“We’re closed,” I repeated. “You’ll have to come back at twelve.” He was starting to scare me.
He ignored my statement and flipped open the counter’s hinged panel.
Alarmed, I said sharply, “You can’t come back here.” With his egg-shaped torso, pedantic movements, and acerbic expression he resembled Humpty Dumpty’s evil twin.
As I frantically searched my jeans pockets for my cell phone, which unfortunately seemed to be AWOL, Humpty continued to advance until the only thing between us was my worktable.
Putting both hands on the Formica surface, he demanded, “Devereaux Sinclair?”
For a second, when he leaned forward, he seemed familiar, but if I’d known him he wouldn’t have had to ask my name. Unless . . . Damn! Was he a process server? I’d certainly met my share of them when I was going through all the crap from my old job.
Before I could decide on an answer, a scowl twisted his heavy features, and he repeated, “Devereaux Sinclair?”
“Yes.” What in the world did this guy want? To cover my consternation, I put on my best don’t-mess-with-me expression, the one I’d learned while working in the cutthroat investment consulting business, and asked, “How may I help you?”
“I’m Detective Woods.”
Okay, that would explain the ill-fitting cheap navy suit and the highly polished black shoes. “May I see some identification, please?” I was fairly sure that the police department in my hometown didn’t employ a detective. Especially since I knew the chief and all the officers on the force. So where was this guy from, and what was he doing in Shadow Bend, Missouri, population 4,028?
Woods reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved a worn leather wallet. He flipped it open, displaying a Kansas City police ID card on one side and a gold badge on the other.
I stopped searching for my phone. Kansas City was forty miles away, and during morning rush hour the trip took a good hour or more. What had I done to merit a visit from KC’s finest?
Impassively, he stated, “I understand you made a gift basket for Joelle Ayers.”
“That’s correct,” I answered slowly, struggling to fathom why a cop would be interested in either the basket or Joelle. “It was a Valentine’s Day present for her fiancé. She picked it up Saturday afternoon. They were going to spend a romantic weekend in the city.” Was there some kind of morality law in Kansas City that prohibited sex toys?
“How well do you know Ms. Ayers?”
“Not very.” Which was true, at least technically. “I met her for the first time when she came in to place her order.” What I didn’t add was that in a rural community like Shadow Bend, it was hard not to have heard plenty about someone like Joelle. She had swept into our town last summer, and by Christmas she had snapped up its most eligible bachelor. “Did something happen to her?”
Detective Woods ignored my question. “But you do know her fiancé a whole lot better, don’t you?”
“We went to high school together.” Had something happened to Noah? Even after the awful way he’d treated me all those years ago, I felt my stomach clench. “Why are you asking me about Dr. Underwood? Were he and Joelle in an accident?”
“You sound pretty worried about someone who was just your classmate,” Detective Woods said in an insinuating purr. “But then, you two were much more than that. Weren’t you?”
“We dated when we were teenagers.” I didn’t have to ask how he had learned about my relationship with Noah. There aren’t many secrets in a small town, where the past is never fully forgiven or forgotten. No doubt someone had been happy to tell Detective Woods all about Noah and me.
“Until your father”—he consulted a small notepad—“one Kern Sinclair, went to prison.” Woods’s resemblance to Humpty had faded, and now he looked more like a banty rooster, particularly when he thrust out his chin. “That’s when Noah Underwood dumped your ass, and from what I hear, you’ve been carrying a torch for him ever since.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I tugged at the neck of my green sweatshirt, suddenly wishing I had on one of the power suits I had donated to the Salvation Army after I quit my previous job. “It became clear a long time ago that we were too young to have any kind of serious relationship. I’ve gone out with lots of guys since then.” I clasped my hands together to stop them from shaking as I remembered the pain of the day that had changed my life forever. The day my father was convicted of manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance, my mother abandoned me, and the boy who had vowed to love me for all eternity walked away.
“Still, you’re nearly thirty and never been married.” Woods’s expression reminded me of my grandmother’s Siamese cat—right after it had finished eating my beloved pet gerbil. He prodded. “It had to gall you, making a ‘do me’ basket for your rival.”
If he thought using crude language would bother me, he had no idea what I’d been exposed to in my past profession. Still, I glanced longingly at the rear exit, wishing I could just run away, or better yet, disappear. But I hadn’t gotten an MBA from a top university, and survived working under a vicious man who considered the glass ceiling his protective barrier, to crumble that easily.
“First,” I said, in my stop-screwing-around-with-me voice, “my marital status is none of your business. And second, I’m finished answering questions until you tell me what this is all about.”
“We can do this at my police station if you prefer.”
“Fine.” Brass tacks were something two could use to pound home a point. “I’ll call my attorney and have him meet us there.” I’d never liked bullies, and this one was ticking me off big time.
Minutes went by as we stared at each other, and when I didn’t break the growing silence, he blew out an angry breath. “Joelle Ayers was found dead Saturday night.”
“Oh, my God!” Considering that he’d been asking about her and identified himself as a detective, I was prepared for something bad, but not that.
