by Ann Charles
“Yeah, I remember that bit,” Natalie said.
“Well, had Junior been cold sober, I would buy that he killed his dad. That old geezer walked around screaming at little old ladies and ass-chewing Sunday school teachers at random. I’d never met a nastier drunk. But Junior turned into a regular Ghandi when you added liquor. I just can’t see him smashing in anyone’s brains with a rolling pin while he was wasted.”
I leaned forward. “Are you saying you don’t think Junior killed his father?”
Ben shrugged. “The police seem to believe he’s guilty, so who am I to question their judgment?”
“But?” I pressed. I’d learned the hard way that the police weren’t always right.
“But I have my doubts,” He finished just as a tray of food arrived at our table, our waiter hidden behind it.
I jumped up. I needed a moment to digest what I’d just learned about Junior Carhart and didn’t want to do that under a magnifying glass. “I need to use the ladies room.”
The bathrooms were in the back of the restaurant, adjacent to a doorway leading into a darkened room. I peeked in between the accordion doors, curious, and saw a couple of long tables. The room must be reserved for group parties.
I pushed into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, leaning my back against the door.
So, if Junior didn’t kill his father, who did? Lila? I so wanted it to be her, but while she was a long-taloned witch and an ace hisser, that didn’t make her a killer. Why would she kill Junior’s father? What did she have to gain? And what about Junior? He’d ended up on the morgue slab, too, after swallowing a cartridge of shotgun pellets. This didn’t make sense.
I could see why the police would lean toward it being Junior. That made a nice, tightly wrapped little package to hand the curious public. No panic necessary, folks, we have your killer and he’s dead, too. I should ask Cooper about this, but he wasn’t exactly happy to share details about his uncle’s place with me, let alone something that was really none of my business. Maybe if I used Harvey to help, have the questions come through his uncle, I could get some answers.
But why did I care? I thought about that while I stared up at some dead fly carcasses in the fluorescent light casing. All I could come up with was an image of Wanda’s frightened face. Poor Wanda, stuck with a cruel son, an even crueler husband, a wallflower daughter, and a pushy potential daughter-in-law. She needed someone to watch out for her. Lord knew Millie didn’t have the backbone to do the job.
Besides, what could a little digging into history hurt? And what if Lila was up to something, somehow intending to take the money from the house sale and disappear with it, leaving Wanda broke and homeless? That would make me a participant in Wanda’s ruin. In that case, it was my responsibility to make sure Wanda, and nobody else, would benefit from a sale.
I flushed the toilet out of habit, unlocked the stall door, and stood at the sink, staring into the mirror above it. My cheeks were flushed light pink, and my lip gloss needed another coat. I washed my hands, swiped at a bit of mascara smudged on my eyelid, then pushed open the door.
Doc stood there, waiting. He grabbed my hand and dragged me into the shadow-filled party room, closing the accordion doors behind us.
“What in the hell are you doing?” I jammed my hands on my hips, ready for battle.
Doc ran his hand through his hair, his usual lazy grin missing. “We need to talk.”
“You said plenty the other day. There’s nothing else to talk about, unless it’s about your house.”
“You’re right. Forget talking.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me—hard, hungry.
It took a second or two of his lips working their magic for my head to catch up with current events. My body wasn’t so slow on the uptake, shuddering to life under his hands as they skimmed, brushed, gripped, rubbed.
When his tongue touched mine, the old furnace kicked on, blasting heat out from my core. I closed my eyes, sliding down into the moment. He tasted of beer and sinful pleasures, and I ached to have my wicked way with him. My palms skated over his ribs, around his back, squeezing. His muscles tightened. I scraped my nails down his cotton shirt, digging. He groaned under my touch. Power rippled through me; a carnal high followed in its wake, floating me up to the ceiling.
He released my mouth and trailed his lips along my jaw, his hands buried in my hair, tugging my head back to expose my neck and collar bone to his kisses.
