Cunning Attractions: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 12

by Christy Barritt

“Lady, this isn’t organic produce. Why would you think that?”

  “Don’t you supply The Crispy Biscuit with their produce?” Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that. But I did it because I desperately wanted the answer.

  “I’ve heard of the place. I don’t supply anything to them, as far as I know.”

  He didn’t realize that Borski was associated with The Crispy Biscuit. He didn’t seem like the type who kept up with trendy restaurants or Norfolk nightlife.

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry for the confusion. I thought I saw Greg Borski pulling away as I pulled in. He owns The Crispy Biscuit.”

  He made a face. “That was Rod Brown who just left. He has a place in Norfolk.”

  “Oh, yeah? Which one? I always like trying out new restaurants—especially ones that use local produce.”

  He tapped his finger on his lip a moment before shrugging. “You know? I’m not really sure. And he always pays with cash, so . . .”

  All I knew was this: something was rotten. Really rotten.

  Chapter Ten

  Borski was really getting under my skin, and I couldn’t let it go.

  I’d read that he started as a chef under a mentor at Darcy’s Fine Cuisine, and I wondered if anyone at that restaurant would talk to me. I decided to find out.

  I headed toward Virginia Beach. Though the restaurant was known as being upper crust, it was located in a worn down building in an old, rather boring part of town filled with dated shopping malls and electrical lines still strung above ground instead of buried.

  I asked at the hostess stand to speak to someone about Greg Borski. I was led back to an office several minutes later and introduced to Garfield Darcy himself.

  Garfield Darcy was the opposite of Borski. He looked . . . normal and unassuming. Calm and thought-out. He had a neat beard, short hair, and he wore a white chef uniform. His kitchen was clean and orderly, quite the change from The Crispy Biscuit.

  He directed me into his office, and I sat in a comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk from him.

  I introduced myself as a private detective investigating a case whose details I couldn’t disclose.

  “You think Greg Borski killed that woman, don’t you?” He said the words calmly and without much emotion.

  I nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “I knew Borski’s temper would catch up with him one day,” Garfield said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was an excellent chef—creative, daring, even spicy. But he could be explosive. He was such a loose cannon that I knew I had to part ways with him or I’d regret it one day.”

  “Can you give any specific examples?”

  He launched into it right away, not even taking time to think. “There was this food critic that tore apart one of his creations. Borski went ballistic. It was bad enough here at the restaurant as he was yelling and throwing things. But it got worse.”

  I was on the edge of my seat. “How?”

  “He went to this reviewer’s home and began threatening him. He stalked him on Facebook and left nasty messages. He began critiquing this man’s reviews on every online forum possible.”

  “That’s . . . over the top.”

  “To say the least. I was afraid I would somehow end up getting sued simply because of my association with him.”

  “What ended up happening?”

  “Borski came to his senses and apologized. I severed our professional relationship. He went his way, and I went mine. He was out of my hair, so I really didn’t care what he did at that point.”

  “I see. Do you, by chance, remember this food critic’s name?”

  “Will Eason.”

  “Is he still in the area?”

  Garfield nodded. “Yeah, he’s at the cemetery out in Princess Anne. He had a heart attack two years ago.”

  As five o’clock grew closer, a crowd began forming outside the apartment complex again. Someone must have known Bill’s schedule because this was the exact time he usually arrived home. Today, however, he was doing yoga with Katarina. The thought of Bill doing yoga wasn’t a pleasant one, but . . . at least he was doing something to keep himself in shape.

  I peered out the window, taking in the “Kill Bill” signs, listening to the chants, and wondering why these people didn’t have anything better to do. The building was otherwise quiet. Riley was at work. Sierra was probably working from home. Rhonda, Chad’s mother, had left with Reef just as I’d arrived back, and Mrs. Mystery was out of town.

  I used the time until Bill arrived to hop on my computer. I was going to try and work until Riley came home from the gym.

  The first thing I checked out was Godfrey Gossips. The words on the page exploded like fireworks on the Fourth of July. He was urging his fans to go to Bill’s home and let him know how they felt about his self-righteous double standards. This man really was behind this protest.

  It just seemed so . . . dramatic.

  If Godfrey had his way, thousands of people would be gathered outside this apartment complex soon. And it wouldn’t be the cool, crowd-surfing type of group. No, it was the guillotine-toting type.

  I looked back out the window. Some news vans had also shown up. This was crazier than I could have ever imagined.

  Out of curiosity, I Googled “Katarina Sokolov” next. I was surprised by the lack of results that showed up about her. The way Bill talked, she was practically a celebrity. But, according to what I found, she’d done a few modeling gigs for some department store catalogs—nothing that would launch her into supermodel status.

  There was also a surprising lack of information about her background. I couldn’t find anything to confirm where she was from or any details of her past.

  Mafia . . .

  I couldn’t get Sierra’s words from my mind.

