Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1)

by Gina LaManna

  "I'm going to walk home." I pushed the door open and slammed it violently.

  "Wait, Misty," Donna called. "Let me drive you home. Of course you didn't do it. Jax is just trying to do his job."

  "He's doing a great job of it. No bias whatsoever—it's like I'm a stranger." I wished immediately I could take back my short words, but I was drunk and tired and crabby and angsty and stressed and a bazillion other things, and Jax's pause had been the final straw.

  "Mist…" Donna stopped walking. "Please don't go. Don't run away again. You just got back."

  I turned around and slowed to a stop. "I'm sorry, Donna. I really appreciate everything you've done for me—coming with me tonight, offering to help. I'm going to figure this out. I'm not gonna run away."

  She smiled. "Good. I'm here if you need."

  I gave her a smile. "I'm going to walk home though. I need some air."

  "No problem. Call if you need."

  "I will." I gave her a quick wave but I didn't tell her two important details. The first, I didn't have a phone. My cell had been shut off courtesy of overdue payments after my money disappeared into the studio.

  The second problem was that I couldn't promise not to run away. I'd been running most of my adult life, and it was the easiest solution. It'd helped me avoid plenty of problems thus far. I was invested in Little Lake only because of my studio. And my family. But if the studio didn't work out…how on earth could I afford to stay in Little Lake?

  I kicked the dirt on the side of the road as I walked. I only had a mile or so to go, and it was a pleasant fall night. The evening had been gorgeous and cool, the leaves changing into beautiful golden shades and pumpkin orange colors. The scent of mulled wine and Honeycrisp apples floated lazily across the fields from the giant orchard on the outskirts of town. The middle of the night turned crisp and chilly, but there was something invigorating about the fresh fall temperatures. If things were different, I could see myself settling down in Little Lake.

  Except things weren't different, and the sad realization that very few people would miss me if I left hit me hard in the gut. I took a seat on the curb and let a few gigantic tears creep from the corners of my eyes.

  Donna would miss me, and my nine-year-old sister. The latter was a large reason I'd come back to my grandmother's house in the first place. It was hard to take her to movies and help with homework from three thousand miles away.

  The rest of my family was a bit preoccupied and wouldn't exactly notice my absence: Mom was in the middle of whirlwind marriage number six, Dad ignored the fact that I danced for a living, which left us very little to talk about, and the rest of my sisters were scattered throughout the state, busy with their own families.

  And Jax—I'd be getting rid of a pain in his ass if I left town. I'd be doing him a favor by running away for the second time.

  Speaking of the Little Lake Devil, Nathan's car cruised to a stop in front of me. I quickly wiped my eyes and stood up, brushing my hands on my pants.

  "Go away," I said as Jax rolled the window down.

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "No."

  "Don't be a pain in my rear end," I said.

  "Don't be a pain in my rear end."

  "Why did you drive by?"

  "Donna mentioned a crazed, drunken Mrs. Jenkins showed you her knife."

  "So?"

  "I don't want my main suspect dead."

  "How romantic." I crossed my arms.

  "Get in."

  "No!"

  "What if I told you that you're not the only suspect?"

  I took a step forward. "What?"

  Jax sighed. "You're our main suspect, but there're others. I shouldn't be telling you this. But if you didn't do it like you say, then you have to be careful because there's a killer out there."

  I leaned on the window, biting my lip. "Shouldn't you be scared of me then, if you're so convinced I'm the killer?"

  "Honey, I've never had a problem pinning you down."

  I bit back a remark and resumed walking down the side of the road. It was driving me up a wall how some moments Jax was as playful as the day we'd fallen in love, and other moments he was asking me questions, appearing for all intents and purposes to believe I'd killed a man. If he was doing this to get back at me for my choices from ten years ago, it was more than working. And in my book, even a little unfair.

  "I'm sorry." Jax eased the car into motion and matched my pace. "Please let me drop you off at home."

