by Penny Warner
“Thanks for seeing me home.”
Brad hopped out of the SUV and closed the door. “Yeah, well, I want to make sure your place is safe—and smoke free—inside.”
I started to shake my head, then nodded instead. Good point. If the killer knew where I worked, he probably knew where I lived. A cold hand gripped my spine at this thought. I wondered if I would be safe anywhere.
With Brad looking over my shoulder, I fumbled with my keys and finally managed to get the front door open. He entered first, his hand resting on what I thought was his belt buckle.
Then I remembered the gun.
“Don’t shoot my cats,” I whispered, following him in on tiptoe.
He sneezed. “Cats?”
“Yeah. Fatman, Cairo, and Thursby.”
He looked at me. “Cute.” He sneezed again.
“Don’t tell me you’re—”
“Aller—” He sneezed again. “—gic.”
I shook my head. “Great. I hope the killer isn’t armed with cat hair.”
He ignored me, moving forward to check my compact living/dining/workroom, my kitchenette, and my tiny bedroom the size of a walk-in closet. I stood back, scanning the place to see if anything of value was missing. My papers were scattered on the little coffee table that served as a workstation and dining table. Party props were strewn over every available space. Dirty clothes covered most of the floor, along with random holiday books, craft magazines, and party catalogs.
“Looks like it’s been trashed,” Brad said, returning from the bedroom. “Did you leave a window open or something?”
I swept my arm around the room. “Actually . . . it looks just like I left it this morning. . . .”
Brad gawked at me as if he’d seen a dead man. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
I shrugged, picked up a pair of jeans I’d meant to put in the laundry basket, and tossed them over the back of a wooden chair I’d found at a going-out-of-business sale. I didn’t think the place looked so bad. Maybe I didn’t have OCD after all.
Brad shoved aside a jean jacket resting on my maroon corduroy futon and sat down. “Got any beer?” he asked, picking up a Halloween party catalog. Apparently he wasn’t in a hurry to rush out the door.
I pulled open the refrigerator door, grabbed a bottle of Michelob Light, and handed it to him.
He took it, examining the label. “Light? That all you got?”
I glared at him. He nodded, popped it open, and took a long swallow. As he held his beer to his mouth, I noticed a red ribbon running down his arm.
“How’s your arm?” I asked, leaning over and lifting it gently.
He looked at it and shrugged. “No big deal.”
I returned to the kitchen and pulled out a box of balloon-decorated Band-Aids I’d bought for kids’ party boo-boos and wet a paper towel. Sitting next to him on the couch, I gently wiped the dried blood from his arm, then covered the long, superficial slice with multiple balloons.
“Thanks,” he said, admiring my work, and returned to his beer and party catalog. I spent the next few minutes gathering strewn-about items and sorting them into piles. Before long I had the place looking lived in instead of vandalized.
Brad reached under his butt and pulled out something lacy, pink, and embarrassing. I snatched it from his hand. My bra, of course. One of the first things I do at the end of the day is break free from female bondage. Must have slipped between the cracks in the cushions.
To cover my oncoming blush, I leaned over and retrieved half a bag of Cheetos from under the coffee table. I dumped the contents into a bowl that had obviously once held some other snack and offered him access. He took one and popped it in his mouth. I grabbed a handful and jammed them into my mouth to prove they hadn’t been poisoned. Then I licked my orange fingers.
The sound of food brought my cats out of their hiding places. Fatman found a spot on the coffee table and went back to sleep. Thursby climbed onto the back of the futon and kept watch over Brad’s every move. Cairo hid under the futon.
The sneezing picked up dramatically. Brad finished his beer and stood up. I found myself reluctant to let him go. Was I nervous about being alone after the events at my office building? Or was it something more?
“So, you’ve got my cell number, right?” he said, then sneezed.
I nodded. It was in my purse somewhere.
He took a couple of steps toward the door, then said, “Be sure to lock up.”
“I will,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself.
