Roxann marveled at the man's ability to move from subject to subject seamlessly—as if neither one mattered more than the other. She inhaled deeply to calm her frustration. He'd love knowing he irritated her. "Can I have a restraining order issued on Cape?"
"Sure. We'll do it first thing in the morning. Then at least we'll be able to hold him for something if he comes near you again. And maybe by then we'll be able to tie him to the murder."
As much as she hoped that Frank Cape was guilty, the thought of him killing Carl to get back at her was nauseating. If the man was that crazy, then she was seriously glad she'd helped Melissa and her daughter get away from him. And even more disturbed that Nell would suggest that she appease the bully.
In an attempt to look somewhere other than Capistrano's bare chest, she glanced at the sound-muted television, surprised when a picture of Carl appeared over the shoulder of the newscaster. She dove for the remote next to Capistrano's leg and turned up the volume.
"—Seger was a theology professor at the University of Notre Dame, and a coach on the varsity soccer team. Fifty-two-year-old Seger was found dead in his home early this morning in a South Bend neighborhood, a few miles from campus. Police are releasing few details, but a source tells us that Seger, a bachelor and a deacon of the university church, was strangled by a woman's scarf. The mystery comes in the middle of the university's Homecoming activities, when the city's population increases by half. The police have questioned suspects, including some of Dr. Seger's former students, but an arrest has not yet been made. School officials will hold a memorial service for Dr. Seger next week."
She lowered the volume. "It still doesn't seem real."
"Much of life is like that," he said, then stretched tall in a yawn. "Do you want to hit the shower first, or should I?"
"Um, go ahead. I need to make a few phone calls."
He stood and gestured to his gun lying in a holster on the TV cabinet. "Do you know how to use old Pete here?"
She nodded. "I've been to the firing range a few times."
"The safety is on. Don't answer the door."
"Duh."
He moved his body like an animal, slow and measured, and sure of himself. Comfortable. Sexy. Male. The smooth skin of his wide back was broken by a four-inch-long scar, fully healed, but red and perhaps less than a year old. She was torn between asking its origin and not wanting him to know she noticed.
"Steak knife," he said, standing with his back to her.
"What?"
He turned. "The scar. I was stabbed with a steak knife by a woman trying to keep me from arresting her boyfriend who had just broken her jaw." His smile was wry. "My partner told me that's what I got for turning my back on a woman."
"Looks like it was a serious wound."
"Serious enough. Made me start appreciating the things that are important."
"Like?"
"Like family and friends and pistachio ice cream."
She relinquished a small smile. "You're lucky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to figure out what makes them happy." The voice of experience.
"I'm no expert," he said, folding thick arms over his chest, "but it seems to me that people complicate their lives either by trying to be something they're not, or by trying to fix things they can't."
I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
Some things just can't be fixed, Roxann, no matter how much glue you put on 'em.
She swallowed and gestured to the phone. "I really should make those calls."
He leaned over to pull off his boots and tall thick socks. She watched beneath her lashes, mesmerized. Bare feet were not typically the sexiest part of the body, but just the fact that she was seeing them reminded her of the intimacy of their sleeping arrangement. He rifled through a drawer and removed pale blue boxers, navy pajama pants, and a white T-shirt. He walked toward the bathroom, then stopped short of the door and grinned. "If you happen to change your mind—"
"I won't, Detective."
He sighed and disappeared behind the closed door. The water came on, then the shower, and she tried to think about something else. Oh, yes—the phone calls.
Not a pleasant task. First to her father, who would've probably heard about the murder by now. He had, and he was worried.
"Yes, Dad, Angora and I both know—knew—Dr. Seger. And we were both questioned because we saw him last night at a campus event." True enough. "The police haven't made any arrests yet."
"When are you coming back?" he asked, suddenly sounding old.
"Soon," she promised. "Angora had a gallbladder attack this morning and is in the hospital. She's having surgery tomorrow and we'll stay until she's able to travel, probably a few more days."
