room here off the kitchen. I know you'll do your very best for us, since you understand what an honor it is to be employed by the oldest, wealthiest family in Dallas."

Without waiting for a reply to her reverential little speech, she squeezed Marni's hand and turned out of the kitchen. As Marni looked over the lengthy list of chores, her jaw went slack. It was enough to overwhelm a young bride who had never so much as cleaned an oven.

Hellier nodded at Sammy: "The cars must be cleaned and tuned up. You'll find supplies in the garage."

"Yes, sir," Sammy said, turning to the back door. He went out to survey the cars parked pell-mell in the court. Leaning on the Rolls Royce, he looked in the window, then opened the driver's side door and sat.

"Wow," he muttered, glancing around the interior. He laid a tentative hand on the gearshift, then wiped his mouth nervously.

Getting out, he checked over the other cars and returned to the kitchen. While the cook's back was turned, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number. It was answered, "Masterson."

"Hello, grease breath," Sammy said.

"Hello, Jim. What can I do for you?" Mike asked cordially.

"I need you to patch me in to somebody right away who can walk me through the gear pattern on a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow," Sammy said, glancing at the cook as she glanced at him. "And I need shop manuals for—have you got a pencil, darlin'?—the Rolls, which is about three years old, and: a Jaguar XJS, a Bi Turbo Maserati, and a BMW 535i. Those three are this year's models."

". . . and a BMW 535i. Gotcha. Okay, Jim, stand by and I'll transfer you to somebody in motor vehicles."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Sammy said, winking at the cook. She turned away in a huff, but looked back a moment later.

Meanwhile, Marni hauled a bucket of cleansers to a downstairs bath and turned on the light. She gazed at the gold-plated fixtures and etched glass shower door, the yards of marble counter tops and acres of tile. Sighing, she set the bucket down, donned rubber gloves, and began to spray the mirror with glass cleaner.

As she was working, the boy they had seen race out of the house, Bobby, came into the bathroom. Marni glanced up, smiling. He was about fifteen and would have been nice looking but for the habitual scowl on his face.

Without ever seeing her, he walked over to the toilet and unzipped his fly. Appalled, Marni backed out of the bathroom to wait until he finished his business. He flushed the toilet and came out as if she were totally invisible. Marni watched him go, then went back in to resume cleaning.

By six o'clock she had knocked only two chores off the list, but she was tired and hungry, so she went to the kitchen to ask the cook, "Excuse me. What time are we supposed to eat?"

"The Family takes their meals at seven o'clock, and you're certainly not eating before them. Any time after they're served, you may come eat," the cook informed her.

"That smells wonderful," Marni said innocently, leaning over the rangetop.

The cook put her long-handled spoon down and turned around with a fist on the general area of her hip. "This is for the Family. You and your husband do not eat from the dishes prepared for the Family, unless it's leftovers," she said stridently.

"Of course," Marni murmured.

"Now, haven't you got something you need to be doing?" the cook demanded.

"Yes," Marni admitted, taking the list out of her pocket. Before leaving the kitchen, she looked out the back window at Sammy, in his undershirt, washing one of the cars. He saw her and lifted his chin. She blew him a kiss and turned back to her list with a sigh.

While she was oiling the paneling in the foyer, she observed the Family gathering for dinner. There was Mrs. Threlkeld, Bobby, and the young woman; the elevator beside the staircase opened and a private nurse wheeled out an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. He stood from the wheelchair, brushing aside help, and seated himself at the dinner table. Just before dinner was served, another man came in through the front door, and Marni reflexively looked up.

He was about forty, with full brown hair and a definite resemblance to Bobby. He wore a handmade silk suit and carried an eelskin portfolio. Meeting Marni's eyes, he stopped in midstride and she quickly looked away. "Are you new?" he asked.

Marni turned guiltily. "Yes, sir. I'm Melody Brandon. My husband and I just started today," she explained.

"Well, Melody," he extended his hand, "My name is Stan Threlkeld."

"Mr. Threlkeld," she murmured in surprise, wiping oil from her hand in order to shake his.

"You're doing a fine job here, Melody," he said, surveying the wood.

"Thank you," she replied, glancing into the dining room where the rest of the Family sat waiting for him.

"Nice to have you aboard," he said, resuming his walk toward the dining room. "Oh—and Melody—" he paused and she looked up attentively. "Hellier is full of hot air. Ignore him. Audrey is a liar. Don't believe a word she says. And Mother is really a harmless old broad—she can't bite because she hasn't got a tooth left in her head." He growled and snapped for emphasis, then went on in to dinner.

Copyright 2004 Robin Hardy

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