“You taste so sweet,” he whispered.
“It’s probably the caramel sauce.”
“Caramel sauce?” He chuckled; the vibrations on his lips tickled my neck.
“I spilled my latte this afternoon.” I hadn’t showered before my blind date, not wanting to even consider the possibility that any clothing might come off. Had I known Doc would be ravishing me, I would have put more work into my presentation.
“That explains the hint of coffee.”
“I shouldn’t be letting you kiss me. I’m not done being pissed off.”
His mouth trailed up my neck. “Let me help you blow off some steam.”
Tempting. “That doesn’t solve our problem.”
His voice was husky in my ear. “I can’t stop thinking about touching you. Everywhere. Does that make you feel better?”
Yes! Yes! Yes! I swatted the Doc-starved imp jumping up and down on my shoulder. “Maybe. Inflicting a little pain on you would help.”
“Only a little? That’s not your style.”
“You’re right.” I yanked his shirt from his pants, wanting to refresh my memory of his contours, to feel his coarseness under my palms. “Where should I start?”
“You already have. What do you call tonight’s date with Ben?”
“Blackmail, from my point of view.” I ran my hands down his chest and abdomen, surveying his warm flesh inch by inch.
“The view was different from where I was sitting. What about your refusal to back down on the Carhart house no matter what I say?”
“Civic duty.”
“How’d you come up with that?”
“I need to protect Wanda’s ...” I gasped. “Interests. God, Doc! That whole bite-lick-suck thing you’re doing ... ahhh.”
“You like it?”
“More than peanut butter fudge ice cream.”
He did it again, melting my toenail polish. “More than Elvis?”
“The King?” I let my hands drift down over his front pockets, exploring the seams and the firm flesh underneath. “I’m not sure you have that in you.”
“Is that a dare?”
“A double-dare.”
“That reminds me.” He cupped my head, turning it slightly to the side, and trailed butterfly kisses down from my temple. “I found what you were looking for.”
Me, too. I began unbuttoning his clothes so I could have access to more of it.
“The murder took place in the early sixties.”
My fingers paused. “Murder?”
“Uh, huh.” Doc knocked aside my hands and yanked on the middle of my dress, several snaps popping apart. “Karen Snarky.”
“Snarky?” Was that name for real?
“Stabbed to death by an ex-lover.” He slipped his hands inside my dress.
My stomach tightened in a delicious little clench that spread south. His hands paused, resting on my ribcage. He stared down at me, eyebrows raised.
I wiggled against him. “You’re not stopping there, are you?”
His lazy grin made an appearance. “Apparently not.” His gaze traveled south.
My black satin bra covered with little daisies had been my quick pick for the night. The matching panties were in the wash, though. Again, had I known Doc and his hands would be part of the night’s events, I’d have planned better.
“Was she killed in the house?” When he just stared at my chest, I added, “I’m talking about Karen Snarky.”
“Oh. Right.” His hands climbed my ribs. He ducked his head and caught my lower lip between hi
s teeth. “Yeah. Sure.”
Then he plunged his tongue in my mouth again while his fingers stole beneath my underwire. The double attack jarred me into sensory overload. I was inundated by the taste, scent, touch of Doc in one breath-taking sucker punch. My knees nearly buckled. I clung to his neck, sighing out an anthem of moans.
He broke his lock on my mouth, panting as hard as I was. “I can’t do this.”
I crashed back to Earth. “Don’t start that shit again.”
“I mean here, right now. With Ben and Natalie waiting for us in the other room.”
“Oh.” Hearing Natalie’s name was like being dipped in a vat of cold petroleum jelly. If there was a sash for World’s Worst Best Friend, I should be hanged with it in front of an angry mob. “Yeah. You’re right. This is bad.”
He pulled his hands out from the front of my dress and snapped it closed, but his palms lingered on my hips as if he wasn’t sure this was the right course to take.