"Does Dixie know?"
"I thought I'd leave it up to Angora whether she wanted to contact her mother."
"I don't like the idea of you being there alone with a murderer on the loose."
"I'm not alone." She hesitated. "Officer Capistrano is...around."
"Oh. Well, I guess that makes me feel a little better."
The bathroom door opened and Capistrano yelled, "Roxann, can you hand me a bar of soap?" Then the door closed again.
She covered the mouth of the phone, sending curses through the wall.
"So you are seeing him?" her dad asked.
"No, I'm not seeing him. He just happens to be—never mind. One thing before I go, Dad." She took a deep breath. "Angora told me about Mother...that she didn't want custody of me when you divorced."
After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Dixie has a big mouth."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He sighed. "Your heart was already broken like that sad little teacup you carried around. I couldn't bear for you to know that your mother was so wrapped up in her new boyfriend that she didn't have time for you. After she died, well...what was the point?"
She blinked back tears and smiled into the phone, "Dad, when I get back, can we talk?"
"Sure. For as long as you want."
"Roxann?" bellowed Capistrano.
"I'll call you soon," she promised, then hung up and stalked to the closed door. "How dare you yell for me when I was on the phone! That was my father."
"Your father liked me." His voice was muffled, but amused.
"That was before he knew you were taking a shower within earshot of the phone I'm using."
The doorknob moved and she whirled, turning her back just as the door opened. Steam rolled out around her, but she stared stubbornly at the opposite wall.
"Soap?" he asked. "It's in my toiletry bag. You can get it, or I can."
"I'll get it," she snapped, then stalked over to his bag.
"Side pocket, green bar."
"I see it." A big block that smelled like pine needles. She backed up to the door, holding the soap behind her. "Here."
"Thanks," he said, then took the soap and closed the door.
She sighed and wiped her wet hand on her—no, his—sweatpants, feeling like an idiot. She had no business being attracted to Capistrano, not when so many other things demanded her concentration.
She called Nell's sister next, just to make sure she'd arrived safely. Nell was resting, her sister assured her. As was Chester, the one cat that Nell insisted on taking with her. At least she was safe, and there was one less person to worry about.
Roxann spotted Capistrano's file and shot a glance toward the bathroom. His electric razor was buzzing, so she had time for a peek. His handwriting was large, but neat—not surprising. Behind the first page was the police report of Carl's murder. Abbreviated and barely readable. Oct 18, 5:05 a.m. Wht Male found on floor of home libr, apparnt vic of strnglat. Wearing shrt, pants, one shoe. Grn woman's scrf arnd neck. Signs of rigor.
She swallowed hard and thumbed through the file, coming across a manila envelope marked "crime scene photos." Her heart raced, but she felt compelled to slide her finger under the flap. At least a dozen black-and-white photos slipped out into her hand. The firs
t was a wide-angle shot of the library and Carl's body lying on the floor near an ottoman, his limbs sprawled, his head at an odd angle, looking away from the camera. She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. He looked like a mannequin, a prop in a weekend murder-mystery game.
Another photo was taken standing over his body, this one clearly showing the scarf wrapped around his neck. Her scarf. Roxann gulped air.
Close-ups of different parts of his body and clothing—his hands, his feet, his shirt, his house shoes—one on, one off.
And then his face. Unrecognizable as the handsome, confident man she had known. He was cartoonish and swollen, his cheeks and forehead puffy. His head was turned to the left, his eyes slightly open. Just enough that if she looked hard enough, she could imagine their bright blue color. The photos slid from her fingers and bounced on the carpet. She choked on a sob.
"Hey, hey," Capistrano chided, his arms going around her from behind. "You shouldn't be looking at those."
