by Misty Simon
“Are you ready to go in?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I pulled the coat closer around my shoulders until we got to the door, where heat was pumping out. “Do you think we’ll find out what happened to Horace? I hope the paramedics took me seriously about him saying poison.”
Ben’s arm draped over my shoulders in the way that made me feel protected without being smothered. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it through the grapevine sometime later this evening.”
“Are you not up on the current status of your girlfriend in this town?” And ooh, didn’t “girlfriend” have a very nice ring to it? “I am the shriveled up, juiceless grape on the very bottom of the vine. In fact, I’m the grape lying on the ground under a bunch of dog poo, thanks to some uncivic-minded citizen who didn’t bring a plastic bag for pick-up on their walk.”
He one-arm hugged me. “I don’t think it’s really that bad.”
Oh, ye of little knowledge.
****
When we got back inside to warmth and light, the party was back in full swing. Someone had found a portable stereo and had the tunes cranking. It seemed everyone and their mother had gone out to their cars and retrieved CDs to be played. I even saw a stack of tapes on the lip of the stage.
Venturing over, I perused the very extensive list of eighties music on tape. I came across a Tiffany tape and quietly hid that under the draping on a table. I used to have to listen to that and New Kids on the Block endlessly when the Bouquet was growing up. I didn’t think I was ready to revert all the way back to being seven or eight with multiple scrunchies in my hair and pegged pants.
“What’s that you got there?” a very masculine voice asked as an equally masculine hand came into view.
I glanced up and was nearly knocked over by those chocolate brown eyes again. Thank God I still had Ben’s jacket over my shoulders. I turned my head, sniffed in my man’s unique scent, and all righted in my world. Chocolate eyes or not, I was on a Ben-only diet. Sure, I could look, but there would be no fantasizing, or anything else equally stupid.
Just because Ben was acting a little arrogant, and yet ignorant at the same time, it didn’t mean anything. He was like that often, and I still loved him. We’d get through this like we’d gotten through two murders already.
Hey, if I could find a killer, I could certainly find the time to reconnect with my boyfriend and make sure his eyes—and hands—were staying on only me.
But that didn’t negate the tingles I was feeling at the proximity of some of my favorite candy sunken into a very handsome face.
“Ivy.” Ben’s voice cracked across the room, which had me pulling back and standing up straight, even though I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Crap. Now I was going to have a guilty flush creeping up my chest. That wouldn’t be good for me no matter what I did or didn’t do.
I turned slowly, hoping the color would seep back down into my dress instead of continuing on up into my face. No such luck.
“It’s a Tiffany tape,” I blurted out to Chocolate Eyes from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t want him to think I hadn’t heard him or was being rude. Who knew who he was? I hadn’t seen him at the wedding, but I had been preoccupied. I had bumped into him earlier, but he didn’t appear to be here with anyone.
Just then, Ben came hustling up and latched onto my arm. “Can I talk to you for a moment, sweetheart?” he asked, placing a kiss on my cheek but not even looking at me. He was all eyes for the other man. Hmmm. Very interesting. I didn’t think I’d ever witnessed a Jealous Ben, but it was an intriguing side of him. His tie was perfectly straight, his hair standing at attention, but his green eyes had darkened and his nostrils flared a little. I’m not saying it was a pretty picture, just a pretty interesting one.
“It was nice talking to you,” I said to Chocolate Eyes, even though it earned me an additional glare from Ben. Who was he to tell me anything about talking to someone from the opposite sex?
Walking back to our table, Ben tried to put his arm around my shoulder again, but I didn’t think I was ready for that yet.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked. Funny how he could be so astute now but couldn’t be bothered when women were falling over him.
“Nothing. I think I’m ready to go.”
But then the police busted in the door and ended that notion with their shouted orders.
