She thought about my question a beat too long. “Well, dear, I knew you and Ginger formed a club. What was it called again?” She placed a finger against her lips and tilted her head. “Oh, yes, the Dynamic Duo, wasn't it?” She chuckled. “You two did get into a fair amount of scrapes as I recall.”
I closed my eyes against the harsh reality of former teachers and small town life.
Against admittedly low odds, a low male voice heightened my shame. “Dynamic Duo, huh? Which one of you was Batman and which one Robin?”
I didn't bother to correct his impression. Demonic Duo didn't have the same cache. His amusement vibrated the air but I ignored him. Well, tried to ignore him. The man had presence.
“You didn't need to stop. I fell off my bike. No big deal.”
Detective Johnson narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine back.
“The call was reported a hit and run.”
“Who called it a hit and run?”
Mrs. Haywood placed her hand on my arm. “I did, dear, remember?”
I kept my tone airy. “Oh, you know SUV drivers. Either they think they own the road or they can't see over the dash. There was no hit. I had an accident.”
“Was it a dark SUV?”
“I guess so. They all look alike, but I think it had a Cadillac insignia. Why?”
He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. Warmth exploded and shot down my spine.
“Morgan Anderson drove an Escalade. His assistant reported the keys missing.”
“Why would... Huh?”
“I told you earlier. You need to be careful.” He released my shoulders but watched me.
“I can take care of myself.”
He snorted, somehow making his honk sound sexy. “Right.”
“Yeah, right, I can.”
He shook his head. “You're one hard-headed woman.” He motioned to Pulaski. “Let's get the bike loaded.”
“Hey, where do you think you're going with my bicycle?”
He pointed to the mangled frame and flat front tire. “You really think you can ride this?”
“No,” I muttered.
“Sorry, I didn't hear you.”
I raised my voice to just under a shout. “I said, no.”
“We'll give you a ride home.”
“I can walk. I've gotten scraped up before.”
“Hey, Matt, you ever see such a stubborn woman?”
“Yeah, my mother, my sisters, my ex.”
Dirk turned to me. “You're coming with us. No arguments.”
Throughout my ordeal, Mrs. Haywood had stayed by my side. Her whisper caught my attention. “You should go after him, dear. He's quite handsome and sparks fly between you. I think it’s Kismet.”
With that, she got to her feet, picked up her phone and first-aid supplies and scurried home. Sparks fly, my ass.
I sprung up after her. Okay, the truth is I barely concealed my groans as I rose. My knees had escaped Mrs. Haywood’s frenzied nursing, so they didn’t sport bandages or oily antiseptic. Didn’t make the scrapes hurt less. A sore right hip and a bruised keister added to the mix.
The two detectives loaded my battered bike into their trunk, me into their backseat and themselves into the front. We left the scene, my ego more bruised than my body. And my body was in rough shape.
My head spun. Could this day - no, I wouldn’t ask.
****
We pulled into my drive and Johnson jumped out and ran to my porch. I might've been charmed with his actions but being locked in the backseat ticked me off. Royally. This “he who shall be obeyed” crap rubbed me raw.
Johnson stomped back to the car. Uh, oh, trouble. His red face and hunched shoulders clued me in. I inched to the middle of the seat, ignoring the shiny brown stain next to me. Matt Pulaski lowered the window as his partner walked up. “What's wrong?”
Johnson waved his large hand at me. “Her.”
Uh, oh, not trouble. Deep shit.
“What did I tell you?”
I wondered if his eyes were loaded, because I sensed a heat-seeking missile. “About what and which time?”
I spotted Pulaski's grin in the rearview mirror. I suppressed my own and tried my innocent expression on Johnson.
“Didn't I tell you to lock your damn door?”
“I did.” Did I? I couldn't remember and that disturbed me. “I'm pretty sure I did.”
Pulaski was already out of the car. “You want to take a look.”
Dirk nodded. Both detectives drew their guns and headed for my home. My home.
