by Kelly Rey
"I'm sorry," I said. Surprisingly, I realized that I was. Which was a strange realization, given that Archie's sword was still threatening a tonsillectomy on Curt.
He ran a finger under one eye. "I couldn't tolerate it. So I took the job as their agent, knowing what I had to do, and I bided my time, waiting for my chance. And my chance came. Thankfully, someone left the side door open, and I walked right in. I knew if I was recognized, it wouldn't matter. I belonged there, you see."
"And you hit him with the amplifier," I said.
"A stroke of luck," Archie said. "I had planned to use my dagger, my tanto, to educate him. The amplifier made it look like an accident. Either way, I taught him that actions have consequences."
"But she could have gone after him for child support," I said. "You know that. You're a lawyer."
"Child support." He snorted. "A pebble in a roiling sea. Assuming he would have even paid it. No." He pulled back the sword to skim his finger reverentially along the blade. "I would have preferred to teach him a more elegant lesson, but one must seize opportunities as they appear. He was alone backstage. It was a fait accompli."
I wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded deranged.
"And you." He'd focused on me again, those stupid bushy eyebrows lowering like storm clouds. Honestly, didn't the guy own a pair of tweezers? "You and your delinquent little friend had to keep asking questions and involving yourselves in a situation that I'd already neatly resolved."
Neatly resolved?
"You murdered a man!" I blurted out. "And then you just walked out of the bar and went home as if it was nothing! And then you threatened my friend!"
Curt's face grew even darker, if that was possible. "He did what?"
I ignored him. I was on a roll. "And for your information, she's not a delinquent. She's incredibly smart and brave and independent and—"
"Foolish," Archie said mildly. "Sadly, she's also a fairly good driver, and so I was unable to capitalize on her inexplicable affection for well-worn vehicles. Although I gave it a few tries."
"You drove the pickup truck," I said. "You wrote the notes."
"Correct." He smiled like a proud teacher after his student had grasped a difficult mathematical concept.
"Where is she?" Curt asked him.
"I have no idea," Archie said. "I haven't seen the child. Perhaps she's at the hospital delivering her sofa cushion."
Okay, I'd had that coming. But that's all I had coming from Archibald Dougal Ritz. I had no intention of standing there and letting this crackpot make a colander out of me. I could make a run for it, but there was no way I would abandon Curt, even if the rich irony was that there was also no way I could help him. Plus he had the keys to the Jeep in his pocket.
Archie glanced at his watch, and his mouth formed a tiny O of surprise. "It's getting quite late. I really must insist that you step into the bathroom right now."
"Fine." Curt looked down at me. "You first."
Oh, wasn't that gallant. Push the skinny stupid girl into the path of the crackpot's sword. And here I was trying to be all noble, refusing to run out on him. That eye roll should've told me something. I should have been nothing but a vapor trail at this point.
Curt took my hand and dragged me across his chest until I was in front of him. I barely noticed the chiseled hardness under his shirt. It was purely an accident that my free hand skimmed across it on the way. Archie raised the sword like a lift gate while I stomped past him, muttering, every muscle in my body clamoring to go in the other direction, toward the door and beyond, straight to a realtor to find a new apartment. I heard Curt moving behind me, but I no longer cared. I was so over Curt. What had lusting after him ever done for me? I could have slid out of bed in that silk nightgown and wound up with a concussion. Or a bad chest cold. Or some nasty razor nicks, all for nothing.
"It's obscenely hot," Curt said suddenly. "Mind if I take off my shirt before we go in there?"
Time for me to roll my eyes. "You've got a lot of nerve," I snapped. "Don't think for one minute that staring at your naked chest will make me any happier about this."
He stared at me for a few beats before tipping his head toward Archie. "I was talking to him."
Well, that was weird.
Archie made a hurry-up gesture, and Curt went all Chippendales without the oil, peeling his T-shirt over his head on a wave of rippling muscle. I assumed. I refused to watch. I crossed my arms and tapped my toe and stared at the ceiling. Okay, I sneaked one quick peek, but that was only because the flexing of his abs caught my peripheral vision.
"Feel better now?" Archie herded us toward the bathroom with the sword. "If you please."
I shot him the dirtiest look I could muster and stepped into the bathroom doorway. Curt followed about two feet behind, with Archie prodding him the whole way. Curt's eyes met mine, and he gave a tiny movement of his head that indicated I should step back from the doorway.
Well, he wasn't the boss of me. If he wanted more room to spread his muscles, he could darned well get himself locked up someplace else. This bathroom was taken.
Then it happened.
Archie lowered the sword and turned slightly to pull the dresser closer to the door to block us inside.
Immediately Curt was on him, slinging his T-shirt over Archie's head and holding it tightly with both hands while Archie thrashed and bucked in a blind struggle to free himself. The sword glinted as it swung back and forth with the movement, and then I lost sight of it because both came crashing back against the wall and into the bathroom doorway, straight into me. I stumbled backward, lost my balance, and fell backwards onto my right hand. Which was suddenly at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
Eww!!!
Also, wasn't that just typical of a male, to leave the seat up?