Chapter Ten
“Nobody leaves, nobody moves,” Detective Jameson said twenty minutes later when I asked if I could please, please go home. I didn’t even know why they were there. No one that had already been escorted to the back for interrogation had come out to tell me what the deal was. I was totally in the dark, like that grape in dog poop I’d mentioned earlier.
“Fine.” I crossed my arms and stomped away. Ben was back behind the big curtain, somewhere in the warren of rooms hidden behind the stage. He better come out soon and drop the dirt on my poor grape self. I figured when my turn came it wasn’t going to go easy for me. No matter what had happened this time, I had been present and involved in the last two murders this town had experienced.
“Greg Braden,” a police office called in a deep voice. I didn’t recognize the name, but I blew out a sigh of relief it wasn’t mine. Not that I wanted to sit here all night and be the very last person interviewed, but the reprieve made me hope, if only for a second, I might not have to be interviewed at all.
When I looked up to see who this Greg guy was, I came eye to eye with Chocolate Eyes guy. He flashed me a smile, and I had a brief inappropriate thought about flashing him. Hoo-mama, I needed a big old glass of water and a healthy dose of Ben. He might be a pain some days, but I was in for the long haul, as long as he was.
Speaking of Ben, he came through the side of the curtain and zeroed in on me. I broke eye contact with Greg and made it with Ben. I tried to telepathically tell him to come right to me and tell me what the hell was going on, but a buxom blonde waylaid him, and my name got called.
I was afraid to look up to see who had said my name. Please, don’t let it be one of the guys who always seemed to be around when I got into trouble. I’d had about all I could take of Dale. And as much as I liked Jared for Bella, I did not want to have to sit across from him, no matter what the questioning was about. Bella had given me enough intimate details about their love life that I thought I would have a hard time answering anything without asking some highly suspect questions of my own.
Ah, apparently Detective Bartley would be taking yours truly. Well, she was pretty quiet every time I’d had occasion to be around her, so I figured I could get away with a little song and dance and get the hell out of here. I couldn’t wait for this day to end.
Bartley led me back to a small dressing room and sat on the vanity counter situated to the left of the door. I got the hard chair in the corner. At least I didn’t have to lean on the counter or take a seat on the floor. My thighs really spread when in either of those positions.
“Ivy,” she said, putting her red hair back over her shoulder and pulling out a small notepad. “Where were you when the singer was up on stage?”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked, breathing a little unevenly. I hadn’t exactly warmed up to Horace, but I sincerely hoped he wasn’t dead, even if I had wished him into a coma to get him to stop singing.
“Yes.” Her sharp, blue eyes flicked up from the page, zeroing in on me. “Happen to know anything about it? We understand several people were overheard saying the guy was a menace to a microphone. That sounds suspiciously like something that would come out of your mouth.”
So much for saying I didn’t do it and scooting out. “Well, I know a couple of people thought the singing wasn’t exactly up to par, but I didn’t actually hear anyone threaten him, or try to take him off the stage.” I shut my mouth before I could say anything else. I’d already been a suspect once; I didn’t look forward to that experience ever again. Plus, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Hell, I didn’t even know what had been done wrong in the first place. O
kay, confusing myself here.
“What happened, anyway?” So much for not saying anything.
“That’s for us to find out and you to spill about if you did it.”
“But did what?”
“The deed.”
Um, I’d done the deed before, but with Ben. I didn’t think that was quite the information she was looking for. “I didn’t do anything but listen to Horace sing, and then try to see what was wrong when he started clawing at his throat.”
“And that’s all?” She was scribbling furiously in her little notepad, and I wanted to pull the damn thing out of her hands to see what I was saying that was so freaking interesting. I put my hands under my plus-sized butt to keep them under control.
“Seriously, I didn’t see or do anything. I only watched Ben play the trumpet, listened to that awful version of the Chicken Dance, and then Horace started the next song, took a drink, and started choking.”
“Took a drink... And were you anywhere near that drink during any time this evening?”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened, and then I can tell you if I had anything to do with it?”