I wasn’t either, but I was certain of one thing—I needed to come clean with Natalie about my feelings for Doc. The whole crazy-hot sex bit, on the other hand, could remain my fun little secret with Doc until Natalie moved on to her next one. “We have a problem,” I told him, dragging him into my mess.
“Yeah, well, you tend to have this effect on me when you walk in a room. I’m going to need you to snap that dress up all the way to your chin for the rest of dinner, Boots, or I’ll be stuck back here all night. Although now that I know about the daisies on your bra, I’m not sure even a nun’s habit would help.”
That made me grin. Temptress was a relatively new role for me, the potential that came with it heady as hell. I’d have to be careful or my skull could snap free and get caught in the jet stream.
“The problem I’m referring to is Natalie,” I said. “And you.”
“There is no Natalie and me. Tonight was supposed to be a business meeting, but she called and said you needed help.”
Damn. He’d come riding in to save me and found me with another man. No wonder he’d been all angry-eyed and clench-jawed upon arrival. I’d have planted a kiss on his lips, but then I’d want to follow it with popping the snaps on my dress again and we’d be back where we’d started. Instead, I touched his cheek and smiled like a helium-headed groupie.
“Stop looking at me like that, Violet.”
I sighed and obliged. “Natalie has her sights set on you, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t make it any clearer to her that I’m not interested in dating her. Why haven’t you told her about us?”
“I haven’t told anyone.” Except Harvey. But officially, I didn’t tell the old coot, he connived that fact out of me.
“Why not?”
As I closed the top two snaps of my dress, I tried to read in his eyes the real question he was asking. “It has nothing to do with your ghosts, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He nodded but said nothing, tucking his shirt back into his khaki pants.
“Speaking of dead people,” I combed my hair with my fingers. “This Snarky lady who was killed way back when in the Carhart house, you said she was stabbed to death.”
“That’s what the article said.”
“Did they specify where she was stabbed?”
“Yes.” He adjusted the front of his pants, not quite hiding his predicament. Maybe just one touch ... I reached toward him but he grabbed my wrist. “Don’t even think about it, Vixen.”
Too late. Already thought about it and then some. I blew out a breath. Back to the Carharts. “Snarky was stabbed in the neck, right?” I asked.
“No. In the stomach, twice.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Why?”
Because Jane said the pictures of the ghost living in the Carhart house had a bloody neck, not gut. “No reason.”
“Violet, what are you hiding?”
I wasn’t ready to share this yet; it needed more sorting out. “Maybe I’ll show you later.” Tomorrow I was going to have a few questions for Detective Cooper that had nothing to do with listing his house. I pulled open the doors, leading the way. “Let’s go.”
He hesitated. “Together?”
“I have an idea.”
Back at the table, Natalie and Ben were eating without us.
“Where in the hell did you two disappear to?” Natalie asked, not bothering with niceties.
“Sorry about that.” I dropped into my chair, meeting her questioning gaze. “We got the inspector’s report today. I needed to talk to my client.” And stick my tongue in his mouth a few times.
I grimaced at my steak. There would be no easy way to deliver my Doc bomb to her. Maybe I should just break this thing with him off entirely.
I laughed aloud at that idea, then realized I’d goofed when three pairs of eyes looked my way. “Sorry.” I picked up my fork and knife. “The voices were talking again.”
Damn. It was going to be a longggggg dinner.
Chapter Nine
Sunday, August 5th
The garlic worked its magic, keeping kissing at bay for one and all. After a dinner filled with shared tales of Natalie and Ben’s past and stolen glances between Doc and me, we’d all parted ways in the parking lot. Well, Doc and Natalie had driven off together, neither to be heard from since, darn it. I did my best not to think about them during the long night. The nightmares helped, ironically.
I’d brushed the garlic off my tongue and teeth twice this morning since once proved not enough for Addy’s sensitive nose. Later, when I picked Harvey up outside the Old Prospector Hotel and Casino for our appointment at Detective Cooper’s place, his sniff and scowl had me digging in my purse for a stick of gum.