She turned into his chest and nodded, inhaling a clean, evergreen scent. His skin was damp, and he wore only the pajama pants. She felt petite against his frame and safe in his arms. God, was it good to feel safe. Everything female in her reared its head, and her arms went around his neck. His kiss took ownership of her fear and anxiety, offering comfort and refuge in return. When she moaned into his mouth, he pulled her up and against him, deepening the kiss. But he let her take the lead, let her decide when and if the kiss would go from comforting to carnal. A few skipped heartbeats later, she lifted her leg and hooked it around the back of his knee—an unmistakable signal, she figured.
His hands moved down over her back and inside the baggy sweatpants to mold her into him. When he encountered the thong underwear, a groan of pure male appreciation moved through his body, and she laughed. He grinned and lifted her off the floor to set her on the edge of the bed. The outline of his arousal against the thin fabric of his pajamas sent moisture to her thighs.
He knelt before her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, with more intensity and a probing tongue that hinted of other intimacies. Her neck loosened and her bones turned elastic. She kneaded the skin on his shoulders and back, reveling in the solid maleness, the stability of his body.
"Let me see you," he murmured, his hands already undoing the ridiculous jacket she wore. She allowed her silence to be her acquiescence. The slide of the zipper sent chills over her shoulders. It would be good for them to get each other out of their systems, she decided. Good to get it over with so they could go their separate ways when this mess ended.
Her jacket fell to the floor, then the shirt of his she wore. He never took his eyes from her, drinking her in and smiling with pleasure. He kissed her neck and collarbone before wrapping his arms around her waist, nudging down the straps of the filmy white bra and kissing her breasts. His lovemaking had an edge, a restrained power that seemed instinctual to him. Even the guttural whispers and moans he breathed over her skin were animalistic. She had always presumed that big, macho men used their strength to threaten and intimidate—she'd certainly been exposed to enough of them through the Rescue program—but the detective's determined mouth pushed her closer to the edge than she'd imagined was possible while still wearing panties.
He certainly knew what he was doing, she noted as she gasped for air. But did she? He was so different from any man she'd been intimate with, she felt almost virginal. Maybe she should have given that making-love-to-a-man book a refresher read.
But once the underwear came off, it was amazing how quickly everything came back to her. In fact, things were going quite well until a knock sounded at the door.
Capistrano stopped what he was doing—much to her chagrin—and walked to the door, grabbing his gun on the way. There was something so...arresting about a naked man wielding a gun. She scrambled for something to cover up.
"Who's there?" Capistrano asked, pointing his weapon in the air.
"Officers Jaffey and Warner, Detective. Open up."
Capistrano mouthed a curse, lowered the gun, and retrieved his pajama bottoms from the floor. He waited until she was haphazardly clothed before he unlocked the door.
They charged past Capistrano into the room. "Roxann Beadleman, you're under arrest for the murder of Carl Seger."
Okay, so arresting had been an unfortunate word choice.
Chapter Twenty-five
IT HURT TO BREATHE. Angora pushed the nurses' call button several times in succession, but she knew they wouldn't come. They hated her. "Nurse!" she yelled, although it came out a hoarse whisper. "Nurse!"
The door to her private room opened, and Mike Brown peeked around the corner. She rolled her eyes—the man was undoubtedly the most annoying little boy she'd ever met. And although she was grateful for his legal advice, the hayseed act was wearing a bit thin. She'd heard more about running a "soybean-slash-corn" farm than she ever wanted to know. Tractors. Tillers. Pickers. Plows. Ugh.
"I brought you magazines," he said, holding up a bulging plastic bag.
She gave him a begrudged smile—she had requested magazines, after all. "Thanks."
He walked in, wearing overalls of all things. And not Tommy Hilfiger. "Progressive Farmer," he said, plopping the bag down on the bed next to her. "I had a year's worth saved up."
"Er, thanks."
"Is there anything else I can get for you? I have to go home for the evening milking, so I can't stay long." His baby fat made him look young and shiny. "But I'll be back tomorrow."
She batted her lashes. "Can you find a nurse to add painkiller to my IV so I can get some sleep tonight?"
