by Amy Boyles
“It looks blank to me.”
“That’s the point. I think it actually has writing on it.”
“None that I can see.”
“Can’t you just try anyway? Surely you know someone who can decipher it.”
“I may know someone.” He folded it back up and tucked it in his striped pocket. “Is there anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Remember”—his eyes burned like coals—“a favor for a favor.”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”
I left the vehicle and stalked around back. I wasn’t sure how Roan would feel about me interrogating his handyman. Wait. Let me correct that statement. I knew exactly how he would feel—he’d be ticked.
Don’t ask me how I knew, but I did.
Then I saw Tom. Around the back of the house a man stood between two wooden sawhorses. A sheet of plywood was draped over the frames. A circular saw buzzed in his hands.
When the sheet was carved and the saw died, I had my chance. “Mr. Sewell? Tom Sewell?”
Tom Sewell squinted at me. His sandy hair was trimmed above his ears. His red shirt was faded and dotted with sweat rings under his arms and down his back. His jeans were slung low—too low. I was glad to be facing his front and not his rear.
“Yeah, I’m Tom Sewell.”
“I’m a friend of Neal Norton’s.” Lie, but how would he know?
He squinted. “Who?”
“The man who was murdered yesterday.”
Sewell turned back to his work. “Oh, that. What about it?”
“My friend Neal said he knew something about a Susan Whitby.”
“Yeah, Susan.”
I took a step forward. “I heard you were seen talking to Neal.” Yeah, it was a lie, but a good bluff was priceless when taking to a murderer. “Did Neal tell you anything, anything at all that would help discover who killed Susan Whitby?”
“Huh?” He retreated back. “I didn’t talk to that guy. I don’t know anything about him. Ma’am, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they got their information wrong.”
“Are you sure? Because they said it was you.”
“Blissful!”
The sound shot through my body like a bolt of lightning. I cringed and pivoted on my heel. “Hi, Roan.”
His face was a study in anger—brows pinched, eyes dark and blazing, lips tight.
He fisted his hands to his hips. “Can I speak to you for a second?”
“Sure.”
I dragged myself away from Tom Sewell, who was clearly not going to be a lick of help, and pedaled slowly to Roan for my tongue-lashing.
When I reached him, I shot him a wide, innocent smile. He scowled and walked away. I was supposed to follow, apparently. He stalked to the front of the bed-and-breakfast, where he planted his feet firmly, crossed his arms and stared.
“I’m supposed to speak first, is that it?” I said.
“What are you doing?”
“I was talking to your handyman.”
“About a murder.” Rage edged his voice.
“It was a simple conversation.”
“There was nothing simple about it.” His voice rose.
People strolled down the street.
“We have an audience.”
“Come inside.”
“For a tongue-lashing?”
He stopped, ticked his head to one side. “For a conversation,” he gritted out.
“For a reprimand.”
“Call it what you want; you need it.”
The fire in his words prickled my skin. The exchange heated me, made my blood hum in my ears, made my heart thunder.
Of course I was going to follow him.
We went inside, crossing through the big main room and dining room, past the kitchen, where Roan opened a door to his room. He gestured for me to enter. I did and he shut his door.
I stepped in a few paces, wanting to place distance between us. After all, he was big; I was much smaller. I’d realized that if I had space, then I didn’t have to peer up at someone and get a neck cramp. That way I was much better off in a hostile situation.
Not that I couldn’t handle Roan.
He stared at me. I stared back.
“What are you doing?”
“Listen, in case you hadn’t heard, Kency Blount and her gang of hooligans is looking at Alice. They’re thinking of pinning this on her.”
He gazed out the window. I got a good look at his profile. It was strong. Straight nose, hard jaw. Thick brows. Not too thick—not like a Neanderthal or anything, or similar to a unibrow. Not like that at all. Just nice. Perfect.
I needed to focus on the argument.
“And that’s your problem? That Kency is questioning Alice?”
“Yes, it’s my problem.” I crossed my arms to look tough. “She’s my friend. She’s not guilty of murder.”
“Neither is Tom Sewell.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a feeling I have.” He rubbed his jaw. “You can’t come on my property and interrogate my employees.”
“At best Sewell is contracted. It’s not like you had him fill out a W-4.”
“You don’t know that.”
I stared him down.
A smile dusted his face. “Okay, so I don’t have a W-4 on file for him, but that’s beside the point.” He slid forward a step.
I did the same. “A man is dead because of a murder that occurred years ago. Susan Whitby’s case wasn’t solved, but I plan on figuring this one out.”
“This puts you in danger. Don’t you see that?”
“I don’t care.”
A step. “There are secrets in this town that have been hidden for years. You’re talking about going around, asking people to remember things they’ve forgotten.”
I slid forward. “Maybe they need to remember.”
He stepped to me. “This is ancient history to them.”
“Sometimes it’s good to revisit the classics.”
He smiled, stepped again. We were now close enough that I could see the rise and fall of his chest, smell the trickle of coffee and leather that wafted from him. I stopped myself from inhaling deeply, from fisting clumps of his shirt in my hands and burying my nose in him.