My throat grew dry. My imagination hit overdrive. Why would anyone break in?
The scrapes on my hands vied with sandpaper-dry eyes, and a lump the size of a baby Komodo dragon formed in my throat. I kicked the back of the seat, forgetting the protective steel mesh, and added a sore foot to my list of injuries.
A week passed. Okay, about three minutes, but every second seemed like an hour. The cops finally exited my bungalow and holstered their guns. Pulaski nodded at Dirk and trotted to my closest neighbor's house. He wouldn't find anyone home, but I kept my mouth shut. My self-appointed hero placed his hand on the car roof and leaned down.
“Let me out of here.” My voice sounded like a caged animal's.
“I'm thinking we should keep you in protective custody for your own good, sweetheart.”
My lungs seized up, but held enough air for a little tantrum. “I'm not your sweetheart. Cripes sake, we just met.” That out, I breathed free. “Besides, you said I'm a material witness, remember?”
I lost steam. “Not only that, I want to see my house. How bad is it?” My wimpy tone made me cringe, but the question was already out there.
“Nichts.” Pulaski's voice threw me because I hadn't seen him return.
Nicks? Huh?
“Nothing? You sure?” Dirk asked.
Pulaski nodded.
“Okay then.” Dirk opened my door and extended his hand.
“I'm scraped, not helpless.”
They exchanged grins. Dirk dropped his hand. “Habit. Most folks sitting in the back are handcuffed.”
My face heated as I climbed out. I hurried toward the house, scrapes and bruises forgotten—then stopped at the threshold, uncertain. Pulling in a big breath, I pushed open the door. Behind me Cop Sexy's presence sent waves of heat up my spine.
Papers and magazines covered most surfaces. Haphazard piles of books topped the magazines. The incriminating “giving head” magazine article lay open on the couch. My gaze ran from the overflowing bookshelves to the dying hanging plants to the medium-thick dust layer covering the tables. My sweaty yoga clothes sat in a plastic grocery bag on the floor.
I exhaled. Nothing wrong. Well, nothing that some cleaning wouldn't fix.
“Couldn't tell for sure, but the place looks the same as it did earlier.” His tone sounded amused. “Is anything out of place? Or missing?” I turned in time to see him eyeing the magazine—still open to the “head” article.
My back went up. “Hey, I like to read.” I strode to the couch, closed the magazine and tossed it face down on the table.
“I see. You’ve been reading that same article for a while.”
My fingers itched to snatch him bald. Bless his dark, trouble-making heart.
“Ms. Sheridan, would you please check the rest of your home while we're here?” Pulaski's voice of reason kicked me into gear.
Ignoring Dirk, I limped through the rest of my bungalow. Nothing seemed out of place, but I felt uneasy. I couldn't put my finger on anything specific, but the suspicion someone had been inside my humble abode stuck with me.
“Are you okay?” Dirk reached for me but stopped just before touching my arm. The aborted gesture stayed between us.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Then we'll leave.” He pulled out a card and Pulaski did the same. “Call one of us if anything happens.”
I took their cards and stuck them in my pocket.
Dirk pointed to my p
ants. “Pull those cards out and put them by the phone.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Cop A—”
I shut my mouth. He grinned and followed with an unexpected, way too endearing wink. My heart raced and I watched two fine behinds walk to my door.
“And lock the damn door after us.”
That did it. The fantasy died.
Chapter Four
My favorite investigative news show blared from the living room. I'm not a big fan of television, but that was one show I tried to catch every Sunday. I liked to see the bad guys sweat.
The onions I chopped gave my sinuses a workout, and I grabbed a tissue. The hair on my neck stood up. Someone watched me.
No. Someone was in the house.
I looked for a weapon. Nothing was close. Could I get to the knife on the chopping block? Could I even use force against another human? No doubt allowed. My bandaged hand reached for the blade.
“Ms. Sheridan.”
