“And?”
“And I found her lying in front of the breakfront.” Boone wiped a tear from his eye. “She was barefoot and wearing a robe that had fallen open. She didn’t have anything on underneath, and at first I thought she had been looking for her inhaler and passed out, since I knew she kept her spares in the drawer of that cabinet. But when I knelt down next to her, I noticed the blood on the floor and saw that there was a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.”
“Did you call the police immediately?” I asked, afraid I already knew the answer. “I mean, as soon as you saw the bullet wound.”
“First I checked to see if she was still alive,” Boone answered.
“So you touched her?” I said almost to myself. That wouldn’t be good.
“Just her neck,” Boone explained. “I was looking for a pulse.”
“Was the gun there?” I latched on to the one thing I thought might clear him, since his fingerprints wouldn’t be on it.
“No.”
“What do the cops think you did with the weapon?” I asked, figuring they had to have some theory or we wouldn’t be sitting here.
“According to them, I hid it somewhere before I called nine-one-one.”
“Great.” I checked my watch. We were running out of time, so I asked the most important question I could think of. “Why did you want to talk to me? Shouldn’t you have requested a lawyer?”
Before Boone could answer, the door to the interrogation room swung open. Chief Kincaid marched in and stood behind Boone.
“Your five minutes are up,” he said to me as he put his hand on Boone’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Time to go, St. Onge.”
As Boone was being led away, he said in a rush, “Dev, you solved Joelle’s murder; I need you to figure out who killed Elise.”
I ran after him, but an officer blocked the hallway, so I shouted, “Should I call a lawyer or your folks?”
“My attorney, Tryg Pryce, is on his way from Chicago. Get in touch with him,” Boone yelled back. “But if you could tell my parents before they hear it from someone else, I’d appreciate it.”
Damn! Boone’s folks hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years. Even though they were still married and lived in the same house, they communicated only through notes. Talking to them was never easy, and conveying this kind of news would be really tough.
Boone had disappeared into the jail wing of the police station, so there was nothing left for me to do except find Poppy and leave. Hey. I brightened. So far, I’d done all the heavy lifting. It was Poppy’s turn. She could break the news to the St. Onges.
Poppy didn’t believe me when I said that her father had let me talk to Boone because he loved her. She did agree it had been a concession on his part, so she promised not to do something outrageous just to embarrass him. At least, she promised once I emphasized how much her behavior could hurt Boone.
She also weaseled out of telling the St. Onges. Poppy argued that it was nearly one a.m. so they’d be asleep, and waking them up when they couldn’t do anything to help Boone would be cruel. Instead, she talked me into meeting her at their house at eight the next morning. We both agreed that even if they weren’t early risers, we couldn’t wait any longer than that, or else one of the town gossips would get to them first.
Before crawling into bed, I set my alarm for six a.m. There was no way I was facing Boone’s folks on an empty stomach—or without a shower and some makeup. Four hours later, when the radio announcer’s chipper voice woke me from an uneasy sleep, I reconsidered my need for food and tried to convince myself that untamed curls and under-eye circles were currently in fashion.
After a couple hits on the snooze button, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I hoped hot water and expensive concealer would compensate for lack of sleep. Thirty-five minutes later, not entirely convinced that either had been successful, I put on a pair of khakis and a black silk sweater. Then, bracing myself for Gran’s cross-examination, I headed in to breakfast.
As I entered the kitchen and said good morning, Gran turned from the stove and waved a spatula in my direction. “What are you doing up so early on a Sunday? Don’t tell me my prayers have been answered and you’re finally going to church with me.” She shook her head. “No. That can’t be it. I haven’t seen any signs of the apocalypse or the Second Coming.”
Instead of responding, I studied Gran’s latest outfit—a dress straight out of the 1950s. It was a Wedgwood-blue wool crepe with a narrow skirt and a boat neckline. Completing her outfit were navy leather Cuban-heeled pumps and a cloche. Because she was on her way to eight o’clock Mass and didn’t want to splatter her outfit while cooking, she also had on a red-and-white-checkered bib apron.
