His head popped up. "Don't go to any trouble."
A smiled curved her mouth—he was hungry, too.
And perhaps if she was able to satisfy one appetite, the other wouldn't get out of control. She went to the tiny kitchen, and while he typed on the keyboard, she prepared a spinach and arugula salad with garbanzo beans, sprouts, and flax seed, served with whole wheat rolls and, just for B.J., a side of soft tofu drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil.
"Soup's on," she said, setting their plates on the table around the laptop.
He was absorbed in something on the screen as he scribbled notes on the back of one of his missing persons flyers. He looked up and studied the salad and gelatinous tofu gingerly. "Where's the soup?"
"Figure of speech," she said, suddenly enjoying herself. "I thought this would be a perfect opportunity for you to try tofu."
One side of his mouth slid back. "If you wanted me to leave, all you had to do was say so."
"Just try it," she said with a laugh. "What would you like to drink?"
"Strong coffee or beer, if you have it."
"How about green tea or water?"
His mouth twitched downward. "I'll have water, thanks."
She poured a glass of filtered water for him and one for herself, then sat at the table and spread a napkin on her lap. B.J. followed suit, still wary of the food on his plate.
Penny cut into her tofu, to set a good example. "What are you working on?" she asked, nodding to the screen.
"Researching dimethyl sulfoxide. The chemical has, shall we say, a checkered past." He put a forkful of the tofu in his mouth, then stopped, grimaced, and swallowed.
"It grows on you," she said encouragingly.
"I'll bet this stuff would grow on just about anything," he said, turning to the salad.
She bit back a smile. "So what did you learn about the chemical?"
"It's a by-product of wood pulp, used commercially in paint thinner and antifreeze."
She made a face. "I thought the man in the square said it was used to preserve body organs."
He nodded. "The medical grade of the substance was used for organ transplant preservation in the 1960s, but there were side effects, and the close kinship of the chemical to harsher commercial grades made it suspect. Apparently the cheap and potentially harmful grades were popping up at roadside stands and general stores." He grimaced. "I imagine it tasted like this tofu."
She laughed. "But it's good for you."
"What is it exactly?"
"It's made from soybean milk."
He scratched his temple. "I didn't realize soybeans had nipples."
She burst out laughing; he was so male.
"But," he said, taking another bite, "I'm always willing to try something new. The salad is good," he added. "It's probably the most healthful thing I've had to eat in my entire life. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she murmured, struck once again by his easygoing manner. B.J. Beaumont probably had a woman in every town in Louisiana. She averted her gaze to her plate. "So, this chemical isn't used in the medical field anymore?"
"Not widely. But the commercial grades are still available. And they wouldn't necessarily raise suspicion if someone was using them for illicit activities."
She drank from her glass, trying to digest the implication of his words. "You think something horrible is going on at the museum?"
"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I've got a few missing girls, one of whom we have on good authority was headed to the museum. And we have a blond hair found in the museum, which might or might not belong to one of the women. And we have your ex-husband coming out of the museum with the scent of this chemical on him. And then he was murdered."
Penny swallowed a bite of salad past her tightened throat. "You think Deke might have been murdered because he found out something illegal was going on at the museum?"
"I don't know, there are just too many pieces of the puzzle missing. I wish we could get into the house to see the crime scene, maybe get a look at Deke's files."
She frowned. "That's not likely to happen. I have extra keys somewhere to get in, but I've heard that Sheena has practically barricaded herself inside. Which surprises me because I thought she'd be all over the media."
He worked his mouth from side to side. "Maybe there's a logical explanation for all of this. Maybe the hair doesn’t belong to Jodi Reynolds. Maybe Giselle Taylor didn't make it to the museum after all, or went and then left on her own volition. Maybe Deke was murdered by his girlfriend, or by some psycho who likes crowds."
B.J.'s words when they'd first met came back to her. I go where the crowds are—festivals, concerts.