Holy crap, it was Johnson. I crossed my legs to keep from wetting myself. Equal parts of relief and pique filled me. I didn't know whether to kiss him or cuss him out.
“I advised you to lock your door. What part of L-O-C-K translates to O-P-E-N in your brain?”
Cussing him won the argument. My hand wanted to keep moving for the knife. Since I didn't want jail time, I refrained. Still, relenting was a close decision.
“Detective Johnson, how nice of you to drop in. Uninvited. You're trespassing, aren't you?”
He leaned against the doorjamb looking better than he ought. “I have cause.”
I lifted my eyebrow. Oh, all right, both brows went up. I still hadn't mastered the one eyebrow lift like Cop Sexy.
“No answer when I knocked, Ms. Sheridan. Television too loud. Known occupant present at the scene of a recent crime. Door unlocked. All signs of a problematic situation. I called out when I entered. You didn't answer.”
“I didn't hear you.”
“See, a crime could have been committed. I'm right to investigate.”
My hand remained hovered above the knife. Cop Sexy noticed. Naturally, I dropped my arm to my side. “Why are you really here?”
The hot olive oil smell recalled me to my task. A loud sizzle greeted my addition of onion and garlic to the frying pan.
He scratched his cheek. “I forget.”
My growl echoed louder than the hiss of cooking green peppers and fresh mushrooms. A rush of familiar aromas hit the air. I kept my head down, my hands busy stirring. Cop Sexy’s grin was so big I could feel the heat from five feet away.
“Okay. I'll stop teasing. Mind if I sit down?”
He'd already pulled out a chair at my table, so I didn't bother answering. Reaching into a pocket, he removed his notebook and pen. “I have a few more questions.”
My temper came out to play. “Look, I've had a bad weekend and I just want to eat dinner and relax. Can't we talk some other time?”
“Ms. Sheridan, Katie, look. My interview won't take long and you could provide some important insights.”
“Yeah, right. Did someone tell you I did something else? Maybe kiss the corpse? Pull the other one.” The skillet required my attention. Time for fresh tomatoes.
“Huh? Pull the other what?”
“Pull the other leg. We both know there's nothing more I can tell you about Morgan's death.”
I concentrated on the remaining ingredients and lowered the pan's heat, but I couldn't reduce my own. Johnson had me hot and bothered. He waltzed in bitching and I wanted to kiss him. Or more.
“Boy, that smells good.”
“You're not getting an invitation to dinner. Why are you here?”
“You're an intelligent woman. Observant.” He leaned forward, tapping his pen against the notebook. “Plus, someone tried to run you down yesterday. That means you're important to the case.”
Maybe he'd get an invitation for dinner after all.
“I figure you know something you don't know you know.”
Dinner invitation cancelled. Cop Sexy could get his own food. “Right. Because putting what you don't know you know into conversational English is so darn easy. I can’t help you. Thanks for stopping. Bye-bye now.”
He stood. “Look. I'd like to talk about what you noticed at class.”
“I already gave you a statement. Isn't that enough?”
“Those were the facts. I'd like your insights. Your perceptions about the others in class.”
What did the man really want?
“Women always watch each other. They see things guys don't care, um, notice.” He held his ballpoint above his notebook. “Did you see anything in particular, any negative interactions? Anything that might point to a killer?”
Sure, he stuck his foot in his mouth, but working for a construction company had toughened me up long ago. Poor guy meant well. Bless his heart. I'd help him out, right after I made him wait.
“You want anything to drink?”
“No, thanks. What do you remember from the start, when you arrived at the studio?”
I poured myself a small glass of red wine and joined him at the table. “Flash sat at the reception desk when Ginger and I arrived.” A pause lengthened.
Detective Johnson raised his head. “’Flash being?”
“The stuck-up blonde.”
“So?”
“So why was she filling in for Justin Nash? According to Ginger, Justin was often late and nobody sat in for him before. I didn't see him until after Morgan died.” My stomach clenched. I wondered how long the memory of Morgan's death would nauseate me.