  Speaking of Sierra . . . I stood and stretched. Maybe I should take a break from all of this and check on my friend. I hoped her knee was doing better. I hoped she was surviving having her mother-in-law here to help out. The woman seemed perfectly nice, but I knew having two women in one house could be explosive.

  I clacked down the stairs, my flip-flops especially noisy on the distressed wooden steps—they were distressed before distressed was cool. I could hear the crowd outside, but I didn’t want to address them right now.

  I knocked on Sierra’s door and heard a “come in!” from the other side. So I went in.

  Sierra was sitting on the couch with her leg propped up. She frowned and stared at her phone, barely looking at me. This wasn’t a good sign.

  “Hey, Gabby.”

  “What’s going on?” I glanced around, noticing how the apartment seemed unusually quiet.

  “Rhonda took Reef shopping. The noise outside kept waking him up.”

  Something else was missing . . . “And your cats. Where are your cats?”

  Sierra had at least three or four at any given time. She was addicted. And softhearted—but only when it came to animals.

  “I had to take them to the office while Rhonda is here. She’s allergic. It was just easier to let them stay there.”

  I plopped down next to her. “So you’re here all by your lonesome, huh?”

  She frowned. “I couldn’t make it walking at the mall. I figured it was better if I stayed here and let my leg rest a little more. No more slaughterhouse reenactments for me.”

  “What are you doing?” I peered over her shoulder, wondering what she was so preoccupied with. She wasn’t usually a technology junkie.

  She shook her head and continued to frantically jab the screen of her phone. “This isn’t working.”

  “What’s not working?”

  Her gaze remained tensely focused on whatever she was doing. “One of my employees decided to make this new app that we hope will help promote awareness of animal rights in a fun, relevant way. Users literally get to save cartoon animals from destruction. Animal lives matter and all.”

  I loved her latest campaign theme. It made me smile
every time she said it. “Not a bad idea. So what’s wrong?”

  “We’ve spent a lot of money on developing this, and I can’t get this lizard to work like it should!”

  I looked at the screen. A cartoon lizard refused to move out of the way of the toxic substance flooding his swamp. “You know what they call that, don’t you?”

  She jabbed the screen one more time with a frustrated grunt. “What?”

  “E-reptile dysfunction.”

  She actually paused for long enough to look at me and groan. “That was bad.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” I was about to say something else witty and funny when I noticed the commotion outside seemed to get even louder.

  I peered outside and spotted Bill pulling into the parking lot. The crowd mobbed his car. They’d really have a fit if he emerged wearing men’s yoga pants. And I would cease any further affiliation with him.

  Did I even attempt to help him? Or did I mind my own business?

  Male yoga pants, I reminded myself.

  I’d never been good at minding my own business.

  With a mental sigh, I stood. “Sierra, I’ll be back. Sorry to cut this short.”

  “If you’re leaving to try and silence the people squawking outside my door like a bunch of rabid monkeys, then go right ahead. I’m going to do as the gorillas do soon and start throwing dung at them.”

  My eyes widened. My friend was grumpy. Very grumpy.

  I didn’t want to know where she planned on getting the dung.

  And she was right. The sooner these people got away from our house, the better. They weren’t only a disruption to Bill, but to all of us.

  I opened the front door just as he emerged from his car wearing . . . sweat pants.

  My eyes thank you.

  I released my breath.

  I rushed toward him, ready to walk him inside. He’d need help to get through this angry mob.

  Just as we reached the porch, a loud bang cracked the air.

  Gunfire, I realized.

  Someone was shooting at us.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Get down!” I shouted.

  Everyone either scattered or seemed to fall to the ground collectively.

  Except Bill.

  I ran toward him and jerked him onto the asphalt. My heart raced out of control. Where in the world was that gunfire coming from?

  It all seemed very JFK assassination-like. Minus the parade, the pomp and circumstance, the Secret Service, and gobs of supporters.

  Okay, so this was nothing like that.

  I raised my head just enough to glance around. Almost all of the protesters were on the ground or they’d run for their lives. The buildings on either side of me looked clear, as did the coffeehouse across the street.

  But there was a shooter somewhere.

  In the middle of the chaos, a car eased into the parking lot.

  Rhonda’s car, I realized.

  My heart pounded even harder.

  I could hear Reef wailing in the car. He’d obviously distracted his dear grandma and taken away her good sense. She had no idea what she’d just driven into.

  Without standing up, I tried to motion for her to stay put. She didn’t see me.

  Her door opened.

  “Rhonda, no!” Just as I said the words, another gunshot rang out.

  The glass on Rhonda’s door shattered.

  Had someone lost his or her mind? There was a baby in that car!

  Just then, movement across the street caught my eye. Someone was fleeing from the scene!

  It was the shooter. I was certain of it.

  I pulled myself to my feet and darted after him before anyone could stop me. I dodged the minefield of protesters lying on the ground. Nearly tripped on a “Kill Bill” sign. Vaguely thought I really did see a foam guillotine.

  I didn’t have time to examine everything.

  I had to catch this idiot.

  I didn’t have my gun with me or anything else to protect myself. But I couldn’t lose this guy now.