I got the beady eyes again. “I thought you hadn’t done anything at all. Why would I need to tell you what happened? Just tell me where you were and whether you were near his drink. Then you can go.” She sat in her nice dark blue suit jacket and pants, with a red blouse underneath, her red hair tucked back behind her ears, appearing to wait eagerly for anything that came out of my mouth. I seriously was not liking all the attention.
“I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t near his glass. I am not guilty.” I kept eye contact with her, hoping she’d believe me and let me go. But a curious part of me, the part that always seems to get me into trouble, wanted to know what was going on and whether or not there was another death to be solved.
I scooted my chair a little closer, trying to pretend like we were the best buds that we weren’t. “You can tell me what’s going on, can’t you? Did Horace die? Is that why you’re questioning everyone? You can tell me.” I think I might have laid it on too thick, because she pretty much ushered me out the door and walked me back outside the curtain without answering a single question.
Well, fine, then. I’d look for Ben and get the story from him. But when I finally spotted him in the crowd, he was surrounded by women, touching two of them and being touched by four more. What was going on?
Before I had a chance to work up a good head of steam, my sister Maggie came hauling ass into the room, babbling about a dead guy and a beat-up old Camaro.
****
By the time I got Maggie calmed down enough to stop sounding like a locomotive, Detective Bartley tried to take her from me.
“No,” I said, stepping in front of Maggie and crossing my arms over my chest. Now normally, I would never dream of doing something like this, backbone or not. But this was family, this was my sister, and she would get a chance to calm down before she was interviewed.
In the meantime, Bartley’s partner, Detective Jameson, hauled tail out the front door, and I wanted to go with him. I haven’t had much luck after I find a dead body, but since this time it wasn’t me as finder, maybe things would be different. Plus, I’d become close to at least a few of the people in town since I’d been here. I needed to make sure whoever this guy was, it wasn’t one of my handful of friends. Although I didn’t know anyone with an old Camaro. Hadn’t those gone out of style some time ago?
Back to Detective Bartley, who was glaring at me with her glacially blue eyes. “Can someone get Maggie a glass of water?” I said, never taking my eyes off the detective.
“I wouldn’t recommend a glass of water.” She pulled her infernal notepad out of her pocket. “Why don’t you have someone find her some juice or bottled water?”
“Fine, then, bottled water.” Duh me. Horace had just choked, gasping about poison, and here I was asking for tap water for my dear sister. No time for berating myself, though. Detective Jameson came chugging into the cavernous room with its tulle and flowers and the beginnings of a hopeful new life, and brought it all crashing down, again.
“We’ll need to speak to Maggie now, Ivy,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. I normally got brisk orders to march my ass over to wherever they wanted me to be. Apparently Maggie would get kid gloves.
But I wouldn’t wish their normal attitude on anyone, so that was fine with me. However—and this was a big however—I was going to be in any interview they conducted. I had recent experience with the way the police around here could latch onto a theory and not let go until you completely proved them wrong. I was not going to leave Maggie to fend for herself. I told them so and got a huff for my trouble. But they did let me in the room. Score one for me.
****
“So, what’s this all about?” I asked before everyone had even sat down. I wanted to do this business and get the hell home. Thoughts of being with Ben tonight were very vague in the extreme back of my mind. I was mad at him anyway, and not above holding out on the sex until we had a few things straight between us. But first I had to find out what was going on here.
“Apparently, your sister here saw a man in the parking lot slumped in his Camaro.” Detective Jameson paused, checking his own notes. Maybe I needed one of those little pads for myself to keep track of my life. Hmmm.
“I did, Ivy. I went out to the parking lot to get something for one of the kids and saw a car with the dome light on and a guy slumped at the wheel. At first I thought to come back in, but then he didn’t move, and you know how that dinging sound of an open door drives me crazy. I decided to see if there was something I could help with. I called to him from about ten feet back, but he never responded. I started getting worried because the door was ajar and the temperature was dropping. He only had a light shirt on, so I didn’t want him to freeze.” Maggie, the consummate mother. Everyone had to have a jacket and be warm. But I didn’t think this guy was in danger of catching a cold any longer.