Penny kept eating, wishing she could make sense of everything going on, including the push-pull feelings she was having for B.J. He was so believable in his role as protector...was he too good to be true?
"What do you know about the woman who runs the museum?" he asked.
"Hazel Means? Salt of the earth. She and I have been friends for years." Penny flushed. "I confess that I've always been a bit fixated on the Archambault mansion. It reminds me of the big manor houses of Gothic novels I read growing up. Hazel has been nice enough to humor my interest."
"You mentioned someone else working there—a handyman?"
"Tilton Means, Hazel's son."
"How old is he?"
"Mid-thirties, maybe. He's mentally disabled."
"To what extent?"
"He's communicative and productive, and he drives, but he doesn't like to socialize. He works for the two local funeral homes when they need him."
B.J. was instantly alert. "So at least one person at the museum has access to cadavers."
A chill slid down her back. "But that could also explain the existence of the chemical, right? What if Tilton spilled it and Deke just happened to be around it, or stepped in it?"
B.J. nodded. "Or if Tilton was doing some kind of painting or work on one of the machines we saw, that could also explain the presence of the chemical." He made a rueful noise. "Which is why I can't go to the police until I do some more checking around."
She wet her lips. "So what are you thinking—worst-case scenario?"
He shook his head. "My mind doesn't even want to go there."
Hers either. Hair in the torture equipment...missing women...a chemical to preserve organs...and Deke dead. Was Deke involved in some kind of depravity? Without the moral guidance of his father, had Deke, as he had feared, succumbed to an evil buried deep within him? It was when he had begun to change, when his personality had gone from congenial to conceited, and when his stress level—and temper—had rocketed higher. Had he been conflicted about something he'd been doing?
Other than Sheena?
"So we still don't know who made the voodoo doll," B.J. said.
"Right."
"Did Deke have a maid or someone who ran his errands, dropped off dry cleaning?"
"There's no maid," she said dryly, remembering the mess in the entryway—Sheena's shoes, the unread newspapers. "I used to run most of his errands," she admitted sheepishly. "And when I couldn't—" She stopped as an alarming realization occurred to her.
"What?"
"When I couldn't run Deke's errands, Steve Chasen did."
"So Chasen had access to Deke's suits."
"Right."
"And he's cozy with Deke's mother."
Penny frowned. "I can't imagine anyone being cozy with Mona the Stone, but if that's who he was talking to on the phone yesterday, they seemed friendly. But why would Mona be friendly with the man who murdered her son?"
"Maybe she doesn't know he did it. Maybe he murdered Deke and told Mona he found the body and decided to make it look as if you'd done it."
"But what could be Steve's motive?"
B.J. shrugged. "Maybe he thought Mona would help him get a job if she felt as if she owed him."
"But why wouldn't Mona want her son's real murderer captured?"
"Maybe she kn
ew Deke was up to something and is afraid that if the real murderer is caught, all of his activities will come to light."
Penny put her hands to her temples. "I think my head is going to explode. Can we talk about something else for a while?"
"Sure," he said, then gestured toward his empty plate. "How long have you been obsessed with health food?"
She bristled. "I'm not obsessed. Just a little...compulsive."
He pursed his mouth. "It's my experience that when people are 'compulsive' about something, it's to mask something else."
Irritation spiked in her chest, and she had the unsettling feeling that he could see into her private places. "That's not true in my case."
"Whatever you say." Although he didn't look convinced.
Penny stood to clear their dishes, her nerves jangling. All the St. John's wort she'd taken over the past few months to calm her nerves didn't seem to be working. Maybe she was past the threshold of over-the-counter assistance. Maybe she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe that explained why her emotions and urges were all over the place.