  The figure wore all black. Was thin. Fast.

  A black mask covered his face.

  Or was the person a woman? I honestly couldn’t tell.

  For all I knew, it could be Greg Borski.

  I jerked to a stop at the street as cars zoomed past. At the first break, I rushed across. But that roadblock had allowed too much distance.

  The shooter was farther away.

  As the shooter disappeared around the corner, I stopped. My chest heaved as I tried to drink in air.

  I hadn’t been able to catch up with him . . . or her.

  But the stakes in all of this had just become a lot greater.

  Detective Adams came by to get everyone’s statements about what had happened. He’d already questioned Bill, Rhonda, and several protesters. I was hanging around until the end so I could talk to Adams privately. After all, we were practically BFFs.

  As the sun set, I stood outside in the almost-deserted parking lot, waiting as Adams talked to another detective. A CSI collected the stray bullet and searched for the bullet casing. Another team of officers searched for the shooter.

  Riley was still at work and probably didn’t know what was going on. Chad had rushed home a few minutes ago to check on his family. Thankfully, they were all okay.

  A news crew had shown up and were setting up cameras on the edge of the property. Gawkers lingered on the sidewalk, wondering what the commotion was about. Cars slowed as they passed, rubbernecking to see what was going on.

  Finally, the other detective headed across the street to check for camera footage from the businesses there. I only knew that because I’d overheard Detective Adams talking to him.

  A lot of criminals weren’t smart enough to avoid cameras. My gut told me that this one was.

  When a natural pause in the conversation came, I broached the subject that had really been on my mind. “Anything new on the case that you can tell me about?”

  Adams raised an eyebrow and propped an elbow up on the stair railing. “You mean since I talked to you last?”

  I nodded, hoping he didn’t feel the question was unreasonable. “Yes, exactly. I’ve been trying to sketch out the timeline for Emma Jean, but I haven’t had much luck. My best guess is that she died on Monday. I just can’t figure out where she died or how she ended up in the freezer.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out also. I can tell you this: we don’t believe the freezer was the initial scene of the crime.”

  Interesting. “You don’t know where the initial location is?”

  He shook his head.

  I wasn’t finished. “Do you know what she was hit with?”

  “Something round and thick.”

  “A rolling pin?” I wondered aloud.

  “That would be too easy, right?”

  Maybe it would be. Again, it just went back to how smart this criminal was. It also went back to if Emma Jean’s death was connected with the threats against Bill. I hadn’t found the connection yet, other than Bill. Maybe Bill was enough.

  What else would fit the description of the murder weapon? “A baseball bat?”

  “We’re trying to figure it all out.”

  “What about the contents of her stomach? What did that tell you?” Such as time of death . . .

  “I’m waiting to hear back from the medical examiner. They’re backlogged with cases still. Certainly you know better than most people that they’re short-staffed.”

  Did I ever. I’d been let go because of budget cuts. I wondered if I could call down to a few friends there myself . . . it was something to consider. I only wanted to play that card when it was an absolute necessity.

  “Do you have any suspects?” I continued.

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Nothing’s really changed.”

  “That’s for sure. We do have our eye on someone.”

  I leaned forward, wishing I had another donut to offer him. �
��It’s Greg Borski, isn’t it?”

  He blinked. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he had motive and means. He couldn’t stand Emma Jean. He obviously had access to the freezer at the restaurant. He could have kept people away from that area.”

  “Theories aren’t reason enough to arrest someone. You know that.”

  “That’s right. You need some hard evidence.”

  “You got any?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let me know if you find anything. I need a weapon. I need a crime scene.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He smiled. “I know you will.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Just as Detective Adams left and I stepped inside to check on Reef, the door upstairs opened and Tim rambled out. I blinked. I hadn’t even realized he was here. Maybe that was because he didn’t have a car and he hadn’t shown his face since he moved in.

  “What’s going on?” He leaned on the post at the top of the stairs. His eyes looked dazed, his hair even messier than usual, and I was pretty sure he still hadn’t showered. “It’s been loud out here.”

  I slowly climbed the steps to reach him. “You missed all the excitement.”

  Had he really slept through everything that happened?

  Deep inside, I was worried about him. He was a grown man, capable of making his own choices. I didn’t think I would ever truly understand him. When he’d returned from his abduction, he’d been a different person. I figured his experiences had changed him, as had his new upbringing with his kidnappers. Being a freegan was his way of coping, just as crime scene cleaning had been my way of coping. Could we ever regain what we’d lost?

  “I didn’t realize how tired I was.” He yawned and stretched, as if to prove his words were true. “I guess hitchhiking across country was more exhausting than I thought.”

  He scratched his head.

  “You know you can use my shower, right?” I imagined him sleeping on my sheets with that itchy head and squirmed. Lice? I didn’t even want to think about it.

  But that was okay because I needed to get rid of my furniture anyway. For that matter, I needed to get rid of my apartment. Maybe this would get the ball rolling faster.