by Terry Odell
She leaned in, offering her lips.
He wasted no time accepting. His tongue swept through her mouth. He tasted like tomato sauce and pepperoni. Who needed pizza?
Her heart pounded. Her knees wobbled. Tremors shot to her belly. The room ran out of oxygen. Gasping, she pulled away. Slowly. Reluctantly.
“I … um … guess I should get the champagne.”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” He took both her hands and lifted them to his lips. “Although plans have been known to change.”
Ashley leaned against his chest, absorbing his warmth. His heart rate seemed as accelerated as hers.
What are you doing? You don’t have time for this. And a fling with a next-door-neighbor is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She sighed. “I think we should stick to the original.” And then, as if she hadn’t heard the voices screaming in her head, she added, “For now.”
She poured two flutes of champagne, set them on a tray with the strawberries, and brought them to the coffee table. Scott handed her one of the crystal flutes and took the other.
“To the ever-growing success of Confections by Ashley.” He lifted his glass.
The crystal chimed as she tapped her glass to his. The bubbles tickled her nose when she took her first sip. Confections by Ashley. Thoughts of her bakery enveloped her like her grandmother’s afghan on a cold winter night. Soon, very soon, she’d be open for business. And she’d succeed. Failure was not an option.
Scott offered her a strawberry. Although she’d sampled her fill while she made them, taking it from his fingers would be an entirely different experience. But he didn’t let her take it. Instead, he pushed her hand away and moved the chocolate-clad fruit toward her mouth. Teasing. Tempting.
She snagged the tip with her teeth, biting gently. Her tongue swirled around the chocolate coating, savoring the creamy bittersweet. Letting it dissolve in her mouth. Taking a little more. Nibbling. Licking. Finally, she worked her way up to the spot where the strawberry ended and his fingers began. She didn’t stop. The chocolate and strawberry juices clinging to his fingers didn’t stand a chance under the demands of her tongue.
Her gaze met Scott’s. His hazel eyes glistened, almost bright-green. His breathing turned ragged. He handed her a strawberry. “My turn,” he whispered.
Scott’s tongue worked on the fruit with a passion that filled her with an overwhelming desire to have his tongue somewhere else. He made short work of the strawberry, then moved his tongue to her fingers, copying her moves. Suckled. Tugged. Her nipples strained against the lace of her bra. Juices—not from the strawberry—pooled between her legs.
Okay, now she wanted his tongue, his mouth, everywhere else.
No flings with neighbors. No flings with neighbors.
Too fast. On a deep inhale, she splayed the fingers of her free hand against his chest, exerting the tiniest bit of pressure.
He released her trapped fingers. Studied her face. Waited.
With tremendous effort, she gasped, “Too fast.”
Immediately, he scooted across the couch. “I…you’re right. I’m—”
She gripped his hands. “If you’re going to say you’re sorry, don’t. I … I need a clear head.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, then gave her an even stare. “You’re in charge. Always. Remember that.”
He stood and stepped away, wandering around the room. Grateful for the distance, she tried to wrap her head around what had just happened. What she’d caused to happen.
He gestured toward all her containers of baked goods. “Are those all for tomorrow’s party?”
She nodded. “What time should I bring them over?”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he moved to the display of donations, picking up the basket Belinda had given her. Carrying it to her, he asked, “Where did you get this?”
The Scott she’d been kissing had disappeared. Scott the cop was back.
***
Scott stopped himself from ripping the plastic encasing the fancy gift basket. He held it up, twisting it, to get a clearer view through the pink covering.
“What are you talking about?” Ashley crossed the room, clearly confused. “Belinda gave it to me. It’s a door prize for the bakeoff. Is there a problem?”
“Hang on a sec.” Scott went back to his apartment, where he’d dropped off the files he’d asked to look at. With Randy Detweiler back early, Scott had begged off what looked like an all-nighter. The two detectives knew each other’s thinking patterns, and Scott didn’t mind being demoted to consultant instead of active participant. Knowing Ashley was waiting with chilled champagne hadn’t influenced his decision. Much.
He grabbed the folder. Ashley stood in the hallway, watching. He dismissed momentary second thoughts about showing her the photos. It was her property, and since Kovak had released the bakery, she had every right to see them. Hell, she could drive over and see everything for herself if she wanted to.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked him about it. Maybe she had gone back. Then again, they hadn’t actually wasted any time in small talk. He could still taste champagne, chocolate, and strawberries—and the way they tasted mixed with Ashley.
He shook it off. If this was a lead, he had to follow up. And if it definitively cleared Ashley—
Don’t go there. Yet.
Ashley still waited in the hallway, her eyebrows raised in question. Scott held up the folder and motioned her back into her apartment. Instead of the tray of champagne and strawberries, the coffee table now held the basket.
Scott lowered himself to the couch and leafed through the photos, seeking the one he remembered when he’d gone through them at the station. “Here.” He handed it to Ashley.
She stared at the photo, then at the basket. Then the photo again. “This is from … from the bakery?”
He nodded. “That was found on the counter beside the sink in your shop. When they found the body.”