  "No. Thank. You." I punctuated my words with a finger against his window. I remembered too late it was Nathan's car and felt a little bit bad about the finger smudges. But not that bad, since Nathan had chosen to roast s'mores instead of pick up his wife and me, which had prompted this whole situation in the first place.

  "I'm following you home then."

  "Fine. I'm not going to talk to you. Please don't run my toes over." I slowed my pace, hoping he'd get the picture and go home. At this rate, it'd take me an hour to get home.

  "I got all night, hon. I'm clocking this as overtime. Staking out a suspect."

  I showed him one finger that was particularly useful. The long one sandwiched between two shorter ones on either side. Then I wiggled it a little bit. I stomped at a snail's pace for a few minutes, but pretty soon I couldn't stand myself going so slowly, so I resumed normal human walking pace.

  Jax coughed, rolled down both windows, and started blaring a Rocky theme song.

  My ears burned a bit as "Eye of the Tiger" accompanied my nighttime walk of shame home, but I refused to dip my chin. In fact, the only time I faltered during the entire trip home was when Jax switched the radio to play the first song we'd danced to in high school. It'd also been the first song we'd made out to, and gone to second base to, and the first song we'd…well, you get the picture.

  I stutter-stepped for a second when it came on but was proud I didn't allow myself to look back. By the time I got to my front door, I gave myself one tiny glance back out of the corner of my eye.

  Jax waved as I let myself in the creaky old house, and I was relieved he was too far away to see the wetness pooling in my eyes for the ninetieth time that night. Boy, being home sure did a number on my internal sprinkler system. Hopefully by tomorrow the sinuses would be plumb cleared out.

  * * *

  The morning boasted a bright sun, a cheerful chirping coffee machine, and the promise of a perfect fall day along the Mississippi River. It was a day that begged for a run through crunchy leaves, a slice of pumpkin pie with extra whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, and a warm apple cider on the porch.

  I took a deep breath and puttered around the house. I wasn't a particularly early riser on a normal day, but today I had a long list of things to accomplish, so I was happy to be up and at 'em early. I still had a long way to go in finding another suspect in Jenkins's murder, and sleeping the day away wouldn't get me anywhere.

  For a brief moment this morning, I'd been able to put the events of yesterday behind me. For example, when I stretched out on my nice, clean sheets upon waking, going to jail had been the furthest thing on my mind. As I took my first glorious sip of coffee (with a boatload of milk), a relaxing day preparing my studio seemed more appropriate than getting a phone call from the police station.

  But then the flash of excitement I'd felt seeing six notifications in my email about students wanting to sign up for burlesque classes brought me back to reality. It didn't take a genius to figure out the new students were probably just nosy citizens wanting to see what all the hubbub was about firsthand.

  The word had gotten out by now about Mr. Jenkins's death. Between Mrs. Jenkins's loose tongue, Alfie's thrill of being on the case, and the sheer definition of small-town Little Lake life, secrets eased out during the darkness of night. And with the news of Anthony's death, the accusations around who dunnit would swirl closely behind, my name caught up in the whispered beauty-parlor gossip and quiet murmurings over a cold hard cider at Froggy's.

/>   I groaned. Suddenly, the day didn't seem so promising. My coffee tasted significantly more bitter, and even my colorful Froot Loops looked dreary and sad, little o's floating in an ocean of milk that'd eventually sink them like the Titanic.

  Maybe I was being a bit dramatic, but it wasn't every day I was accused of murder. I didn't know how to deal with these things.

  I finished my coffee and slurped the sugary milk, the sweetness adding a little cheer back into my life. Grabbing another cup of coffee, I fumed over the responses I'd gotten to my burlesque class. Nobody—nobody—would touch my classes with a ten-foot pole for the entire time I'd been back.

  Not until this morning, when I suddenly became the hottest piece of gossip on the town. Now everyone wanted front-row seats to the train wreck that was sure to erupt.

  Well, I'd show them. Filled with sudden resolve, I downed my second cup of coffee, forgetting even to add creamer. I typed out an email to my new students:

  Welcome!

