Putting on my best self-important reporter voice, I say, “Hello, this is Lizzie Hart. I’m with the Liberty Chronicle. I was hoping to speak to one of your reporters about a story she wrote a while back. Is Megan Boyd available?”
I’m put on hold. After a moment, a woman’s voice answers, “This is Megan.”
“Hi, Megan. I’m Lizzie Hart with the Liberty Chronicle. I’m researching for an article and came across your piece on an automobile accident involving James Singer. Do you remember that one?”
“Yes, I do. I knew James. It was very sad. He left behind a wife and two kids.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Was there…any foul play involved?”
“No, he had been drinking and ran off the road. Look, I hate to be rude, but I’m swamped. I’m the only reporter here this week because it’s spring break, and I’m so far behind. You work at a paper. You understand.”
“I totally understand, but I have some more ques—”
She interrupts me, “I’m free on Sunday, and I’d be happy to speak to you then, or even meet with you. I could even try to dig up some of my old notes from the article. Is Liberty far from here?”
“No, it’s not far,” I lie. A two-hour drive isn’t too far for the truth, is it? “I’ll come to you.”
“Sounds great.”
“And, Megan, there are some other people I want to ask you about as well.”
“No problem. Email me what you need, and we’ll work out the details. My contact info is on the Gazette’s website. Gotta run.”
Sweet! I’ve got a face-to-face meeting with a reporter who should be at the center of Hawthorne Grove gossip, plus have cold hard facts to back it up. If I’m lucky, I might even be able to track down Lucas Ford and James Singer’s family members. And as an added bonus, since I’ll be so close to Nashville, I can stop in and see my brother, Ryan, who’s currently a med student at Vanderbilt University. Road trip, here I come!
***
As eventful as yesterday was (getting arrested being the cherry on top of that shitty day sundae), today has thankfully been the exact opposite. I even have a boring night planned, working at the funeral home for my cousin, Becca Hart. Becca (who studied to be a Medical Examiner but never got to put it to practice) runs her family’s funeral home now that her mother, my Aunt Susan, is in the nursing home. Normally, working at a funeral home would not be my cup of tea, but Becca roped me into it, and now that I’ve been there for a while I actually kind of like it. You get to see everyone in town on a regular basis, although not under the best circumstances, and you get to help families get closure after the passing of a loved one. Not the worst job in the world—and I don’t even have to touch dead people. Becca does that.
I arrive at Weber Funeral Home straight from work—no rest for me tonight, and no dinner. Oh, well, at least keeping myself busy will keep my mind off of murder for a while. I walk into the office to store my purse and find my cousin elbow deep in a small cardboard box marked “Human Remains”.
Sickened, I groan, “Gross, Becca. Do you have to do that on your desk?”
Becca looks at me, puzzled, pulling two handfuls of ink pens out of the box. “Do what on my desk?”
Whew. I walk over and jab my finger at the “Human Remains” sticker on the box by way of explanation.
She laughs. “What? You thought I was fondling some cremation ashes?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Morticia. Would you please get rid of that box? It’s creepy.”
“It’s a perfectly good box! Why should I throw it away?”
I give her a dubious look.
“It’s not like the crematorium puts the ashes in there loose, Lizzie.” She looks at my outfit and squints her eyes. “Tell me that’s not what you’re wearing on your date tonight.” Becca is a fashionista, and my wardrobe never quite measures up to her standards.
“What date?” I ask, confused.
“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of it by playing the dumb blonde card.”
Oh, piss. I forgot about my second blind date this week. If this one turns out to be anything like Douchebag Todd, I’m joining a convent. “Right. My date.”
“This guy is hot. You’d better go home and slut it up!”
I sigh. “Forgive me for using decorum in the way I dress to come to work at a funeral home. It won’t happen again. Next time I’ll come dressed as a whore. Happy?”
She snorts. “You’re so sensitive. You need to get laid.”
True that. “Who is this guy, anyway? Why won’t you tell me anything about him?”