He, apparently, didn’t feel the same way. Roan brushed a strand of hair from my shoulder. It wasn’t like the tendril had been bothering me.
“Blissful, this is dangerous. A man was murdered.”
“And my friend is a suspect.”
He dropped his head back, stared at the ceiling and shook his head. When he leveled his gaze on me, the fire in his dark eyes had been replaced with something else. There was a lighter, more concerned flare in them.
“What you’re doing could lead to a lot of trouble.”
“I’m a big girl; I can handle it. You’re the one who wanted me to talk to Kency.”
“To Kency,” he said, “not investigate on your own.”
I shuffled forward more. My breath hitched. I hadn’t thought there was any more space between us, but Roan had proved me wrong. He’d swallowed the void with his body. I tipped my head farther back to look at him.
“You can’t handle this.” Roan dipped his head, and his lips found mine.
My mind exploded into a thousand splintering thoughts. I had to remind myself to breathe as his mouth parted mine. He tasted like coffee and mints.
My muscles froze. I couldn’t remember what to do, which didn’t seem to bother Roan. He expertly reminded me. His tongue, his fingers in my hair. My hands slid up his biceps, and then I remembered.
Move lips. Move tongue.
It flooded back to me, and I kissed him deeply. He kissed back. Really kissed back. I could do this forever!
When it ended, my body tingled. Every inch of me sparked with life. Roan pressed his forehead to mine.
“If I’d known all I had to do was bring you to my room so we wouldn’t be interrupted, I would’ve done it ages ago.”
I giggled. I couldn’t form words. My knees were jiggly Jell-O. I shouldn’t walk. My legs couldn’t be trusted.
“Are you still going to investigate?”
“One kiss isn’t going to stop that.” What do you know; I had words after all.
“Figures. In that case, I’m coming with you.”
Emotion flooded my gaze. Roan smirked. He grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door. “Okay, Inspector Breneaux. Let’s go solve a crime. Together. So that you don’t get killed sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
What do you know? Words failed me again.
TEN
“I don’t need you to babysit me.”
Roan jingled his car keys. “Oh, I think you do. You approached a handyman and asked if he knew a murder victim.” His teeth flashed almost like a growl. “Next thing you know you’ll be breaking into houses to see if you can find Susan Whitby’s missing necklace.”
I gasped. “Was Susan’s necklace gone?”
He shot me a look so searing I was surprised it didn’t peel my flesh off. “Never mind.”
He walked quickly, which was super annoying because that meant I had to double-time it in order to keep up.
Short people problems.
I followed him to his garage. He yanked the door and revealed a nineties model Mercedes G-Wagen. My mouth dropped. It was shiny and black with a hard top that made me drool.
I slid my fingers over the smooth finish. “Where did you get this?”
He winked. “Like it? This baby’s been with me everywhere. Had it for years.”
“I love it. Can we trade?”
He laughed. “Your Land Cruiser is too nice to trade.” He opened the door. I loathed him being a perfect gentleman. Perfect kiss, perfect manners. I was screwed when it came to Roan Storm. “Hop in.”
I did hop in and brushed my fingers over the leather and knobs and buttons. He’d taken exceptional care of this truck.
Roan slid in. “You’re in shock.”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head. “I’m in lust.”
He fired the engine. “I’m not going to ask with what.”
“You won’t like the answer.”
He barked a laugh. We sat in the garage while the truck idled beneath us. “Where to?” He dragged his gaze to me.
I pivoted toward him. Might as well yank him into the mystery with me. “Okay, so Tom Sewell was a dud. After Susan was murdered, there were two other suspects—Homer Hicks.”
He nodded. “The hardware-store guy.”
“And George Robertson.”
Roan gaped. “The pastor? Are you kidding? No way. No way are we walking into First Baptist and asking a man of God if he murdered a woman thirty years ago.”
I squinched my eyes and mouth. “Pretty please?”
“No.”
“With sugar on top?”
He sliced the air. “No way.”
I crossed my arms with a huff. “Yes, way. A man was murdered.”
“And you’re going to accost a preacher about his whereabouts.”
I sucked my teeth. “Roan, a lot of folks commit murder. I know. I have to deal with the restless spirits they leave behind. Doesn’t matter who they are. Evil hides behind the purest of disguises. Fact of nature.”
He shoved the gearshift into reverse. “Hardware store first.”
“Fine.”
He handled the vehicle like an expert. I wondered how many kisses I’d have to dish out before I had a shot at driving the truck myself. Hopefully Roan would give me the wheel on the way back.
“Nice car.”
I twisted in the seat to see Susan lazing in back. “Susan!”
“Roan. My name is Roan. I’m going to try not to be extremely creeped out that you called me Susan.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, Susan Whitby is in the back seat.”
He hitched a brow.
“She is.” I twisted my waist to get a better look at her. Susan was all bopper-ish as she chewed gum and filed her nails.
“Susan, I am so glad to see you.”
She shot bullets from her eyes. “I’m like totally trying to figure out if I’m happy to see you.”