  ~*An Intro to Burlesque*~

  The Tease…

  Welcome to the hottest, exciting new dance trend brought to Little Lake straight from the stages of LA. Your first sixty-minute session will feature some history, different styles, and the transformation of burlesque from its origin through today!

  Then…

  We'll take it to the floor. You'll get teased with a variety of burlesque styles: striptease, chair tricks, how to seduce with a boa, sexy floor work, and a load of attitude.

  Start time: 2:00 p.m. sharp

  Attire: clothes you feel sexy enough to dance in

  (Please make sure you can move around!)

  Where: the new studio next to Sweets

  I will supply boas (with sparkles to the lucky few), gloves, and an oversize man's

  nightshirt for everyone, in order to get the party started…

  See you there!

  Misty

  Before clicking "Send," I glanced over the six names I'd compiled into a list. Barbara Jones—town busybody. PTA all-star, chocolate chip cookie baker extraordinaire, soccer, hockey, and softball mom all in one day, she had her pointy little nose in everything.

  She appeared perfect from her shiny hair down to her stair-stepped bottom, but I was willing to bet she couldn't conjure up an ounce of sensuality if she tried. It'd be like teaching a robot how to be sexy. However, she'd show up for one session in order to get enough material to bad-talk me.

  I grumped for a moment, then moved on. Sarah Sweeney—she was just on another planet entirely. Quiet and reserved, I would never have guessed she'd sign up. We'd never been friends, but she seemed sweet. There were two names I didn't recognize, though it was possible they'd married and I didn't recognize their last names.

  Then there were two surprises. If it was the Sarah Richardson I suspected, she'd been my worst enemy in kindergarten. She moved suddenly up to the big city for first grade (i.e., a small suburb of Minneapolis, which at the time seemed as exotic as Mars), and I'd hoped she'd been sucked into the Mississippi River.

  Rumors had drifted around that she'd moved back while I was out of town, though I had yet to run into her. Which was a good thing, because I was still holding a grudge from the time she stole my tooth out from under my pillow at a sleepover and stuck it under hers for a dollar. A dollar bought a lot of gumballs back in those days.

  My breath caught at the next surprise. The name loomed large and a little bit wobbly on my screen: Mrs. Jenkins.

  This would be interesting.

  I refused to let my mind wander to sinister thoughts, like if Mrs. Jenkins would try to strangle me with a feather boa or suffocate me with a man's button-down shirt. I definitely didn't think about whether or not she'd bring her knife with her, and the thought of calling the police only very briefly crossed my mind. But instead of focusing on the negatives, I tried to look at the silver lining.

  At forty bucks a pop for the introductory class, I was headed straight for $240. Which was maybe more of a grayish cloud than the silver lining. When I said the number aloud, two hundred bucks didn't seem like a whole lot of money. But I could buy a good amount of Froot Loops with that dough. Or pay my cell phone bill. Hell, I'd even have a little left over for a lollipop at Sweets. Or even get started on my rent payment for next month.

  Filled with these jolly thoughts, I attempted to whistle as I straightened my purple-and-pink-tipped hair. I hoisted on a fresh pair of shorty shorts and a clingy tank top, pulling on a skirt over the shorts. I had a few errands to run before class this afternoon, and there was no sense changing in a few hours. I applied a quick layer of mascara and some Peeps-flavored lip balm.

  I'd show this town the art of the tease.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I threw a baggie of Froot Loops into my purse and filled up a bottle with tap water. No more fancy Santa Monica bottled water for me—I was a babe on a budget. I grabbed a light sweater and locked up my grandmother's house. My house. I wasn't sure if I wanted to get used to that idea or not. Owning a house here meant roots, payments, responsibility. All words that scared me more than a little.

  Fueled by coffee and sugar, now was as good a time as ever to start looking for where Anthony Jenkins went out during his late-night escapades. The logical place to start was Sweets. I'd be able to kill not two but three birds with one stone: check out the studio and make sure it was free of crime scene debris, prep it for class, then swing by the candy store for advice. And maybe a lollipop. (Fine, four birds with one stone. I was in need of a lollipop to help with my hangover. Greasy food just didn't do the trick for me—I needed raw, pure sugar injections.)

