The Hunger Pains (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 2)

by Chelsea Field

  He’d done that for me when the last case had gotten overwhelming. I remembered the feel of his body pressed against my back. Solid. Strong. Seductive. “No,” I said, heading off my thoughts and the rush of warmth in my stomach, “but thanks for offering.”

  He laid out the telephone records on the table, lightly brushing my hand as he did so. “Then let’s find the bastard who did this.”

  It wasn’t as hard to work out as I thought it might be. Most of the numbers were the same four. Mrs. Dunst’s, Jay Massey’s, Dr. Kelly’s, and mine. I focused on the few that weren’t, staring at the beginning and end times of the calls, trying to think back.

  I pointed to the most recent unknown number, on Thursday night. “That one was a telemarketer I think. We were eating dinner, and Earnest told whoever it was that he wasn’t interested and to take him off their list.” I briefly entertained the thought that the telemarketer might have done it. I’d met a telemarketer-turned-hitman once, but his couldn’t be the normal career progression.

  My finger hovered over the next unknown number. “That might have been the landlord, calling about when someone could come and look at the water pressure problem. You can double check that, right? They’ve had a string of bad luck with building maintenance lately, so there’ll be others to the same number.”

  “Should be easy enough to confirm.”

  I was coming up to phone calls from four days ago, and my memories were getting more and more hazy. One sparked a memory. “That one. Can you trace the number to find out who it is? We were binge watching the last few episodes of Firefly, and Earnest paused it to take the call in another room. I overheard some of the conversation.”

  Connor lifted an eyebrow in his understated way.

  “What? I wasn’t eavesdropping. The walls are thin. Earnest said something like, ‘Sure I can meet with you, but you aren’t going to change my mind. People need to know.’ I assumed he was talking about his latest whistle-blowing project.”

  Connor sent a text. “Good. We should know who that number is registered to shortly.”

  A tinny version of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” rang out on my phone. Oliver had changed it one night, trying to convince me to go out drinking with him. I rummaged through my bag for it, ignoring Connor’s probable amusement. Unknown caller. “Hello?”

  “I was expecting to see you down at the station yesterday, Ms. Avery.” It was Commander Hunt.

  “Um—”

  “Get down here. Now.” The growl in his voice would’ve sent Dudley cowering behind the couch. He disconnected before I could respond. Ugh. Why did everyone keep doing that to me? Jim, Connor, and now Hunt. They’d get along great if they could put aside their tough male egos and realize how much they had in common.

  Connor was waiting for an explanation.

  “That was Commander Hunt. He’d like me to come in and give my statement.”

  “He must have heard the coroner will be declaring the death as murder or homicide and wants to get a surreptitious start while the last paperwork is filed.” He looked me over. “It might be best if you drive yourself. The less you have to do with me, the better as far as your relationship with Commander Hunt is concerned.”

  I tried not to feel abandoned as we headed back to Palms, but I suspected I was being offered up as a distraction while Connor raced to one-up Hunt.

  “How much am I allowed to tell him?” I asked. I didn’t relish the idea of lying to him. Or even worse, the idea of him catching me lying to him.

  “Everything pertinent to the case,” Connor said.

  I loosed a breath in relief.

  “He knows about Shades and their clients, so you can be open about that. You better tell him what you’ve learned today too. We’re cooperating, remember?”

  “Yes,” I said, opening my car door. “That must be why you don’t even want to be seen dropping me at the station.”

  Connor caught hold of my arm and waited until I looked back at him. “Don’t be afraid of Hunt. He uses fear like it’s going out of fashion. Which it is as far as LAPD public relations is concerned. You’ll do fine.”

  He let go, and I slipped out of the cocoon of the SUV, not feeling any better.

  Easy for him to say. I was twenty-nine years old and still scared of my aunt.

  8

  The 27th Street Community Police Station was an old double-story gray brick building that, like Hunt, had so far escaped the LAPD’s efforts to improve public trust by changing the face of law enforcement to a more friendly and approachable one.

