Free Dying to Please by Linda Howard Page A

then she said, “Here, sir,” and stepped to the door.
    Besides his usual bundle of magazines, catalogs, bills, and letters, he carried a small package. “This came for you.”
    He usually put her mail, if she had any, on the small table in the hall. “That's odd,” she said, picking up the tray. “I haven't ordered anything.”
    “There's no return address. I don't like this. It could be a letter bomb.”
    Several years ago, a judge in the Birmingham area had been killed by a letter bomb; that would make any judge cautious around suspicious packages; the anthrax-laced letters in Florida and then New York and Washington areas hadn't helped.
    “Why would anyone send me a letter bomb?” she asked as she carried the tray down the hall, him trailing behind her with his mail and the package.
    She set the coffee service on his desk where he liked it, but instead of sitting down, he put his own mail on the desk and stood holding the package, staring dubiously at it. Normally she would never open her mail until she was in her quarters for the night, but she sensed he wouldn't relax until he knew the package didn't contain anything lethal.
    “Shall we see?” she asked, reaching for it.
    To her surprise, he didn't hand the package to her. “Maybe we should call the bomb squad.”
    She didn't laugh. If he was that worried, then it wasn't a laughing matter. “If it was a bomb, wouldn't it have gone off
when you picked it up?”
    “No, because if it was motion sensitive, it would never make it through the mail system. Mail bombs use pressure or friction devices.”
    “Then let's think this through. Who knows me and would send something to me here?”
    “We never should have done that television spot,” he said, shaking his head. “It's brought the crazies out.”
    “First someone trying to hire me, and now someone sending me packages. Should we put it in water?”
    Maybe it was that question, and a vision of them dunking the package in the tub and calling out the bomb squad, but he suddenly relaxed and smiled a little. “I'm being paranoid, aren't I? If anyone got a mail bomb, it would be me.”
    “It pays to be careful these days.”
    He sighed. “May I open it for you?”
    She bit her lip. It was her duty to protect
him,
not the other way around. But he was of the generation that had been taught men protected women, and she could see this was important to him.
    “Please,” he said.
    She nodded, moved more than she could say. “Yes, of course.”
    He stepped away from her, took a letter opener, and carefully slit the packing tape that sealed the seams of the small box. She found herself holding her breath as he opened the flaps, but nothing happened.
    There was some brown wrapping paper concealing the contents. He pulled out the paper and looked inside, a faintly puzzled expression crossing his face.
    “What is it?”
    “A jewelry store box.”
    He set down the package and lifted out a small, flat box, about four inches square. It was white, with the store's name stamped on it in gold. He shook it, but there wasn't any noise.
    “I think it's safe to say it definitely isn't a bomb,” he said, handing the box to her.
    She lifted the lid, and peeled back a thin layer of packed cotton. There, lying on another layer of packed cotton, was a gold teardrop pendant, with small diamonds circling a pigeon blood ruby. The gold chain was secured so it wouldn't rattle.
    They both stared at the pendant. It was lovely, but disturbing. Who would send her such an exquisite piece of jewelry?
    “That looks expensive.”
    Judge Roberts assessed it. “I'd place it at a couple of thousand dollars. Just a guess, of course, but the ruby is a good one.”
    “Who on earth would send me expensive jewelry?” Perplexed, she picked up the brown shipping box and pulled out the bottom layer of paper. A small white card fluttered to the floor.
    “Aha.” She bent and picked up the card, turning it over to read what had been written on