Murder Mayhem and Mama

by Christie Craig

  “I need to talk to you.” His gaze softened and he started moving his thumb in tender little circles on her forearm. “Please.” His tone held so much tenderness and right then so did his eyes.

  She relented because she was a sucker for politeness and not because his touch felt good. But just in case, she pulled away from his hand. They continued walking. He stopped at an SUV, opened the passenger door, and waited for her to get in.

  A second later, he pulled himself up in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the engine. He shifted his wide shoulders and looked at her. “I know I’ve been an ass lately. I’ve had . . . a lot on my plate.” He passed a hand over his face. “But that’s not your problem. I’m sorry.”

  A bitch probably wouldn’t accept his apology. She stared at him and saw sincerity. She also saw something else, something familiar. Worry and stress.

  “I understand.” So okay, she didn’t have the bitch thing down yet.

  “Thank you.” He continued to stare. “I didn’t know about your mom’s death.”

  The ever-present grief hiccupped in her chest. She glanced out the window. “Did Tanya tell you?” She watched the flag flip in the wind.

  “No. Last night after I saw the picture of the bracelet, I was trying to find you. You’d given Officer Anderson your mother’s address.”

  She looked at him. “I did?”

  “Yeah, you listed it under closest relative.”

  “Habit,” she said. “I must not have been thinking.”

  “You were upset. It’s understandable,” he offered.

  She nodded.

  “Anyway, my partner and I went to your mom’s looking for you.”

  Cali nodded, assuming her mom’s neighbors had filled him in. She continued to stare out the window, not wanting to succumb to tears. It had been almost a week now since she buried her. Shouldn’t she be over the crying stuff? Stan thought she should be. But oh yeah, Stan was a first class jerk, and probably, a jewelry thief.

  “Stan Humphrey was there. He broke in.”

  Cali swung around to face him. “At my mom’s place?”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hand over the steering wheel.

  “Did you catch him?”

  He shook his head. “He got away.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Please tell me he didn’t ransack her place like he did my apartment.”

  “It’s not as bad, but he did toss a few things around.”

  “Did he steal anything?” She felt her bottom lip tremble, and that hiccup of grief grew to a large lump of throbbing pain.

  He shrugged. “Not knowing what your mother had, I can’t say. I’m sorry. But I thought after we find the bracelet, we could go to your mother’s place and check.”

  She slumped back into the seat, feeling her backbone lose its starch. The lump of pain moved up from her heart to her throat. Her head still throbbed and tears formed in her eyes.

  His gaze, filled with sympathy, met hers. “You okay?”

  “Am I okay?” All the emotion she’d felt this last week bubbled to the surface. “My mother dies, my boyfriend turns into a gun-toting jewelry thief, and my apartment gets ransacked. I’m kicked out of my own apartment, Sara’s mother gets cancer.” She was ranting, but she couldn’t stop. “And my mom’s lawyer tells me how lucky I am because my mother died and left me some money. Lucky. Who knew?”

  She let out a deep breath and told herself to calm down, but she wasn’t listening, venting felt too good, so she started again. “I get assaulted again by the gun-toting jewelry thief, and learn he broke into my mom’s house. I’m stuck dealing with a sometimes rude, sometimes nice gun-toting cop. Oh, let’s not forget that I’m having crazy dreams where my mother talks about lesbians. Does it sound like I’m okay?”

  The moment her last words came out of her mouth, she realized what she’d said. “Sorry.” Emotion rose in her throat. “You didn’t really need to hear all that.”

  “Lesbians?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. Suddenly, she needed to get away—to be alone. To gather her wits, if she had any left. Frankly, nothing made sense. Not the dreams. Not her thinking about his penis. Not her having dated a criminal or having stolen evidence in her trash can at home. She fumbled with the door handle and nearly fell out of the SUV.

