Murder Mayhem and Mama

by Christie Craig

  The mirrored door didn’t pull open easily, so she gave it a yank. The mirror swung open and half the cabinet’s contents came raining down on the sink. Pills, a pack of toothbrushes. Then a thirty-six pack of extra large condoms hit the counter, bounced off and landed in the toilet.

  “Oh shit!” She slapped her hand over her mouth at having let the four-letter word out.

  Forcing herself into action, she grabbed the first things she saw, a toothbrush in a holder on the sink and tried to fish out the box of rubbers floating in the toilet.

  Finally, by sticking the end of the toothbrush into the carton’s side she got the pack out, and dropped the soggy box of rubbers and toothbrush into the sink. Closing her eyes, she tried to figure out what to do. The condoms were not exposed to the toilet water, but yuck on the idea of using one that had made the trip to the potty. And then there was the toothbrush. A big yuck.

  Suddenly, a giggle left her lips as she tried to imagine explaining this to Brit. Oh, hell, what was she going to do?

  Maybe what she needed to do was just toss them and then tomorrow when she got her car, go buy him another pack. She envisioned doing that, and her face heated up and she started laughing again.

  ~

  Five minutes later, toothbrush hidden in a drawer and condoms pushed all the way under the bottom cabinet, she went back to the bedroom. Every few minutes, a nervous giggle would erupt. She still wasn’t sure how or if she was going to tell Brit.

  On the way back to bed, she passed the dresser and bumped into some files resting on top. They fell to the floor and papers scattered. Kneeling, she gathered the items. A photograph caught her attention—a dead man, sprawled out on concrete, blood marking his forehead. His eyes were open—empty.

  The nervous giggles vanished and she stared at the image as she may have an accident on the side of the road—horrified, yet drawn to the horror.

  Another photo from the second file floated to the floor. Her breath caught. Stan. Trembling, she slipped the mug shot back inside, rose, and set the files back on the dresser.

  She took one step, then stopped and glanced back at the files. Maybe if she read everything Brit knew about Stan, then she’d believe him about him killing someone.

  Making up her mind, she picked up the file that contained Stan’s photo, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was after midnight when Brit pulled into his driveway. He’d stopped off at the precinct and lost himself going over Keith’s and Anderson’s old cases, hoping to find something that tied them together. If he could just find that piece of the puzzle, he was sure the rest would fall into place.

  When it hadn’t surfaced, he’d gone to Quarles’ desk and spent the next hour combing through the new information that had come in on Humphrey and the other band members. He’d digested it and then re-digested it because it was his job and he’d needed to know.

  He’d told himself that working on his night off had nothing to do with avoiding Cali, or the fact that she was at his house, maybe in his bed. It was then he’d given up and headed home.

  Getting out of his SUV, he noticed the home’s dark windows staring back at him. Only the porch light waited up for him. Letting himself inside, his gaze went to the sofa, and he felt relief that Cali hadn’t insisted on sleeping there. The pricey piece of furniture sat well, but slept like a torture chamber.

  The cat’s meow called out to him. He opened the laundry door. Mama Cat sat on the dryer. She looked ready to hiss then she stopped, jumped down, and bumped his leg with her gray face.

  “You over being mad at me?”

  Two of her kittens staggered from behind the washer. Brit knelt down. Mama hissed. Frowning, he stepped out and shut the door.

  The dark hall greeted him. Stopping, he peeked into the extra bedroom where Susan slept when in town. The sight of her sprawled across the bed, garbed in Disney flannel PJs, brought on a smile. Leaning against the doorframe, he stared at his sister. He’d been a lousy host to her this time, and he should try to turn that around.

  Taking the next few steps down the hall, he felt his blood begin to thicken. Memories of Cali dancing against him sang through his mind and hummed a sexy tune on his body.

  He eased open his door and slipped inside. Cali hadn’t shut the blinds and the street light washed over her in a silver glow. She lay uncovered, on her side, and curled up. She looked so small in his bed. A smile brushed his lips when he noted she wore a pair of Susan’s flannel pajamas. Mickey Mouse PJs. He grinned and recalled she’d been wearing a Mickey Mouse nightshirt when he first met her.

  Brit stepped closer. Flannel had never looked so good. The sweet curve of her bottom and the swell of her full breasts covered in soft, faded cotton gave his heart a good workout.

  Swinging around, he went to sleep on the torture chamber. On the way, he stopped at the bathroom to grab his toothbrush.

  ~

  “That picture drew you to it, didn’t it?” her mother asked.

  Cigarette smoke filled Cali’s senses as the dream began. She slipped into the realm willingly. “Which picture?” The gruesome images in Stan’s file flashed through Cali’s mind—a picture of an elderly man, eyes closed, a cold blue tint to his skin, then the other images of Stan’s two band members. Cali had never seen anything so awful. Had Brit seen it in person?

  “Not those,” her mom said, reading Cali’s mind again. “The one of Brit’s partner.”

  “I wasn’t drawn to it.” Cali sat up as her mom took her place at the foot of Brit’s bed.

  “Then look at it again. It’s important.” Her mom’s bracelets jingled.