Finally I said, “Sorry, no church today.” I hadn’t been to services in twelve years. I figured if God had forsaken my family, then I wasn’t visiting him. “I’m still waiting for a sign that He wants me back.”
“So why are you up?” Gran squinted at me. “Not to mention wearing something other than jeans.” She put her hand to her chest. “And, sweet Jesus, you have on uh . . .” She pointed to her face.
“Makeup,” I supplied. The doctor had said it was best to provide the word she couldn’t recall rather than let her become stressed trying to come up with it. What I couldn’t understand, and the gerontologist hadn’t been able to explain, was how she could come up with a less-used word like apocalypse but not an everyday word like makeup.
“Right.” She nodded. “You have on makeup for the second day in a row.”
As I explained about Boone, I kept a wary eye on Gran’s cat, Banshee. He was in his usual mealtime spot, perched on top of the fridge. He liked to skulk in the shadows just below the cupboard, then launch himself onto my head as I walked by and dig his claws into my scalp. Gran claimed that it was his way of showing affection, but Banshee and I both knew he hated my guts.
While Gran added bacon to the pan and poured more pancake batter on the griddle, she said, “Eldridge Kincaid’s slinky has always been a little kinked, but for him to think that that sweet boy had anything to do with killing that woman is outlandish.”
“Definitely.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, added skim milk and fake sugar, then sat down at the table. “Chief Kincaid must have lost it.”
“And the reason he thinks Boone killed her is really ridiculous.”
“Oh.” I took a sip from my mug. “Really? I read somewhere that a love affair gone bad is among the top ten causes for murder.”
“Maybe so.” Gran slid a steaming plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “But Boone wouldn’t be having an affair with that woman.”
“And how do you know that?” I asked. Considering that he was my best friend and I wasn’t sure which sex he preferred, I wondered if Gran knew something I didn’t. Or was she jumping to conclusions?
“Because he wouldn’t be that unprofessional.” Gran put her own dish on the table and joined me. “Boone has wanted to be a lawyer since he was in diapers. That boy would never risk being, uh . . .”
“Disbarred?”
“Right.”
I nodded my agreement, then poured syrup over my pancakes and inhaled the rich maple scent. Before taking my first bite, I said, “I hope the attorney Boone hired from Chicago made it here, and Mr. Pryce can at least get him released on bail. Although I bet if he can, he’ll have to wait until Monday when the courts open, which isn’t good. Boone won’t handle being in jail very well. You should have seen how beaten-down he looked last night.”
“I can imagine.” Gran picked up a slice of bacon and examined it. “He always hated getting dirty.” She crunched the crispy strip. “And he purely cannot abide having his hair messed up.”
Since neither of us could think of anything more to say on the matter of Boone’s arrest, Gran asked me about my evening with Noah. I assured her that I had gotten what I wanted—a new business contact and big fat order. She seemed really happy th
at I’d had to leave Noah early, even if it meant my friend was in trouble.
As Gran gathered up our dirty plates and took them to the sink, she said, “I just hope you won’t be fooled by Noah’s charm.”
“Of course not.” I deposited the butter and syrup inside the refrigerator door. I crossed my fingers. “I’m only interested in Noah as a friend.”
“Right.” Gran’s tone was skeptical. “And I have an arch in St. Louis I can sell you.”
“It’s the truth,” I protested, backing out of the room so I could stop lying to my grandmother. “I just want to bury the hatchet and be pals again.”
“In that case”—she nodded to the table where I had laid my cell—“you better not answer your phone.”
I glanced down. Noah’s name was glowing in the center of the little window and my cell was vibrating. As per Chief Kincaid’s rules, I had turned off the ringer when I was in the police station the night before and had never turned the sound back on.
Stepping toward the table, I said, “I’ll take this in my room.”