“I want you to keep an open mind.”
“Is that code for ‘he’s into kinky stuff’?”
“No. You’re just so picky. You think every man should be Blake Morgan.”
Well, every man should. Blake is damn near perfect, except for the fact that he broke my heart. I glare at Becca, but don’t respond.
“By the way, can you work tomorrow night?” she asks.
“I guess, as long as I get done at a decent time. I want to go to the high school baseball fundraiser at The Liberty Inn.” Hank, our sportswriter and resident sports nut, got us all tickets to their fundraiser dinner. I ask, “Who’s the stiff?”
“Jason Harris.”
My face falls. “Oh. That’s going to be a tough one.”
“I know, but you can handle it.”
I don’t know that I want to handle it. Every once in a while, this job gets to me. Thinking about Jason, I remember I promised Julia I’d do what I can to find out the truth about his death, so I ask Becca, “Um, do you think you could do your superficial autopsy thing on him?”
She scowls at me. “Why? Are you snooping again?”
“Jason’s wife thinks he didn’t OD.”
“Did she tell the cops?”
“Yeah, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“Well, I couldn’t determine that without opening him up, which I obviously can’t do.”
I nod. “I know. Just take a look and if anything pops, let me know.”
“I’m going to set his features tonight. I guess I could take a look then.”
“And, Becca? Maybe don’t mention this to Jack.” Becca’s boyfriend, Jack, is a detective, and a really nice guy, but he would not be down with my snooping.
She glares at me. “You owe me—again.”
“Duly noted.”
“Now get to work, you lazy employee, before I fire you!”
I roll my eyes at her and head out to the foyer. I greet people, answer questions, clean up a couple of spilled drinks in the family lounge, and refill the complimentary Weber Funeral Home pens from the stash in the “Human Remains” box. After a few hours, I’m tired, irritable, and so not ready to go ‘slut up’ for my blind date. I would much rather go home, put my jammies on, and have a date with Ben and Jerry.
Becca finds me as I’m rifling through the storage closet to grab an extra box of tissues for the foyer. “I’m done with Jason, and I found nothing unusual. Sorry.”
Disappointed, I reply, “Oh, well. You tried. Thanks.”
“No problem. As a consolation, I’m going to be the World’s Best Boss right now and let you go an hour early so you can freshen up for your date. You look like hell. Jack and I will pick you up in an hour.”
I’m not looking forward to this date, but at the same time I’m not exactly upset about getting out of work early. “Thanks, I guess.” I head toward the door, turning around to say, “By the way, if this goes badly, I’m disowning you, Becca.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I would say I’m properly slutted up now, so Becca should be happy. My blonde hair is hanging in loose ringlets, my makeup is becoming, and my dress, well, it’s a stunner. It’s electric blue and fits like a glove. After having learned my lesson the last time I went to Vibe, I opt for a pair of much more sensible stilettos instead of stripper heels. I strike a pose in the mirror. Hmm. I would do me.
On the
ride over to Vibe, I plead with Becca to tell me a little something about my date, but she won’t give me even the tiniest hint. I try asking Jack, but no one can interrogate a detective. Not knowing is doing a number on my nerves. At least I can feel secure in the fact that I’m bringing a cop along to the club with me, in case my date tries anything weird.
I gripe, “He better not be a creeper or a freak…or a cop.”
Both of them stare straight ahead, not saying a word.
Once we get to Vibe, I let Becca and Jack find us a table, and I find the bar. I need a few moments alone with a shot of tequila to get my freak-out under control. It’s packed in here (again), and it’s going to take a while to get my drink. I crane my neck to scan for Becca and Jack, but can’t see them across the sea of people on the dance floor. I hop off my barstool to try to get a better look, and the person next to me turns around at the exact same time. Splash! And now my boobs are wearing whatever was in the empty glass in front of them.
