by Emmy Grace
“Well.” Although I stand perfectly still, my mind is anything but. By this point, Liam obviously knows me well enough to know that.
He gives me a couple of minutes and then asks glibly, “Think of anything good? Maybe something better than ‘rascal’ or ‘scoundrel’?”
“No. Nothing seems quite adequate.” I rock back on my heels. “I’m currently weighing my options. Murder you here and try to make it look like Drake did it, or bury you in that ridiculous truck of yours and call it an accident. Both have a certain appeal.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, but never erupt into a grin. “The way I see it, you have two more options, if you want to hear them. You can stand there wasting time and opportunity, or you can go get in that safe and see what you find. Up to you, though. If you’d rather take your chances with me, I’m ready for you.”
Can blood actually boil? At this moment, I have to wonder.
I can’t stomp back over to the safe because of my fried skin, so I glare at Liam the whole way instead.
This whole chemical burn thing is eating into my expressiveness.
With Liam looking on, I lower myself down in front of the safe again. “Combination?”
He gives me the numbers and I dial them in then turn the handle. When the safe opens, I have another homicidal thought, but it’s quickly replaced by a feeling of deflation.
There is no black book in the safe.
I make my way back onto my feet and brush my hands off. “Whether or not he had something to do with Ames’ death remains to be seen, but if your dad has the book, it isn’t here.” Dark brows slash down as Liam slips into his customary frown. “Are you surprised? Not surprised?” I ask.
“Neither. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had it, but I’m not surprised he doesn’t. He seemed genuinely concerned about the book. My father can fool his public, but I don’t think he’s a good enough actor to pull that off.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
I’ve never actually fantasized about strangling someone before.
Until now.
“Would you have taken my word for it?” he asks. I just stare at him. “That’s what I thought. Now we both know he doesn’t have it. We can focus our attention elsewhere.”
“We? Our? Since when did you get enlisted to help with this?”
“Since the book that has this entire town’s crap in it went missing. Whether Dad’s involved or not, I have a vested interest. A lot of people do.”
It’s my turn to cross my arms over my chest. I feel pleasantly smug. Except for the pain, of course. “Got a page of your own in there, do ya?”
He ignores me. “We need to comb back through Ames’ life.”
“Already done it. It’s dismal, but I got two leads.”
“Good. We can stop by his office again on our way to check them out.”
“We searched his office. There’s nothing there.”
“We searched inside. There’s a dumpster out back, though. If someone had to ditch some clothes or gloves or maybe even a book in a hurry, that might be the perfect place to do it.”
“Don’t you think he’d have come back for it already? To get rid of it?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s an active crime scene. He might think he’s safer to stay away until Clive clears it.”
I start toward the door. “It’s a long shot, but whatever. Might as well.” I whirl back toward Liam and point my finger at him. “But if you think for one second that I’ll be the one going through that garbage, you’re crazier than a soup sandwich.”
I flounce off as much as I can, all things considered. Whoever said bald is beautiful was a dirty, rotten liar.
12
I’m not surprised that there’s nothing in the dumpster. My mood is much lighter, though. Witnessing Liam Dunning hip deep in a trash dumpster makes my heart light. I know it will be one of my favorite mental highlight reels in the future.
He’s hating his life at the moment, but he’s too stubborn to complain. I can see it, though. Let’s just say that if his butt were clenched as tight as his jaw, he’d have made a diamond by now.
When he finally climbs out, he has me throw him a small duffel bag that’s tucked behind the seat in the truck. I watch happily from the passenger side as he strips down to his boxer briefs to put on his spare shorts and shirt. It’s like a clean-clothes go-bag. Probably smart for a farmer, just in case he gets splattered with something gross or falls in something that he doesn’t want spread all over his nice upholstery.
His movements are choppy and angry, which makes his thick muscles bunch and twitch. His stomach is drawn in tight, too, like he’s fuming. It makes every can of his six-pack stand at attention. Regina would be foaming at the mouth if she could see this. Tasty Cakes indeed.
There’s no question that Liam is gorgeous. Top to bottom, head to toe. But neither of us needs the kind of trouble that would come from me doing anything more than merely noticing that fact. Our baggage has baggage, for Pete’s sake. We’d need a second home just to house all our skeletons.
Once redressed, Liam strides toward the truck, flings his dirty clothes into the open bed, and climbs behind the wheel. He doesn’t move right away, just glares at the windshield. “Not one word,” he finally says.
“Not a problem. I’m saving it all for our wedding night. Such romantic memories.”
His jaw clenches and he growls at me. Growls! He really needs to quit doing that. Not that it bothers me. I’m having the time of my life. I can’t stop grinning.
Liam fires up the engine. “Where are we going next?”
“Venus’ Flytrap,” I tell him along with the address. It sounds more like an adult store than a flower shop, but when we arrive, it becomes abundantly clear that it’s not.
The store has been converted. What once was a small, older home now looks like a gingerbread house on crack. It’s a pastel nightmare. The siding is baby blue, the shutters are pale yellow, and the front door is soft pink. There are purple flowers painted on the trim of every window, and the chimney looks like an enormous Venus Flytrap in cheery green. I have to give the owner credit for committing to insanity and sticking with it. I’d have tapped out after the pink door.
