“Detective Petrovich. Wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”
That would do.
Simply a statement of fact, it wasn’t snarky, impolite, or fight-inducing.
“We had a few more questions, Ms. Powell.”
Her declarative sentence had not been addressed to the putz unbuttoning his suit jacket, so why had he replied?
She shot a look at the tall, smoldering partner at Detective Death’s side, a flash of irritation showing on her exquisite features. She hoped he’d call Jennings out on ignoring the obvious, but she respected when he didn’t.
For better or worse, they were partners, but it sounded a lot like a bad marriage.
“Concerning?” she responded.
“Concerning the floor,” Jennings replied with eyes cast downward. Walking to the spot that had been repaired, he stood over it, his hulking sobriety imbuing the air with negativity.
Sage.
Burning sage would remove it. She’d buy some tomorrow to clear the air.
“You’ve had it fixed?”
“Obviously,” she responded, crossing her arms and moving to the side of Petrovich.
Yummers.
“When?”
“This morning … why?”
“I’ll get to that … who did you use?”
“WE DO FLOORS.”
“Is that the same company you used before?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Her arms came down.
Why was he asking about the dang floor?
“Names. Who did the repairs?”
“Which time?”
“Both,” he fired back.
“First time: Brad Travers, Ulysses Perkins, Josh Rosenstein. This time: owner, Quentin Barrows, joined them … to supervise.” She waited until he stopped writing. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Petrovich exchanged a look with his partner before Jennings put his notepad down and turned to face her.
“Forensics determined that someone removed the floorboard.”
“What?” she blurted. Brad Travers had been right and not trying to wheedle out of doing a bad job.
Her hands were placed on a pair of slim hips, her fingers digging into bones that jutted out at just the right angle. Hours in the gym contributed to her enviable physical condition, but she had to be sure she didn’t misunderstand the uttered statement. “Then it didn’t get that way because of faulty workmanship?”
“On the contrary. The number of nails found would indicate the repair lasting until the next Ice Age while the amount of wood shavings and bent nails would indicate a willful effort used to dislodge it.”
“And you want the name of the company because you suspect them of—”
“Nobody said anything about suspecting anyone.” He closed the gap, his face morphing into an angry red blotch. “It’s not a good idea to put words in detectives’ mouths. Rumors spread, and if one does, I’ll know who it came from.”
She snapped her head and tried to catch Petrovich’s eyes but couldn’t. He’d looked away, embarrassed at the unnecessary hostility coating his partner’s words.
“Good evening, Ms. Powell,” Jennings quipped, hitting his partner on the arm. Petrovich kicked it into gear and followed him outside.
What the hell was that about?
Sam couldn’t fathom what set that jerk off. She’d answered his questions and followed up with one of her own. What was so wrong with that? Was he trying to tell her that she didn’t have the right to know why the line of questioning? Her eyes traveled to the credenza.
His pad!
Mr. Thinks He’s So Smart was going to need it. Putting her feelings aside, she played golden retriever. Snatching the notebook, she hurried outside.
Night had fallen with a thud. She had no idea what was going on, but it was officially dark. Since it had caught her by surprise, no lights were turned on in the parking lot. Voices drifted through the door she’d opened a crack.
Jennings and Petrovich were having words.
She squeezed through the rest of the way and snuck around the corner, keeping her back against the wall. Her dressing in black ninety-ninety percent of the time finally paid off.
She blended in.
“But it had to have been her. There’s no one else who could have done it and—”
“You can’t know that,” Petrovich rebutted.
“Of course I can. She had motive and opportunity,” Detective Death argued as he ticked off the two rationales on his fingers.
“Opportunity, yes, but not motive. At this point, it’s speculation.”
“Speculation that would fit a nutcase like that. She’s got stalker written all over her.”
“I think you’re being a little harsh,” Petrovich responded. “This just happened. Why don’t you wait before you make a formal accusation … collect more evidence … do more digging …”
“Nope, it’s her! I’m not waiting on this. I’m going to move in and—oh, crap!” the evil detective said, patting his pockets furiously.
“What? Lose something?”
“Yeah, my pad. Must be inside. Be right back.”
Notepad?
She stared at the one clutched in her hand.
Arrgghhh!
She took off in a blaze of fury and panic. She’d been so right about that jerk. Jennings totally deserved the name Detective Death. She was a suspect and he was coming after her.
She’d never run in mules before. Her preference in running shoes centered on Nike Air Zoom Pegasus, but she made do, clomping along. She was glad they were rubber-soled and that they didn’t make any noise to tip off the idiot eating her dust. She raced across the parking lot, one slender hand grabbing the handle of the back door and quietly opening and closing it. With that step out of the way, she flew down the hallway and tossed the notebook where she’d found it, wiping her hands on her leggings for good measure. She didn’t want to be contaminated by that maniac’s germs.
“Excuse me.”
There he was. Entering and breathing the same air she was. It all seemed so wrong.
“Did I leave my—” he said, fingering his top pocket. “Ah, I see it. “Notepad,” he explained as he took it and waved it in the air. eyeing her as he passed by
Malingering … why was he malingering?
“Anything wrong?” he queried, not letting his focus wander.
