by M K Scott
The man stretched out on her topmost floor stood between her and her vision. Panic overwhelmed her hard-earned calm perfected during a two-year stint in the emergency room that most beginning nurses endured before working their way up to the more coveted floors. Her current job, on the post-op floor, she’d eyed years ago thinking it would be a plum assignment until she acquired it. Whatever could go wrong after surgery from infections to cardiac arrest often did. Her phone sat useless in her purse two floors away. Unfortunately, she’d dealt with her share of dead bodies and recognized the signs mentally screaming, No! Not here, not now.
She’d inhaled deeply, realizing death was never part of anyone’s plan. Maybe he was just sleeping. Yes, that must be it. The hand of fate that had grabbed hold of her secret fantasy of opening a bed and breakfast let up a bit. Sleeping vagrant, while not good, was something she could handle. She hadn’t earned the unflattering nickname of Sergeant Abrupt for her gentle and soft manner. She’d placed her coffee and recorder on the wide windowsill.
The toe of her pink boot nudged him, not hard, just a gentle push, enough to get most people’s attention, but not his. Her position allowed her to examine his clothes. Expensive name brands and a Rolex watch caught her eye. A number of the doctors sported similar watches. She had heard a co-worker mention that Rolexes could cost as much as a car or even a modest house down payment. Weird that such a man would stumble into her place for a nap. Drunk. Great. Still had to get him out. Kneeling, she’d shaken his shoulder, rolling his head side to side, but received no response.
Her index and middle fingers automatically measured his pulse while she looked at her watch. No pulse. Training had kicked in as she rolled him to his back and checked his airway. Clear. Her hands pushed down on his chest in a familiar CPR rhythm. She cursed her inability to call for help. Why had she decided to go into the house before Daniel arrived?
The pale white face and slack jaw told her what she already knew. The man was dead. She’d galloped down the stairs, taking three or four at a time, slipping once or twice. A grab for the banister had saved her from tumbling all the way down. She’d called 911 and her usual calmness she prided herself on had vanished.
“Dead man. Stranger. My house. Come quick.” The operator made her repeat the address twice. The police came and ushered her out to the sidewalk while her purse, phone and keys had remained inside.
The moment she touched his wrist forced its way back into her mind. Even though she turned on the electricity for the home inspector, she hadn’t cranked up the furnace. It wouldn’t make sense trying to keep the uninhabited place warm. His skin wasn’t cold to the touch, meaning he hadn’t been dead long. Would they lift any fingerprints besides hers from the body?
The red and white ambulance moved away slowly. No reason to hurry since the man had expired almost two hours before, according to the medical examiner. The detective’s voice broke into her mental review.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head. Care to share?”
“Glad to. Could we sit somewhere?” Far from glad, but lawyering up would make her appear guilty. Besides, innocent people didn’t need lawyers, did they?
Chapter Two
The detective placed a hand on her elbow and guided her to a non-descript sedan. The male hand on her arm was about as close to a date as she’d had in the last three years. Odd thought to have when a murdered man had just been removed from her future inn.
He opened the passenger door, releasing the odor of stale smoke. Donna balked at the scent. It would be like sitting in an ashtray. Why did she want to sit again? Oh, yeah, the realization that the murderer may have still been in the house when she entered. Her top teeth clamped on her bottom lip as she slid into the seat. Taber moved to close the door, but she put out a flat palm to stop the swing. “I’d like it open.”
The eyebrows moved again, questioning her actions, but he left the door open as he moved to the driver’s side. Daniel followed them and stood about six feet from the car. Close enough to keep her in view, but not close enough to attract the detective’s ire.
Taber slammed his door, evidently having no issue with the cigarette stench. He was probably immune to it after smoking for years.
“Sorry for the smoke smell. Don’t usually have people in my car.”
“I understand.” She mumbled the words as her bottom shifted on the textured upholstery, uncomfortable with her reason for sitting in a police car. Make that a detective’s car.
“You thought of something, back there on the grass. I saw it on your face.” The detective’s words sounded so normal, a simple comment her brother might have made.
“I did. Yep, I’ve been told I’d never make a good poker player or criminal.” She added the last part for good measure, just in case, even though his actions didn’t resemble any police dramas she’d watched. No roughing her up or getting her to drink huge amount of liquids and then denying her the right to the restroom.
The scent of coffee penetrated the smoke scent as Taber opened up a thermos and poured the fragrant liquid into the plastic lid. He held it out to her.
His thermos, his cup, which his lips touched, maybe recently. No telling how much bacteria danced on the rim of the cup. Still, it was coffee. Her right hand wrapped around the warm cup, bringing it up to her lips for a large gulp. Black, not unexpected, but strangely sweet. The detective went heavy on the sugar.
“Ahh.” The deep, appreciative sigh acknowledged that java was her drug of choice. She even forgave him his nasty habit of smoking, probably brought on by seeing the worst of human nature. She took another appreciative sip before handing it back to Taber, who drank after her, not even bothering to wipe the rim of the cup. Her earlier charitable thought died a quick death at the man’s stupidity. She could have a communicable disease. Her inner tirade came to an abrupt halt when she realized she had done the very same thing. Still, that was different; stress from finding a murdered guy caused her to shortly abandon her hygienic principles.