  I parked in the lot and made extra sure I was neatly between the white lines before heading in. The uninviting, gray theme continued inside with easy-to-clean tiles and unnecessarily low ceilings strewn with cheap tinsel. I approached the kind-looking officer behind the front counter and yelped when Hunt materialized at my side. “Follow me.”

  He led me past a bunch of uniforms hunched over desks, most of them too busy to spare me a glance, but one offered a smile. Even so, I squelched down the memory of the stop sign I accidentally ran that time in case any of them had mind reading powers.

  Logically, being surrounded by police should’ve made me feel safe, but for some reason I always felt nervous and guilty instead. I wasn’t sure what that said about me. Dr. Kelly would’ve had a few ideas.

  I attempted to find comfort in the hum of noise. Telephones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The rise and fall of a dozen conversations. If I shut my eyes, it could’ve been any open office space. Of course, if I’d shut my eyes, I might also run into Hunt’s unforgiving back.

  We entered the interrogation room, and any fancies I had of being elsewhere dissipated. It was like you see on TV, only smaller. A bare, windowless room with one-way glass and a table and chairs bolted to the floor.

  Commander Hunt’s blue eyes harpooned me to my uncomfortable seat, and I gathered that he wouldn’t be the one to change my anxiety issues with law enforcement.

  If we had been back in the Old West, he would’ve had me lassoed, lying in the dust with his foot on my chest. If we’d been deep inside a war zone, he would’ve been roughing me up, waving a weapon in my face, threatening torture. But we were in the twenty-first century in Los Angeles, California, so he offered me coffee.

  Based on the whiff I’d had of the sludge as I’d walked through the office, drinking it might be considered a form of torture, so I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  Muttering something about editing out Taste Society references before putting it on file, Hunt switched on the microphone. Trusting this was the agreement, I identified myself for the recording. Connor had told me to tell him everything.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Earnest Dunst?”

  “According to public knowledge, he was my boyfriend, but that was a cover. He hired me to protect him against poison attempts.”

  “And now give me an answer I can leave on the tape.”

  “He was my boyfriend.”

  We went over the basics like this. How long I’d known him. What we did together. The day leading up to his death. What time I left Thursday evening. When I noticed he was missing. How I came to find his body. And on and on it continued. The same questions asked in different ways. To catch me out if I was lying. Lucky I wasn’t lying.

  “How did you feel about him?”

  I had no desire to start crying in front of Hunt, so I kept it light. “I guess I thought of him like a kid brother. I enjoyed his intelligence and humor, laughed at his nerdiness, and occasionally wanted to beat some sense into him.”

  “Where were you between one thirty and three a.m.?”

  Oh no. “The beating thing was just a figure of speech.”

  “Answer the question, Avery.” The growl in his voice had returned. I wondered if he’d ever consider doing voice-over for a werewolf movie.

  “I was home. Sleeping.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  Oliver had been at work. I chewed my lip. “Tha
t depends. Can I call a cat to the witness stand?”

  He scowled at me.

  “Or a nosy neighbor? A very observant one who always knows what’s going on in the building?”

  “Not unless she was sleeping with you.”

  “Ah, that would be a no then.”

  “Do you have any other knowledge that might be pertinent to this case?”

  I outlined what Connor and I had learned in the past two days. As I spoke, Hunt’s jaw got tighter and tighter, and the growl in his voice grew more and more pronounced. I assumed he was pissed that Connor had such a lead on him until he switched off the recorder and leaned so far across the table that his prickly mustache threatened to stab me in the nose.

  “Listen carefully, Avery, because I’m only going to tell you once. You will cease all attempts to learn more about this case immediately. Understaffing and underfunding means I don’t have a choice about working with Stiles as a consultant, but I will not”—his finger ground into the table like it was a particularly noxious cigarette—“have a civilian interfering with this investigation. Do you understand?”

