I grimace at him, but don’t answer his question.
He continues, “I’m going to keep grilling you until I break you. I can interrogate people like it’s my job.” Um, it is his job. Oh, he was making a joke. He actually can be kind of funny.
“Fine. But, you have to promise me something.”
“Deal.”
“You have to promise not to arrest me and not to stand in my way.”
“That’s two things,” he points out.
I glare at him.
“Okay, okay. I promise.”
“Besides visiting my brother, I’m going to a little town called Hawthorne Grove to research a woman named Catherine Richmond. I believe she may be connected to Lydia Thomas.”
Brody’s face doesn’t react, except that his jaw clenches tightly. “Let me go with you.”
“No. Bringing a cop along might cause my source to clam up. I need to do this by myself.”
“I’ll be off duty, plus I have no jurisdiction in Tennessee. No one will know I’m a cop.” He’s good at arguing. I can tell he’s not going to give up soon.
“Whatever! You exude bacon.”
He glares at me. “You might need someone there to keep you out of trouble.”
For some reason, he’s really lobbying to go with me, even after he found out I was going to be sticking my nose into Lydia’s business. It would be nice to have some company, and it would be a good opportunity to get to know him better. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get to spend the whole day with him—as long as he keeps his promise and doesn’t get in my way, or arrest me again.
He adds, “I’ll drive.”
“Sold.”
***
As I’m getting myself all gussied up for the Masons’ party, I start to wonder how Blake is going to act toward me after this morning’s little incident, which unfortunately came on the heels of our huge fight the night before. Brody seemed to think Blake was being a little stalker-ish, and he did take off rather quickly after he saw us kissing. Once upon a time, I could tell you exactly what Blake was thinking at any given moment. Now, not so much.
Figuring my only defense is a good offense, I take extra time on my hair and makeup and wriggle myself into a hopefully jaw-dropping red dress. I drive to Mason’s house and have to park a couple of blocks away. Their ginormous McMansion is packed to the gills with party guests. I may never find any of my co-workers or anyone I know in this sea of people. Maybe I should have invited Brody to come along with me to keep my company. Wow. It’s getting disturbing how much I think about him.
I wander over to the food table and bump into Alan. Great. Although I feel for him and his, um, issues, I really don’t want to hang out with him if I can help it.
“Hey, Alan,” I say.
Alan smiles. “Oh, hi, Lizzie. Nice party, huh?” He seems to be reasonably lucid tonight, thankfully.
“Yeah. Mason really went all out.”
“Check out the size of these shrimp, would you?” He spears a shrimp and waves it in my face. “They’re huge! You can’t even get the whole thing in your mouth. Here, try one!” He holds the shrimp up to my lips.
I push his hand back. “Thanks, but no. I’m not much of a shrimp fan.”
Undaunted, Alan continues, “Can you still call them shrimp if they’re huge? Isn’t that an oxymoron or something?”
Such captivating conversation. “Yes, the term ‘jumbo shrimp’ is one of the more well-known examples of an oxymoron. So, have you seen any of our other co-workers here yet?”
“Your boyfriend is here,” he says, but then winces. “Oh, right, sorry. I forgot you and Blake broke up.”
Irritated, I snap, “Really? We only dated for five minutes, and we’ve been broken up for six months. Keep up, Alan. Sheesh.”
He says sheepishly, “I guess that would be why he’s dancing with Dr. Lydia.”
I close my eyes. Why must Blake taunt fate like this? I’ve told him repeatedly to stay away from her, and he refuses to do it. Maybe I need to take my chances and tell him my suspicions. I smile tightly, “Nice talking to you, Alan.”
Hurrying away from Alan and his jumbo shrimp, I notice that all of the patio doors are open to the back terrace. I could use a little air. When I walk out there, I belatedly realize that this is where they’ve set up the dance floor. The last thing I want to see is Blake dancing with Lydia. I whirl to flee back inside, and smack straight into the chest of some guy. I look up. Shit. It’s Blake. What are the odds?