  “I can’t go through his other files,” Cali said. “I only went through Stan’s because it involved me.” And what she’d read disturbed her. Yet, try as she may, she still didn’t think he’d killed anyone. From the written report, it seemed obvious Brit and the police felt differently.

  “Brit won’t mind if you look at it.” Her mom’s gaze moved around the room. “Nice house. Do you know how much homes are going for in the area?” Even dead, her mom talked real estate. “Four hundred thousand at least.” She pulled a cigarette to her lips and stared at Cali. “I’m not just your maternal psyche.”

  “Are you a ghost?” Cali asked, not that she would believe even if Mom said yes.

  “No. You have to really want to hang around to go to that level. I’m just a not-ready.”

  “What’s that?” Cali pulled her knees to her chest.

  “It means I’m not ready to pass on. I’ve got unfinished business. There are a lot of us here.”

  A tingle spread down Cali’s spine and she looked about the room. “Where?”

  “Around.”

  “What unfinished business?” Cali asked.

  Her mother smiled and her bracelets played a soft jingle. “You. I need to help you.”

  “Help me do what?” Cali drew a pillow closer.

  “Well, at first I thought I was just going to help you move away from the grief, but then everything went to shit—Stan and the other murders.” Her mother frowned. “But I’m not any good to you if you don’t listen. I told you not to stay at that hotel again. If you hadn’t gone with Brit, Stan would have found you. And it wouldn’t have been good.”

  “Great, nothing like knowing your dead mom has to haunt some guy to get you a date.”

  “Please. I didn’t haunt him. He did that because he cares.” She chuckled. “He actually is really good at ignoring me.” She hesitated. “Seriously, you should see your auras. You two can’t be in the same room together without them practically attacking each other. And I mean in a good way.”

  Cali blushed. “Well, I can’t control what my aura does.”

  “I’m not saying control it. I think you should go for it.” She paused and looked back at the door. “I also said for you to call Sara again and remind her to tell her mom to get a second opinion.”

  Cali stared at her painted toenails. “
I’ll call tomorrow.” And not because her dead mom told her to. But because, well just because.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself.” Her mother pulled a drag of smoke into her lungs. “We also talked about your father.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Cali said, surprised that she had spoken so bluntly.

  “We don’t have to talk. You just need to know that it wasn’t your fault. He left because he didn’t have the balls to stand up to his responsibility. We both wanted to fix him, but we couldn’t.”

  “I hardly remember him.”

  “You remember.” The night’s silence followed. Her mom sighed. “You’re not a doormat. You have a weakness for the dominant male, but most women do. And most men have the tendency to be dominant. It doesn’t mean they are all abusers, like Stan. Or your dad. But like I told you, you’re more of a fixer than a victim.”

  Her mother went to the window and stared out. “Think about those relationships again. They all had something you wanted to fix, didn’t they?” The lull of the night seemed to move her mother farther away. The dream almost faded when her mother said, “You can’t fix people Cali. Not even Brit. You can help him, but he has to fix himself.”

  ~

  “Damn it.” Brit sat up and quit pretending he could sleep. He needed Cali to sleep. It was a king-size bed, and she wore his sister’s pajamas for God’s sake. He wouldn’t touch her.

  Remembering his promise to keep his clothes on, he slipped on his jeans and shirt and crept down the hall to his room, ignoring his better judgment with each step.

  Trying not to look at her, he pulled the covers back and slipped between the sheets. One deep breath of her sweet scent and the tension in his shoulders melted. The mattress shifted, he felt her roll over. Unable to resist, he turned to see her.

  Her lashes, blond but long, rested against the tender skin beneath her eyes. Her nose, perky and small, tilted up ever so slightly. Her mouth—she had lips that could wet a man’s dreams. So lost in looking at her lips, he didn’t realize that she’d opened her eyes. But when he saw those beautiful orbs of blue, his breath caught.

  She lifted up on her elbow. The flannel around her breasts tightened and so did he. He realized his mistake then; it didn’t matter who the pajamas belonged to, it was the woman in them that interested him. He fluffed his pillow, just to keep his hands from drawing her against him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I thought you’d be at work.”

  “I’m off tonight.” He looked at her and his chest swelled with fear that she’d send him away.

  “Oh.” She looked toward the door. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  He frowned. “We’ve done this before.”

  “Yes, but...” She sat up a little higher. “There wasn’t a sofa in the other room.”

  “I’ll go.” He reached for the blanket. She caught him. The warmth of her touch sent a wave of emotion to his chest.

  She studied his face then glanced at the bedside clock. “You look beat again. You don’t sleep but a couple of hours a night.”

  “Thanks to you,” he said.

  “How do I stop you from sleeping?” She moved her hand from his arm.

  “You don’t stop me. You help me.” He wished he hadn’t said that, because he could tell from her look that he would have to explain. “Since Keith’s death I haven’t slept worth a damn. I’d doze, but never really sleep until that night in your hotel.”

  “I put you to sleep.” Humor laced her voice. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”

  He grinned. “You do a hell of a lot more than put me to sleep.” Damn, even draped in Mickey Mouse flannel, she brought erotic images to his mind. More than that, she looked…right in his bed.