To her surprise, he joined her at the sink and helped clean the kitchen. But he must have sensed her extreme anxiety, because he kept the conversation light, asking about her business and about living in a small town. Penny remembered a bottle of merlot that someone had given her. B.J. opened it, and they drank while she leisurely washed dishes and he dried. She asked him about some of his favorite cases, and when he talked, his eyes came alive—the man loved what he was doing despite the fact that he couldn't be making much money. They chatted like old friends, and when Penny felt a warm rush of connection coming on, she had to remind herself that B.J. made a living out of drawing people out, of getting them to talk.
She drank the last mouthful of her second glass of wine, then folded the dishtowels, her body throbbing in awareness of him. "I think I'm going to turn in."
He drank from the wine remaining in his glass. "Okay."
Penny wet her lips, then walked past him. "Let me get you some linens."
Feeling like a teenager at a coed sleepover, she went into her bedroom to get the extra pillow from her bed and put on a fresh pillowcase. When she returned to the living room, she stopped. B.J. had removed his T-shirt.
"You don't have anything to get out wine, do you?" he asked, holding up the stained shirt.
She shook her head carefully, riveted by the sight of his muscular chest, covered with a layer of black, black hair that whorled down his flat stomach to disappear into the waistband of his jeans.
"Darn, this was one of my favorite shirts." He made a rueful noise. "That's what I get for being distracted."
Penny could only nod.
He walked toward her and took the linens. "Are you sure you're okay with me staying here?"
She managed a little smile. "Why not? It's safe. After all, you don't sleep with clients."
Suddenly the mood in the room changed. His eyes grew hooded and he stepped closer, lowering his mouth to within an inch of hers. She could sense the aroma of the wine on his tongue. Her breasts grew heavy. Her knees threatened to buckle.
"No, I don't," he said. "But for that reason alone, I'm determined to solve this case." He kissed her, just a whisper of a kiss—anyone watching would have missed the brief touch of his lips across hers. By the time she opened her mouth, it was over...and she was left aching for more. He uttered a little moan like he wanted more, too, but now wasn't the time or place.
"Goodnight, Red."
"Goodnight," she whispered, then turned and fled to her bedroom. She undressed in the bathroom, pulled a long gown over her head, and crawled under the covers, wondering which man would wind up causing her the most heartache—the man she would see buried tomorrow, or the man currently snoring on her couch.
Chapter Twenty-four
Don't keep things buried...
PENNY GINGERLY SLID into the front seat of Guy's car, hoping she wasn't going to be sick.
"You don't look well," Guy said, his expression worried, as if he knew he'd never get the smell of vomit out of his car. "Are you sure you're up to attending the funeral?"
She nodded but swallowed hard, trying to block out the noise of the festival on the square. It seemed ludicrous that anyone could be celebrating when Deke was only hours away from being interred. She broke off another antacid from the roll she'd nearly consumed, then smoothed a hand over her simple navy blue dress. "Do you think I'm dressed appropriately?" She had debated on whether it was special, yet somber, enough for the service. Not that anyone would notice, but she wanted to look nice out of respect for Deke and the good years they'd shared together.
Guy reached over and squeezed her hand. "You look wonderful. Just relax. It'll all be over soon."
If only that were true, she thought. Maybe B.J. was right—perhaps the funeral would fuel someone to do or say something that would advance the case. It would be the first time the people closest to Deke—and closest to the investigation—would be together in one place. Thoughts of B.J. sent completely inappropriate impulses through her body. He had been gone this morning when she'd woken up, having left a note that read, "Raided your pantry, found a couple of 'Happy Divorce' chocolate bars. Didn't think you'd mind if I ate them since they were full of nasty sugar and preservatives. B.J." The linens had been folded neatly on the couch, which meant the man could be tidy when he wanted to be.
And speaking of tidy men, she glanced over to Guy, who wore a spiffy turquoise coat over apricot-color slacks, and dark Gucci glasses. And he was looking rather...tan.
"Guy, have you been to the tanning bed?" After she'd ranted about how dangerous Sheena's device was—and surely he wouldn't be giving her business anyway.
He shifted guiltily. "No."
"Have you been to the Bahamas since I saw you last?"