While I’m assessing the damage, a fistful of napkins appears in front of me and makes a move toward the affected area. I hear a man’s voice say, “I’m so sorry.” I snap out of my shock in time to grab the approaching hand before it makes unwanted contact.
“Watch the hands, pal,” I warn and look up to see who’s trying to cop a feel. Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. It’s none other than Detective Dickhead himself. I growl, “You.”
Seemingly panicked, he looks at me, then back down at my wet cleavage. For some reason, he seems unable to form a sentence at the moment. Usually he’s a lot more articulate.
I snap my fingers in his face. “My eyes are up here.”
Still looking unnerved, he shakes his head and says, “I’m so sorry.”
“You said that already,” I huff, snatching the napkins out of his hand. I wipe myself off, relieved that my dress is dark enough to mask most of the stain.
“I hope I didn’t ruin your dress. It’s…wow.” And…he’s looking down at the girls again. He’s blushing, too, which is a little surprising.
I sigh, too tired to fight. “Whatever. It’s fine. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had a drink dumped on me this week.”
He rips his gaze away and finally looks me in the eye. “This week?”
“It’s a long story. So why are you here? This place doesn’t exactly…suit you.”
“I have a date,” he says, a bit uncertainly.
Wow. Maybe he’s not a robot after all. I’m totally intrigued. “Who’s the unlucky lady?”
“Very funny.” He smirks at me, but his eyes look…scared. It’s kind of endearing how jittery he is. I mean, if he weren’t such a giant ass.
Now that I get a good look at him, I notice he’s cleaned up for his date—maybe a little too much. His light brown hair is short and normally a bit unruly, but not in a bad way. Tonight, however, he has it gelled and combed much too neatly. It doesn’t fit his tough cop persona. His beard, which was dead sexy on him, is gone. He looks way younger and much less menacing without it. He has on a black button down shirt, tucked in perfectly and buttoned up way too high.
I decide to take pity on him, but not before giving him a hard time. “So are you planning on getting laid tonight?” I ask conversationally. His mouth drops open. This is way too easy. “Well, trust me, you’re not going to get any looking like that. Let me help you.”
He’s still speechless.
I start with his sleeves. I unbutton each of them and roll them up to his elbows. He has wicked ripped forearms, not that I’m looking. Moving up to his collar, I flick open one button and stand back to assess. Still too uptight. I grab his shirt at the waist and start pulling, but am stopped when his strong hands clamp onto my arms.
He demands, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, and he lets go of my arms. I pull out the hem of his shirt so it’s untucked. Much better, but he needs one more thing. I reach up with both hands to fix his hair—a gesture that puts me dangerously close to him—and quickly mess it up, bed-head style.
Looking him up and down and liking what I see, I say, “Now you’re ready for a date. Go get her, tiger. And try not to bore her to death.”
His brow furrowed, he replies, “Thanks, I think.” He turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
I turn back to the bar, pleased to find my much-needed shot waiting for me. I down it, feeling the burn, and steel myself for another blind date from hell.
Becca appears next to me. “Quit stalling and get your ass over to our table. Your date is here.”
“Do I have to?” I whine, already knowing the answer.
She drags me over to a booth near the back of the club, and I find my “date” sitting across from Jack in the booth.
Yep. You guessed it. It’s him.
My favorite detective looks from me to Jack and asks, “Is this some kind of joke?”
Becca looks at us uncertainly. “Lizzie Hart, meet Brody Callahan.”
“We’ve met,” I grunt. I’m glad Becca used his full name, because I hadn’t remembered it from when he pulled me over. I’m horrible with names. I figured it was just a matter of time before I called him “Detective Dickhead” to his face, which probably wouldn’t earn me any points with him. Well, at least we can drop this blind date nonsense. Obviously this isn’t going to continue for more than a few seconds. I’m relieved.
Jack frowns. “So I take it this isn’t going to work for either of you.”
“No,” Detective Callahan and I say at the same time.
Becca shrugs. “Well, tough crap. We’re staying. You two are on your own.”
“But you guys drove me here,” I complain.