“I’m f-f-f-fine!” she retorted, drawing out the last word. “Why? Concerned about whether I’ll make it to trial?”
She met his eyes. Nobody could outstare Double Virgos—except Double Scorpios—and the unprofessional hunk of meat couldn’t be that. If he were, he’d know she wasn’t guilty!
“Trial?” he repeated, feigning ignorance.
“Just an expression,” she snapped.
He scratched his forehead.
“Okay, well, you’re out of breath … and your cheeks are flushed …” he continued. “I just wondered if—”
“If what? If I killed someone else?”
He shook his head, seemingly thrown by the response. She seized the moment.
“It’s just I don’t like lies or being accused of something I D-I-D N-O-T D-O!” she shouted in something resembling a yowl.
Although the defense might have come out a tad louder than she intended, she was so through being a doormat for the Mountain Valley Police.
Bring it on.
His eyes homed in, his eyebrows pinching together. Oh, he was good! Pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about, but she saw through the ruse. She’d witnessed the rush to judgment … heard what he’d said in private. As if he could arrest her on a whim.
Ha!
He was still gazing at her. She returned the favor, but the sight of him was turning her empty stomach into knots. She needed food.
Fast.
“Look, Detective Whatever. I’m exerting my rights not to be ogled. You asked your questions, you have your pad, so I’m requesting you leave. Unlike you, I have a
life and want to get on with it. But there you are, holding me back with no good reason—but then you’ve probably had a lot of practice in that department.”
She’d clapped back and was sure he’d have to decency to cease and desist after being called out, but no! His eyes never dropped. His hand found the pocket without guidance and he tucked his pad away.
She should have burned it. Hidden the pad and set it on fire. It would have been a better way than sage.
He neared, taking a step closer and not farther away.
“Yeah, sure. Have a good evening, Ms. Powell. And remember, don’t let your exciting life take you outside of Mountain Valley.”
The insolent bastardo turned, his behind exposed and making a perfect target. She was so tempted to kick that arrogant so-in-so right in the derriere, but instead watched him slither out the door.
Lyddie’s remarks about that jerk returned.
Good-looking … ha!
A thousand ha’s!
Lyddie was out of her mind, but a rumble from her stomach set her priorities. As the unmarked car pulled out the parking lot, she was unburdened by Detective Death’s gloomy presence. He was Heathrow without the romance. Gothic without the story.
With a flurry of shutting off lights, she closed up shop. It was no time to be sitting around waiting for customers that would never show.
It was time for action.
CHAPTER 8
“What the—”
“Out of my way, plebe!” Sam exclaimed as she rushed by the gatekeeper.
The burger, French fries, and chocolate shake were encased in the emblematic paper bag clutched in Sam’s hand. She didn’t do fast food often, but the dangerous times dictated the strategy. After all, an army marched on its stomach. Everyone knew that.
Even the fashionista whose house she was barging into.
But her ex-friend clearly didn’t know about blocking or calculating just how lightning fast Sam’s reflexes could be. So after evading a series of awkward “girly” lunges, the shop owner in the black leggings made her way to the large oval dining room table and unpacked the edible components that would aid her in attaining victory over all opponents. She ignored the profanities the girl under siege hurled and ripped off the wrapper, wasting no time in tearing off a healthy portion of bun and burger with her teeth.
God bless condiments.
They made all the difference between good and great.
“Seriously! What are you doing here, Sam?”
Of course chowing down in the enemy’s lair meant eventually having to proffer an explanation. The blonde rocking the kimono lounging jacket was demanding one, so why not give it now?
The behind-enemy-line mission was underway. But in order to proceed, she had to sit. As her mother taught, if you’re seated, the food goes straight down and prevents indigestion.
Really, Mom?
Sam indulged the junk science advice while her ex-friend loomed over her, putting the silk jacket that really was spectacular on display. The gold threading caught the light and sparked with refraction, while the tessellated pattern did all it could to be spellbinding. Despite the opportunity to succumb to OCD behavior and count the fleur de lis, Sam’s focus remained steadfast.
She was the elusive red dot that cats chased.
“I’m the elusive red dot cats chase,” she began. Sharing her innermost thoughts would galvanize motivation and lead her to certain victory. It was why leaders were taught to share.
“Red dot? I’m not the one housing a rabid cat, so what does that even mean?” Lyddie blurted, waving her arms.
The attempt failed. It was way TMI for her ex-friend to handle—or care. She was shallow that way, but, funnily, never out of breath.
“Forget the analogies, Sam,” Screamer Girl continued, “and get to the point of why you’re sitting here scarfing down junk food and spouting cryptic messages that I’m supposed to interpret! News flash: You’re not an oracle, Sam, you’re a coffee shop owner … or used to be,” she tacked on in an impressively cruel tone.
That last bit hurt.
“You really went there, Lyddie?” Sam queried, wiping at the corners of her mouth with a napkin featuring arches. It was a do-or-die moment. “I’m here because you’re needed in battle.”
“Oh, dear God! Have you been drinking?”
The blonde hair was so poufed up that it resembled a force of nature, but red dots don’t get caught up in the storm.