  The walk was pleasant and fast, and I arrived at the studio pretty much sweat free, except for a little bit of moisture on my lower back. I passed by Sweets and waved at Donna, signaling I'd be right back. On the way into the building, I nodded at a pretty blonde, probably on her way to a car parked in the lot behind the building. So far so good—no signs of a murder anywhere on the premises. I marched into the studio feeling fairly lighthearted that my baby was up for class. The floors shined, the lights shone clearly, and…

  I stopped. The word Killer was written across the mirror in dark, shining red letters.

  I took one step closer. Below it, in uneven cursive, was the phrase Watch Your Back.

  My heart pounded. I glanced around the room, frozen. If the trespasser was still here, I didn't want to run into them. Not if they were mad enough to vandalize my property and threaten me all in one swoop.

  I took a step back, glancing around the open studio and seeing nobody. But the reflection of the letters made me see red in more ways than one. A burning rage burst behind my eyes. There was only one closet in the place, and the rest of the studio could be seen by mirrors. If the culprit was here, I wasn't going to hide.

  In three long strides, I reached the closet full of sexy playthings: satin gloves, button-down shirts, and rhinestone bras. Without thinking, I yanked the door open. A single black feather laced with sparkles drifted lazily to the ground.

  I was alone.

  "What happened here?" A raspy, familiar voice shattered the eerie silence behind me.

  I spun around faster than I thought possible, and the feather caught a gust of wind and floated toward Mrs. Jenkins.

  "Did you do this?" I asked.

  "No, I didn't." Mrs. Jenkins walked unsteadily forward, glancing around the room. She bent and picked up the feather, running it lightly across her lips. The effect was a creepiness that caused tingles to scurry down my spine.

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "I wanted to stop by the studio before our first class this afternoon." She fixed me with a nonchalant, even stare that caused me to wonder the level of this woman's sanity. "With my husband being murdered here and all, you'll understand that I had to deal with that alone."

  I crossed my arms. "I have to call the police. It's probably best if we don't touch anything and wait outside."

  We held each other's stare for a long
while.

  "Yes, you're right," she said finally, tucking the feather into the pocket of her skintight jeans. There were enough holes in her jeans that I wondered if she'd let a woodpecker loose on them. Her shirt was slightly more material than a bra, cropped to just below her chest and tight enough that I could see the outline of everything underneath. Each and every suntanned wrinkle.

  I remembered with a crash of reality that I didn't have a phone. "I'm going to go wait in Sweets."

  I left the room without a backward glance, hoping against hope that Mrs. Jenkins would leave as well. A part of me wanted her to stay in the studio so the cops could catch her red-handed and take her away. Sure, I wasn't sure if it was Mrs. Jenkins who graffitied my studio at all, but her whole demeanor freaked me out. The sight of her turned my stomach, and it wasn't just the poor choice of clothing or excessive amounts of skin on display.

  I pushed open the door to the candy shop.

  "Can I use your phone?" I asked. "I gotta call the police."

  "For what now?" Donna handed over a light-pink fancy phone. Something I might've had back when I had enough money to live on.

  "Someone wrote mean words in my studio. And I'm not sure whether it's blood or spray paint, but I'm not licking it to find out."

  The phone rang once. I expected Lana to answer the emergency line.

  Instead, I got a male voice. "Hey, baby, what's up? Thanks for the note in my lunch this morning…I don't know what got into you, but I'd love to cash in on that offer tonight—"

  "Nathan," I interrupted. "This is Misty. Didn't I call 9-1-1?"

  There was a long silence. I could feel Nathan's embarrassment from across the invisible phone line. "Oh."

  "I didn't know 9-1-1 doubled as a dating hotline." My joke fell flat, and I cleared my throat. "But seriously, is this 9-1-1?"

  "Yes. Lana recognizes Donna's number and patches it straight to me. We always got some emergency with the kids puking or pooping or expelling bodily fluids of some sort in a location they shouldn't."