Bad Medicine

by Caroline Fardig

  “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty lucky.”

  He boasts, “Lucky, your ass. It was all me. I took care of them for you. You owe me one.”

  I smile. “Wow. Thanks. What did you say to them?”

  “I told them I was the witness’s personal representative, and that she would only agree to tell her story to the handsome and talented lead investigative reporter at the Liberty Chronicle. The cops wouldn’t talk to them either, so they all got mad and left.”

  Laughing, I said, “Sometimes your ego is useful.”

  Brody approaches us. “Lizzie, we need to go.”

  “You know, detective, you would do well to listen to what Lizzie has to say about these deaths lately. She’s got quite a brilliant theory,” says Blake.

  Clenching his jaw, Brody fires back, “I listen just fine. And I’m going to let the police find the facts so the killer will be apprehended and Lizzie will be safe. I’m going to make sure nothing happens to her. I would think you’d want that as well.”

  Blake raises his eyebrows. “Are you insinuating I don’t?”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’re better at getting her into trouble than protecting her from it.”

  Seeing Blake’s face darken after that comment, I interrupt, “Quit talking about me like I’m not standing right here, you two.” I look up at Blake. “Thank you again. I have to go get fingerprinted now.”

  He winces. “Have fun with that. See you tomorrow.”

  Without a word, Brody slings his arm around my shoulder (which I’m pretty sure is a “screw you” directed at Blake) and steers me toward his car.

  ***

  Being fingerprinted is excruciatingly embarrassing. I’m pretty sure that every cop who wasn’t on the scene is hanging out at the precinct, unabashedly gawking at me getting fingerprinted. Some gruff uniformed officer I don’t know does the deed, unceremoniously smearing ink all over my fingers and smashing them onto the fingerprint card. He just totally ruined the sparkly pink manicure I gave myself today at work while Sloane was at lunch.

  Brody is stoically standing by my side through the whole ordeal. Once the cop gives me my hands back, Brody reaches across the desk and snags a little packet, which he gives to me. It’s an ink-removing moist towelette, and I quickly rub it over my poor icky fingers. It gets most of the ink off, but my skin is still slightly stained. What a lovely reminder of this night.

  I sigh audibly.

  Brody asks, “Do you want some coffee or something?”

  “I want to go home,” I reply petulantly.

  Putting his hand on the small of my back, he guides me to the police break room, the same room where I originally told him my suspicions about Lydia. He shuts the door and smiles tiredly at me. “I know you want to go home, and I know that your life is completely upended right now.” He strokes my cheek. “But you’re doing great. Just a little bit longer, and I can take you home so you can get some well-deserved sleep.”

  “What do you mean ‘a little bit longer’?” I ask warily.

  Brody crosses the room and pours himself a cup of coffee. “Do you want some?” he asks, his back to me.

  He didn’t answer my question. In fact, he outright ignored it. “You were instructed to keep me here, weren’t you?”

  He turns around, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, Lizzie, but we need to verify your alibi first. An officer is already going through the funeral home’s surveillance video. It shouldn’t be too long.”

  I flop down in a chair. I’m pissed and dangerously close to tears. Not a good combination.

  Brody offers, “I could get you something to read to pass the time.” He pulls a copy of the Chronicle off of the table and holds it out to me.

  I glare at him.

  He frowns. “Right. I guess you’ve already read everything in here, haven’t you?”

  I don’t respond. Brody very wisely decides to take a seat next to me and keep his mouth shut. After what seems like an eternity, Brody’s phone rings, and he steps outside to answer it.

  He’s only gone for a few seconds. When he returns, he’s wearing a relieved grin on his face. “Your alibi checked out.”

  “Did you think it wouldn’t?”

  That scared look he had when he spilled his drink on me at Vibe forms on his face again. It’s kind of cute, even though I’m pissed at him right now. He holds out his hands and insists, “Yes…I mean, no. No. I knew you couldn’t have done it.”