"It's self-tanner," he said quickly. "I know how you feel about tanning beds." He sighed. "Everyone in town knows how you feel about them."
"They'll give you cancer."
"Everything will give you cancer," he said in a long-suffering voice. "I can't help it if I look better with a tan."
"How are things going with Carrie?" she asked.
"They're not," he said in a clipped voice. "Do you believe the woman had the nerve to ask me if I'm gay? I mean, do I seem gay to you?"
She took in his gelled spiky hair, his designer sunglasses, turquoise sport coat, and self-administered tan. "No."
"Thank you," he said, nodding curtly.
"Guy, did you happen to come by my apartment Saturday before you took me home?"
He frowned. "Before I took you home?"
"Yeah. Someone...left something for me inside. I've been trying to figure out who it was, and since you have a key..."
He pushed at his glasses in a way that made her think of Wendy and her nervous habit. "I wish I could take credit for it, but it wasn't me. Sorry." Then he grimaced. "Someone was in your apartment?"
"Must have been my landlord," she said easily.
"What about that P.I. guy?"
A flush climbed her neck. "What about him?"
"Does he have a key?"
"No," she said evenly.
"Well...he could probably pick the locks."
She decided to change the subject as they drove past the store. "It was nice of Marie to offer to work this afternoon."
"She's been selling that juice of hers to everyone who walks in the door. You know how she likes to tinker—I hope she's not poisoning people."
"Me, too," Penny said, then leaned her cheek against the cool glass of the window.
They rode the rest of the short trip in silence. Goddard's Funeral Home was located past the Charmed Village strip mall, on a plot of residential land. Formerly home to the Goddard family, the structure still fit in with other houses on nearby lots. Except for the sign, the circular driveway, and the hearse sitting out front, one wouldn't know that it was a funeral home. And except for the two TV news vans sitting at the curb, o
ne wouldn't know that this funeral was different from any other.
Her heart jumped to her throat when she saw the marquee: Deke A. Black, Beloved Son.
So, apparently Mona had wrestled control over the services from Sheena, else the marquee would have read Beloved Adulterer. Penny fisted her hand over her chest. A few months ago it would have read Beloved Husband, and she would have been prostrate wondering how to go on. Suddenly she was thankful the separation and divorce had given her a bit of emotional distance from Deke. Meanwhile, Mona was making a statement to the women in Deke's life: Wives and girlfriends would come and go, but a mother's love is forever.
They parked among many other cars—she recognized Mona's Cadillac and Steve Chasen's white BMW, plus Sheena's yellow Miata. She looked for Liz's silver Mercedes but didn't see it. She had hoped to hear from her friend, but she realized people had other pressing issues in their lives.
A police car sat next to the hearse, and next to the police car was a dark Ford Crown Victoria—Maynard's car, no doubt.
She hadn't realized she was still sitting until the passenger door opened and Guy gallantly offered his hand. She took it, grateful to have someone to lean on, since her legs felt unreliable. On the way in the front door, they passed Tilton Means, who was walking out. He stopped and held open the door, keeping his gaze averted, as was his way.
"Hello, Tilton," she said.
"Hi," he said in a monotone, probably in deference to his severe underbite. He was a big man, with thick limbs and no neck. Penny's heart went out to him—his life, and Hazel's, couldn't have been easy.
When they walked into the entry way, the strains of a hymn were playing over speakers. The sickening scent of preserved live flowers hit her, causing her stomach to roll. Greg Goddard, portly elder son of the family, stood next to the door to greet visitors. When he saw Penny, he blanched a bit under his tanning bed tan—not a good sign, she decided.
"Penny," he said with false cheer. "We, um, wondered if you'd be coming."
"Why wouldn't I come to my ex-husband's funeral?" she asked politely, taking Goddard's offered hand. Real or imagined, there always seemed to be an underlying metallic scent on the man.
Love Can Be Murder Box Set Page 49