  I gave a weak nod. Did he mean suspect when he said civilian? In the movies the cops were always suspicious of the victim’s significant other and the person who discovered the body. I was both.

  “That was a question,” he barked.

  “Yes, I understand, Commander.”

  “Good. Because I’d hate to toss your ass in jail for obstruction of justice over a misunderstanding.”

  I would bet my last pair of clean socks that he’d love to toss my ass in jail. For any reason. “Yes, Commander.”

  He withdrew a fraction, his point made. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  So much for not being afraid.

  It was dark when I trudged back to my carefully parked Corvette, and I decided I’d had enough for one day. Connor could wait. Mrs. Dunst could wait. Thinking about Commander Hunt’s warnings could wait. I drove home to lick my metaphorical wounds and take antibiotics for my physical ones.

  Connor texted me to say the phone number I’d pointed out was a burner, paid for in cash in a store without surveillance. In other words, a dead end. No new leads from the research team digging into Earnest’s online accounts either.

  He also asked how giving my statement went, but I couldn’t summon the energy to respond. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell him we wouldn’t be working together anymore.

  I lay down on my horrible duvet cover, which looked like a rainbow Paddle Pop ice cream had vomited and used the fabric to mop it up. It was secondhand, like everything else in my bedroom, except for the new sheets I’d sprung for when I’d first moved in. The wardrobe was blue, the bedside table yellow, and the carpet the same musty old green as the rest of the apartment. Even the lampshade was an orange, tasseled eyesore that had probably been here when the place was built fifty odd years ago. Nevertheless, with a book in my hand and Meow curled up on my belly, her black paint-dipped paw twitching in sleep, I didn’t care about any of it.

  I devoured another six chapters of David Sedaris’s collection of essays but still didn’t want to face anything important, so I made good on my end of the deal with Oliver by cleaning the apartment. Two hours later, I was putting the last of my clothes into my wardrobe and realizing that between poverty, weight gain, and the change of season in LA, I had very little to wear until it got warm again. Nor any black and formal outfits for Earnest’s funeral.

  Between the clothes and my room, it might be a good thing I was once again booted off the investigation to allow me to go shopping. I’d received two paychecks since earning out the advance, so I had some spending money. But I was ever mindful that with the ridiculous fifteen percent interest rate, every dollar I spent now cost me a lot more in the life of the loan.

  I slumped against my wardrobe. I hated shopping. Especially clothes shopping. Wading for hours through the sea of people and fabric to the beat of loud, obnoxious music trying to find something that was comfy, affordable, and made me look okay—all for the sake of a basic necessity was exhausting for me. And Christmas was the worst possible time to go, with throngs of frantic, pushy shoppers, Mariah Carey crooning about her Christmas wish ad nauseam, and exhausted retail staff ready to stuff their ears with styrofoam snow just to keep from screaming.

  How anyone preferred shopping over reading in bed with a cat for company was beyond my understanding.

  Oliver rescued me from considering whether this was how crazy-cat-lady syndrome starts by charging through the front door and into my bedroom.

  “Izzy, I think I’m in love.” To illustrate the drama of the situation, he belly flopped onto my bed and then soothed an indignant Meow, who had been curled up peacefully on my rainbow-vomit pillow.

  I knew he’d been attracted to Henrietta, and I’d shamelessly leveraged the fact, but I hadn’t seen this coming. I’d assumed that after a whole day in her company, he’d have looked beyond the pretty exterior to the devil within.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said gravely.

  “She’s poised, beautiful, and so self-possessed! Not a hair out of place. Even those hard-nosed business types go out of their way to let her past on the sidewalk. How can I not admire that?”

  “Sounds like Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Oliver loved to rant about his monarch and was appalled and flabbergasted that so many admired her. I found his rants entertaining, so I poked fun at him whenever I could.

