Byrony ate a few bites before she nailed him with the same frost-bitten tone she’d used on Prince. "So, Chef Madison, how long do you propose we let that sleaze-ball stew?"
He tried to hide his grin at her irritation. "Patience is a virtue, Sunshine. Plus, I don’t think it’ll take that long." When she started to interrupt, he held up his hand. "The guy seemed pretty high strung to me. I figure if we continue investigating, Prince will either succumb to the pressure and tell us, or we’ll figure it out on our own."
Shoulders drooping, she heaved out a sigh of defeat. "Sorry, you’re right. We can’t exactly force Michael Prince to tell us what he knows."
Tate bit back the urge to say she could probably find a way to make Prince tell her whatever she wanted. But the very idea made Tate squirm with discomfort.
As if she guessed his thoughts, she banged her fork on the table. "Do not say it!" He raised his hands in mock surrender while she rolled her eyes. "So what’s our next move?"
"Same as it was before we met with Mr. Prince -- the Mac City police department. You up for that?"
She had that stubborn gleam in her pretty eyes. "I will be. Same time tomorrow morning at the pier?"
"Nine fifteen, the first ferry to Mac City leaves after the one to St. Ignace." He took a couple of bites of rabbit food to hold him over for the pizza. Then, he decided to make a peace offering. "While we’re there, think I’ll put a little bug in Detective Shaffer’s ear about Mr. Prince."
Fork poised halfway to her mouth, Byrony’s gaze jumped to his. "Will they bring him in for questioning?"
Tate shrugged and swallowed more salad. "Dunno about bringing him in, but yeah, they’ll talk to him, which should heat up that stew quite nicely."
Byrony rewarded him with a big grin, almost clapping her hands with glee. "That’s practically diabolical. I’m sorry I ever doubted you."
"Oh, ye of little faith." Tate muttered with a wink just as the same busty woman who’d waited on them the other night arrived with their pizza.
Pushing his salad aside, he dug in. It might not be Chicago deep-dish, but it was darn tasty all the same. As for the waitress, Tate had no interest. Once upon a time, he might have been, but today she struck him as coarse and common.
More people drifted in and soon the place was abuzz with talk and laughter. As their meal progressed, Byrony seemed more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. And even more appealing.
Mentally lecturing himself didn’t help, so Tate finally decided to just sit back and enjoy an excellent meal with a pretty girl. Neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave, so Tate bought both of them a beer. When the place got too crowded and noisy to talk, they decided to call it a night. Outside on the sidewalk, twilight shadows lengthened and street lights flickered on.
The fudge shop next door was still open, and Byrony insisted they go in for a treat. Even though he was stuffed to the gills, Tate didn’t argue. After several samples, they decided on milk chocolate with walnuts. He carried out the little paper bag, but she kept sneaking her hand into it to snag another piece of candy. After the third time, he pulled the bag out of her reach.
"Careful, all that sugar will have you bouncing off the walls for the rest of the night," he teased.
"You just want to hog it all for yourself," she accused with mock severity.
Putting his hand on his chest, Tate gave her an insulted look. "You don’t think I have your best interests at heart?"
"As long as my best interests also benefit your stomach." She tried to jump for the bag, but he held it far over her head.
"Ask me nice and you can have the rest of it."
"Oh please, Mr. Madison, sir, may I have your candy?" She burst into a fit of giggles and he found himself chuckling too as he surrendered the bag to her.
Disappointment jabbed Tate when the gaudy B&B came into view. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed being with anyone this much. His sister Paige was always nagging him to get a social life, maybe he should listen to her. The closer they got to the house, the more his steps dragged.
He stopped at the corner of the fence and made an exaggerated face. "Speaking of sugar overload."
"I know, I know," Byrony acknowledged with a sigh. "Where are you staying anyway?"
"Over by the marina at the Harbor Inn. It’s… utilitarian , not a bit of gingerbread in sight." He suddenly lost track of what he was saying, staring into her golden eyes.
Byrony seemed distracted too. "Oh, uh… I guess that’s a… relief." Her voice trailed off and she raked her bottom lip with her teeth.