  She marched toward her car. She got within a foot of her Honda, when she realized she’d left her purse and keys in his SUV. Suddenly, the sound of glass being crunched beneath her pink pumps filled her ear. She looked up at her car, which was now minus a window. Tears filled her eyes. Somebody had broken into her car. How much more could she take? She pressed her hand to her lips, to hold in her sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

  “Hey.” His hand brushed over her back, then he pulled her against him, a wall of warm muscle. He felt solid, an anchor, a lifeboat. Someone to hold her. And he smelled so good.

  A bitch would have been able to pull away. A bitch wouldn’t have needed to be held. She wasn’t a bitch. She was a Charmin-faced girl. She buried her baby face on his shoulder, a very nice shoulder, and continued to cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  She didn’t know exactly when it happened. Perhaps, after he convinced her that she didn’t have to feel bad about her mental breakdown. Maybe after he called a glass company to come fix her broken window. Or it could have been when he stopped off at the gas station and bought her a diet soda and a bottle of aspirin. But at some point in the last thirty minutes, she’d decided that Detective Lowell might not be a dickhead. Not even a little dickhead.

  He pulled into her apartment’s parking lot and sent her a comforting smile. “You ready?”

  She remembered how it felt when he’d held her. The way his hands pressed against her lower back. The way her head had rested on that soft, yet firm, spot between his shoulder and chest. But remembering was causing all kinds of havoc—emotionally, physically. Oh yeah. She needed to forget.

  She grabbed her purse and got out of his SUV. He got out, too, and fell in step beside her without talking. When she fitted the key into the door, he touched her arm and she started remembering again.

  “I just thought of something,” he said. “When you saw Stan, did he appear to be hurt?”

  Cali recalled the blood on her door. “Not really,” she said. “At least, I didn’t see any signs of it.”

  He nodded, and Cali turned the key. The familiar smell of her home greeted her, but nothing about the disaster before her looked familiar. She’d seen it once, but in her weakened emotional state, it hit her harder. Her brass lamp, the one Stan had shot through the door, lay on the floor, only now her ceramic lamp lay in pieces beside his brother lamp, the last victim of Stan’s malice. Did the man not like her lamps?

  Oh, hell, it wasn’t just her lamps. Sofa cushions were scattered about, and books littered the room. Even the snow globe her mother had given her last Christmas lay upside down beside the coffee table. Thank God, he’s spared her this. She moved inside and picked it up, holding it tight.

  “I’ll help you pick up, but let’s find the bracelet first.” He stepped over the mess and ducked into the kitchen.

  Giving the snow globe one final squeeze, as if it somehow would offer her some moral support, she set it down and followed him. He stood by the stove, his gaze shifting around.

  “Garbage is here.” She opened the cabinet where she kept the trash can. As she reached to start sorting, he caught her hand.

  “I’ll do it. Do you have another trash bag?”

  She supplied the bag and held it open as he sifted through her garbage. Not a dickhead, she thought again. He dropped items into the second bag—a black banana peel, accompanied by fruit flies, coffee grounds and junk mail. He was almost at the bottom. Her heart thudded at the thought that Stan had found the bracelet in the garbage.

  Lowell reached into the very bottom and when he looked up, he smiled. “Pay dirt.”

  He stood, bracelet in hand, a
nd grimaced as if stretching down into the bin had hurt, then he pulled the photo from his pocket. “Looks like I have to confiscate this. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t want it,” she said. The tender way he looked at her made her want to cry. And something told her if she cried again, she’d end up in his arms again. As tempting as that sounded, she couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t go there. Stiffening, she walked out of the kitchen and headed down the hall, stopping at her bedroom door. The topsy—turvy sight brought a moan to her lips.

  Lowell stopped behind her. He touched her shoulder. Obviously, after she’d cried all over him, he thought touching her was acceptable.

  “When he met you at the lawyer’s office, did he say anything about the bracelet?”

  She turned around, thinking. “Yeah, he did, but then I ran.”

  “I think that’s what he was looking for. That would also explain why he went to your mother’s house, and why he broke into your car.”