I scrambled to my feet, grabbed a towel from the rack, and wrapped it around my hand. No time now to peel off the top layer of skin; I had to find some way to help Curt. Now that I knew he'd had a plan all along, and it had never involved being ogled by me.
Except he didn't seem to need my help. When I burst out of the bathroom, he still had the shirt over Archie's head and was steering him, kicking and struggling, toward the door. I wasn't sure that was such a good idea. In the open with room to operate, Archie's sword could do a lot more damage.
My gaze fell on a table lamp. It wasn't a bazooka, but it was better than nothing. I snatched it up. "Curt, here!"
He glanced back for a millisecond, and that's all it took for Archie to break free and bolt for the door, all hope of imprisoning us forgotten as he darted outside into the night.
Curt followed him out. I followed Curt, clutching the lamp in my now dry, if forever contaminated, right hand.
As I'd feared, Archie brandished the sword with fury in his eyes, and I knew it would no longer satisfy him to lock us in the bathroom and go away. He now wanted to teach us a lesson.
Suddenly high beams blazed into life from the corner of Broadway and C Street, piercing the night like Archie's sharpened sword.
There was barely time to register the giant pickup truck before it leapt forward. I wanted to dive back into the trailer, but my feet wouldn't move. Curt and Archie stood directly in the path of the pickup with no time to react and no place to take shelter. Everything froze except for the snarling engine, and then the awful ear-splitting air horn rent the darkness.
It braked hard four feet away, flinging cinders and dirt. The driver's door opened, and a pair of work boots and jeans came into view, followed by a hot pink T-shirt.
"Uncle Doug, don't!"
Bryn.
"Turn around," Archie said. "You shouldn't have to see this."
She approached slowly, moving so lightly she practically floated. "It's too late, Uncle Doug. The police are right behind us."
I squinted past her into the darkness. Not close enough.
Hold it. Us?
Maizy slipped out of the passenger seat and rushed over to me. I wrapped an arm ar
ound her shoulders, so weak with relief I practically needed her for support. "We were so worried about you," I whispered. "We thought Bryn had—"
"It's his truck," Maizy whispered. "It's not Bryn's."
I nodded. "I know."
"We only took it to go to the police," she said. "None of the neighbors would let us in, and there's no cell service and—"
I nodded again. "I know. What happened?"
"She was giving me a lesson when he called her from his office," she said. "He asked her to stop in at her trailer at ten. He said he'd been letting a friend use it, and there was some kind of problem."
Gilbert Gleason, I thought.
"She doesn't even live here anymore," Maizy went on, "so she didn't know anything about that, but she came anyway, and she brought me with her. Jamie, it was so weird. He was sitting there looking at all these pictures of her sister. It's like he just broke or something."
I thought maybe that had happened a year or two ago.
Eunice crept up behind me. "I tried, but I couldn't find anyone with a landline. I woke up half the block. That man across the street is very upset. He said he'd told the FBI something was going on when he saw Mr. Ritz practicing with that sword, and they only sent two dim-bulb agents out to talk to him."
I was willing to let that slide now that Maizy was safe.
Maizy frowned. "How'd Ritz get out of the bathroom, anyway?"
I squeezed her shoulders. "Let's not talk about that right now."
"You shouldn't have locked me in there!" Archie was saying. "I only did what I had to do."
"Brianne wouldn't want this," Bryn said. "She wouldn't have wanted to see you go to jail."
"It was worth it," Archie said. His voice trembled. I wasn't close enough for a good look at his eyes, but I'd bet they were welling with tears. "Brianne was a child. He took advantage of a child!"
"You got your revenge," Bryn said calmly. She was nearly within arm's length of him now, moving without hesitation or fear. "That has to be enough."
"But these people," Archie said, flicking his sword toward Maizy and me. "They'll turn me in."
"I'll turn you in," Bryn said. "I won't let you hurt anyone else."
Archie's face changed when he looked at her, growing harder and colder and meaner. "You can't do anything to stop—"
Bryn pounced in a whip-fast blur of legs and arms, sending the sword flying. When the onslaught was over, Archie was lying on the ground crying. Naturally.
"Bryn is fierce," Maizy whispered.
A police car screeched around the corner and down the street, its lights flashing dizzyingly.
"You bet she is," I said.
"You people are disturbing the peace!" Gilbert Gleason yelled from across the street. "I'll sue you all!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I stood in front of the mirror, running a hand across the black silk. Maybe I'd finally managed to gain a few pounds, because the nightie seemed to be flowing smoothly rather than puddling across my chest, lying along my hips in a very flattering way. A small smile touched my lips as I twisted to assess the rear view.
The smile fell away. Not much to see there. Maybe after the next bag of Kisses.
Ashley sat primly in the doorway, watching every move I'd made since I'd stepped from the shower. I was pretty sure her interest centered around the proximity to her dinner hour more than my reincarnation as a vixen, but it was still interest.
I'd managed to iron most of the frizz from my hair and left it loose around my face. I'd even broken out the heavy hitters: clear lip gloss, a touch of mascara, and a spritz of some perfume I'd never heard of that Maizy had bought from what she'd called Herbie Hairston's Summertime Beauty Special. He'd probably ransacked a drugstore cosmetics department, but I was willing to let it pass. Although I wasn't too sure about the name: Obsession-Compulsion.