He dimpled. "I'll see what I can do." He left the room, landing heavily on his workbooted feet.
Laying her head back, she stared at the ceiling tiles and wondered what Trenton was doing and if he'd heard of her major illness. If she'd known how much attention a hospital stay would get her, she would've landed this gig sooner. A gallbladder was a small price to pay to have rattled even Dee, who had sounded almost motherly on the phone when she'd called to break the grim news about the operation she needed. And the secondary infection she'd contracted was a bonus. "Complications," her chart read. It had at least kept the police at bay, and the get-well bouquets coming—from her parents, her former boss at the art museum, Mike Brown, and Roxann.
Roxann. She sighed, This entire situation surrounding Carl's death was a big fat mess. At least the bruises were fading. She wanted to act as if it hadn't even happened, and Mike was eager to go along. He'd had her tested by a sandal-wearing talk-doctor from the university and seemed satisfied with whatever the woman had told him. She, on the other hand, found it hard to put faith in a woman who didn't shave her legs.
But back to Carl—the perv deserved it, she'd decided. Maybe a few female students would be spared her humiliation and heartache. The universe was in balance, as far as she was concerned.
She heard footsteps, which gave her just enough time to fan her hair out on the pillow. But it was only Mike, smiling and mopping at his forehead, which was perpetually moist. "You're not due another painkiller for two hours, Angora."
"That's unacceptable," she croaked, clutching at her midsection. He disappeared again, then returned in a few minutes. "One hour. I made the nurse promise she'd give you another in one hour."
She smiled prettily. "Thank you."
His eyes shone. "You're welcome."
"Is the guard still at my door?"
"Yes, but he said he hadn't seen anyone who matched the description of the Cape fellow that your cousin is so worried about."
A commotion sounded in the hall, and they exchanged wide-eyed glances. Angora hunkered against her pillow and Mike armed himself at the door with a vase of roses.
"No, get the one with the carnations in it," she hissed.
He switched the vases, then stood poised in the doorway to wallop the bad guy. The handle turned and he pulled back, coming close to whopping Dee in the mouth.
"Mother!" she whis
pered, truly surprised. She held out her arms weakly, but didn't lift her head because it was more pitiful, and she didn't want to mess up her hair.
Dee glared at Mike and his weapon, then swept into the room. "Darling, your father and I came as soon as our tennis tournament ended."
Angora conjured up a weak smile. "You shouldn't have come all this way just to see me."
"And why not?" her father boomed, then shot a pointed glance toward Dee. "We should have been here sooner."
"Why is there a guard outside your door?" Dee asked.
"Um, it's a long story."
Her mother pursed her heavily coated mouth. "Make it short."
Angora's mind raced furiously. "Well...there is a murderer on the loose."
"Of that professor you told me about on the phone."
"Right. I, um, bid for a date with him at a charity b-bachelor auction."
Disapproval darkened Dee's eyes.
"So I was...the last person to see him alive—other than the person who killed him, of course." There.
Her mother's eyes flew wide. "You're in danger?"
She sighed dramatically. "The police seem to think so."
"Honey," her father said, leaning into her. "We had no idea."
"I didn't want to alarm you."
Dee's eyes narrowed. "Your cousin has something to do with this, doesn't she?"
She lifted her chin. "The world doesn't revolve around Roxann, Mother. And I'm feeling fine, thanks for asking." She manufactured a little cough, which really did hurt, and lolled her head to the side. "I'm having complications, you know."
"When can we take you home?" her father asked.
"The doctors haven't told me when they're planning to release me—those complications are really complicating matters."
"Will you have an ugly scar?" Dee asked.
Of course that would be high on her mother's list. "I don't know."
Dee sighed. "Well, with those hips, you're past wearing a bikini anyway." Her mother hefted her Donna Karan purse onto the bed, sending a tremor throughout the mattress.
Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries) Page 75