A charming woman, I’d guess to be in her late sixties, is arranging hydrangea blossoms in a vase when we walk through the door. I thought there was music playing softly in the background, but when she looks up and speaks, it stops. She must’ve been humming.
“Welcome to Venus’. What can I do for you today?”
She’s got long auburn hair streaked with gray, braided into a twist that drapes over her shoulder. A band of baby’s breath is looped around her head like a fuzzy halo, and I think the vest over her t-shirt might be made of hair. Her long, striped skirt and beaded belt complete the picture.
This woman is a hippie.
If Liam and I were alone, I’d win back my twenty bucks. I’d lay down a crisp new twenty on the fact that Venus is this lady’s flower child name.
I smile and step forward. “Yes, ma’am, we’re helping out with the investigation of Andrew Ames’ death, and—”
“Such a nice man,” she interjects.
“Oh, so you knew him?”
“Not very well. He ordered flowers from here once a year. The exact same arrangement.”
“Did he pick them up or have them sent somewhere?”
“He always picked them up.”
“You don’t happen to know who they were for, do you?”
“His mother. Well, her grave, I mean.”
“Oh,” is my only response. I feel a stab of pity for Andrew Ames again, but also a stab of disappointment that this lead isn’t going to get us anywhere. There’s nothing suspicious or mysterious about ordering flowers for your mother’s grave. If I’d had a better relationship with my own mother, I’d probably be doing the same thing for her grave.
“Was there something else I could help you with?”
“No, t
hat was all. You’ve been a great help.”
“Groovy.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“Come back again.”
We start to leave, but I glance back out of pure curiosity. “Venus’ Flytrap. Such a cute name. Where did you come up with it?”
Her smile is broad and sweet. “My birth name was Lily, but Venus is my moon name.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod. I give her a thumbs-up and turn to leave. She resumes her arranging and her humming before we can even get out the door.
“Guess we can cross the flowers off as anything significant. They won’t lead us to a murderer.”
“Yeah, I don’t think our friend Venus is our perp.”
“Not unless she drowned him in patchouli when he came to pick up his last arrangement.”
“Where to next?”
“He had a recent charge to a restaurant. Maybe that will pan out.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Cucina.”
“We’ll have to wait and check there tonight. It doesn’t open until five.”
I shrug. “I can just swing by then.”
“Just don’t plan to eat there.”
“Why? Is the food awful?”
“No, it’s reservation only.”
I jack up my brows. “Oh. Swanky. I’ll have to try it another time. I love Italian and I haven’t been out to eat at a good restaurant since I got to South Carolina.”
Liam clears his throat. “I could probably get you in if you really wanted to eat there.”
“The FBI even has connections in the food industry? I feel so much better about how my taxes are being spent.”
I really enjoy sarcasm.
“I happen to know the owner, thank you very much.”
“Who is he? An old college buddy? An old informant?” I gasp. “Somebody in witness protection?”
“She isn’t any of those things. She’s an old friend.”
An old friend.
An old female friend.
Why does that needle me?
“Then by all means, call her up. I’m in the mood for Italian.”
And to see what Liam’s old friend looks like.
I wake from my nap feeling refreshed and also like my skin is no longer comprised only of raw, extremely angry nerve ends. I stripped down and slept in the buff under the whir of the ceiling fan, and it’s looking like that was a good choice. That’s why, at just after three in the afternoon, I do something I rarely ever do. I go to Regina’s house. I need a dress by 7:45 tonight.
She moved to Salty Springs within a month of me, and I helped her get settled, but since then, I bet I haven’t been to her place more than a handful of times. For whatever reason, she tends to show up at my front door. Often. Like, sometimes more than once a day. That doesn’t give me much time to come to her house.
It’s a nice little craftsman style cottage with shaker siding and wood columns that frame the wraparound front porch. She never uses the swing that dangles on one end. Regina isn’t much of an outdoorsy person. Or an animal person. Or a relaxation person. She’s only interested in work and finding her soul mate.
I’m basically her antithesis.
Our friendship is proof that opposites attract.
I use the knuckles from both hands to rain a series of short, rapid knocks all over her front door. I don’t stop until I hear the snap of the deadbolt sliding open.
When Regina appears in the doorway, her hair is rumpled and the man’s dress shirt she’s wearing looks like a homeless drunk buttoned it. On one side two buttons are higher than on the other.
“Were you mugged?” I ask.
“Uh, no. Why?” She runs a hand over her hair and then smooths the shirt over her chest. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes are shifty. They keep darting to the right. She raises a hand again, this time to neaten up lipstick that looks like it wore off a week ago.
“I came to…” I trail off as I become more suspicious of her appearance and her behavior. Then it hits me. “Sweet Mary, do you have a man in there?”
Regina’s caramel skin turns pink underneath and she leans further into the door gap. “Shhhh. I don’t want him to hear you.”