  She must have noticed him eyeing the pajamas. “Your sister loaned them to me.”

  He grinned. “You wore Mickey Mouse the first time I saw you.”

  “And I didn’t think men noticed a woman’s wardrobe,” she said.

  He grinned guiltily. “It was the ears.”

  “The ears?”

  “They jiggled.” He chuckled.

  “The ears?” Her eyes got wide. “Oh, you are terrible.” She gave his chest a thump and he caught her hand and held it against him.

  They just stared at each other. She finally spoke. “I accidently knocked over the files on your dresser. I noticed Stan’s name on it, and I leafed through it. I saw the photos of the band members.” She slipped her soft palm from under his.

  There were no secrets in the file, so he didn’t mind her seeing it. “Not exactly bedtime reading.”

  “It was awful. Did you actually see the bodies?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, but wanted the subject closed.

  She let go of a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “That you would have to look at that. No one should have to see that.”

  He stared into her beautiful eyes and realized for all the evil existing in this world, in her eyes was just the opposite. “Somebody has to deal with it.”

  “I guess.” Her words whispered over him, followed by the sweet brush of her fingers as she pushed his hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes and thought about those gentle fingers moving over other places. His body grew hard, then her hand pulled away, and he wanted to beg her to touch him again.

  “Anyone ever told you that you look like Burt Reynolds?”

  He looked at her. “Yeah. I’ve heard that once or twice.”

  She grinned and her smile was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Innocent like a child’s, yet sexy like a woman’s. And tonight it was the woman he needed.

  “My mom had a serious crush on Burt Reynolds.” Her voice came out wispy.

  “What about you? Does he do it for you?”

  Her smile quivered, her eyelids lowered. When they fluttered back up, he saw the answer in the warmth of her gaze. Brit knew he was a goner. And he’d never been happier.

  “He’s okay,” she teased.

  “Just okay?” He reached across and tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. Then he traced his finger down her neck. “You don’t find him just a little irresistible?”

  She moistened her lips. “I should let you sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.” He slid closer until his jeans-covered knee brushed up against flannel. If she’d flinched, given him one sign that she didn’t want this, he’d have backed off. “What do you want?” Her voice rang soft and willing.

  He moistened his lips. “This.”

  He tasted her mouth, ran his tongue across her bottom lip, telling himself he would stop after a kiss. It was the biggest bold-faced lie he’d ever told himself. But damn it, he wanted her. No, it went deeper than want. He needed her. Her touches, her smiles, her pleases, and thank yous.

  She suddenly jerked back and slapped her hand over her mouth. “Toothpaste!”

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “You taste like toothpaste.” She spit out the words from behind her hand, when she really wanted to spit. Then the humor of it hit.

  “You don’t like the taste of toothpaste?”

  She giggled and looked sexy as hell doing it.

  She moved her hand. “Please tell me you didn’t brush your teeth. I thought I hid it.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have a garbage can in your bathroom, so I hid it in the back of a drawer.”

  “Why would you hide my toothbrush?”

  She bit down on her lip. “Because you shouldn’t use that toothbrush. Ever. Never again.”

  He studied her. “Why?”

  “It…had a little accident and it went into the toilet.”

  “In the toilet?” He chuckled. “Well, lucky for you, I couldn’t find my toothbrush, but I had an extra one under the cabinet.” He paused and saw the devilish grin brightening her eyes. “How did my toothbrush end up in the toilet?”

  She made a funny face. “It was an accident and. .
.” She made another funny face and bit down on her lip.

  “And what?” He leaned in again.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. Rather too quickly and his suspicion rose.

  He started to question her, but his gaze fell back on her lips. And more than answers, he wanted to kiss her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. With both of them on their sides, the distance between them melted into a lover’s joining. Every part of her came against him. The kiss started light but deepened. Her tongue danced with his, slow, easy, just as their bodies had danced a few hours ago.

  Shifting his hand to the front, he released the second button on her pajama top. The back of his hand brushed over flannel-covered breasts. He slipped his hand up under her shirt and touched sweet orbs of flesh. His erection, almost painfully pressed against the crotch of his jeans.

  The feel of her budding nipple against his palm took him to the next level of hard. His hands started to shake with a sudden need to be there, to be on top of her, to have her nipple in his mouth, his hardness inside her.

  He pressed his leg between her thighs. Rolling her on her back, he rested on top of her. He shifted his hips against hers, and she met him in the age-old rhythm. They moved together, rocking against each other, but the clothes got in their way.

  Shifting slightly to the side, he reached down, found the elastic bottoms of her pants, and slipped his hand inside. Down past the flat abdomen, pass the soft patch of hair. No panties. His fingers found the wet lips of her sex and he heard her in inhale.

  Somewhere in his mind, he remembered her telling him she wouldn’t have sex. “Tell me to stop and I will.” He lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck, certain she wouldn’t call an end to this trip to heaven. He found the flutter of her pulse on her neck with his tongue. “One word and I’ll stop. Or not.”

  “I don’t want you to stop, but . . . we probably should.” She reached inside her pajama bottoms and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “I’m sorry.”