Chicken Soup & Homicide (15 page)

Bruce dragged his hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I feel like Pitts has hog-tied me so he can be free to attack you. He's managed to convince the chief that I've interfered in his investigation so much that I've been put on desk duty. My friends that were helping funnel me information don't want to get tangled in my mess anymore. I've never been in a situation like this. It's pissing me off. I can't sit around shuffling papers while Pitts is sniffing around you like a hungry grizzly."

Okay. The righteous, by-the-book detective in Bruce wouldn't let him put their problems aside and enjoy himself. It was time to snap him out of work mode. "Look, Pitts isn't going to bust through the door and arrest me. A neon sign pointing to the killer won't suddenly appear out this window. It's just you and me. Alone. In a luxury hotel room with a hot tub and king-sized bed."

He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window one more time, then began unbuttoning his white dress shirt. His perfectly fitted black suit had left her salivating over him more than the seafood at dinner. Now she was even more excited to see him shedding his clothes too. She swished her hand through the warm water and flicked droplets at him. He chuckled while a wicked grin spread across his face. He continued the slow striptease until he was naked. She sucked in a breath as he locked his gaze on her while slowly moving closer. Beads of sweat formed on the base of her back as she stood between two heat sources, the hot tub and Bruce. He hovered inches away, emitting so much warmth her entire body tingled. By the time they tumbled into the hot tub, she felt like she was melting. Finally, the evening was going like she had hoped.

Later in bed, she rested her head on his chest. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling much better."

"Me too." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry I've been in such a bad mood. I don't know what the hell Pitts is doing, but his games are spinning out of control. This is a serious mess."

Regret tightened in her chest. "And you wouldn't be in the middle of it if it weren't for me."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." He pulled her closer. "I'm a homicide detective. My job is a huge part of my life, too much most times. But a murder brought us back together. I wouldn't…I'm not going to change either thing. The real killer will be found, and we'll be able to get back to normal."

Back to normal. That seemed like an impossible dream with Pitts breathing down their necks. "I really don't want to talk about this right now, but Amy thought of something. It's one of her crazy theories that just seems weird enough to be true. What if Pitts is somehow involved in the murder, and he's screwing with us to divert attention away from himself?"

Bruce exhaled into her hair. "I didn't think of that, but it is plausible. It would make a lot of his actions make a hell of a lot more sense. I'll look into it." He threw his leg over her hip and scooted her closer. "When we get back to Kellerton."

The sunshine reflecting off the snow was so bright, driving through the countryside felt like a journey across a giant tanning bed. Despite wearing sunglasses, Amy still had to squint to see the sign for Dunbar Farms. It didn't help that the wooden placard was half buried in a snow drift. The long driveway was freshly plowed, but the snow banks along the edge were higher than the roof of her Mini Cooper. She felt like a gerbil in a sixth-grade science experiment, creeping through a claustrophobic maze to get a prize at the end. The tunnel of snow opened up into a parking area in front of the white two-story farmhouse. When she got out of the car, her foot slid on a patch of hardened snow turned to ice. After completing the impromptu thigh muscle stretch, she carefully picked her way across the parking area. The objective was not to crash and spill the plate of blondies she was carrying. Trisha would probably like to eat some of the maple-flavored treats instead of watching birds and squirrels pick at them in her driveway.

Trisha opened the front door of the house before Amy could ring the doorbell. A canine guest detector woofed a greeting. The chocolate lab wagged his tail frantically as Trisha pushed the screen door open while simultaneously trying to scoot the dog back with her leg. "It's okay. I like dogs," Amy said as she reached down to scratch the enthusiastic pup's ears.

"That's good, because Moose likes people."

The earthy scent of onions drifted through the old farmhouse as Amy handed the plate to Trisha so she could shed her coat and scarf. The dog circled around her, alternating rubbing against her legs and whacking her with his thick tail. Both actions threatened to knock her over. Moose was a big boy. Suddenly, he sat and offered her a paw. She bent to shake it and was rewarded with a slobbery lick across the cheek. "Hello, Moose. It's nice to meet you." The attention sent the dog into a bucking-bronco version of a canine happy dance.