He grunted a hello, then asked, “You been ruttin’ in a flower patch this morning?”
“It’s air freshener,” I said, through a mouthful of cinnamon, and rolled down the windows. Warm air whipped my curls.
“You don’t have an air freshener.”
“The bathroom at work does.” My garlic-killing spritz wound up being a full-fledged dousing thanks to a faulty spray nozzle. Zeke and Zelda hadn’t seemed to mind my Eau de “Toilet” when we walked through a few more homes this morning, but they’d followed me on their Harley from place to place. A couple of twitches of Zelda’s nose had been her only reaction to me.
“Let’s go. Coop’s waiting.” Harvey stuck his head out the window as I scooted down the road toward Lead. “Why are you coatin’ yourself in air freshener, anyway?” he hollered at me.
I opted not to answer that. “Get your head back in here. I’m not that ripe.” I grabbed his arm and tugged. “I need to talk to you.”
“I can listen from out here.”
“It’s about sex,” I lied.
That got him back in the cab, all ears.
“I need you to ask Cooper something for me.”
“You want to have sex with Coop?” His bushy brows hit the roof. “Jesus, girl! How many men do you need?”
One repeat customer would be nice, thank you very much. “It’s about the Carhart deaths.”
“Turn here.” Harvey pointed to a road that climbed a long, steep hill. “What about them?”
I waited a beat or two as my Bronco dropped a gear and clambered upward. How did I say what I was about to without sounding like some nutty conspiracy theorist? I decided to just spit it out. “I don’t think Junior killed his dad.”
Harvey snorted. “Here we go again.”
“But I need proof.” I glanced over, catching a frown in return. “Which is where you come in.”
“Why do you care about those two assholes?”
That earned him a frown back. “You’re supposed to have a little respect for the dead.”
“You didn’t know the Carhart boys. Removing them from the local population did us all a favor.”
“Did you go to school with Junior’s dad?”
“Nah. He was a good ten years older than me.”
“But yo
u knew him pretty well?”
“We didn’t exchange Valentine’s cards ever, if that’s what ya mean, but I’d run into him around town.”
“At the bar?”
“No. He wasn’t much of a social drinker. Take a right up there by that old fillin’ station.”
“So he usually drank at home?” Maybe those empty whiskey bottles were his and not Junior’s.
“Home, his pickup, a dirt road, his girlfriend’s place, wherever he pleased, just like the rest of us.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Did I stutter?”
“If he was such an asshole, how did he manage to find a wife and a girlfriend?”
“He knocked Wanda up while she was still in high school. And Claudette—well, women love bastards.”
“Not all women.” I preferred generous control freaks.
“The clingy ones do. It’s no secret. Just read any of those women’s magazines and you’ll see.”
“You read women’s magazines?”
“Sure. They’re chock full of bonanza. Read a couple of those rags, and luring a dame to bed is easier than shooting fish in a barrel.”
Did Doc read women’s magazines? How many guys were in on this secret? I glanced at Harvey a couple of times, unsure whether he was serious or not. He just grinned back, looking cocky as usual.
“Back to Junior’s dad,” I said, wanting to scrub all thoughts about Harvey and sex from my brain and get back to less nauseating stuff—like murder. “Someone told me drinking made him mean.”
“Mean as a pissed-off hornet,” Harvey said. He pointed out the front window. “It’s up there on the left.”
I stopped in front of a small pale-blue 1940-ish bungalow with a detached garage whose big barn-like doors were propped open. Cooper’s unmarked patrol SUV was parked in the drive. Sitting in front of the SUV was a red motorcycle, a bucket of sudsy water on the ground next to it.
I turned to Harvey. “I need you to find out from Cooper if Junior was definitely drunk when the murder took place.”
“The paper already said so.”
“Yeah, well the paper might have been wrong. Ask Cooper if they tested Junior’s blood and confirmed he was drunk.”
