A Secondhand Murder (3 page)

“
But—”

“
I know what you're going to say, that eventually they'll run into someone they know here, but they find it easier to make up a good excuse for being here than in a thrift shop in West Palm.”

“
Like what?” The smile was gone from his face. He seemed interested.

“
Like, they're slumming, or looking for the real Florida, trying to find Florida as it used to be or they're into cowboys.”

“
Interesting.” He paused. “Are you into cowboys?”

Was I? I thought about it. I'd been here for only three months. I liked going to the local cowboy bars with Madeleine and dancing up a storm with a lean, tanned guy in jeans and a Stetson. I looked at my private eye. No cowboy there. Chinos and a knit golf shirt. What could be less Western?

“
I don't know a lot of cowboys. Obviously not many come in here.”

“
So where does one meet them?”

I couldn't see where he was going with this.

“
Uh, in a bar maybe?”

“
So, take me to a bar tonight after dinner. I'll see if I can keep up with the competition.”

Could he! Two step, salsa, jitterbug, slow bump and grind. I was blown away. Everyone watching us seemed to be as well. The cowboys who were sometimes my partners when Madeleine and I hit the Gator and You Bar or the Tasty Frog Grill were high-fiving the two of us on the dance floor. By the time we left—after food service stopped and everyone had lit up a cigarette (a quaint tradition in Florida)—I was exhausted. It was a good thing PI Montgomery didn't have anything more athletic on his mind than a good night kiss.

“
I'll call you.” His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary.

As soon as I closed the door, I threw my purse on the dining room table, stripped off my three-inch heels, grabbed my phone and sprawled out on the couch.

“
Madeleine, I think I'm in heat.”

“
What do you think your hubby will think of that?”

I thought about Madeleine's question. Jerry wouldn't really care if I found someone, permanent or temporary, that jangled my hormones. It'd probably be easier for him to get out of the marriage if I had something on the side, as he wanted me to believe
he
did. He was wrong about one thing. I had no intention of making anything easy for Jerry, not after he had humiliated me in front of all my friends at my thirty-fifth birthday party by arriving two hours late with a blonde in tow. Everyone thought I should forgive him for his little peccadilloes. I would have, if that was the problem. But I knew Jerry. He wasn't drunk, and the blonde was rented.
That
was the real humiliation. He manipulated our relationship the same way he manipulated his business associates. The man didn't have an honest emotional bone in his body. Maybe I wasn't any better. The only real friend I had was Madeleine. The rest were just acquaintances I occasionally hung out with—playing tennis, having lunch, attending parties with the “right” people, shopping. I've always liked shopping. That's why running a consignment shop with Madeleine had seemed a natural step for me. Well, perhaps I'd miscalculated just how natural it was here. Swerving to avoid an alligator in my lane or a feral hog dashing across the road was not exactly what I had in mind when I moved. Until Mrs. Sanders' murder, I had believed that the endless pastures opened something inside me. Maybe it was all the heat and humidity melting my cold Yankee heart like a popsicle under the summer sun. Or maybe it was just heat stroke.

As for my PI, I didn't really care at this point if the kiss was genuine or not. That had been one hot kiss, and I was eager for another. I plunged into sleep with the thought of his full, firm lips on mine.

The ringing of my bedside phone disrupted my dreamy desires. I looked at the caller ID. Jerry. Wouldn't you know it? He just had to insert himself into my life down here, didn't he? I took the phone out of its cradle and, without answering, punched the off key. I turned toward the window. The moon was rising and its light danced across my bedroom floor, finding its way finally onto my bed. I touched the silver with my fingertips, listened for a moment to the whisper of the palm fronds outside my window and fell asleep. I dreamed of azure eyes.

B
y the following morning, reality struck down my nighttime fantasies and made me wonder if the kiss had been real.

Madeleine sat on the end of my bed waiting for me to finish toweling off in the bathroom. “I tried your cell and got no answer. Same with your landline. Why do you bother having these devices if you turn them off all the time?” Since she had a key to my place, I wasn't surprised to find her in my bedroom when I awoke. I was, however, surprised at the early hour and shocked when she told me the reason for her visit.

“
Frida our cop friend called. There were no prints on the knife, but since it came from our store, we're persons of interest in the case.”

“
Mmmmm.” I sipped the cup of coffee she had brought and stared through the bedroom window.

“
That's all you can say? ‘Mmmm?' We're
suspects
.”

I glanced at her, then took a longer look. Silly of me not to notice immediately. The early hour, coffee from the newly opened, fancy coffee bar. All signs she was overwrought. My usually neat-as-a-professional, organized friend had popped out of bed at Frida's call and failed to shower, put on makeup or do something with her hair. It looked like mine, but my style was on-purpose punk, not bed head tangle. She was upset and assumed I'd be the same.

“
Well, let's see,” I began in that cool tone of voice I couldn't help adopt in a crisis even though I know it annoyed the hell out of Madeleine.

She humphed at me and rolled her eyes. “I don't want to go to jail.”

“
You're not going to go to jail,” I insisted.

“
I don't want to be a suspect.”

“
That's not going to happen, either.” I hoped.

“
She didn't commit suicide, you know.” Her voice began an upward spiral.

“
Kind of hard to stab oneself to death, although I bet it could be done.” I stirred another packet of sweetener into my cup.

“
Why are you being so, so, so—”

“
I'm being so-so-so about this thing because I know I didn't do it and you didn't do it … well, not intentionally, at least. You didn't fall into her while carrying that knife display, did you? And not tell me?”

“
Arghh.” She tossed her cup in the waste can and stormed out my bedroom door.