  He shot me a withering look. “There’s nothing admirable about getting special treatment because you were conceived in the right bed. Did you know that thanks to a preposterous statute passed by King Edward II in the fourteenth century, she technically owns all the whales, dolphins, porpoises, and sturgeons within three miles of the UK? I mean, can you imagine waving your hand and saying, ‘Oh yeah, I own all those swimmy sea creatures now?’ Of course hard-nosed business types would get out of her way, otherwise she might take possession of their businesses!”

  “I’m not sure people would stand for that in the twenty-first century.”

  “Oh the monarchy might not be so obvious about it, but they’d make it happen. You can’t trust royalty. But Henrietta’s strong without the self-entitlement part. And she’s not all dramatic and emotional like Adele was. Henrietta would never want to become an actress.” Adele was the girl Oliver had come to Los Angeles for.

  “That’s probably true, but—”

  “I think I’m winning her over too, but it’s hard with Mrs. Sloan chaperoning us.” Mrs. Sloan was Aunt Alice. “You have to invite her to do something with you tomorrow so I can get some alone time with Henrietta.”

  I got to my feet. “Invite the woman I described to you earlier today as my worst nightmare to do something with me? The one I agreed to cook anything you wanted and clean the apartment for two whole weeks to avoid?”

  He rolled over and looked at me, eyes pleading. “Pleeeeeease.”

  I felt my shoulders drop and knew I was defeated even before I opened my mouth. “Fine. I’ll think of something to keep her busy for a few hours. But you realize Aunt Alice would become your mother-in-law right?”

  He got up, threw his arms around me, and planted a loud kiss on my cheek. “And you’d be my cousin-in-law! Thanks, Iz, you’re the best.”

  9

  At nine o’clock the next morning, I sat on Mrs. Dunst’s plump orange couch opposite Jay. All traces of paint were gone, but his eyes were still red and his arms still too heavy. He was glaring at me, but in an empty kind of way that made me think it was out of habit more than anything else. Like how, even now, a part of me hoped to please Aunt Alice despite knowing it was impossible.

  My eyes were red too. I’d performed my morning routine with encouragement from Earnest’s app and then bawled all the way here. I’d finally switched the app off after that.

  Mrs. Dunst bustled between us, pouring a soda for Jay and a tea f
or herself and me. It was a scene I was familiar with, though it had always taken place at Earnest’s previously. If it weren’t for the location and the fact he wasn’t here, I might’ve been able to pretend nothing worse had happened but an aggressive strain of pinkeye.

  She settled into her own overstuffed floral armchair, next to the Christmas tree that was adorned with twinkle lights, baubles, and a handful of colorful, misshapen decorations that Earnest must have made when he was a child. My throat started aching again.

  “Thank you both for coming,” she said. “I have some news about Earnest. The police wanted me to keep it to myself until tomorrow, but—”

  “—Are you sure you shouldn’t do what the police said?” I asked, realizing what she was about to say. It was very unlikely Jay had done it, but if he had, it would ruin the element of surprise when Connor or Commander Hunt questioned him. An element of surprise that might give them vital information.

  “I don’t see what harm it could do, and you both deserve to know given you loved him too.”

  Crap.

  “The police think Earnest was”—her teacup trembled violently—“murdered.”

  Jay Massey looked like he’d been slapped. I tried to appear equally shocked, but it didn’t matter because Mrs. Dunst wasn’t looking at us anyway.

  She lifted the cup toward her lips but thought better of it when some of its contents slopped over the rim. Her hands lowered again, resting the cup back in her lap. “They said it was a heroin overdose, like we already believed. But that someone else injected it. That there were signs of a… struggle and the angle of the needle was wrong.”

  I would’ve taken the cup from her, except I suspected the ongoing challenge of hanging on to it might be all that was keeping her from falling apart.

  “They’re opening an investigation and told me they’d do everything possible to find who did this. But I thought…” She let out a shaky breath. “I thought you deserved to know.”

  At last she lifted her gaze.