Tate stifled a groan. Of its own accord, his hand lifted and his fingers brushed across her hair and cupped around her jaw. In the fading light, he felt rather than saw her searing gaze delve into him. The unrelenting pull of attraction drew him closer. Her candy-sweet breath feathered across his face.
"Byrony," he whispered, his hand moving to the back of her head as his mouth settled over hers.
She melted against him, her lips parting in invitation. Angling his mouth, Tate slowly moved his tongue over hers. She tasted of rich, sweet chocolate and something darker – sensual. Primitive urges stirred within him, and drove him to take possession. His arms tightened around her as he explored the warm recesses of her mouth with bold strokes of his tongue.
For a moment, she responded, eagerly meeting his tongue with her own. Desire flared, hot and demanding between them. But even as Tate felt boiling blood hardening in his groin, Byrony stiffened in his arms. Turning her head, she broke the kiss with a gasp.
"This – is a – bad idea – " She pushed against his chest, breaking his hold. Then, with one last look raking over him, she turned and fled inside the gate.
"Byrony, wait!" Tate called after her, but she was already bounding up the porch steps.
As he stood there awash in guilt and frustration, he heard the screen door slam. She was gone.
Chapter 6
Through the sitting room, down the hall, Byrony didn’t stop running until she was inside her room far from the prying gazes of Mrs. Giroux, the other guests, and heaven only knew who else. She closed the door and leaned heavily against it, wondering what in the world had possessed her to kiss Tate Madison? And right out in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of God and everybody! She clenched her fists, and the scrapes on her palms throbbed, a fitting reminder of why she was here.
Crossing over to the window seat, she shook off her heels and sat on the cushions with her knees drawn up under her chin. She stared out into the dark garden, full of fading flowers and yellowing perennials, and went over in her mind what she had learned yesterday and today. The idea that her sister had been murdered, but, presumably not in the spot where her body had been found was disturbing enough. But something else nagged in the back of Byrony’s mind, something about her clothes, and her missing shoes. She kept coming back to those missing shoes….
On a whim, she pulled out her phone and dialed her step-mother’s number.
"Byrony?" The woman had an annoying voice, squeaky like a little girl. "Is everything… did you find out…"
"Hello, Barbara." Byrony refused to call her Barbie even though the woman insisted on the ridiculous nickname. "I’m fine, but I’d like to ask you about Jessica’s things. The stuff she had with her on Mackinac Island, have you gone through it?"
"Y-yes." Her step-mother’s tone sounded thick, as if she were on the verge of tears at the mere mention of Jessica’s name. Byrony supposed losing a child did that to a person, even one as otherwise shallow as her step-mother. The woman had wept non-stop at Jessica’s funeral, dramatic sobs and hysterical wailing. Not at all like Byrony or her mother would have ever behaved in public.
Shoving aside her dislike of the woman, Byrony asked, "Did you notice anything odd or missing?"
"Funny you should mention missing, because her brand new running shoes – The bright yellow ones I gave her for her birthday in June? – They weren’t with her other shoes. I called her dorm-ma
te, Roxanne, thinking maybe they got mixed up, but she said Jessica was wearing them the day she left." Her step-mother gave a theatrical gasp. "Oh my God, Byrony! Could the person who stole her purse have stolen her shoes too? That is sick and perverted!"
"I don’t know what it means, Barbara." Byrony kept her tone carefully neutral, as she always had with her step-mother these past dozen years. "Was anything else gone, that you could tell?"
"I don’t think so… I just don’t know." The woman’s voice broke and she sounded like a blubbering ten year old. "Your father and I are just destroyed over this, Byrony, and I can’t tell you how much it means to us… What you’re doing." She gave an hysterical little burst of laughter. "Your father says you can find a gnat’s eyelash on an accounting spreadsheet, so if anyone can figure this out, you can."
Her step-mother had always tried to win her over with insincere compliments, so Byrony brushed this one aside like she usually did. "Unfortunately, this is nothing like accounting. However, the private investigator I’m working with seems… very competent." And sexy as hell, reminded an evil little voice in the back of her mind.