“Why wouldn’t you want him to hear me?” I raise my voice on the last words, aiming them over her shoulder. Regina scrunches up her face as she reaches out to slap a hand over my mouth. “Who is it?” I mumble under her palm.
“Huh?”
“Who is it?” I ask again.
Finally, she removes her hand. “What?”
“Who do you have in there?” My words are loud enough to be heard across the street. Maybe even in Kansas.
Regina starts flapping her hands like a nervous bird as she steps out onto the porch with me. She pulls the door closed behind her.
“Why do you have to be that obnoxious friend?”
“I’m only obnoxious when you’re having afternoon slumber parties and trying to fib about it. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”
Again, she glances over her shoulder. “Can we talk about this later?”
“No, we need to talk about it now.” I lower my voice and stop teasing her. This is actually a serious matter. “Regina, you just met him. Are you sure you know him well enough to be doing…” I wave my hand to indicate her state of semi-dress.
“It’s not what you think.”
“So you were mugged?”
“Don’t be smart. You…you don’t…”
“I don’t think you should be sleeping with strangers? You’re exactly right.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. You don’t…”
I wait as she fumbles and bumbles some more. “Oh, for the love of money, just spit it out.”
“You don’t know who’s in there.”
“Who else would—” The words die on my lips and my eyes round. “It’s not…?” Regina’s pink deepens. “That’s not…” I point toward her bedroom window. “That’s not who I think it is in there, is it?”
Regina covers her face.
“Regina!” I’m about to launch into my obligatory best friend “have you lost your mind, what were you thinking” speech when my phone rings from my pocket. For once, Beebee’s timing is perfect. I answer the Skype call and preempt my grandmother by saying, “You’re never going to guess what Regina’s been doing and with whom.”
I turn the phone so Beebee can see my best friend. Regina waves and gives my grandmother a weak smile. “Hi, Beebee.”
There’s only a short pause before Beebee picks up on what’s going on. She can be like a windup doll. Once you get her going, she doesn’t stop until she completely runs out of steam. For the most part, no one wants to be on the receiving end of it, and normally I’d never out my best friend and subject her to it. However, this constitutes an emotional crisis. I’m siccing Beebee on Regina because she stands a better chance of getting through to her than I do.
“Regina LaFayette! Chil’, what’s got up in your head? You just like playin’ with fire, don’t you?”
“Tell her Beebee,” I encourage, nodding.
Regina starts scrambling. “He was in town and he…he…he says he’s been clean for over a month. And he…he’s been so sweet. He hasn’t even raised his voice.”
“Hasn’t raised his voice for, what, six hours? How long has he been here, Regina?” I ask.
She wraps her arms across her middle and grabs her elbows. “He got here just before breakfast.”
“So, David, your smarmy ex, just shows up out of the blue, early in the morning, claiming to be clean and a changed man, and you believe him. Is that about right?”
She nods. When I look into Regina’s eyes, it’s easy to see that her abusive ex-boyfriend isn’t the only one with an addiction. Regina’s chasing a dragon of a different kind. His name is David and he’s always been the one thing Regina can’t say no to, no matter how violent the consequences.
“He’s got a good job now.” Sh
e pulls at the button-down collar of her shirt. “See? He was wearing a suit when he got here. He was coming back from a business trip. His coworker dropped him off.”
“Regina, he’s done this before. Twice, if I remember correctly. And after his last blow-up, you ended up in the emergency room with a shattered clavicle.”
From the phone I’m still holding between us, I hear Beebee say, “He needs a date with Lorena Bobbitt.”
“It’s different this time. You’ll see. He’s changed.”
Just then, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I see the back of a shirtless man darting into the neighbor’s yard. Knowing her scumbag ex like I do, my mind clicks through the most likely scenarios. I ask Regina, “Where’s your purse?”
She tips her head to the inside. “On the table by the door. Where I always put it.”
“Check it.”
She gets huffy. “I will not. Just because you—”
“Just check. If it’s there, I will go in your bedroom and welcome David to town myself.”
With a roll of her eyes, Regina cracks the door to look. When she turns back to me, there’s not a drop of blood in her face. She’s as pale as a ghost that’s been had. Again. “It’s gone.”
I take off like a shot, running around Regina’s house in the direction that I saw Shirtless Dave going.
Here’s the thing. When I was younger, I ran track. I was quicker before all my curves came in, but I haven’t completely lost it. I’ve been running from trouble and from various law enforcement officials since I started following detectives and sneaking into crime scenes. I can still hit the gas pedal when the occasion calls for it. And lemme tell ya, this occasion calls for it.
I know based on the direction David went that he’ll have to stop and reroute once he hits Mr. Vanderpool’s ten-foot-high privacy fence. There’s no way over it or around it, so he’ll have to backtrack one yard and make a left there.
That’s where I’ll get him.
I make the turn he’ll soon have to make and zoom to the edge of the Weidermans’ front porch. I glance around for anything to use as a weapon.
I spot Mrs. Weiderman’s shovel propped at the steps. She digs weeds every single day. She must catch them when they’re just little seeds thinking about becoming a weed one day, because there is not so much as a piece of errant grass in sight.