Callahan sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I’ll take you home.”
“Fine,” I mutter. I’ll do just about anything to be done with this fiasco. I turn to Becca. “I guess I should say thanks for trying, even though it turned out to be an epic fail. I’m considering this payback for the favor I owe you.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”
I follow Callahan toward the front door, but as I walk past the dance floor, a hand reaches out and grabs me, pulling me into the crush of people gyrating to the music. I’m nose to chest with whoever dragged me in, and I look up to see the grinning face of Douchebag Todd. I groan inwardly. As if this night could get any worse.
He bends down to speak into my ear. “Hey, babe. Fancy meeting you here.”
Fancy meeting you here? Who says that? “I’m just leaving,” I reply, making a move to get away from him.
Todd wraps both arms around my waist and leers at me. “No way I’m letting you leave. You look good enough to eat.”
Gross! “Todd, let me go!” I try to push him away, but fail. For a loser, he’s pretty strong.
“You’re playing hard to get. That’s fun.” He smiles, leaning toward my face. I think he’s going to try to kiss me. That is so not going to happen. Cringing, I turn my head and strain against him. Suddenly it feels like he’s being ripped off of me.
A low voice growls, “Hands off my date, jackass.” I’ll be damned. It’s Callahan, coming to my rescue like a knight in shining armor. Callahan gives Todd a shove back and puts his other arm around my shoulder. He asks me, “Are you all right?”
I nod, and he steers me off the dance floor and out the front door. Wow. That was hot. The moment we’re outside, he drops his arm and puts some distance between us. Hmm. Oddly enough, I kind of liked it better when he was next to me.
Smiling, I look over at him. “Thanks for rescuing me in there. That was Douchebag Todd, by the way.”
He chuckles. “That idiot? Now I understand why you were so pissed at Julia for setting you up with him. That guy is a piece of work.” His face gets serious. “Although next time, maybe you shouldn’t get drunk to combat a crappy date. Someone could take advantage of you.”
“Aw. It almost sounds like you care. But rest assured
, there will be no next time. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m running away to join a convent.”
Callahan looks me up and down thoroughly, making me blush. “That would be a crying shame.”
Not knowing how to respond to that, I look away. Out of the corner of my eye, I happen to notice Lydia across the parking lot. No way! She’s being helped out of a car by yet another new guy, and they’re coming our way. I crouch down behind the nearest car and pull Callahan down with me.
He jokes, “That wasn’t an offer to get it on in the parking lot.”
I glare at him and whisper, “Shh! Look who’s here with her next victim.”
He peers over the hood at Lydia and her date. “Just because you want her to be guilty doesn’t make her guilty.”
“I don’t want her to be guilty. I like her, except for the fact that I think she may be a murderer. She’s a good chiropractor.” I peek over the hood to see her date. My mouth drops open. No freaking way. “Oh, I don’t believe this.” She’s with Jed Stewart, the object of crazy Sarah’s affection, not to mention a shameless womanizer.
Callahan sneaks another glance as well. “What? Who’s the guy?”
“Jed Stewart, the sleaze who drove Sarah Rodgers to become a murderous psycho.”
“You probably don’t have much sympathy for this guy, then.”
“Not especially, but he doesn’t deserve to become Lydia’s next victim just because he’s a cheating asshole. So what should we do? Go back into the club and keep an eye on her?”
He’s giving me that “you’re an idiot” look again. “We’re not doing anything. You’re going home, and if I decide to do any surveillance, it will be done alone.”
“If you take me home, it’ll take you at least forty-five minutes to get back here. They could leave and be long gone by then.”
Hesitating, he gives me a hard stare.
I continue hopefully, “Besides, isn’t it, like, a law that everyone is entitled to one ride-along?”
“No, it’s not a law,” he says tiredly. I think I’m wearing him down.
“What if I throw in a burger and fries from next door?” I can’t resist adding, “Hold the bacon, of course.”
Bad Medicine Page 6