He pulled the door open and stepped out into the salty night air, then turned to face me again. A burst of bay wind swirled my hair.
“Remember. Call me. Now that I know where you live, I can be here in a few minutes if I’m on the island.” He started to reach for my face—probably to dislodge the wisp of hair caught on my cheek—but the wisp flew off and he let his hand drop.
I felt a wave of disappointment. “Do you live here too?” I said, stalling, not wanting him to leave.
“No, but I’m sleeping in my SUV tonight, over by the office building.”
“Why?” I rubbed the goose bumps on my bare arms.
“Keep an eye on things. I’ve got some stuff in there that I don’t want to fall into the wrong hands. You better get inside. The wind’s come up.”
He didn’t look cold at all. In fact, at that moment, he looked hot.
As he stood there looking at me, I lost the power of speech. He leaned in, and for a second I was sure he was going to kiss me. A jolt of electricity zapped through me as if I’d touched a live wire.
Instead, he plucked a small piece of glass from my hair—a remnant of the broken window. So that’s what he had been after. “Good night, Parker,” he said, returning to calling me by my last name. He pulled back.
I swallowed and gave a limp wave as he backed away. It was all I could manage to do in my disappointment. As he headed for his SUV, I started to close the door, but stopped when I caught a glimpse of something odd.
Just before he got into his SUV, his eyes seemed caught by something lying on the ground. To me it looked like one of my business cards, but rumpled and dirty. He bent over, picked it up by the corner, and carefully slipped it in his pocket before getting into the driver’s seat.
I was left standing in my doorway, puzzled.
If he wanted my card, he could have just asked for a fresh one.
So what was he planning to do with the rumpled one?
Chapter 25
PARTY PLANNING TIP #25:
If you don’t get an RSVP from an invited guest, don’t assume it’s a no-show. Be prepared to welcome him or her graciously, even if you harbor a tiny bit of resentment.
After watching Brad’s SUV pull away, I closed the door and scanned the room. Shit! I’d meant to clean up earlier, but I hadn’t expected company—and I’d been a little distracted with the murders on my mind—so I hadn’t gotten around to it. What kind of impression had all this chaos made on Brad Matthews? As a crime scene cleaner, he’d no doubt seen worse. Right?
So why was I overthinking this?
“Boys! Suppertime!” I poured rainbow-colored kitty food into the cat bowls, each labeled with the owner’s personality: “Attack Cat,” “Fat Cat,” and “Scaredy Cat.” I’d once read a book on cat personalities, written by an imminent psychologist. She’d studied cats using the California Personality Index (CPI), the Myers-Briggs Personality Profile Analysis, and the Kiersey Temperament Sorter, and had come up with cat personalities similar to people—Sexy Cat, Hyper Cat, Psycho Cat, Diva Cat, Bossy Cat, Attack Cat, Lazy Cat, and Scaredy Cat.
If only people were as easy to analyze and diagnose. How would I classify Brad Matthews? Diva? Bossy? Attack? Psycho?
Sexy?
Enough. Bedtime.
My body might not have been tossing and turning, but my mind was doing flips. Maybe I couldn’t sleep because there were three cats lying on my legs. Or maybe it was Killer to Be Named Later. I couldn’t escape the
fact that someone was trying to make me look like a murderer, if not trying to kill me.
I got up, straightened my flannel cat pajamas that had become twisted, pulled out my notes, and sat on the floor with a box of granola. Scanning the chart I’d made, I filled in some of the blanks, using a basic axiom of psychology: All behavior is motivated.
In other words, whoever killed the two women had motives. Including the mayor. Once again the seven deadly sins reared their ugly heads. The way the detective probably saw things, he suspected me of greed (I wanted the party business all to myself?), envy (I was jealous of Andi?), wrath (I secretly disliked Ikea?), and pride (I was embarrassed about the mayor’s silly theme?).
All I was missing were lust, sloth, and gluttony. I could be guilty of gluttony, I thought, as I stuffed another handful of granola in my mouth.