She looked at the photo again. “The mug. It’s the same pattern as the one in the basket.” She squinted through the colored plastic. “And, allowing for the way the pink cellophane makes blue look purple, I’d say they’re the same color, too.”
Scott knew she didn’t have any dishes or the like in her shop. But she’d said she had a lot of things in storage. “It’s not one of yours?”
“No. Mine are mocha. No pattern.” She gazed at him in confusion. “What does this mean?”
Scott pulled out his cell. “It means I call it in, and we’ll have more questions for Belinda Nesbitt, for starters. It could be these mugs are common, sold everywhere.”
“I don’t think so,” Ashley said. “Belinda prides herself on being a specialty shop. I know her stock isn’t one-of-a-kind, but it’s also not the kind of stuff you can pick up at the discount stores. Does this mean she had something to do with killing Felicity? I can’t believe it.”
“It’s one more puzzle piece to deal with. It’s possible she’s sold hundreds of these mugs. Or gave them away, the way she did here.”
While Scott reported his findings to Kovak and Detweiler, Ashley went to the kitchen and returned with the champagne. She’d topped off both glasses and sipped from hers as she offered him the second. Scott shook his head, gesturing for her to put it on the end table beside the couch.
“What I don’t get,” Ashley said, pacing the living room, “is why she’d do something as stupid as use one of her own mugs to poison Felicity. Not that I have a clue as to why she’d want to poison Felicity to begin with.”
Neither did he. But that was why he loved police work. Sure, the satisfaction came when you put the bad guys away, but the journey was what kept things interesting.
Ashley reached for the envelope, then drew her hand back. “Are there pictures of the secret rooms in here? Am I allowed to look at them?”
Scott nodded. He almost handed her the whole file before he remembered she might not appreciate looking at photographs of a dead body. �
�Let me find them.” He did a quick censorship job, making sure the pictures of Felicity stayed in the folder before handing Ashley the rest.
She took a seat on the couch, and he sat beside her, at what he thought was a professional distance. Not touching, but near enough to view the photos along with her. Which turned out to be near enough to be engulfed by her scent.
If his proximity affected her, she certainly didn’t show it. Then again, crime scene photos weren’t part of her daily routine, and he understood why they might command her full attention. Since he’d already seen them—several times—he allowed a portion of his attention to focus on Ashley.
She perused a photo, holding it up, squinting, moving it closer, then farther away. Her top teeth worked on her lower lip. He thought of those teeth working on his fingers. Okay, back to paying attention to the photos.
He cleared his throat. “Basically, what we found were several rooms. The one with the trap door is a bedroom.”
“You know this because?”
“Because I’m a fantastic detective. And maybe a bed and two end tables in it gave it away.”
He pointed to a picture of the second room, the one with a large cabinet. “That’s some kind of chamber between the bedroom and Belinda’s side of the building. I’m not up to speed on Victorian architecture, but we think it’s likely where a lady’s maid or valet might have slept. Or maybe it was a dressing room. Terminology aside, someone, most likely someones, had been using both the bedroom and the dressing room.”
“How do you know? Maybe everything’s been sitting there since the people moved out.”
Scott smiled. “We had a very significant clue leading us to believe that couldn’t be the case.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He chuckled. “Actually, it was something that wasn’t there that gave it away.”
“Tell me.”
“You’ve shown some pretty darn good detective skills. Think about it. A set of rooms has been sitting there, unused, for decades. What should be there?”
She picked up a photograph of the bedroom, chewing her lip. He could almost hear her brain grinding out possibilities, trying to see the invisible. She tapped the photo against her leg. “If it’s missing, looking at the pictures won’t help. Mice? Rats?”
He tossed her a hint. “You were nearby when Kovak opened the door. Why do you think he thought it was worth investigating in detail?”
“But I couldn’t go up. I couldn’t see anything.”
“Detectives have to use all their senses.”
He enjoyed watching her think some more. And when the light bulb finally went off, it was as if it were real enough to illuminate her face.
“No dust. It smelled clean. Lemony. Am I right?”
“Right as rain.”
When she hugged him, he made no attempt to cut it short. When she broke it off, she offered no apology beyond a slight flush to her cheeks. And that might not be due to embarrassment. He was pretty warm himself.
Scott picked up a shot of the bedroom floor and trap door. “There’s a small rug here.” He pointed, and Ashley held the edge of the photo, turning it toward her. “Connor and Kovak think whoever used the room normally kept the rug over the trap door, but the night your worker saw the light, they must have either forgotten or left it partially uncovered. The windows are boarded up. They’ve got curtains hanging on the window side, but that’s purely cosmetic—looks better from the street, but no light would be visible to passersby.”
“How did they get light? There’s no electricity up there, is there?”
“Best guess is a battery operated lantern. We think they didn’t need much light for what they were doing.”
Ashley reached for another picture of the bedroom, this one showcasing the bed. “No sheets.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ick.”
“They probably brought their own.” He found another photo. “Here’s the other side of the room. This cabinet matches one in the smaller room.”