“I need to talk to you,” he mutters, taking my hand and pulling me toward the dance floor.
I try to jerk my hand free, but he holds fast. “What if I don’t want to talk to you?”
He spins me into a dancing hold, his right arm clamped around my waist. “Too bad.”
I push against him, but he responds by pulling me tighter. “Why do we have to dance?” I complain.
“Because, when we’re alone and we try to talk, it turns into a screaming contest. If we talk in public, you’ll have to behave.”
“I’ll have to behave?!? Please. You’re the one holding me against my will.”
He smirks. “Don’t even pretend you aren’t enjoying it.”
Fine. A part of me is a complete mess over being body to body with Blake Morgan, who looks absolutely good enough to eat in his super-sharp black suit, punctuated by a dark blue tie. I don’t think all of my original crush on him has, or ever will, go away. The rest of me, however, is pretty pissed off about it.
“I won’t if you won’t,” I retort.
“So, tell me, how did you manage to get that cop to go from arresting you to groping you in under seventy-two hours?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounds jealous.
“Oh, Blake,” I murmur breathily, leaning into him. “You of all people should know the kind of effect I can have on men.”
I can tell from his eyes he wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth. And I wasn’t expecting his response, either.
“You do look absolutely gorgeous tonight.”
We lock eyes for a moment, unblinking. An unwanted wave of old feelings comes flooding back, and I struggle to suppress it. I give in and break our gaze first. “I don’t think you made me come out here and dance with you so we could do our witty banter thing. What’s really up?”
He leans toward me and murmurs into my ear, “I don’t think Lydia is quite what she seems.”
Feeling his warm breath against my ear shoots a tingle down my neck and shoulders. Before I can stop myself, I turn my face toward his. Our lips are barely an inch apart, the tension palpable between us.
Finally coming to my senses, I lean back and say, “Duh, I’ve been trying to tell you that for days, and you wouldn’t listen.”
Something flickers in his eyes, and he pulls back as well. After clearing his throat, he admits in a low voice, “Something felt off when I interviewed her. She didn’t want to talk about her previous practice, and she insisted her picture not be included with the article. She was adamant about it.”
“Is this the part where you tell me I was right and you were wrong?”
He ignores me. “And, I can’t find a record of Dr. Lydia Thomas anywhere. She only moved here a few months ago—there’s got to be an old phone number still listed somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can find it.”
Do I tell him everything I know or keep it to myself? The last time Blake was made aware of some sensational yet extremely sensitive information, he blasted it across the front page of the Chronicle. We had the mother of all fights over that one, and I think it was a huge factor in the untimely demise of our relationship. And while his help would be…well, helpful, this time I’ve got Brody, an actual cop, on my side. At least I think he’s on my side. I still haven’t fessed up to him as to how I got my information on Hawthorne Grove and the name Dr. Catherine Richmond. Then again, he’s a pretty awesome detective. He probably already knows. Funny how I’m thinking about Brody again, even with Bla
ke’s smokin’ hot bod smashed against mine.
I settle on telling Blake very little, at least until I can decide whether or not I can trust him. “I’m going to receive some information tomorrow that might answer some of your questions. If there’s anything interesting, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”
His eyes narrow. “Where are you getting this information? And from whom?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You mean you can’t or you won’t?” he presses.
“I don’t have to tell you everything.”
Annoyance flashes across his face, but he quickly covers it with one of his trademark sexy smiles (the ones that can make me agree to just about anything) and murmurs, “Please?”
Oh, he’s seductive and persuasive when he gets like this, but it’s not going to work this time. “I’ll talk to you on Monday,” I say, pulling away from him.