She watched the detective with half-hooded eyes as he finished the cup with two gulps, wondering if that was the last of the coffee. As if hearing her thoughts, he tilted the thermos, allowing the brown liquid to splash into the cup, tantalizing her. Instead of offering it, he held it close to his torso.
“Tell me what you’re thinking first. Then coffee.”
Oh my goodness, he was as devious as the television actors were. She swallowed hard. Her intentions were to tell him anyhow, but she didn’t like being manipulated. A slight sniff clearly announced how she felt about his actions. “I told you I took his pulse. The man was cool, not cold. I’ve taken pulses on colder, living people. He also had on a Rolex.”
“Good information. Excellent observation on the watch.” He moved the cup away from his chest, but kept his fingers on it as her fingers touched the plastic exterior. “There’s more.”
His grip held firm on the cup. Her fingers crowded his, trying to find purchase. Her eyes met his over the steaming brew. “Coffee first.” Her words were low and delivered in an ominous tone that usually had student nurses scrambling.
Taber laughed and loosened his fingers. “Okay. Remind me to never get between you and your caffeine. I may have encountered someone worse than me. No wonder you were so anxious to get your abandoned coffee from inside.”
Donna gulped the brew, half ignoring his comments. Sure, she liked coffee, who didn’t? The coffee flowed down her throat and into her body, thawing out portions that had frozen at the sight of the dead man. She’d have to talk eventually and if any danger existed with a murderer lurking nearby, the detective would simply eliminate it and put things back to the way they used to be.
Her lips tilted up in an appreciative smile as she handed the empty cup back.
He peered inside the cup, looking for leftover coffee and then he whistled. “Definitely a coffee hound. You wanted to tell me what?”
The prompt, she recognized it. “I didn’t know the man was murdered.
Didn’t know he was dead until I took his pulse.”
She stopped, wondering how to frame her words. Taber motioned with his hand for her to continue. “At first, I thought it was a rat, a large one. I could hear the floorboards squeak the way they do when something or someone steps on them. Since I was cataloguing what I needed to do to the house, I was talking as I went up the stairs. Whoever was there could have just completed the murder and left minutes before the police arrived.”
Taber’s hazel eyes flicked over her shoulders to the house. He grabbed his cell phone and hit a number. “Taber here, home owner has reason to believe perp was in home when she arrived. Check back entrance for footprints.”
He listened to whoever was at the other end. He grunted his agreement a few times, but then added, “No, no I don’t think so. Not the hysterical type at all. I believe her.”
It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination for her to realize she was the topic of conversation. He believed her. He didn’t think she was a hysterical female. Of course, she wasn’t. Her appreciation for the man grew. It took some doctors months to get to that point. Others never did. Pompous fools. Her eyes moved over him as he spoke. He had a grizzled, weathered look. His thick hair, liberally laced with silver, had appeal but her eyes drifted to the overflowing ashtray. Smoking cancelled it all out.
Flopping back into her seat, she tabled her observation. Too much was happening for her to develop an inappropriate attraction to a man who offered her coffee. He could be married. No wedding ring on his left hand, but the lack of ring didn’t necessarily equal no commitment. In the end, there could be nothing between them, anyway. Romance had given her the boot long ago. Certain women ended up in happily-ever-after tales with the mandatory one child of each gender, complete with a minivan and the annual pilgrimage to Disney World. Her lips twisted to one side as she considered the path she hadn’t traveled. Not her rodeo and much too late to get a ticket.
While they sat there, more neighbors had emerged from their houses. What she assumed was decorum turned out to be a reluctance for frostbite since they took the time to dress for the weather. A handsome male couple, dressed in coordinating sweats, casually sauntered by, pretending to walk their pet, a standard size poodle. The dog pulled constantly on the leash, showing its impatience at the leisurely pace.
Two children spilled out of a nearby house, clutching baseball mitts with their father following behind them attired in a sweatshirt, ball cap, plaid pajama pants and slippers. He took his position facing her inn while tossing the ball. His children missed catching the easy lobs that arced high in the air waiting for the child to center underneath it. The car clock registered 8:15. Yeah, most men would be outside on a frosty Sunday morning to play catch with the kids. Her snort emphasized her disbelief. The returned ball bounced off the man’s mitt, hitting him in the face. Looked like no one in the family was athletically inclined, making her wonder why they bought the mitts in the first place.
Taber pocketed his cell phone, glanced out the window, before pointing to Daniel. Is he your husband or boyfriend?”
A tired laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t the first time someone had made the same assumption. It confirmed her belief that they looked nothing alike. People never assumed they were siblings. He’d be the prince in a fairy tale while she’d be the sister of an ogre since she topped five nine easily. “No, that’s my brother. I asked him to meet me here.”
“Oh, I guess that explains why he looks so worried.”