"Sorry for the sloppy kisses. We don't get many visitors in the winter, so he gets a bit lonely."

"No problem. I know the feeling." Alex left for work at 5:00 a.m. that morning. She was a morning person, but not that much of a morning person, especially after she had a difficult time getting to sleep worrying about a thousand things that were going wrong with her life.

"I made French onion soup. Something warm and cheesy just sounded good," Trisha said as she made an attempt to grab Moose's camouflage collar. The dog ducked capture and bounded up the stairs rising along the side of the foyer. "He's heading on a toy scavenger hunt. He thinks all visitors must play with him."

"Who could resist indulging him? He's adorable." Amy sniffed. "The soup smells so heavenly. I can't wait to try it."

"Let me put these in the kitchen where Moose can't steal them," Trisha said as she disappeared into a room down the hallway. She returned a few seconds later without the plate of blondies. "Why don't we head to the shop now and see if any of the herb gardens appeal to you? It's attached to the house, so you can leave your coat here."

Amy followed Trisha through several connected rooms, then found herself in a little shop full of magical greenery. Container gardens were everywhere in the small store, from lush mossariums complete with tiny fairy houses built in old fishbowls to the herb gardens in the custom-made clay pots. The glaze on the containers seemed to shift colors as she walked around the room. The same pot looked green then aqua blue before appearing to shift to slate gray when she glanced at it from farther away. "Everything is gorgeous. I need to get more than an herb garden," Amy said as she studied a delicate plant floating in water in a recycled chemistry beaker.

It took almost half an hour for her to pick out everything she wanted. All of the walls in her house were either gray, light blue, or white. It was a calming and serene color palette, but when everything outdoors had the same hues, the house felt dreary, like it had been invaded by the winter. As she wandered around examining the container gardens, she envisioned so many of them adding a touch of living color to the rooms. Her stomach was growling by the time she was done. The beaker water garden would go on the coffee table in the living room, an Italian herb garden for her craft room, and a two-foot-tall rosemary plant shaped like a pine tree for the breakfast nook. She paid and then helped load all of the plants onto an antique flatbed cart that Trisha rolled into the entranceway of the house to wait until Amy was ready to leave.

Amy followed Trisha into the kitchen at the back of the house. A red enamel cast-iron pot sat on the cream-colored vintage stove. The refrigerator was the color of mint ice cream with rounded edges and a massive chrome handle. Flat cupboard doors were soft pink with simple white painted knobs.

"Your kitchen is adorable. I love the antique appliances," Amy said as she stood in the doorway.

Trisha rolled her eyes as she squeezed between Amy and the battered wooden dining table in the middle of the kitchen. "You wouldn't think it was so quaint if you had to cook here every day. The stove is beautiful, but there is a ritual to getting the oven to work that involves an elaborate sequence of slamming the door, jiggling the grates, and hula dancing."

Amy laughed as she watched Trisha ladle chunky soup into small brown crocks. After adding a slice of bread and mounds of shredded cheese on top, Trisha set the bowls on a cookie sheet and slid it into the finicky oven. She bent to peek inside, grabbed a metal spatula, and smacked one of the burner grates. There was a whoosh as the broiler flamed to life.

"Oh my," Amy said. "I am spoiled. You're right. I don't know if I could handle your pretty little stove's eccentricities. There's only one diva in my kitchen, and it's me."

"Ha! I like that." Trisha moved the plate of maple blondies from the counter near the sink to the middle of the table. "Have a seat. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes."

Amy pulled out one of the wooden chairs. As she sat, a patch of red peeking out from behind the refrigerator caught her eye. A white line drawing of a house was visible on one corner. Trisha followed her gaze. "I need to return those, but I keep forgetting."

"I thought I remembered seeing For Sale signs here this fall, before I met you. Did you sell the farm?"

Trisha waved her hands back and forth. "No…no. I fell behind on a couple bills after I had a year-around greenhouse built. I had a little financial crisis meltdown. I put the farm up for sale after a particularly bad pity party, then figured out all I needed to do was pick up a couple more wholesale clients. Money problems solved."

"Don't you love it when things work out? It's like the universe gives you a lollipop for getting through the doctor visit from hell."