Reluctantly, Blake allows me to step away, and I head back inside the house. Feeling his eyes on me, I glance over my shoulder, and he’s just standing there, kind of confused-looking, staring after me. I feel a twinge of regret and consider going back to talk to him some more. Before I can make up my mind, some other woman descends on him and he begins dancing with her, our little moment obviously forgotten. I can’t figure him out, and I’m too tired to try. I’m more than ready to head home, so I go to find Mason to wish him a happy anniversary and thank him for the party, or more accurately, to make sure he knows I attended. I’m not even bothering with Bitsy, because I’m sure she’s either drunk or humping some guy in a bathroom, or both.
The sound of a glass clinking gets everyone’s attention, and I spy Mason, who’s standing at the top of his grand staircase, getting ready to make one of his famously bad speeches.
He smiles broadly. “Thank you, each and every one of you. Thank you for helping myself and my lovely bride celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary tonight. Bitsy, baby, where are you at?” He peers down at the crowd expectantly, but no Bitsy. Like I said—he should probably check one of the bathrooms. Continuing undaunted, he says, “Anyways, it’s so great to have our friends and family with us tonight. These last twenty-five years have went by so fast. Here’s to another twenty-five years, my darling!”
When Mason raises his glass as a toast, the crowd murmurs uneasily and claps haltingly. That speech was uncomfortable for numerous reasons, including the horrendous grammar that my boss, the publisher of our town’s newspaper no less, insists on using every time he speaks. I counted five mistakes in under a minute.
Mason starts making his way back down the stairs, and I catch him at the bottom. “Hey, Mr. Mason,” I greet him. “Great party. Thanks so much for inviting me.”
“Glad you could be here, Lizzie. Did you have some of them jumbo shrimp? I had them flown in special.” Good grief. Enough about “them” damn jumbo shrimp already!
“Yes, they were fantastic. Great choice,” I lie, seeing no reason not to suck up to the boss a little.
Mason smiles, pleased with himself, but then gets a more serious look on his face. “Lizzie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Ed’s told me about the personality conflict you and Bethany seem to have with each other.”
Ooh, busted by the boss. I hope this doesn’t get ugly.
He continues, “I know Bethany can be difficult to deal with sometimes, but I know you can find a way to get along, even if you have to agree to disagree. Think you two gals can come to a compromization?” Now he’s just making up words.
I sigh. “Yes, sorry about that, Mr. Mason. I’ll try.”
“Atta girl. Now go get you some more of them jumbo shrimp! Me and the missus sure don’t want a table full of leftovers!”
Mason leaves me so he can go hassle someone else, and I make a beeline for the door. All in all, Mason was pretty nice about the whole Bethany situation, but it’s still no fun getting called out by the boss. Now all I want to do is get out of here and go home, and maybe check my messages to see if Brody tried to call me.
I’m thinking about him again. I’m really starting to worry myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I didn’t have any messages from Brody, which is no big deal, because it’s not like I like him or anything. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a call…but it might have been nice to hear his voice. Whatever.
I’m way too excited about my trip tomorrow to sleep, and since I left the party ridiculously early, I have plenty of time to whip up a few batches of cookies to take to my brother, Ryan. The last time we were together was during his Christmas break, and I can’t wait to see him. My “little” brother, who’s a foot taller than me, is studying to be a pediatrician, and I’m so proud of him. Every time I visit him, it’s kind of expected that I bring an unholy amount of baked goods for him and his friends. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.
While my cookies are baking, I gather the information I have about Lydia, if that is her real name, and take it into my spare bedroom. I bought a humongous dry erase board earlier this week, and I’m going to make my very own “murder board” like the detectives do on all the cop shows I watch on TV. It seems to work for them to help connect the dots to the killer, so I thought I could give it a try.
I tack up the two photos I printed of Lucas Ford and James Singer’s patient files. I used a lot of ink from the printer at work to blow them up and print them out on full-sized sheets of paper. They’re not spectacular, because I snapped the photos on my phone, but at least they’re readable. Next, I make a timeline of Jason Harris and Mark Heston’s deaths, just like a good TV detective would. I also write some notes on one side of the board about Hawthorne Grove and the deaths of Lucas and James.