“Armoires,” Ashley said. “They didn’t have many built-in closets back then.” She gathered the pictures into a pile. “I want to spread these all out so I can get a better idea of what the whole thing looks like.”
She went to the kitchen and started stacking the plastic containers of party food. Scott carried them to the coffee table. Ashley arranged the photos on the cleared counter, frowning as she moved them around.
“They’re numbered on the back,” Scott said.
Ashley flipped them over and began again. “There are numbers missing.”
“I printed the ones I thought were relevant. The rest are all on the computer at the station.”
Her eyebrows winged up. “Good thing you’re not using film. That would get expensive.”
He grinned. “One of very few money-savers with new technology.”
As Ashley pored over the photos, Scott related what he, Detweiler, and Kovak had brainstormed as a likely scenario. “We don’t have original blueprints. Also, nobody filed plans with the city for remodels. Building codes were nonexistent back then. Nobody knows what kind of remodels were done, or when the residential use stopped. For all we know, people lived there when the first conversions of the downstairs to retail space were made. When the last residents moved out, they didn’t take all their furniture.”
Ashley leaned over shots showing close-ups of the carved wooden bedstead and matching night tables. “Probably worth a pretty penny. Wonder why the owner didn’t sell them. Or if he’d sell the tables to me. They’d be great in the bakery.”
Scott pointed out another one. “This … armoire … contained sheets and blankets.” He found the next in sequence, of the armoire with its doors opened, as if proving his point.
“Not left from the last residents, I take it.”
“Nope. New. Clean. We figure the people using the place would replace the used ones as needed.”
She chewed her lip again. “That would mean they might have been using the rooms for a while. Not likely a one-shot deal the night Willie saw the light.”
Brainstorming with Ashley beat hanging with Kovak, hands down. He picked up his glass of champagne.
Ashley sipped from hers. “Do you have any leads on who was using the room?”
“Nada. Waiting on prints.”
“So what’s next?”
He grinned. “Another strawberry?”
Chapter 17
Ashley made a final adjustment to her dessert platter display and stepped back to admire her handiwork. An entire table had been designated as hers, and she’d laid it with pale mocha tablecloths and dark brown vases filled with roses made of white chocolate. And, of course, a few tastefully placed table tent cards with her Confections by Ashley logo to complete the package. Small cards identified each dessert. She angled the serving pieces for her chocolate Pavé and the fruit-studded almond torte a few degrees to the left and stepped back again. Perfect.
Yesterday, when she’d peeked into the room on her way to her interview, it looked like a cops’ workroom. Today it looked like a party, albeit a party in a police station. There were some balloons hanging from the cross braces of the acoustic ceiling tiles. But the focal point for sure was the huge banner that proclaimed “Welcome Back! Randy No More!”
Across the room, Sadie’s staff was setting up pans filled with lasagna, pulled pork, coleslaw, and mac and cheese. A huge basket held a mountain of rolls. Two people in Wagon Wheel aprons opened boxes of pizza. She stepped closer, inhaling the aroma, which sent her back to last night when Scott had shown up at the door. And everything that had happened afterward.
Which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t much. He’d been the perfect gentleman—more of that Southern upbringing?
No. He was rational. Sensible. And respectful of the fact that they’d agreed to take things slow. They’d sat on the couch and watched a movie. She wasn’t exactly sure which one. Damn, the man could kiss.
She paused at the door, taking one last look at
the room. Had she gone too far? The other food looked like a picnic. Hers bordered on gourmet. And it certainly didn’t fit the tone of that banner.
No. It wasn’t gourmet. Most of her offerings were simply cookies. Delicious cookies, but far from elegant dinner party fare. Instead of one of her bakery three-layer chocolate fudge cakes, she’d brought her great-grandmother Lena’s chocolate sheet cake. Far less striking but much easier to serve.
When Ashley wound her way back to the lobby, Scott was talking to three elderly women, upset about dogs running around their neighborhood, barking, knocking over trash cans and leaving unpleasant deposits. Actually, Scott was listening. The women were doing all the talking. He glanced up as she passed, shrugging apologetically. She gave a finger-wave and hurried out of the building. She had just enough time to get to the Women’s Center for a meeting of the bakeoff committee, and then get to her shop to wait for the furnishings.
She drove the short distance to the Center, grabbed the container of cookies she’d held back from the police party and rushed into the building. The receptionist at the desk directed her to the second floor.
Upstairs, Maggie’s voice worked better than a GPS, and Ashley found the room without any trouble.
“Sorry I’m late.” Ashley popped the lid on the cookie container and set it on a table. She looked around the room, seeing familiar faces from the previous meeting. Penny smiled, set down her crochet project and headed for the cookies.
Kathleen huffed. “I’ve got an hour, Penny. Forget your stomach for once and let’s get this over with.”
Ashley stiffened at Kathleen’s outburst, so out of character for the prim and proper woman.
“Oh, chill,” Penny said. “I’m capable of doing more than one thing at a time. Unlike some people.”
“Ladies, please.” Maggie’s voice carried over Penny and Kathleen’s bickering. “We’ve had a stressful time, but let’s focus on the bakeoff.”