There was a crackling sizzle when Trisha opened the oven door. She donned oven mitts and pulled out the cookie sheet. Melted cheese oozed down the sides of the crocks and bubbled on the hot metal pan. She grabbed the spatula she had used to smack the broiler to life and used it to slide one of the crocks onto a dove-gray ceramic plate. As she set the soup in front of Amy, she said, "I like karmic lollipops. I guess I've been a good patient lately. My farm is saved. I finally hooked up with a nice guy. Plus, I got a nice pile of donations for the community garden at the dessert auction thingy. Thank you for telling me about it."

"No problem." Amy poked her spoon through the molten cheese layer to let steam escape. As a French onion soup connoisseur, she knew the temperature of the soup was roughly that of volcanic magma if a vent was not punched through the cheese to allow some of the heat to escape before digging in. "Did you say you have a new man in your life? Was it one of the guys drooling over you at the parade?"

Trisha shook her head and half smiled, only one side of her mouth crooked up. "No. I know you and Sophie don't like him, but I've been going out with Dale Pitts."

Ba bam. Amy felt like she'd been smacked alongside the head with the spatula. Trisha's personal life was none of her business, but it still felt like a sort of betrayal. Her newest friend was sleeping with the enemy. "And you like him?"

"Honest truth?" Trisha swiped her fingers through her tangled blonde curls. "He started questioning me like I was a suspect in the murder. Asking if I was involved with Chet, did he do something that upset me…things like that. I kind of freaked out, figuring he was going to arrest me if I said the wrong thing, especially after hearing what was going on with you and Sophie. So I started flirting with him, and he backed off. Now I really do like him. He's sweet when he's around me."

Amy tentatively sipped a spoonful of the rich, beefy broth. She didn't singe her tongue, so it was safe to eat. Trisha had cracked the Pitts Code and figured out how to get him to back off. Good for her. And she got a boyfriend in the process. Just because Amy didn't see his appeal didn't mean he wasn't what Trisha was looking for. She stirred the melted cheese into the oniony broth to buy some time. Whenever she thought about Pitts, a train of swear words chugged through her mind. She smiled, to try to add some cheer to her voice, and said, "I'm happy for you. Opposites attract and all of that stuff. If you like him, that's all that matters. Heck, maybe he's one of those handy guys, and he can fix your temperamental stove."

"Actually, I've already found out he does know his way around a toolbox. Old farmhouses always have something that needs to be repaired or patched up." Trisha held up her spoon like it was a magic wand. "Last night he fixed a leak under my bathroom sink after making an amazing Bolognese sauce for dinner. He even told me about what happened when his partner was killed, poor guy."

The shock of learning about the unlikely couple was wearing off. The pairing could actually be beneficial. If he was comfortable enough to talk about his partner's murder to Trisha, could he have dropped his guard and mentioned details about the Britton case? Or what if he thought flexing his detective skills would impress her and had told her why he was harassing the least likely suspects? "My friend has been dating a detective for about six months. It's not always easy, but he sure has some interesting stories to tell. Has Pitts talked to you about Britton's case at all?"

Trisha's happy smile morphed into a frown. "Your friend that's dating the detective…she's the one that Dale suspects actually killed Chet, isn't she?"

Amy stirred her soup again as she frantically searched her memory banks. She had told Trisha that she was a suspect but not that Carla was the supposed henchwoman. Sophie may have said something, but more than likely, Trisha had gotten the information from Pitts. What else did Trisha know? Some things were best to tackle head-on instead of dancing around the sidelines. "Yes, she is. I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what Pitts is doing. From my perspective, it seems like he'll do anything to just get a confession out of anybody, whether they truly killed Britton or not. You said yourself that you were afraid he was heading toward accusing you of the murder."

Trisha exhaled so hard it ruffled the paper napkin on the table beside her soup bowl. "It's like he's completely different around me. I hear what you and Sophie say after talking with him, and I can't believe we're talking about the same man. He hasn't said much to me about the murder, other than questioning me about what happened before the showdown. I'll see if I can get him to talk to me more about what's going on with his investigation. We're having dinner together again tonight."