by Kari Ganske
"It's eleven o'clock on a Monday morning. Everyone is either at work or at the diner for an early lunch. The crowds don't pick up until after school lets out."
I gave him a side-eyed look. "Fine. But if there's more than, like, three cars in the parking lot, I'm staying put."
"Have it your way, but I'm not carrying two cones out the door. You want ice cream? You gotta come in."
"Meany." I pouted. My heartbeat, on overdrive since finding Missy's body, kicked up another notch the closer we got to the parking lot. I really wanted the ice cream—no place made better ice cream, and I'd literally been around the world—but my recent misadventures were making me a bit of an agoraphobic. Luckily, a virtually empty parking lot greeted us. I let out a long breath. Linc chuckled beside me.
"My panic attacks amuse you?"
"It's just ice cream, Alex," he said, pulling into a parking spot and cutting the engine. I took another deep breath and followed him into the store. Maybe I could hide behind his broad frame.
As soon as I entered the familiar shop, nostalgia and peace washed over me. I'd spent so many afternoons in this room after school with a milkshake or ice cream cone in hand. I could still taste the wooden sample spoons. The smell of cream and fruit and cold was part of my being—or at least a part of my stomach. I'd sampled every single flavor, tried every combination of topping, and used a fair share of napkins to dry tears of joy and tears of sorrow. The same colorful shelving holding stacked rows of sprinkles, candies, and chocolates lined the right wall. Underneath were bistro tables for patrons to stay inside and eat. To the left stood freezers holding the vats of homemade ice cream in every flavor from rich, creamy vanilla to more unique apple pie, and strawberry cheesecake. All made on the premises using a family recipe handed down through the generations.
The same letter board above the glass ice cream cases listed the current flavors and reminded customers to order milkshakes first. Milkshakes so thick, you needed a spoon, and available in every flavor they offered. The prices, although a little higher than the last time I came in, were extremely reasonable when compared to what I paid for a generic soft-serve cone in New York.
Linc nudged my shoulder with his considerable bicep and flashed me an "I told you so" smile. He sauntered over to the counter and rested an arm on the top of the refrigerated case as he ordered. His T-shirt rode up a little at his waist as he leaned, and I could see the defined muscles of his abs. Forget it, I didn't want ice cream, I wanted to lick him from head to toe. And back again. If I hadn't sworn off men forever, I'd show him I'd learned to kiss in the years since the "teach me" incident. But I wanted nothing to do with his particular gender. Not that I—plain Jane—would have any possibility whatsoever of turning the eye of a man like Linc.
As Mary Hughsman, proprietor of the creamery, scooped his ice cream, I watched him, simultaneously trying not to drool while also swimming in memories of being in this exact place with him so many times before. He used to share in my joys and sorrows, as I did his. Right up until he replaced me with popularity and the Snob Blob.
And Missy.
A vision of Missy's lifeless body flashed unbidden in my brain. I blanched and sank into one of the nearby chairs. Here I was boo-hooing over things that happened in high school when a wife and mother had lost her life.
Linc shoved an ice cream cone under my nose, bringing me out of my thoughts.
"I took the liberty of ordering for you since you didn't answer the three times I asked what you wanted. One scoop of apple pie, one scoop of cinnamon on a cake cone."
I almost cried. It was exactly what I would have ordered myself. Exactly what I always ordered. He'd remembered.
"Please don't be nice to me. I can't handle it right now," I whispered.
"I took a big lick of your cone, just to make sure it wasn't poisoned. So, I'm not that nice," he said, taking a lick of his own. And now I wanted to be an ice cream cone. Desperately.
"Thinking about high school? Or Missy?" he asked, still able to read me like a book.
"A little bit of both," I admitted. "She was definitely murdered, wasn't she? No chance it was a trail accident?"
He shook his head slowly. "Unfortunately not. Look, I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell you. I've never handled a murder victim before," he said.
I noticed, then, the pallor under his normal complexion, the sadness in his usually amused gray-blue eyes. This trip for ice cream was just as much for him as it was for me.