I followed her. “I'm kidding, honey.”

“
I know you're kidding, but someone has to open the store. Clearly, you're not ready.” She stood in the hallway and stared back at me, a look of disgust on her face.

“
I'm not?”

“
You need to comb your hair.”

I stuck my head back into the bedroom and glanced quickly in the mirror. How the hell did she think I got that punk look? If I combed it, all the pizzazz would be gone.

“
I'm fine, but have
you
looked in a mirror?”

She turned toward the hallway mirror and squeaked like a mouse. “I look like I fought with the cat all night.”

“
I'll open. You go home, take your time and get presentable. I'll call Frida back.”

I didn't believe we could possibly be suspects. No one intending to commit murder would grab a knife and plunge it into the victim in their own business. Unless that person was really, really dumb or didn't own a television and hadn't watched all the recent crime shows. On occasion, I found my new friends in Florida to be somewhat naive, but I couldn't think of anyone who qualified as a stupid or TV-challenged killer. No one in Sabal Bay possessed those dubious qualifications. All I had to do now was share my reasoning with Frida. Should be a snap.

“
So, no prints on the knife?” I'd convinced Frida to meet me at the local Tic Toc Restaurant for coffee. She didn't want to appear to be socializing with a suspect, so I ran in for the coffee. We sat in her police cruiser and talked. If you were willing to bend the rules a little, you might see the cop car as an extension of an interview room at the station.

“
You can't really believe we had anything to do with Mrs. Sanders' death.” Madeleine might not like my logical side, but Frida, being a cop, had to respect it.

“
It was your shop. You were right there. Opportunity. I have to run with it. ”

“
No you don't. Who says?” Anger and just a droplet of anxiety were watering down my desire to be reasonable.

“
Captain Tony says, that's who. He's my boss.” She crumpled up her cup and turned to me. “Besides, there's more. Do you have something you'd like to tell me about you and Valerie Sanders?”

The question caught me by surprise. I couldn't imagine what Frida might have on me. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Frida stared at me for a moment. “Okay, if that's the way you want to play it. You could cooperate by coming down to the station this afternoon and answering some questions.”

“
I'll answer them now.”

“
Now, I'm doing you a favor as your friend. Later, you'll be doing me a favor by coming to the station to save my butt with Tony.”

“
What about Madeleine?” I asked.

“
No one could possibly believe tiny little Madeleine could stab a woman the height and size of Mrs. Sanders.”

What she wasn't saying was that I was the most likely suspect once you gave up the suicide theory.

“
You assume I'm smart enough not to spread my prints all over the murder weapon like butter on toast but dumb enough to kill her in my own shop.” I leaned back against the car door and crossed my arms over my chest. “So, what's my motive?”

“
Who knows? Maybe you didn't like the clothes she brought to your store for consignment.”

“
You're kidding, right? I wouldn't care if she brought in a nun's habit as long as I thought someone would buy it. I don't have to like the stuff people bring to the store. I just have to believe someone else will pay money for the item.”

She shook her head. “Forget it. Captain Tony says we talk, so we talk. How about three?”

I opened the door and got out, then turned and stuck my head back into the car. “Should I bring a lawyer?”

“
You can if you want, but you're not being charged with anything ... yet.” Frida offered a rueful smile, as if to excuse her role in the upcoming interview, waved at me and sped out of the lot.

It was still early so I strode back into the restaurant, indicated to the hostess I wanted a booth and ordered the breakfast buffet. Anger paired with disbelief gave me a hearty appetite. Returning to my booth after loading my plate with eggs, bacon, pancakes, pastries and a slice of toast, I noticed someone had joined me for breakfast. He was seated with his back to me as I approached the booth but I recognized the sun-streaked hair curling over his collar. My favorite PI. I almost dropped my plate.

“
Hi.” I tried for nonchalant but sounded more like a hormone-addled teenager.

“
Saw you come in. I guess you had an early morning chitchat with the local gendarmes.”

“
To be continued this afternoon at the station.”

“
Fingerprints?” He stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee.

“
Nope.” The tingle in my tummy was more than simple hunger for food. I tried to satisfy it by stuffing a large forkful of pancake into my mouth. I nodded and swallowed. “Like anyone would be dumb enough to leave their prints.”

“
Certainly, we know you're smart.”

“
I had no reason to kill Mrs. Sanders. That would be like killing the golden goose.”

“
You didn't like her very much, did you?”

I dropped my fork on the plate. “What do you mean? I hardly knew the woman.”

“
So you say, but my sources indicate that's not the whole story.” He stared at me. Last night I thought those azure eyes looked inviting. Now they looked more like ice. He smiled.

“
You said you were investigating Mrs. Sanders. Sounds like you're trying to nose into my affairs. Why?”

“
Don't get mad. I'm not accusing you of murder, you know.” He took a sip of coffee.

“
I'm not mad.” I was a little miffed, peeved even, but not really mad. Okay, I was mad.

“
Oh yes you are, and when you get angry, you stick your chin out and turn your head ever so slightly to the right. Your cheek twitches, probably from clenching your teeth. Did you know that?”

I had lost my appetite. I grabbed my purse and slid out of the booth. “I don't recall inviting you to join me for breakfast. I just remembered I have an important appointment.”

“
That would be ...?” He also stood.

“
That would be none of your business.”

I stalked out of the restaurant, then remembered as I approached my car that I had forgotten to pay my bill. Damn. Now I'd have to go back in there and face him again. I gritted my teeth, stuck out my chin and slammed through the door. He turned from the counter, credit card in hand.