While her step-mother sniveled out more gratitude, Byrony’s fingers inadvertently brushed her lips. Distracted, she ended the call, but a minute later the phone rang again. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was Barbara calling back.
"I just thought of something else," she babbled in her little girl voice. "I know the mugger took Jessica’s purse with her phone, keys, and identification, but I found a single key in her jewelry holder. It was tied on a piece of satin ribbon, but it doesn’t appear to fit anything in her room, or anywhere else in the house."
Byrony’s pulse quickened. "What kind of key does it look like?"
After a pause, her step-mother replied, "Actually, it looks like a plain old door key. You know, the kind that fits a dead bolt."
Trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, Byrony said, "Send it to me, Barbara, here at the B&B on Mackinac Island. Overnight it." She gave the other woman the address. "I’ll share it with the police, see if they think it’s important."
But as she hung up, a shiver ran down Byrony’s spine. If Jessica had tied a key on a ribbon, then it must have been important to her.
Eagerly, she started to call Tate, but saw she had one missed call. From the man himself. His alluring baritone caused a low flame to ignite deep in her belly. He apologized for his "unprofessional behavior" and told her it wouldn’t happen again.
Unsure whether she felt relief or disappointment, Byrony decided against calling him back. Instead, she took a nice steamy shower, hoping that would clear her chaotic thoughts. She discovered the bruises she’d sustained when she fell on the sidewalk were now ugly dark blue and purple blotches, mostly near her left knee. But the warm water soothed the lingering aches in her hips, back and shoulders. She didn’t want to wonder what a mess she would be if the horse had really struck her.
The shower did the trick, for she’d scarcely been in bed a half hour when she nodded off in the midst of watching an inane sit com on the TV perched on her bureau. She didn’t wake up until close to midnight, and she stayed awake just long enough to switch off the late night talk show, roll over and go back to sleep. Byrony’s early morning dreams were troubled by menacing horses dashing right at her, but unlike reality, this time the mysterious rider in yellow rain gear turned out to be a scowling Tate Madison.
***
Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, Tate glanced nervously up and down the crowded sidewalk for any sign of Byrony. The ferry had already started boarding passengers and he didn’t want to wait for the next one. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she hadn’t responded to his apology last night. But he hoped for what was probably the hundredth time he hadn’t completely blown it with her. The kiss might have been badly timed, but he’d certainly enjoyed it, and for a couple of moments there, he was pretty sure she had too. Maybe once this case was settled….
His speculations were cut short by the glimpse he caught of Byrony, hurrying down the sidewalk, her expression somewhat gloomy but determined. Always determined. And always in a rush. He shook his head to clear away any lingering thoughts about her so he could concentrate on the case. His job, he reminded himself, as in his livelihood.
Byrony barreled up, her breath streaming out in a white cloud on the cold morning air. "Sorry I’m late, but I have some information that may be important."
"Let’s get on board first," he insisted. He handed her the paper ticket and ditched what remained of his coffee in the nearest trash can.
As they walked briskly down the pier toward the waiting vessel, Byrony, with her usual impatience, started talking. "I called my step-mother last night, and she told me she found a key in Jessica’s jewelry case, a house key. I asked her to overnight it to me."
Tate waited until they were on the ferry and seated inside before he responded. "You think this might be the key to her boyfriend’s place? The boyfriend you didn’t believe she had?"
Her eagerness melted with his sardonic second question. "Okay, I’ve reconsidered my original opinion, especially after I heard about this key. If we can find out whose door it fits."
"That’s a pretty big if, Sunshine." As much as he hated to burst her bubble of excitement, Tate also wanted her to be realistic. "First, we need some clue as to who she might have been seeing. I don’t suppose your step-mother had any ideas about that?"
Tight lipped, Byrony shook her head. She waited until the ferry had pulled away from the pier before she spoke again. "Even if we go with your theory about someone who shouldn’t be involved with a seasonal, that still leaves a lot of possibilities."
"Afraid so," Tate acknowledged. "Though it could prove out, but I’m still thinking Prince is our best bet."