"And I've never been suspected of murder before. You aren't bound by investigative privilege, right?" I asked, taking a bite of the ice cream. The trick was to get equal amounts of cinnamon and apple pie in the same bite—an art I'd been perfecting for years before I left.
"I don't even think that's a thing."
"Then spill, Livestrong," I said. "I need to know what I'm up against. Was she shot? Could it have been a hunting accident?" I still didn't want it to be a murder.
"Not shot. I'm not a medical examiner, but I know that wasn't a bullet hole. And it was no accident." He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. His stubble rasped under his fingers. "The state guys took her to their lab for the autopsy since Dr. Wells has never worked a murder before."
"Stabbed?" I whispered.
"That would be my guess. I only saw her briefly as I checked for a pulse and then again when I helped load her into the van. And her hands were messed up."
I shuddered. "Like she put up a fight."
"Exactly."
"Then I'm off the hook!" I said, louder than I intended. Mary, wiping down the counter, raised her eyebrow. I lowered my voice. "I don't have any wounds from being in a fight. So, it couldn't have been me."
"Were you unsure?" Linc asked with the ghost of a smile.
"No, dingbat. I know I didn't do it. But Chief Duncan was all over me like ants at a picnic the night we found her. I'm numero uno on his suspect list." I grabbed a napkin from the canister on the table to catch a dribble on my chin.
Linc took the napkin from me and dabbed at my nose. It was ridiculously charming, and I felt it in my gut. I gave myself a mental shake. What was wrong with me? Clearly, the emotional events of the last week were also affecting my hormones. Also, clearly high school crushes were as deeply ingrained in me as the taste of Scoop’s ice cream. Nostalgia was playing havoc on my mental state lately.
"Like I said, Chief Duncan is used to public intoxication and kids stealing candy bars," Linc continued the conversation after returning my napkin. "In the last few years, he's gotten even more lackadaisical, pawning off anything substantial to Andrea Martinez, then taking credit for it. The only reason he isn't out of office is because no one ever runs against him."
I licked my ice cream as I thought. Even though Chief Duncan was acting like a bumbling idiot, there were a lot of things stacked against me—I had an argument with the victim; I found the body; Missy and I had a volatile history; I was new in town; I didn't have a solid alibi; I'd already killed a sign. Could I really blame Chief Duncan for focusing on me?
But, on my side, I didn't have defense wounds; I hadn’t touched any scissors, and I didn’t have a strong motive. With the way Kelly talked, Missy was far from the town sweetheart. Not to mention the fact that Missy was a few inches taller and quite a bit heavier than me.
And I didn't do it.
I took another lick and refocused on Linc. His expression knocked me back—his eyes dark, lips in a tight line. Was he mad at me? He exuded intensity. When I cocked my head in question, his usual half-amused, half-bored façade slipped back into place. Maybe I'd imagined it.
"At least Detective Spaulding seems like he knows what he's doing," I said, choosing to ignore it. "I just need to lie low and avoid Chief Duncan."
Linc winced and looked away.
"What? What is that look for?"
He remained mute.
"Lincoln Livestrong, if you don't want ice cream in your lap, tell me what you aren't telling me," I demanded. Not that I wou
ld ever waste this amazing ice cream by spilling it in his lap, but he didn't need to know that. I held it aloft to give credence to the threat.
"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "It's nothing really. Except that the firehouse is kinda connected to the police station offices." He mumbled the last part, but I caught enough.
"Wait? What? When did that happen?" I asked. The police station had always been in the building beside the high school. The firehouse was across town.
"We renovated a few years back. The town council thought a one-stop shop for all your emergency needs would be better. The high schoolers were thrilled."
"I bet. Well, good thing I won't be—" I cut myself off with a gasp. "Oh no. Oh crap. Oh no. The community service."
"Hence the wince." He had the good grace to look sheepish again. "I didn't think of that when I offered to have you do the community service at the firehouse."
My shoulders slumped. Still, I'd rather work in the firehouse than among the town gossips. I'd have to pull up my big-girl panties and get over it. And absolutely still try to avoid Chief Duncan.