As I struggled to comprehend that someone I had spoken to less than forty-eight hours ago was no longer alive, Woods hit me with another bombshell. “You used to work at Stramp Investments.”
“Yes.” Damn! If he knew that, he’d obviously been checking up on me. What else had he found out? “I quit last May and bought this business.”
“So, your departure had nothing to do with your boss stealing investors’ life savings?” His nostrils flared. “Or was the cash to buy this store your payoff for keeping your mouth shut about his criminal activities?”
“No!” I was becoming more worried by the second. It was common knowledge that a lot of people thought Ronald Stramp’s employees were as guilty as he was, and having left several months before he was exposed had not spared me from the accusations or the venom. “I had no idea what he was doing.”
“Are you telling me that you quit a high-powered, high-paying job to run a little country store for no good reason?” His pupils dilated.
“I thought I wanted a career—turned out I just wanted a paycheck,” I joked. When he didn’t smile, I tried again. “If at first you don’t succeed, redefine success.”
“Are you mocking me, Miss Sinclair?” His fist came down on the worktable’s surface and a bottle of Merlot crashed to the floor.
I jumped. Oops! Evidently Woods didn’t appreciate my twisted sense of humor. So as I cleaned up the broken glass and spilled wine, I quit trying to lighten the mood and said, “The commute from here into the city was brutal, and I needed to spend more time with my grandmother.”
“Right.” My alarm seemed to pacify him, and he squared his shoulders. “You’re just a dutiful granddaughter willing to give up a six-figure salary to take care of Granny.”
“It took me a while to see that making a living isn’t the same thing as making a life.” I knew it sounded corny, but it was the truth.
Woods snorted, then lo
bbed another grenade. “Is that why you killed Joelle Ayers? She got in the way of your plans for a fresh start. A fresh start that was supposed to include marrying Noah Underwood.”
“No!” I didn’t like how my voice squeaked, or the fact that my knees had started shaking, but there wasn’t anything I could do about either one. “You’re saying Joelle was murdered?”
“Don’t act so surprised.” His tone was hard. “Your fingerprints were all over the murder weapons.”
“But how—” I controlled my voice with an effort. “I mean, that’s not possible.” I regrouped. “Either you tell me the whole story or I’m not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer.”
“If that’s how you want to play this.” His eyes burned with resentment, and he appeared to be involved in some intense internal debate, which he seemed to be losing. Finally he ground out, “Since the room service asshole who found the vic took pictures with his cell phone and they’re already on the Internet . . .” He trailed off, then twitched his shoulders as if angry for explaining himself to me. Finally, he continued. “She was handcuffed to the bed, a champagne bottle stuffed down her throat, and a five-and-a-half-inch metal-tipped stiletto high heel rammed into her heart.”
“Oh, my God!” Velvet-lined handcuffs and pink champagne bottle—I mentally checked them off the list of playthings in the Strawberry Seduction gift basket I’d put together for Joelle, but I was sure high heels hadn’t been included. “My prints couldn’t have been on the shoe.”
Woods stared at me without responding.
Finally I asked, “Who would do something like that?”
“How about her fiancé’s jealous ex-girlfriend?” His dark, predatory eyes studied me for another long moment. “Where were you Saturday night between six and seven?”
Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I struggled not to show my panic. A flashback of my one and only visit to my father a year after he’d gone into the penitentiary nearly paralyzed me. I was seventeen, with too much imagination for my own good, and I’d been terrified that when visiting hours were over, they wouldn’t let me leave. What if this man made that nightmare come true?
“What in the hell? Are you taking a nap?” Woods’s ruddy complexion turned a livid purple. “It’s a simple question. Do you or do you not have an alibi?”
Ignoring the sharp pain behind my left eye, I lifted my chin and said with as much conviction as I could muster, “Yes, I do. I was home all evening with my grandmother, Birdie Sinclair.”
What I failed to mention was that Gran generally fell asleep in her chair right after supper and woke up only long enough to watch the weather at the end of the ten o’clock news before going to bed. That, and the fact that although she could tell you exactly what dress she wore on her first date with Grandpa, her short-term memory was a little shaky at times.
“Grandmothers have been known to lie for their grandchildren. Anybody else see you? Any calls?”
“No.” Hoping to convince him, I added, “But I can tell you the plot of all the shows I watched.”
Woods sneered. “Ever heard of TiVo?”
Crap! On to plan B. “I have no reason to kill Joelle. My brief relationship with Dr. Underwood ended over thirteen years ago and I barely knew his fiancée.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Woods plucked a black satin whip off the table and stroked it. “But how about those fingerprints I mentioned?”
“Fu—” I stopped myself. I had given up using the F bomb when I left my job in the city. “Of course my prints were on everything. As you pointed out, I made the basket they were taken from.”
Woods smirked. “All that proves is premeditation.”
What was up with this guy? “Weren’t there any fingerprints other than mine?” It was almost as if he wanted me to be the guilty party.
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Lions and Tigers and Murder, Oh My Page 25