Gran frowned. “Don’t answer it. Maybe he’ll go away.”
“I need to thank him for introducing me to his friend.” It was a good thing she didn’t know that my heart was beating faster and a little zing was buzzing up my spine at the memory of our dancing together.
“Leave the phone there and step away.” Gran made a grab for the cell.
Snatching up the tiny rectangle just before her fingers closed around it, I scooted backward and hurried out of the kitchen, saying over my shoulder, “Just this one time.”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
Noah had slept poorly, tossing and turning and trying to find a comfortable spot. Which should have been a damn sight easier to do, considering the Tempur-Pedic mattress and ridiculously expensive sheets the decorator had insisted he needed in order to get a good night’s rest. Too bad the woman hadn’t factored in the thoughts of Dev that had kept him awake. He’d alternated between staring at the ceiling and watching the numbers change on his bedside clock. By six a.m. he was already dressed in his workout clothes and lifting weights. At this rate, he’d be muscle-bound by summer.
According to the radio announcer, today would be bright and shiny—a promise that springtime was around the corner. The cold, rain, and snow they’d been having during all of March made people think nicer weather would never arrive. During the last few weeks, the Underwood clinic had been filled with patients fighting colds, flu, and pneumonia.
Not that the below-average temperatures caused these illnesses, but Noah believed that the seasonal depression that so many Shadow Benders were feeling was negatively affecting their health. Maybe the improved forecast would lift everyone’s spirits. The medication and care that he provided could do only so much; the rest depended on the person’s attitude, lifestyle, and emotional state.
The good weather forecast had momentarily improved Noah’s mood, but as he worked out, he returned to brooding about Dev’s actions the night before. One minute she was laughing and joking with him, and the next minute she was gone. He felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.
Having Dev in his arms on the dance floor had been incredible. During their long years apart, he’d forgotten how soft she was, and when her curves pressed against him, it had made him want to find the nearest bedroom. He’d envisioned stripping off her pretty dress, arranging her gorgeous hair around her shoulders, and making love to her all night long. The last thing he wanted to do was stop dancing, but he knew he had to release her and put some distance between them before he lost all control.
Then, later, when they were lining up the items for the auction, it had seemed like old times. It had made him think back to all the high school events they’d planned and put on together—the play rehearsals, pep rallies, and homecomings that had marked their time as a couple.
So why had Dev run away? What kind of emergency could she have had? It couldn’t be a medical one. As soon as he’d received her message, Noah had called the hospital. And with the nearest urgent-care clinic sixty miles away, the county emergency room was the only choice the locals had for after-hours illnesses and accidents.
The ER clerk had told Noah that there hadn’t been any sign of Birdie Sinclair, Boone St. Onge, or Poppy Kincaid. And Noah knew Dev had no other family or close friends in town. At a loss for what else could have happened, he had tried to phone her, but, as usual, the call went to her voice mail.
At the sound of her recorded message, a weight had settled on his chest. Was she avoiding him again? Maybe as soon as she’d gotten the basket order from Oakley, she had called someone to pick her up. Had she really just been using him?
With a sinking feeling, Noah had decided that was it. She’d gotten the business contact she wanted and disappeared. He couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t as if she’d pretended she was going out with him for any other reason. Still, it hurt.
The dance had been nearly over when he’d learned she’d left, and Noah had been able to leave soon afterward. Zizi and Winnie had given him sympathetic looks as he said his good-byes, but no one else seemed to notice that he’d been dumped. No one, that is, except the redhead who’d begged for a lift home. She’d claimed that her date was drunk and she was afraid to get in a car with him.
There was no way to turn down her request without being a jerk. Too bad the woman had thrown a fit when Noah dropped her off and refused to go inside with her. Her cursing would have made a rapper blush.
It had been tough enough listening to the woman’s mindless chatter on the ten-minute trip from the country club to her house without dealing with her comments about his manhood—or lack thereof. Especially when all he could think about was Dev.