I rubbed two fingers on my forehead to stave off the tension headache threatening to overtake me.
"When do I start?" I asked, resigned to my fate. The sooner I started, the sooner I could finish.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" He raised his eyebrows and crunched into his cone.
"Absolutely nothing." Jeez, my life was pathetic.
"I get to the station around nine. Drop by any time after that." He leaned back in his chair and smirked behind his cone. "Bonus points if you wear that flamingo dress. Or maybe find one with Dalmatians."
I seriously considered dropping the rest of my ice cream in his lap.
Chapter 10
I did not wear a Dalmatian dress for my first day at the firehouse, as Linc had suggested, instead opting for cargo pants and a tank top—my usual uniform and much easier to ride a bike in. I thanked the gods of karma and awkward women that my mother had a fairly new adult bike in the garage from her brief stint in the Coastbusters, the local motorcycle club. Sure, it was banana yellow with a basket strapped to the front, but it was a thousand times better than riding through town on my rusty, purple ten-speed with banana seat and multicolored streamers blowing in the wind.
I rode past the hair salon and tried not to think about the last time I was there. Today, Kelly stood outside with a few men in hard hats. I slowed the bike to see what was going on. A new sign hung above the entrance. No longer did it say "Missy K's Hair Salon" in bright pink and lime green. Now it read "Shear-lock Combs" in a more subdued burgundy and gray. As Kelly instructed the men who were washing the old name off the windows and repainting the door, I watched in fascination, craning my neck to see what other changes Kelly had instigated.
Kelly turned, spotted me, and raised a hand to wave. Then her eyes went wide, and her mouth formed a little "o."
She said, "Alex! Watch out—" right before I ran my mother's bike into the old Missy K's sign that rested against the curb.
I managed to catch myself before completely tumbling over the handlebars. Barely. I landed with a thud and a whimper on the concrete sidewalk with the bike on top of me. Piney Ridge signs - 2. Alex Lightwood - 0.
Kelly and the construction crew ran over to help. One of the men lifted the bike, while another grabbed me under the armpits to hoist me up. Kelly wrung her hands and paced.
"Oh man. Are you okay? Do you need some ice? I have some in the staff room," she fretted. "I knew we should've put that stupid thing right in the dumpster."
"I'm okay," I said, assessing my abraded elbow. "I'm headed to the firehouse anyway, so Linc can take a look at it."
"Your next haircut is on me. The works. Whatever you want."
"That's kind but unnecessary. I seem to have a knack for running into signs," I deadpanned. I showed the sign my favorite finger.
Kelly barked a surprised laugh. The construction crew, seeing that I was alive, went back to their work.
I gestured at the front of the shop. "Doing a little redecorating?"
"I'm so excited. I've been wanting to rebrand for a while now, but Missy kept insisting consistency was key. I tried to tell her that no one came to the salon because the '90s threw up on the decor."
Now it was my turn to laugh. A more perfect description of the neon-pink and lime-green color scheme couldn't be found.
"I like the new look. Very modern and chic," I said.
And very quick after Missy's death. To hide my expression, I leaned over to pick up the bike. The basket was a little bent, but other than that, and a few minor scuffs, it seemed to be in working order. Much better than my ankle, which was now throbbing and beginning to swell. I willed it to hold out long enough to bike to the firehouse. I wanted to tell Linc about this new development in the "Alex Didn't Do It" case file.
"I guess you have sole ownership of the salon now?" I asked, hoping I sounded conversational and not accusatory.
"Mostly. Some of Missy's stock goes to her kids. But I finally get creative control."
I swore I heard the devilish "mwahaha" in Kelly's head. I waited for Kelly to tap her fingers together like the villains in the film noir movies I liked to watch before bed.
My astonishment must have shown on my face because Kelly quickly added, "I know it sounds horrible. Missy just"—she waved her hand, looking for an appropriate word—"passed away, but you have to understand, I've been waiting years for this to happen. Like I said the other day, Missy was a difficult business partner. And that was on a good day."