Worried? Daniel? The way he rocked side to side, varying his weight on each foot, did suggest anxiety, unlike his usual all-is-right-with-the-world mien. Of course, all wasn’t right with the world, at least not hers.
“Yeah, I was wondering how soon we could get this tied up. Daniel and I were going to go over the house and…” The detective’s long whistle interrupted her question.
“You are one cool cucumber. You’re going back into the house after finding a dead man?”
Was this a trick question? She sucked her lips in, wondering if there was a correct answer. “Yes, today is my day off and I need to decide what needs to be done to order materials.”
He shook his head slowly side to side in disbelief. “Donna,” he said, then stopped and arched his eyebrows. “May I call you that?”
It seemed like a moot point since he already had. “Yes.” Her glance swept downward to her fingers woven together. Their tight hold confirmed her mental state.
“Most women would be in hysterics by now.”
A possible lecture on the fragility of the fair sex took form as the dashboard clock ticked off the seconds. It wouldn’t be her first, but she could skip this one. “Please, this isn’t the 1960s. Women aren’t delicate creatures. Many are doing the same jobs as men. I imagine you even have female co-workers.”
The detective stopped whatever he was going to say. He retrieved the coffee cup and screwed the lid back on the thermos while muttering in a sotto tone. “None as tough as you.”
Not sure if the words were supposed to be a compliment, she chose to take them that way. Her shoulders went back as she pasted her I Will Not Be Moved expression on her face. Her babe days were over, although she wasn’t overly certain she’d ever had any. Any phrase that pointed out her strength, intelligence, calmness in the face of adversity and even rightness, she’d take.
“Can I get back in? Half my morning is already gone. I have things to do.”
The detective’s lips twisted to one side as his brow bunched then smoothed, as thoughts chased across his face. To think he called her transparent, when his emotions broadcasted as clear as a flashing beacon. “Ah.” He opened his mouth wide, holding the one word as if warming up for a choral performance.
The urge to tell him to get on with it was overwhelming. She barely managed to keep it behind her teeth. Her lack of theatrics could somehow incriminate her. Nah, it didn’t make sense since she’d never met the man stretched out in the bird aerie, the name she’d given that room. Each room had a name. Of course, now it might be renamed murder site or dead man hideaway. The possibility of her rooms needing renaming caused her to shake her head violently in denial.
“Hey, you don’t even know what I was going to say. No reason for you to be shaking your head at me,” Taber complained, pulling out his pack of smokes. Noticing Donna’s attention, his long fingers carefully turned the box over, but returned it to his pocket.
The uniformed police officers gathered outside her house. Another cop walked toward the huddled group with a long flat box with the familiar colors of a popular donut shop. Seriously, donuts? Could they be any more stereotypical? Worse, if they brought breakfast, then they weren’t leaving soon. The town’s finest resembled a blue blot on her frosted lawn, a cancerous tumor signaling the demise of her modest dream.
“It’s not what you were going to say. It’s all this.” She flung her arm out the door, indicating the whole assembly of people, including her nosy neighbors. “How can I ever expect to open a bed and breakfast with all this notoriety attached to it?”
“Is that all?” His bent index finger rubbed the line at the bridge of his nose.
The incredulousness in his voice indicated his ignorance of B and B ambiance. People wanted comfort, indulgence, something different from their normal routine. No one ever mentioned going to a murder scene. Donna’s nose wrinkled as she scented something repugnant beside the stale smoke. Oh yeah, there were people who flocked to murder scenes, but they were not the types to pay $160 a night for a room in a restored Victorian.
“Yes, it is. Considering my entire premise of opening a B and B involved paying customers. It’s not enough that people drive by it slowly to gawk.”
His closed eyes made her doubt he’d even heard her. His eyelids shot up as he pinned her with a direct gaze and held out his index finger while folding the other three down. “It may not be as bad as you think. My sister is into these legends and ghost stories and travels the country to stay in some iffy p
laces just because she heard some contrived story. You could make up some story about a ghost inhabiting your house. It’s bound to draw folks. Tack on a disclaimer that the story may not be true; it’s just what you heard.”
The idea had merit, although she couldn’t say she’d ever wanted to stay anywhere haunted. “Did your sister ever see a ghost?
“No, much to her disappointment. She tried to convince me that strange things happened on her last trip. Things moved around. The items were not in the place she put them, but my sister has a lifelong habit of losing stuff. Not exactly convincing evidence.”
“No reason to call out the ghost hunters then.” She readily agreed, discounting the allure of having her own ghost. “Besides, people like romantic ghosts. Maybe a jilted lover who waited on her beloved to return or threw herself off the widow walk when he didn’t.”
“Yeah, that sounds real pleasant, better than some unknown rich dude killed in an abandoned house.” His crow’s feet showed in the early morning light as he grinned at her. Macabre humor, but probably par for the course in his line of work.
“Yes, it does. Most of the ghost stories are probably not true. People can accept a melancholy spirit, but don’t want a spectral mass murderer hovering over them as they sleep.” The ghost angle lost more and more appeal the more she examined it. Not the type of tidbit you’d type up in a brochure, along with clawfoot tubs and period-accurate furnishings.