“Did you touch him?” Detective Jameson broke into her monologue. Pen poised over paper, his eyes were narrowed. I wanted to smack him in the head.
Maggie started stuttering. “I...I... Is that a crime?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her gaze darted between the notepad and the detective.
He was silent, staring at her. It irritated me enough to speak up. “No, Maggie, not unless you took something, and I know you wouldn’t do that.”
“Did you take anything?” The man was seriously working my last nerve, but I had technically led him right into that question. Crapola!
“No.” She was aghast, I could tell. “Of course not. I came right in once I realized he didn’t respond to my calling.”
Robert, her husband and a lawyer, chose that moment to come over and put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Is there a problem here, Officers? Maggie won’t be taking any more questions until she is rested.”
Man, where was Ben to pull that kind of preemptive strike when I was being questioned? Oh, right, he only had his private investigator’s license from over the Internet—that didn’t get you a free pass card here in town. And I was being really catty if I had gone back to making fun of him for working hard for his certificate, no matter where the program was taught. I needed to go home, take a long hot bath, and drink myself into oblivion. It was the kind of night for it.
Maggie got up and walked away under Robert’s protective arm, and at the same moment Detective Bartley’s cell phone rang. She had it programmed to a discreet classical composition, unlike yours truly, who had James Brown yelling his lungs out.
I hung around trying to look like I was checking my nylons, just in case I could pick up something from the conversation. I wasn’t a licensed anything, or a detective, but I’d solved two murders so far and, so sue me, I’m nosy. Not that I was going to get involved in this one. Oh no, not me. Had enough on my plate without adding a dead body or two—depending on how Horace was holding up.
Bartley snapped the p
hone closed and arrowed a look at me. “Not that you need to know.” Pause, clear the throat. “Not that you need to know at all, but I thought I’d save you the trouble of snooping by telling you Horace is fine. It was some kind of allergic reaction. So don’t go getting your nose into anything that will get you into trouble.” Another pause, no throat clearing this time, but the pointed stare was upped to a glare. “Again.”
I sputtered (and no, it wasn’t pretty), I huffed (that either), and then I sighed. I knew exactly what she was talking about. My Sherlock Holmes floppy hat would need to be hung up this time. Which was fine with me, since I had Ben the Flirtatious to deal with, the family was here, and it was way too cold to be snooping. “Fine by me,” I said.
Famous last words.
Chapter Eleven
“Please, please, please, Ivy, you have to do this for me. No one else can do it like you can.”
Unfortunately, those words were not coming from Ben. This was Martha, begging me to look into the murder and what her cousin Horace called a drive-by-juicing. Apparently the guy was allergic to citrus, and that was what had been in his glass last night, water with a twist of lemon. Poor guy’s eyes were still swollen half shut.
Martha even grabbed my hand while she pleaded for the fourth (or was it the eighteenth?) time. “I have to have my sanity. I cannot live like this. Please! I’m desperate. You don’t understand.”
I sighed, blowing my bangs off my forehead. “I can’t help. I promised the police I’d stay out of things this time. Plus, I have the whole crappy life thing going on right now and can’t do it.”
“You have a crappy life? You have a crappy life? You’re not the one with a sixty-year-old man lying prone on your couch, even though he was completely cleared by Dr. Earl.” She poked me in the chest. “You don’t have a brand-new husband and would like some alone time, but every time things start heating up, said sixty-year-old man calls out for a glass of water or an aspirin, or a cookie, for God’s sake. He won’t get up off the couch. He won’t even let me drive him home because he’s afraid of getting jostled. It’s a twenty-minute drive, shorter than it was to the doctor’s and back.” Her voice kept rising, and I was afraid people in the next county would hear her enumerating the many ways in which Horace was not performing as a model guest.