Standing back to admire my handiwork, I realize I’m going to need a hell of a lot more information to make any kind of connection between Lydia, Catherine Richmond, and a growing number of dead men. Hopefully, I’ll get what I need from Megan tomorrow.
***
Brody said he’d pick me up at nine, but I’m ready and raring to go well before eight. I’m so looking forward to this trip! I’m not sure if I’m more psyched about seeing my brother or investigating my leads—or maybe it’s simply that I can’t stop girling out over a whole day alone with Brody. I think I need to rein it in a little. Besides kissing me like I was the only woman in the world, and kind of asking me out, I have absolutely no reason to think that Brody is interested in me in the slightest. To him, I may be just another crazy person he has to deal with on a daily basis as a cop. At any rate, I’ve made up my mind to stay in the friend zone right now. If he wants something more, he’s going to have to do the asking. So there.
I hear a knock and, after making sure my dress is on straight and my hair is fluffed, I answer the door. Brody is standing outside, and when he sees me, he breaks into a smile. Did I mention that he’s extremely handsome when he smiles?
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he replies, stepping into my house. “It smells like a bakery in here.” He gives me a knowing look. “You made me breakfast, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t aware that you’d done anything to warrant me making you breakfast,” I tease.
He crosses his arms, still smiling, biceps bulging. “Not yet, anyway.”
I choose not to engage in his obvious flirting, instead explaining, “I made some cookies for my baby brother.”
He walks into my kitchen and looks at the two huge and overflowing Tupperware boxes I have on my counter. “Your baby brother is going to eat twenty pounds of cookies?”
I laugh. “He has friends. Hungry friends.”
Brody snags a cookie off the top of the pile and takes a bite. “Mmm. Pretty, and she can cook.” He just called me pretty again, didn’t he? “When did you make all of these? It had to have taken hours.”
“I got bored of that stuffy party pretty quickly, so I came home early.” I close up the lids on the cookie boxes and hand them to Brody. “Here. Be useful and carry these for me. Let’s g
et this road trip started.”
***
Brody and I talk and laugh all the way to Nashville. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to, and actually kind of funny. We’re able to avoid the subject of Lydia until we get to Hawthorne Grove, and then Brody starts asking the tough questions.
“How did you find the name Catherine Richmond and trace it to Hawthorne Grove?”
Yeesh. I still need to be a little vague, because telling him all the gory details of my break-in at Lydia’s office could come back and bite me in the ass. “I may have seen the information in passing when I was searching for my phone that night at Lydia’s office.”
Exasperated, he nods. “I thought so. Where exactly did you see it in passing? Be specific.”
“Now, remember, you promised not to arrest me again. Besides, we’re in Tennessee, so you technically have no jurisdiction, anyway.”
He glares at me. “Answer the question.”
I’m not going to be able to stay ahead of his interrogating skills much longer. “I may have seen it…in one of her desk drawers.”
Running a hand through his hair, he asks, “Did you take anything that night?”
“Only a couple of photos.”
He seems relieved. “Would you please tell me everything you know, in detail?”
“Yeah, I don’t do details very well. Ask anyone I work with.” I laugh, but he doesn’t join me. I press on anyway, hoping to get the conversation off track. “I am the office joke. I can’t tell a story with any detail whatsoever. It’s just not a skill I possess.”
“Try.” He has his stern cop face on now, so it might be in my best interest to not screw around with him anymore.
“Fine. I found a stack of files in one of her desk drawers. They were patient files. All of them said ‘Dr. Catherine Richmond’ at the top, and they all had the same Hawthorne Grove address and phone number. Happy?”
“Not even. What else did you find out from the files?”
I frown. “Well, thanks to you, I only got to look at two of them. They were files for two men named Lucas Ford and James Singer. And get this—I did a little research, and it turns out both of them are dead. They both died within the last year.”
Bad Medicine Page 9