I reached down and peeled off my socks. The tile floor felt cool and refreshing beneath my feet. No goose bumps at all. I dropped them into the hamper along with the other clothes I'd collected from chair backs and doorknobs throughout the apartment.
The bathrobe hung on a hook on the door. I left it there, stepping into the living room barefoot. I'd never noticed before how soft and thick the carpet was. The sofa bed was folded up and laundry-free. I found the remote and switched the TV to one of those stations that plays continuous soft jazz without videos or commercials.
Ashley wove in between and around my legs, meowing plaintively for some food. I detoured into the kitchen to pour her a fresh bowl of Meow Mix and change her water. I added a few treats to the platter as a reward for her attentiveness.
That done, I checked the oven. Not up to temperature yet. I'd set the table with my finest Corelle and the cut glass, fake crystal stemware that had been a Christmas gift years ago. A single candle took center stage on the table. Dessert was in the fridge: a cherry cheesecake from Leonetti's. Six slices of frozen pizza on the cookie tray awaited baking.
I padded into the living room again, shutting off lights as I went. Finally, I lit two vanilla-scented candles, both with three wicks for maximum olfactory effect in case Ashley and I were working at cross-purposes at some point throughout the night.
Everything was ready.
On cue, a knock on the door.
Ashley's ears pricked up, but the night wasn't for Ashley. It wasn't even for Curt. It was for me. I'd finally triumphed over my inner chicken. I'd conquered my fear. I'd stared death in the face and—
Yeah, okay. So I'd gone back into the Norman Bates trailer. But in fairness, it was a really disgusting trailer.
I hesitated, smoothed the black silk that already looked like liquid mercury, and took a few deep breaths.
Then I opened the door.
* * * * *
FREE BOOK OFFER
Want to get an email alert when the next Jamie Winters Mystery is available?
Sign up for our newsletter today
and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From her first discovery of Nancy Drew, USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey has had a lifelong love for mystery and tales of things that go bump in the night, especially those with a twist of humor. Through many years of working in the court reporting and closed captioning fields, writing has remained a constant. If she's not in front of a keyboard, she can be found reading, working out or avoiding housework. She's a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in the Northeast with her husband and a menagerie of very spoiled pets.
To learn more about Kelly Rey, visit her online at: http://www.kellyreyauthor.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY KELLY REY
Jamie Winters Mysteries:
Motion for Murder
Mistletoe & Misdemeanors (holiday short story)
Death of a Diva
The Sassy Suspect
Verdicts & Vixens
A Playboy in Peril
Marty Hudson Mysteries:
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Jamie Winters Mystery, check out this sneak peek of
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE BRASH BLONDE
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
&
KELLY REY
CHAPTER ONE
"'How long has the subject been dead?' This is the question most commonly asked in the field of forensic pathology." The speaker paused to survey the lecture hall before moving to his next slide. A collective gasp rose at the sight of a human skull partially obscured by profuse vegetation.
Lightweights.
I sat forward, my attention rapt. The girl beside me muttered "Gross!" and went back to Candy Crush on her phone.
I tried not to roll my eyes at her. Well, I sorta tried. The guest speaker was only Dr. Bennett Osterman, one of the best in the field. His curriculum vitae was probably longer than any book Miss Candy Crush had ever read. I silen
tly wondered how she'd even gotten into Stanford. Probably the offspring of alumni with deep pockets.
"It's sometimes difficult to say," Dr. Osterman went on. "As you can see in this example, postmortem vegetative growth has continued, precipitating the broken orbital bone fragments you see on this slide, which could easily mislead investigators into incorrect assumptions regarding cause of death. The appearance may mimic the results of battery, for example."
"Oh yuck," the girl said.
This time I didn't even try to hide my irritation, giving her a pointed look.
"This is where the inspection of root systems can be valuable," he added.
"I knew I should've dropped this class," the girl muttered.
"Shh," I whispered. "I want to—" My phone buzzed with an incoming text message. I glanced at the screen.
Guess who's late for work?
I checked the time readout and pulled in a sharp breath. I didn't have to guess. I'd lost track of time again. Moving fast, I gathered up my things, slipped past the girl who was paying no attention—to Dr. Osterman or anyone else—and left the room, disappointed that I had to go just when it was getting interesting. It wasn't every day that I had access to one of the most brilliant minds in the forensic sciences.
Unlike Candy Crush, I unfortunately was neither the child of an alumni nor anyone with deep pockets. Or even shallow ones. The words "college fund" hadn't exactly been in my mom's vocabulary as I was growing up, her concerns usually ranging more toward "food on table" and "roof over head." Not that I was complaining. My hard-working single mom had done the best she could. But it just meant that instead of four years of sorority rushing and mid-term cramming, I had to resort to "non-credited" class auditing—translation: crashing them—and working at the campus bookstore coffee bar. I glanced once more at my phone. A job I should have been at ten minutes ago.