  He glanced around and his eyes widened. “Shit!” He darted past her and dropped on his hands and knees beside the bed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He took it.” He stood up, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “Took what?”

  “There was a baseball bat under here before.” He met her eyes.

  “Yeah, it was his.”

  “I figured that.” He rubbed his shoulder again. “A bat was used in the robbery.”

  “Oh.” Shame for allowing herself to get mixed up with a criminal bit down like a big, hungry dog on her conscience. “I swear, I never knew. We met when my mama was going through chemo. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  He nodded.

  Unsure what else she could say, she looked around at the mess and picked up a lamp.

  “You start picking up in here,” he said. “I’ll start in there.” He stepped for the door.

  “You don’t have to help.”

  “I don’t mind.” He cast a quick smile over his shoulder.

  She watched him walk away, and remembered Tanya asking if he had a nice ass. She checked. It was nice. Really nice.

  Great. Now she was thinking about his ass and his penis. Not to mention his shoulders.

  Her stomach did that wiggly thing it did when she was attracted to someone. Not good.

  Taking a deep breath, she started putting her things back in their proper places. And mentally she did the same thing, which meant the whole attraction thing had to go right out the window. It was too soon. She was too vulnerable. Look where her last relationship led her.

  She inhaled a breath meant to induce calm, but the air smelled like cigarette smoke. She recalled the dreams. The madness of it all had her heart racing. The busy work gave her a few minutes to convince herself that she wasn’t crazy. She was just grieving.

  Ten minutes later, she walked into her living room. Lowell had a broom in one hand and his foot was wedged against the dustpan. He stopped to rub his shoulder.

  She knelt to hold the dustpan. He swept up the shards of broken ceramic lamp into the dust pan, and she emptied it in the trash.

  “We make a good team.” He smiled and she noticed the bruise under his lip again. “Did you finish in the bedroom?”

  “Good enough.” She studied him. “What happened?” She touched her lip.

  “What?”

  “Your lip. And you keep rubbing your shoulder. And don’t tell me football.”

  He grinned. “It’s nothing.” His gaze lingered on her face. “Do you need anything from here before we go?”

  “My life back.” Then she smiled to make light of it. “Do you really think it’s dangerous for me to come home?”

  “Don’t even think about it.” The authoritative tone returned with an even rougher edge. “You’re not coming back here until we get this creep behind bars. I’m serious.”

  She let out a deep breath. “But it could take days to—”

  “It could take weeks.” He leaned in. “I don’t care. It would be stupid to come back here. He’s wanted for murder, for Christ’s sake.”

  Her mind wouldn’t wrap around the word. “Murder? He... killed somebody?” She’d slept with a murderer? The non-bitch, the Charmin-faced girl, had slept with a murderer? Her stomach cramped.

  “The jewelry store your bracelet came from, they beat up the old man who owned it. He died of brain injuries later.”

  She dropped on the sofa, remembering Mrs. Gomez’s praise of Stan. “But Stan was so nice to old people. I can’t believe—”

  “Then you’d better try harder to believe it.” His tone sounded sharp, angry.

  She looked up. The pinch between his eyebrows had returned.

  Her mind kept trying to make sense of everything. “I just can’t believe he would do something like that. He helped my neighbor bring her groceries in. He was nice to the old man who runs the donut store. And—”

  “If you’re about to tell me how much you still love him, you can stop now.” Gone was the detective who’d smiled and held her so nicely. In his place was Mr. Little Dickhead.

  She raised her chin. “I don’t love him.”

  “But you still think he’s a good guy?”

  She stood. “Not good. I just don’t see him hurting an old person.”

  He stared at her with so much frustration, she didn’t understand. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To go to your mother’s house,” he said curtly.

  “Yeah,” she lied. The last thing she wanted to do was go to the Cancer House. The place where she’d watched cancer slowly take her mom’s life.