It had been even tougher ignoring the voice inside his head that insisted he drive to Dev’s house, pound on the door until she opened it, and demand to know why she’d taken off without an explanation. He wanted to tell her how much he still cared for her. How much he’d missed her the past thirteen years. And how much he wanted them to try again.
Intellectually, he knew it was better to cool off before he spoke to Dev, so he could maintain his image as the imperturbable physician. But in his heart, he was tempted to do something so out of character that she’d have to take notice. In the end, he’d chickened out. Years of acting like the responsible and unemotional town doctor had been too much to overcome.
Even as Noah had made the decision not to confront Dev, he’d berated himself for being such a wuss. If he didn’t show her that he’d changed, he would never get her back. Since he’d broken up with her in high school, relationships had never worked for him.
One reason for their failure was his detachment. In the past, he hadn’t cared when the women he dated called him cold and distant. But he knew that the only way to win Dev’s heart was to show the emotion he tended to keep hidden. The big question was, could he do it?
On the drive home, Noah had nearly managed to convince himself that he had done the right thing in waiting to contact Dev until the next day. That is, until he’d noticed her scarf stuck between the passenger seat and the console. As he’d picked it up, he’d caught a whiff of her perfume. It was the same one she’d used in high school, Chanel’s Cristalle. Its crisp yet sweet scent brought his desire for her rushing back.
When Noah had slammed through his front door a few minutes later, Lucky had been waiting for him in the foyer. But Noah’s body language must have scared the little dog, because instead of his usual barking and tail-wagging greeting, the Chihuahua had cocked his head, then almost sighed and silently led Noah into the bedroom.
Now, while Noah finished up his last set of lifts and headed to the kitchen for breakfast, Lucky followed him. The dog had already had his morning constitutional, but sat patiently waiting for Noah to dish out his canned food and fill his water bowl.
Once Noah had fed Lucky, started the coffeemaker, and turned on the radio, he grabbed the box of Cocoa Puffs from his cupboar
d. As a child, his mother had never allowed sugary cereals in their house, and Noah’s loathing for dry, nutritional twigs and flakes hadn’t abated in the years he’d been on his own. This was his secret indulgence and he wasn’t giving it up any time soon.
While he ate, Noah flipped through the Sunday paper. The local news would be on in ten minutes. He opened the comics section, but as he tried to find humor in the cartoon strips, the radio played Freddy Fender singing about some woman making him blue, and Noah crumpled up the funnies and threw them across the room.
Lucky, thinking it was a game, ran over to the corner, fetched the paper ball, and laid it at Noah’s feet. When his master didn’t immediately respond, the Chihuahua nudged the ball closer and whimpered.
Glancing at the little dog, Noah patted his head and said absently, “Good boy.”
Lucky quivered with happiness.
“Hey, if you weren’t fixed and you wanted to get a girl dog to like you, what would you do?”
The Chihuahua barked.
“So you think I should talk to her.” Noah took a drink from his mug. “But what if she refuses to talk to me? In fact, what if she runs away?”
Lucky moved closer to Noah, leaned against his leg, and barked again.
“I should be persistent?” Noah reached down and scratched the dog behind his ears, then straightened and took another thoughtful sip of coffee.
The Chihuahua’s expression was mournful, and he leapt up on Noah’s lap.
“I shouldn’t let her avoid me.” Noah quirked his mouth. “I figured as much.”
The dog exhaled noisily.
“But if she doesn’t want to see me, maybe I should honor her wishes.” Noah’s tone was stubborn. “After all, I’ve showed her I’m interested. If she’s not, maybe I should just back off and leave her alone.”
Lucky yipped, jumped to the floor, and sat facing away from Noah.
“Okay.” Noah thought back to the good parts of the previous evening. “You’re right. I should try at least once more. She probably still doesn’t trust me, considering the way things ended last time.”
Nickeled and Dimed to Death Page 6