He watched the conflicting emotions chase across her face, and frustration tinged her voice. "Will the Mac City police agree? Prince is a big-shot, while we’re a couple of nobodies from Chicago."
"Couldn’t have summed it up any better myself. Guess we’ll find out soon enough."
From the ferry terminal, Tate hailed a taxi for them to take the short ride to the Mackinaw City Administrative Building. He’d called Jim Shaffer before they got in the cab, and the burly detective waited for them in the lobby. After brief introductions, Tate and Byrony signed in at the front desk, clipped on their visitor badges, and followed Shaffer through a maze of corridors to a small meeting room. A fat folder full of crime scene photos lay in the middle of the conference table, with a second, slim folder next to it.
"Those are the shots of the cataloged evidence you asked for." Shaffer nodded at the smaller folder.
"Appreciate it." Tate knew he couldn’t examine the actual evidence, but maybe the photos would suffice. He shifted his gaze to Byrony, who stood stiffly, complexion pale and jaw tightly clenched. "You sure you’re up to looking at all this?"
"I’ll be fine," she insisted, and he knew better than to argue. Instead he pulled out the nearest chair for her. Then he sat in the chair next to her and opened the bigger folder.
"Anybody else want coffee?" Shaffer asked, and when both Tate and Byrony said yes, he shuffled out the door.
Drawing the smaller folder in front of her, Byrony asked, "What are we looking for?"
"Nothing in particular." Tate noticed that for all her bravado, her hand trembled a little as she opened the folder. "Just anything that might seem out of place, or not right somehow. Mention anything that strikes you as off."
Her chest rose and fell as she took a fortifying breath. "I can do that." And she started to sift through the photos, which he could see were mostly of the dress her sister Jessica had been wearing.
Opening the larger folder, Tate saw that in addition to the crime scene, there were pictures of Jessica’s body. Quickly, he sorted those out and stuck them face down behind the others. Byrony seemed to be on the edge of losing control, no point in giving her a shove.
Shaffer came bac
k a few minutes later, juggling three steaming mugs. Tate accepted his with a nod of thanks, but Byrony, lines furrowing between her eyebrows, ignored her cup and continued to pick up and closely study photos. Then she held up the inventory list of evidence. "So this is everything? I mean, didn’t my – the victim – have on anything else?"
The balding detective shook his head. "A dress and panties, that’s it."
"We already knew about the missing shoes," Tate reminded as Byrony’s frown deepened.
"My step-mother said Jessica’s brand new yellow running shoes were missing." Shaffer’s eyebrows lifted and he scribbled on a post-it note. "But that’s not the only thing bothering me." Byrony mused as she laid several of the photos on the table. "Look at this dress."
Tate glanced at the bright green garment with large, black floral shapes. "Fancy."
"It’s a designer, and not just any designer." Byrony stabbed her finger at a close-up shot of the label. "This says Oscar de la Renta. I can’t imagine Jessica or any other twenty-year-old wearing Oscar de la Renta. His stuff isn’t really aimed for such a young age group. Besides, Jessica couldn’t afford a dress like this."
"Maybe someone else bought it." Shaffer voiced the thought that instantly sprang to Tate’s mind, and by speaking up, the detective saved Tate from playing devil’s advocate. Then, at Byrony’s skeptical expression, the other man added, "Or maybe she borrowed it?"
However, Byrony continued to shake her head in protest. "It still doesn’t make sense. She wasn’t wearing anything else but this fancy dress and underwear?"
While Tate squirmed with discomfort, Shaffer coughed to cover his derisive snort. Byrony glared at both of them and held up a photo of plain white panties. "Trust me, these are not the underpants a woman wears with a sexy dress. Especially if she’s seeing her boyfriend."
Shaffer genuinely choked at her blunt words, and Tate nearly did too. But at the same time, he saw the logic of her observation. If Byrony wore something like that little green and black number, he’d expect her to have some alluring black lace panties under it… maybe black thigh-high stockings and shiny black high heels – Shit! Where did that come from? He twisted self-consciously in his chair.
Dead Girl in a Green Dress Page 6