  ~

  They hadn’t exchanged a word when he parked at a fast-food restaurant. “I’m hungry.”

  And obviously hunger put him in a foul mood, Cali thought.

  Once inside, he ordered a hamburger and fries. She ordered a salad. Pulling a ten from her wallet, she laid it on the counter. He glared at the money.

  “I got it.” He pulled out his wallet and tossed down a twenty.

  “Let me pay,” she said. “You’re already helping me enough.”

  “No!” He stuffed the ten back in her purse.

  Cali grabbed her salad and soda and planted herself at a table. He sat down in front of her. Refusing to look at him, she forked a piece of wilted lettuce, her appetite nonexistent.

  “I just don’t get it.” With the corner of her vision, she saw him rip the paper from his burger. He leaned toward her to get her attention. “What makes women do this?”

  “Do what?” She looked back down, cut her tomato and forked part of the tomato wedge.

  “Allow a man to treat you like crap, and then stand there and defend him.”

  She set her fork down. “I’m not defending him. I just—”

  “Don’t want to believe he’s guilty.” He scowled at her.

  She felt her stomach tighten. “I didn’t say that.” When she met his eyes, bright with frustration, she stopped herself from trying to explain. “Look, I’d really appreciate it if you just ate and took me back to my car.”

  “Fine.” He stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

  She stared at his untouched food and, just because it felt good, she gave her salad another jab. Taking a deep breath, she got up, tossed her salad in the trash, then went to the counter and asked for a to-go bag. She rewrapped his burger, packed his fries, and picked up a couple of ketchup packets on the way out.

  It wasn’t until she saw him sitting in his SUV that she realized he could have left her there. But no, he waited and even had the passenger door open. She climbed in and dropped the bag between them. “You forgot this along with your manners.”

  He frowned. “Do you always have to be so nice?”

  She considered his words. “You’re right.” She snatched up the food, got out of the car, hot-footed it to a garbage can in front of the restaurant and dumped the bag in with the rest of the garbage.

  Head held high, she climbed back into his
SUV, and slammed the door. “I’m working on being a bitch. You know, you really do earn the nickname Tanya and I gave you.”

  “What is it?” he asked. “Asshole? Jerk?”

  From his voice she could tell he’d lost his attitude. Not that it mattered. He still deserved hers. “No.” She met his gaze head on. “Little Dickhead.”

  Shock widened his eyes. “Little?” He fell back against the seat and laughed. The deep rumble sounded rusty, as if he hadn’t laughed in a long time. When his laughter stopped, he rested his head back and stared up at his ceiling. He let out a deep breath. “Damn, I’m tired.” He closed his eyes for a second, then he tilted his head to the side to stare at her. “I got out of line again.”

  “You think?” she asked.

  “It comes with the job. Sort of. We see so much—”

  “So only dickheads need to apply to be a cop?”

  He sighed. “I deserve that.” He closed his eyes a second as if to collect his thoughts. “In my line of work, I’ve seen way too many men do terrible things to women. And nothing grates on my nerves more than when I see those women turn around and go right back to the men.”

  “And you think that’s what I’m doing?”

  “When you defend Stan, yeah, that’s what I think.”

  She sat up a little straighter. “I’m not defending him. I’m voicing my opinion. I broke up with him.”

  “I hope you meant it.” His gaze met hers and held and when the silence grew awkward he said, “Now, can I please take you to your mom’s house and see if anything was taken so I can finish making out that paperwork?”

  She nodded, even though the idea of walking into her mom’s house right now was almost more than she could bear.

  Five minutes later, he pulled into the driveway. She sat staring at the white-brick home, mentally seeing the word “cancer” written in red across the front.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she lied. She wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay.

  ~

  Brit watched her as she walked up the sidewalk. Each step looked measured, forced. He remembered the hospital bed, the medical supplies, the smell. How hard was it to watch a person die slowly, piece-by-piece, day-by-day? And when that person was your mother….