“Nash ran an errand. His alibi checks. What else?”
“Flash yelled at me for wearing my shoes.”
“I'm guessing you smiled politely and removed them?”
“I wanted to flip her off.” Probably shouldn't have admitted to pissed.
“Then what?”
“Morgan came out and schmoozed. And no, I didn't notice anything off.”
“You sound unsure. What are you remembering?”
“Well, there were lots of small groups.”
“And?”
Geez, the guy sounded like a daytime talk show host. “This is essentially a small town. We have best friends, but most of us get along with everyone. We're nice to those outside our circle. That's what I'm used to seeing at gatherings. People mingling, hugging, you know. No one did that at class. Women stood alone or with maybe one other person. The atmosphere was... cold.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I don't know. Maybe they're strangers.”
My memory skittered back, not really wanting to touch on the death scene. Detective Johnson put down his pen and sat with folded hands. It was kind of nice to have somebody wait for my ideas.
“When Morgan walked into the room, the dynamics changed.”
“How so?”
“Like a light went on inside some of the women. They preened and tried to get his attention. But others, they either looked stone-faced or they ignored everyone else in the room, including Morgan. I didn't think about their behavior at the time, but that's kinda strange.”
He picked up his pen. “Sure is. Can you give me names?”
“Hello? I told you, the only person I knew there was Ginger.” Crap. I'd just thrown him at her. “But I don't know that she noticed.”
“I'll check.” He stashed his pen and notebook in an inside pocket. “I appreciate your help.”
“Sure. Anything else, Detective Johnson?”
“Dirk.”
I tried out his name in my head. “Okay. Any more questions, Dirk?”
He stood. “Not right now, Katie.”
“Dirk?” He waited. “What killed Morgan?”
“I can't tell you, Katie. You know that.”
“That's Ms. Sheridan to you. And I'm calling Ginger and telling her not to cooperate with you.”
He breathed a sound between a sigh and a huff. “Evidence is inconclusive. We're waiting on toxicology.”
> “Poison? Yikes, I didn't smell almonds on his breath when I tried to resuscitate him. But then, I didn't do mouth-to-mouth.”
“We ruled out cyanide. And that's all you're getting out of me.” He moved to the kitchen door.
“Hey, Dirk?”
He turned and waited.
“You said someone tried to run me down yesterday. Like my accident wasn't one. How do you figure?”
“No skid marks.”
“But there wouldn't be skid marks, he wasn't trying to stop.”
“Exactly.”
Sometimes my denseness surprises even me. “But that means ...”
Dirk's hand came up. I thought he'd touch me but he dropped his arm to his side. “You're too cute to get hurt again. Lock the damn door, Katie.” My mouth continued catching flies as the door fell shut behind him.
Locking the door, I headed for the phone. I warned Ginger that Dirk lurked on her trail. Then I poured another glass of wine. Dirk seemed to be on my trail too. Boy Howdie, what a lucky girl.
****
I let the magazine drop to the floor. Inspired by the article on giving head, I turned my attention to the fine specimen in front of me. “Let's see. This says I should run my tongue up to...”
The phone rang.
“Let it go.” Johnson, no, Dirk growled the words. His hand snaked out, his fingers grabbed the back of my neck. He pulled me against his chest and his lips attacked mine, driving me into sensory overload.
The phone kept ringing.
I pulled back. “I should get that.”
Dirk's lust-filled eyes were the last image I held from my dream. I blinked, turned my head toward the end table and picked up the phone.
“Katie, are you alone?”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” Although come to think on it, having a dirty dream about someone I met the day before might be safer than doing the real thing.
“Katie, I received another letter.”
I jerked myself upright and leaned my head against my couch back. That second glass of wine had put me down for a nap in front of the television.
“Could Morgan have sent the note yesterday?”
“The message came hand delivered.”
“Ginger, he could have arranged for delivery before...”
Death Stretch Page 3