They are the storm.
“No, I’ve been red-pilled and am now awake,” she replied before gnawing off more of the patty.
“More crap, Sam? More crap that doesn’t account for why you’re here? You threw me out of your coffee shop earlier today, remember? You said you never wanted to see me again and not to ever bother you unless I wanted to be throttled within an inch of my worthless life,” Lyddie recalled in vivid detail.
“And I meant every word. I don’t want to see you again—” she confirmed between sips of the thick, ooey-gooey shake.
“Which perfectly explains why you’re here—in my house! You’re here NOT to see me? Really, Sam? Maybe I should throttle you!” the ex-friend she’d met in seventh grade retorted, but then, the girl was emotional. While she knew fashion, she didn’t have a clue about being mature and controlling that all-too-fragile nature lurking beneath the trend-setting facade.
Time to force-feed wisdom to the baby bird.
“I’m here because you’re a recruit in my war.”
Another myopic stare.
“War? Battle? Why the references to fighting? Are you talking about keeping your enterprise afloat when no one in their right mind would try to salvage the sinking ship? A person died there, Sam. She was murdered. You’re finished. Done. Better face it. All that money down the drain. Then there’s your reputation. You’re back to where you were in ninth grade.”
The gloves were off.
Lyddie never brought up that episode, and how she’d had to step in during their freshman year in high school to pull Sam’s butt out of the fire, but the girl munching the double burger would be damned if she’d be deterred by the verbal barrage.
“Actually, I’m not referring to the fabulous JUST ADD COFFEE, which will dominate the city and conquer hearts and minds under the crush of success,” she retorted.
“Doubtful. But my question … w-h-y a-r-e y-o-u h-e-r-e. Cogent response, please?” Lyddie pressed on.
“I’m here because I’m being proactive in reacting to the suggestion that I might have been the intended target—not Doris.”
Her ex-friend’s mouth dropped open as she slipped into a cataleptic trance. The respite from conversation gave Sam time to indulge and so she chugged the thick slush, savoring every ounce of chocolatey goodness sucked into her mouth
The lights in the attic came back on.
“But that makes no sense,” Lyddie finally commented.
“In a twisted way, it does, Slack Jaw,” Sam shot back. “I was the one who was expected to show up, not Doris Cunningham. If someone were waiting, they were waiting for me.”
She returned to stuffing her face.
Was it possible to be this ravenous?
“When you put it like that,” Lyddie replied after a few seconds of consideration.
“But being the intended victim is just as bad as being hunted by the hound of Hades,” she mumbled with a full mouth. A swallow took care of the load.
“Hound of Hades? And who would that be?”
“Detective Death, of course,” she growled.
As the accursed name was spoken, the Gates of Hell swung open and allowed sight of a bottomless pit.
“You mean Detective Dreamy?” Lyddie countered with a knowing grin. “Admit it, Sam. You’re obsessed with the man.”
“On the contrary, Detective Death is obsessed with me.”
“Projecting!” her ex-friend taunted, crossing her arms and widening the superior smile. “I knew you were attracted to him. K-n-e-w i-t,” she drawled.
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“Lyddie, I am not attracted to men who accuse me of murder!”
Her ex-friend’s arms went limp and dropped to her sides. Grabbing a French fry before the paralysis was complete, she plopped down on an adjacent chair and took a bite.
“We’re not besties anymore, so you can’t just steal food off my plate. Here!” Sam exclaimed, rummaging through the bag with the red lettering. “Here’s your own un petite bag of fries.”
“How did you know I’d want these?” came the astonished response as she snatched them out of Sam’s hands. She dug in, ripping open two packets of ketchup first and squeezing them over the deep-fried potatoes.
“That you would want junk food even though you avoid it like the plague? I knew because of the severity of the plot against me. It’s so catastrophic as to cause a temporary cessation of self-protective mechanisms. Your instincts, like mine, are taking a busman’s holiday, which means that you would process what’s bad as good and crave the garbage you see me ingesting.”
“Wow,” was muttered as the manicured hand grabbed another. “You’re good, Sam.”
Lyddie was becoming a believer.
“No, I’m awesome,” she countered.
The penciled brows arched. It was a tell that Lyddie was thinking again.
“I can’t believe he suspects you, Sam … can’t believe that Detective Dreamboat is a bad guy.”
“He’s more the Titanic.”
The French fry in Lyddie’s hand lowered.
“Wait a minute! How do you know? Did he tell you that he thinks you killed Doris?” her ex-friend queried.
“No.”
Sam chomped off another piece of the burger, a healthy dose of mustard, ketchup, pickles, and relish aiding in the overall unctuousness.
“Then how—”
“Stealth reconnaissance.”
“You mean, you eavesdropped,” Lyddie snapped.
“Yes,” Sam mumbled, but she had no choice. Her mouth was jam-packed full of deliciousness.
“I heard him talking to Detective Volga,” she continued after a swallow. “They were outside and he had no idea I was right there, taking in every poisonous word. He’s going to arrest me, Lyddie. He’s just waiting for evidence he can twist in a kangaroo court. He’ll probably stack the jury with his in-bred relatives who are as crazy as he is.”
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