  “Can we get out of here now?” I ask wearily.

  “Absolutely.” He hesitates and gives me a shy smile. “You wouldn’t want to come over to my place, would you? You’ve been through a lot, and it might be difficult for you to be alone tonight. I could get you something to eat and definitely get you a drink. I’m sure you could use one.”

  Being taken care of sounds awfully inviting. And since someone killed Jed right under my nose and I had no clue, I have to admit I’ve been looking over my shoulder a lot this evening. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have some company, especially someone trained to take out the bad guys.

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Brody’s house is exactly as I imagined it would be—manly, sparse, and impeccably neat. He ushers me inside. “Make yourself at home. What would you like to drink, a beer?”

  I sink down onto his couch and hold my head in my hands. “Do you have anything that’ll work faster than beer?” I ask in a muffled voice.

  He chuckles, “Yeah,” as he heads for the kitchen. He emerges a moment later with a bottle of vodka and two small glasses filled with ice. He pours our drinks and hands one to me. We sit together in silence, letting the vodka do what it can to wash away the angst of this evening.

  A lone, framed picture on the coffee table catches my eye, and I reach for it to get a better look. It’s a photo of Brody and a little boy, probably about two years old, who is the spitting image of him. We’re talking Mini-Me here. The boy has the same sandy hair and blue eyes as Brody, and the same handsome smile.

  Gesturing to the photo, I ask, “Who is this?”

  Brody smiles. “That’s my nephew, Ben.”

  “Nephew, huh? He looks exactly like you.”

  His smile fades. “No, he looks exactly like my brother.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Yeah. He…passed away last year.” Brody looks away, frowning.

  Great. The last thing I want to do was cause more drama tonight. Poor Brody. I can’t imagine losing my brother. It would be a pain you could never get to go away. “I’m so sorry, Brody. I didn’t know.”

  He rubs his eyes tiredly. “You couldn’t have known.” Shaking his head, as if to get the thoughts out of it, he says, “How about something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. I should probably just go to sleep. It’s late.”

  “Right.” He gets up and leads me down a hallway.

  “You can sleep in my room, and I’ll take the couch.” Ouch. I think it would be safe to say things between us are not all sunshine and roses like before. He shows me into his bedroom and gets a t-shirt, neatly (anally) folded, out of his dresser and hands it to me. “You can sleep in this.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, not quite meeting his eyes.

  He pulls me into a hug and holds me tightly. “Get some rest. Tomorrow everything won’t seem so terrible.”

  “Sure,” I say, not believing it. He lets me go and leaves me to try to sleep in a strange bed, alone, after seeing what I saw. Yeah. That’s going to happen.

  ***

  Well, I guess I actually did manage to get to sleep, and I know this because I have the mother of all nightmares. I’m in the funeral home, looking at dead, bloody Jed Stewart on the floor. I rush upstairs to get away from him. Suddenly, I’m at my house, and Sarah grabs me and throws me down my basement stairs. When I crash to the bottom, Lydia is there staring down at me maniacally with the bloody grave marker that was in Jed’s chest. I writhe on the dirty
floor and scream and scream, but no one hears me. Things begin to go black. I hear my name being called by a familiar voice, and I feel like someone is shaking me…

  “Lizzie! Lizzie, you’re screaming. What’s wrong?” Brody demands.

  I suck in a gasping breath and open my eyes to find Brody’s concerned face over me, his hands pinning my flailing arms down against the bed.

  “I think you were having a nightmare,” he says, releasing his grip on me. “Are you okay?”

  Shaking my head, I burst into tears. Brody lies down next to me and gathers me into his arms. He strokes my hair and murmurs, “I wondered when the tears would start. You held them in like a pro. I’ve never seen anyone keep it together for that long after going through what you have tonight.”

  I can’t stop sobbing to appreciate the compliment. Still shaking with leftover terror from my nightmare, my crying is nearly uncontrollable. I think my brain has finally processed the horror of the murder, and I’m feeling vulnerable, quite frankly wondering if I could be next. Someone committing a gruesome murder practically under my feet hits a little too close to home.