"I can see that. I was only around her for a few minutes, and I wanted to throw a kielbasa at her," I admitted.
"You and half the town," Kelly muttered. "I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but she really rubbed a lot of people the wrong way."
"Did you tell any of that to Chief Duncan?" I asked.
"No. It didn't come up. He and that hot state detective asked about business and what happened the day she died."
I bit my lip. "Did you tell them about the argument Missy and I had in the salon?"
Kelly shook her head. "Girl, if I mentioned every person Missy pissed off on a daily basis, I would still be talking to them. Trust me, your little tiff was hardly a blip on her radar."
I let out a breath. "Okay. Not that it's a secret, but the chief already has me in the crosshairs since I found her."
"Consider my silence part of payment for leaving the stupid sign in the street. I can't say the same for the rest of the salon patrons, but the cops won't hear about it from me," Kelly promised.
"Thanks." I swung my leg over the bike seat. When I tentatively put some pressure on my hurt ankle, a dull pain shot up my leg. Not great, but I could work with it, if I hurried. Still, there was one more thing I needed to know. One more thing that might help exonerate me even further. "What time did Missy leave the salon?"
"Oh. She and Jodie left about an hour after you and your mom. Didn't even tell me she was leaving. Typical," Kelly said.
I frowned. So much for that. I'd hoped Missy had either put in a full day at the salon or left immediately after us so my alibi would be a bit tighter. Not that "home with my mom" was a great alibi. Lots of moms would lie to protect their children, mine included.
"Great job on the rebrand, Kelly. I love the new name," I said as I maneuvered the bike back into the bike lane.
"Thanks. And stop by anytime for that free haircut," Kelly called after me.
A few long minutes later, I limped as gracefully as possible into the firehouse office. Linc looked up from the computer behind the desk. Noticing me, he looked pointedly at the clock hanging on the wall behind him.
"Hey sleepyhead. I expected you like an—" He stopped midsentence when he saw me limp. He squinted his eyes and gave me a once over. "What the heck happened to you? Fight another sign?"
"Ha ha. But actually, yes." I held up a hand to ward off his questions. "Don't want to talk about it. Can you p
ut your EMT hat on and take a look at my ankle? I think it's sprained."
He walked around the desk and draped my arm over his shoulder to help support me as I hobbled to the row of chairs against the wall. Fang came in from the door between the office and the engine bay. He danced around our feet as Linc lowered me into the chair. When I was seated, Fang placed his head on my knee, much like he did that first day by the fire truck.
"Is he trained to do that?" I asked, burying my hands once again into his soft fur.
Linc nodded. "He's great for calming people down."
Kneeling in front of me, Linc placed my hurt ankle on his knee. After rolling up my pant leg, he gave my Achilles tendon a little pinch.
I yelped in pain. "Ow! Watch it, you sadist!"
"Guess that's a little tender."
"You think?" I tried to pull my foot away, but he clamped down on my knee. "Don't you have an ice pack or something?"
He ignored me. "I'm going to remove your shoe and sock to take a closer look. This may increase the swelling a little bit, but that's to be expected."
I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut as he gingerly loosened the laces of my sneakers. Fang lapped at my hand with his tongue. Linc’s fingers brushed my skin as he pulled off my sock.
"Siren red," he said. "I never would have guessed."
I peeked open an eye to see him smiling up at me with eyebrow raised. He'd noticed my toenail polish. "Yeah, well, I'm just full of surprises."
I thought I heard him mumble, "I'll bet you are," but couldn't be sure through my growing haze of pain.
"The red goes well with the blue-and-purple bruise you have forming."
"Great. Just what I need."
"Can you move your ankle?" he asked. I wiggled it back and forth with limited pain.
"It's mainly when I put pressure on it that it hurts," I explained.
"Looks and sounds like a sprain to me. You'll be fine in a few days. I have crutches in the back you can borrow. Wait here."
"But I'll be late for the marathon I'm running this afternoon," I said as he gently lowered my ankle off his knee.