I kept circling back to the mayor. He was the one link to everyone, dead or alive. But he couldn’t have pulled off those two murders without some help. Was there someone willing to do anything for the mayor—in order to get what he, or she, wanted?
Like Dakota Hunter, who wanted TI for a casino? Or Spaz Cruz, who wanted to keep it for the film industry? Or the admiral, who thought it should be a monument to the navy? Or Siouxie, who thought the mayor was “murdering” the island?
Or someone else entirely?
I threw my pen down. I was too tired to think clearly. Heading for bed, I just hoped I could eventually drift off if I counted sheep instead of suspects. Switching off the light, I lay back and pulled up the comforter.
Something was wrong.
My cats. All three of them had disappeared from their usual spots on the bed. “Boys?” I called.
No sign of them. I rolled out of bed and took a quick tour of the house to see whether they were eating my spilled cereal, playing in the toilet, or hiding in my laundry pile.
Nope.
I heard a noise. A low guttural growl. Coming from under the bed.
I got on my knees and peeked. Six eyeballs glowed in the darkness.
“Boys? What are you doing under there? Come here, kit—”
A thud. Outside the front door.
Cairo, aka Scaredy Cat, hissed. The blood in my veins turned cold.
In the darkness, I fumbled for my purse, finally locating Brad’s business card at the bottom and my cell phone. Not daring to turn on the light, I touched the phone and called up the keyboard.
Before I could tap the number, the phone rang. Blocked number.
“Brad?” I answered, whispering urgently. “Brad, if that’s you, there’s someone here. Outside.”
I listened for a response. Silence.
The line went dead.
“Shit!” I checked the business card and tapped out Brad’s number.
“This is Brad Matthews at Crime Scene Cleaners. If you wish to leave a message . . .”
“Shit! Shit!”
Another thud. Just outside the front door.
My mouth went dry. In the darkness, I felt my way to the kitchenette and lifted a knife from a drawer. My hand was shaking so badly, I nearly dropped it. I crept back to the bedroom, bumping into a wall along the way, closed the door, and crawled under the bed with the cats. I lay there covered in dust bunnies, knife in hand, and listened for the intruder, hoping I had the nerve to slice his Achilles tendon, like the kid did in Pet Sematary.
Or at least cut off a toe.
I awoke, startled. Minutes had become hours. I must have been truly exhausted to have drifted off to sleep in spite of the scare, because the next thing I knew it was morning and I was lying in a pool of drool. At least it wasn’t blood. I had a stiff neck, cramped fingers, and ached everywhere else. My cats were long gone. I slithered out from under the bed, sweeping the floor with my pajamas as I went. Slowly I sat up, unkinking my stiff joints with every movement.
At first glance, the room looked undisturbed. Using the bed for support, I drew myself up to stand, cursing my useless cats, who had abandoned me in my time of peril, and brushed off the cat hairs and accumulated dust. I found the boys curled up cozily on my warm, soft comforter, where I should have been. I thought about calling Brad again and took a look outside to see if his SUV happened to be there. No sign of it. He’d mentioned something about sleeping near the office building to keep an eye on things. Oh well. In the daylight, things looked less menacing.
After a long hot shower that loosened my muscles and washed away most of the tension, I dressed in my favorite black jeans, “Go Directly to Alcatraz” T-shirt, and red flip-flops. I whipped up a triple latte and sat down with the morning paper.
No mention of Rocco in the hospital—apparently not newsworthy enough. But there was a small story on the fire at my office building. The police were looking at it as part of the recent break-ins and vandalism on the island.
“These acts of violence are no doubt connected to the current power struggles over the future of Treasure Island,” Mayor Green was quoted as saying, “and they won’t be tolerated. I’ve increased security on the island and am looking into all possible sources of these malicious acts. In the meantime, I will hold my decision about the destiny of this historic piece of land until the perpetrators have been arrested and brought to the full measure of the law.”