  Brody continues to hold me during my crying session, allowing me to get it all out, even though it must be terribly uncomfortable to sit and listen to some girl bawl and whine for so long. Finally, I’m able to rein it in, digressing into an unattractive bit of sniffling.

  I whisper shakily, “Sorry about all that.”

  Gently wiping the tears off my cheeks, he replies, “You were due to have a pretty big breakdown.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Um…I guess I never told you about my nightmares.”

  “Does this kind of thing happen all the time?” he asks, his voice full of concern.

  “They come and go. They haven’t been as bad lately, you know, until tonight,” I admit.

  He frowns. “Let me guess. The scene of your nightmares is always your basement. That’s why you can’t go down there.”

  I sniff, “Very insightful, Dr. Freud.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “What do you think?”

  One corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile. “Knowing you, probably not.”

  “You’re learning,” I reply, finally feeling a little like myself again. I ask hesitantly, “Would you mind staying in here with me? I always feel so…safe and protected when I’m with you.”

  I look at his face to study his reaction at this extremely intimate (for me, at least) confession. His eyes soften, and he smiles genuinely at me, giving me a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I always thought that when a woman called you ‘safe’ it meant boring.”

  “Not when she’s in for-real danger! In that case, safe is a good thing. Don’t worry. I still think you’re a brooding and dangerous bad-ass.”

  “Don’t you forget it,” he says, leaning over and this time giving me a proper kiss. Pulling away too soon, he grumbles, “You need sleep. I should probably leave you alone. That’s the whole reason I took the couch—I didn’t think I’d be able to keep my hands off you.”

  I grin at him. I’m pleased to know our sleeping arrangements weren’t because of all the drama I put him through tonight. “I’m surprised you have so little self-control, detective. Didn’t you tell me once that you’re always a perfect gentleman?” I tease.

  “I lied,” he says, his eyes doing that thing they do when he’s thinking naughty thoughts. “Tell you what—I’ll be the safe, gentlemanly guy tonight, but tomorrow morning…” he trails off, kissing my neck, sending a warm shiver of anticipation up and down my spine.

  ***

  Surprisingly, after all of my…um…extra-curricular activities this morning, I arrive at work only a little late. The room goes silent as I step through the door, everyone blatantly staring as I make my way to my desk. I’m starting to feel extremely self-conscious, so I duck my head and focus on logging onto my computer. My co-workers are like ravenous hounds, just waiting for me to drop a scrap of gossip.

  I can’t concentrate with their eyes boring into me, so I abruptly stand up from my desk and announce tersely, “Yes, Jed Stewart was murdered at Weber Funeral Home last night while I was working there. And, no, I didn’t do it. Anything else you want to know, you can read about in tomorrow’s edition.”

  Dropping down into my chair, I go back to pretending to be engrossed in my login screen. I have to fight to keep my hands from shaking so I can enter my username and password. Starting to feel a little less like a sideshow attraction, I flick my eyes around the room, finding most of my co-workers have gone back to their normal activities. Whew. Hopefully my little outburst will keep everyone out of my hair today.

  Sloane sticks his head out of his office. “Lizzie, come here, please.” Even though he said “please”, it still came out like, “Bitch, get your dumb ass in here”. Wow. He must be in a particularly foul mood this morning.

  I dutifully trek back toward Sloane’s office, wondering how much trouble I’m going to get into for whatever it is that I’ve done this time.

  When I pass Julia, she reaches out and grabs my hand. She looks like she hasn’t slept. She says, “I saw what happened on the news last night. I’m so happy you’re okay.” A tear slides down her cheek. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I assure her, squeezing her hand before I walk away.

  Sloane closes his office door and motions for me to sit down. “Lizzie,” he begins, pacing behind his desk. “How are you coping with what happened?”