“No, listen. I’m on the case. I want to figure out who killed you, but I need your help.”
My gaze slid to Roan. I’d never carried on a full-blown conversation with a spirit in front of him. This might hurt my chances of driving the Mercedes.
Some things were worth ruining others for.
“Don’t think I’m crazy,” I said to him.
He shrugged. “I already know you’re crazy. It’s so cute.”
“I hate you.” But I smiled. So he didn’t think I was completely loony, at least not yet.
“Why don’t you two get a room?” Susan said.
I rolled my eyes. “I need to know what you remember about the night you were killed.”
She chewed her bottom lip for about a century before finally answering. “Not much.”
“I need more than that. There has to be something.”
Another pause. “An anchor.”
“What?” I wrung out my ear. “A what?”
“An anchor.”
“Was there a boat nearby?”
Susan shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know. It was, like, a thousand years ago. All I remember is an anchor, okay.”
I exhaled and uncoiled my body. I wedged back in the seat.
Roan tipped his head toward me. “Anything interesting?”
“Susan said she saw an anchor.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Me neither.”
He winked. “Let’s say we find out.”
We parked in front of Haunted Hollow Hardware. I pressed my fingers on the dash. “I love this vehicle.”
Roan slipped his keys in his pocket. “Try not to drool; you’ll ruin the finish.”
I started to open my door.
Alarm flared in his eyes. “Wait.”
I did. He rounded the nose and opened the door. He slid the keys in his pocket. “Let’s go see if Homer is inside. Let me lead. Don’t rush into murder.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Right. You would’ve jumped on his back, handcuffed him and threw him to Kency Blount before asking the first question.”
“He was Susan’s boyfriend at the time.”
Roan took me by the elbow. “Exactly why I should lead.”
I stared at the store. “So it moved from the original location? It didn’t go too far. It’s only a few doors down from Soul Food and Spirits.”
Roan nodded. “I guess this space is bigger.”
When we walked in, Roan grabbed a basket and led me through aisle after aisle. He picked up caulk and a gun to go with it, some screws, a picture hanging kit and a small tub of spackle.
“Doing home improvements?” I murmured.
“As far as you’re concerned, yes.”
We reached the front counter to pay, where we were greeted by a man with a name tag on that read HOMER.
“How’re you doing, Roan?” Homer extended his hand.
Roan shook it. I groaned.
Great. They were friends. Roan wasn’t serious about helping me with this investigation. I knew it. He just wanted to distract me with his hot lips and cool truck.
“Doing just fine, Homer.” Roan pointed to me. “Have you met Blissful Breneaux? She’s Haunted Hollow’s newest resident.”
Homer Hicks was a short man with a barrel chest and thick arms. He was bald with a corded neck. Either he shot himself up with testosterone daily, or he worked out like a marathon runner.
Could’ve been both.
Homer smiled. “You’re the woman who saw the ghost right before Xavier Bibb died.”
“Was murdered,” I corrected.
“Yeah.” The light in his eyes faded.
I snapped my fingers. “It was a ghost. Lots of folks said it was—who?” I shot Roan an innocent look.
“Maybe the Teenybopper.”
Chicken. Roan wouldn’t just come out and say Susan Whitby.
“Hmm,” Homer said.
“Did you hear about that man the other night?” Roan said. “That Neal guy. Just visiting and died.”
“Horrible,” I said.
“Was it a heart attack?” Homer said.
Roan leaned over. “They think it was murder. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. I don’t know, seems weird. The guy said he was going to reveal who killed Susan Whitby, and then he winds up dead. It was probably a heart attack.”
“Probably.” Sweat sprinkled Homer’s brow.
“Homer! Did you see where I put my crossword?”
An antique of a human shuffled out from a doorway. He was at least eighty with wisps of white hair on his head, glasses perched on his nose and house slippers on his feet.
“Excuse me.” Homer crossed to a table and retrieved a well-worn book of crosswords. He intercepted the old man before he was able to take another step. “Dad, the doctor said you need to go easy on the hip. You just had it replaced.”
“Phooey.” Homer’s dad waved the air. His gaze swept to me. “Who’s that? And why do young people do that to their hair?”
You had to hand it to the elderly; most of them toss their mouth filters in the trash at some point. They don’t care what they say.
“I’m Blissful.”
“Blissful, huh? That’s a strange name.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“I’m Farris Hicks. Pleased to meet you.”
“We were just saying that the man who was going to reveal to the town how Susan Whitby died wound up dead. Very sad.”
Farris watched Homer. “Susan, huh? That story is dead and gone. That girl was a troublemaker. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.”
“Dad,” Homer said.
Farris swatted air. “Just give me my crossword.”
Homer stuffed it in his father’s hand and guided him back to the office. When he returned, Homer’s face was plastered with a smile.
“Now. Is there anything else I can get you folks?”
Roan paid and we made our way to the vehicle. When we were tucked inside, I turned to him.
“Did you see the way Homer was sweating when I mentioned Susan’s name?”
“It was hot in there.” He rotated the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled alive.