The mayor could use a good editor, but one thing was clear: He was pissed. Did his anger—or was it overreaction?—have anything to do with the fact that his future bride had been found floating nearby?
The plot had thickened. The mayor had indicated the recent trouble might have been connected to the groups demanding to see their visions of the island become a reality.
A knock on the door interrupted me from scanning the rest of the article. I went to the door and peered through the peephole.
Brad Matthews stood on the other side, holding two paper cups of what I guessed was coffee and a white bag filled with—please God—some kind of pastry. I checked to see that the fly on my black jeans was zipped, tugged down the hem of my “Alcatraz” shirt, and licked the coffee ’stache off my lips before opening the door.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
He held up the coffees and bag. “Brought you breakfast. Thought you might need something to start your day, like me.” This didn’t look like a man who’d slept in his car. His jeans were spotless, the black T-shirt fresh out of the laundry, and the black leather jacket was the icing on the cake. Even the soul patch on his chin had been neatly trimmed.
Did he think I needed him to start my day—or the coffee?
I widened the opening to let him in.
“Rough night?” he said, giving me a once-over.
Did I look that bad? I ran my fingers through my still-damp hair and brushed at the few cat hairs that decorated my shirt.
“How did you know?” I said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.
He nodded toward the knife on the table. “Awfully big knife for buttering toast.”
“Oh, that. I thought I heard a noise last night, after you left. I guess it was nothing.”
Brad’s expression sobered. He looked me over.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
I glanced in the toaster reflection and saw the sleep crease that ran across my cheek. That’s what happens when you sleep on the floor. “Slept wrong,” I said, rubbing the line on my face.
Pushing aside the newspaper and placing the coffees on the small table, Brad sat in one of my two wooden kitchen chairs and took the lids off the paper cups. “Saw you drinking a latte the other day, so I figured it was your drink of choice.”
I glanced at my espresso machine and half-full commuter mug, then smiled at him. So he’d been profiling me, just as I’d been profiling him. I wondered why. Did he still think I had something to do with the murders? As attractive as he might be—and he was—my suspicions of him were never far from my thoughts.
“I can always use another jolt of caffeine,” I said, taking the cup. I filled my mug with the still-warm latte, then stole a gla
nce at his cup. No milk, no whipped cream, no nonsense. Just black. He opened the white bakery bag and pulled out two cinnamon raison bagels spread with cream cheese. They too were still warm. I took a huge bite before saying another word, then licked my fingers. Pastries from the Job Corps culinary school could not be beat.
I caught him watching me. “Thorry. Hungry. Thanks,” I said with my mouth still full.
“This isn’t strictly a social call,” Brad said, setting down his cup after a sip of his coffee.
“What do you mean?” I said, joining him at the table.
“Melvin thinks he knows who set fire to your office building. Fire chief found the hot spots—the sources of the fire. One in the kitchen and one in the reception area.”
I set my coffee down and licked my top lip. “That’s great. Do they know who did it? Did they catch him?”
He took another sip of his coffee, as if it were liquid courage.
I leaned in. “So? Tell me.”
He shrugged. “The fire marshal had some of the ash analyzed.”
“And?”
He looked down at his coffee. “It was highly flammable material. Only took a match to get it going. In another few minutes, the whole building would have been an inferno.”
And I would have been smokin’. . . .
He pulled a small, rolled-up sheet of paper from his pocket, uncurled it, and held it up for me to see. I recognized it immediately—one of the fake mug shots of the mayor I’d had made up for the party. “That’s one of the decorations from the wedding. Where did you get that?”
“Melvin found it in your office. Apparently one just like it was the source of the fire. The chemicals used to make the photocopy made it catch quickly.” Brad took another sip of his coffee. There was something he wasn’t telling me.
I sat back, having suddenly lost my appetite for carbs, sugar, and caffeine. “So . . . someone went into my office, took a couple of leftover posters, and used them to light the fire? For God’s sake, who?”