  Uh…what? I must have misheard him. I think he just asked how I’m doing emotionally. Surely not. I feel the need to clarify the question before I answer it. I ask slowly, “Did you just ask me how I’m coping?”

  He stops pacing and gets in my face. Bracing for the yelling to start, I lean back in my chair. Instead of yelling, he comes even closer. He’s staring into my eyes, and not in a good way. He asks, “Did you have to take some kind of sedative to calm your nerves? Your eyes look normal enough, but you’re behaving strangely.”

  Damn straight I’m behaving strangely, but only because he’s completely off his nut! He hasn’t yelled once, and he’s showing…is that actual concern on his face? I didn’t know he had a human heart—I’ve always secretly thought he was a cyborg. I reply, trying for a normal tone so I can get away from this weird, compassionate Sloane, “No, I’m…just still a little shaken. Sorry I was late this morning. I was at the police station until late last night, so I overslept a bit.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m surprised you came in at all. I don’t know if I would have been up for working after what you went through. It’s okay if you need a little time.”

  Say what? Sloane’s giving me a free pass to miss work? I nearly died last year, and he thought a few weeks was way too much time off to recover. A little thing like finding a dead body at my other job would be no excuse for missing work, at least according to normal Sloane. Maybe the poor guy is sick or something.

  I reply uncertainly, “I…thought it would be better to work and…keep my mind off things.”

  He looks at me intently. “This is some serious stuff you’re mixed up in. I think you should be careful.”

  Whoa. Is Sloane getting all father-figure on me? I’ll be damned. Did not see that one coming. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for your concern.”

  His voice turns gruff again. “Now get with Blake and give him your exclusive. And please be detailed.”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, scurrying out of his office before he can be nice to me again.

  Needing a serious coffee fix, I turn in to the break room and absentmindedly pour myself a cup of coffee, thinking about my morning with Brody. My reverie is short-lived, though, when Bethany comes careening into the room and throws herself on me.

  “Lizzie, I had the most awesome date last night. Thank you!” Bethany cries, now hugging me and jumping up and down.

  A little disoriented from all the jumping, as well as the foreign notion that Bethany is being friendly to me, I
reply, “I’m happy you hit it off with Todd.”

  “Sit! I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Oh, damn. I really don’t want to hear all about it. What if they…you know…? I shudder all over and try not to think about it. Bethany pulls me down onto a chair and begins telling her tale about her first date with Douchebag Todd, which is pretty much an exact copy of my first date with Douchebag Todd, only at a different restaurant. Bethany even recounts the same boring one-sided conversation, except according to her description, it was more like a Shakespearean soliloquy than a reason for me to want to stick my fork in my ear.

  She seems to be winding down to the end of the story (finally—I need to get a little work done here). “About halfway through our main course, poor Todd starts looking like he’s not feeling well. He said something about bad clams and then went to the restroom for a while.”

  I bite the inside of my lip hard to keep from bursting out laughing. He must have known what I did, because he totally stole my “get out of a sucky date” ploy and used it on Bethany. I feel bad for Bethany that even Douchebag Todd didn’t want to be on a date with her.

  She continues, undaunted. “He came back a while later and even paid for his own meal. What a gentleman.” What the hell kind of guys has she been dating who won’t pay for their own meal, much less hers? “He drove me home in his super-cool car. Don’t you just love his car?”

  “You mean his ‘Chevrolet Corvette’? Not so much. It’s too…green.”

  She playfully swats me on the shoulder, and I jump back out of habit. I’m totally not used to being friendly with Bethany. It’s making me nervous and confused.

  “It’s just so him. Totally cool. Oh, I almost forgot—guess who I ran into last night at dinner who you ended up finding dead?!?”

  I stiffen. “You saw Jed last night?”

  Grinning, Bethany nods.

  I clear my throat. “When you saw him, was he…with anyone?”

  “I don’t know. He walked past our table alone, probably on his way to the restroom or something.”