Dead Between the Lines (11 page)

CH
APTER 12

“O
h. My. God!” I swung open the front door of my store and stood gaping at the chaos the crime-scene techs had left behind. It looked as if a volcano had erupted, littering its path of destruction with bits and pieces of people’s lives and sprinkling the remains with ash. Thank goodness Banshee had taken a liking to Tsar. There was no way the Russian Blue could have come to work with me today.

I stood frozen, unable to make myself move farther into the room until Poppy finally pushed me aside. She barreled into the shop, then stopped dead in her tracks, sputtering. She’d called me last night when she’d gotten back from Chicago. We’d discussed her weekend—she’d had a great time with Tryg. Then I’d told her about mine. She heartily approved my decision to continue seeing both Noah and Jake, and was shocked by the rest of my news.

After hearing about the police search of my store, she’d insisted on coming this morning to help with the cleanup. Though I was glad for the assistance, I had tried to dissuade her. I was afraid that having Poppy witness the condition in which the cops would doubtlessly leave my shop would worsen the relationship between her and her father, since there was no way on earth she wouldn’t blame him.

Before I could stop myself, I muttered, “How in the world did they make such a mess in less than thirty-six hours?”

“I’ll kill him.” Poppy twirled around, taking in the disassembled displays, ravaged shelves, and items heaped into the middle of the floor, and then she ground out between clenched teeth, “This time he’s gone too far. I’m going back to my bar, get my gun, and shoot him.”

She meant her dad, Chief Kincaid, and I hurriedly said, “I’m sure he was only doing his job.” Tugging on Poppy’s hand, I towed her into the backroom to stow our purses and gather cleaning supplies. “You know he had no choice. He had to process the place.”

The storage room hadn’t been spared, and Poppy’s gorgeous heart-shaped face turned as red as the sole of the Louboutin pumps in her closet. Her relationship with her dad had been precarious since Poppy had reached adolescence, but something had happened last Christmas to push both of them over the edge. I’d never found out exactly what had caused the final rift, but I assumed the reason was the obvious one. Poppy’s reckless lifestyle must have clashed one too many times with the chief’s rigid view of the world, and one of them finally did or said something the other couldn’t forgive.

“So you had a good time with Tryg?” I asked, attempting to distract her before she had an aneurysm.

“Yeah.” A reluctant smile played around her lips. “He can be a real dumb-ass sometimes, but a fool and his money are fun to go out with.”

“That describes most of your dates.” I thrust a hand vac at Poppy while she giggled her agreement; then I led her back to the front of the store and said, “I’ll start putting things where they belong and you follow behind me, vacuuming up the fingerprint powder.”

Flinging her arms wide, she said, “You realize my father did this just to spite me.” She narrowed her amethyst eyes. “There’s no way they
had
to make this much of a mess. It was deliberate.”

“You need to find a way to get along with your dad.” I put my hands on my hips. “It’s time to get over your issues.”

“No way.” Poppy put her own hands on her hips, mirroring my stance. “I stopped fighting my inner demons a long time ago. Now we’re on the same side and we both think my father’s an uptight, controlling, vengeful jerk.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. If the chief intended to get back at anyone, it was me.” I began to sort through the items strewn across the floor. “He was pretty ticked when he guessed that I figured out about the murder weapon over twelve hours before I shared that bit of intel with the police. Not that I admitted that to him.”

“That would piss him off, all right.” Poppy’s waterfall of platinum curls floated around her shoulders as she bent to run the Dirt Devil over a stack of books lying beside the metal spinner rack.

“Yep.” Although Chief Kincaid had never come right out and ordered me to keep the information about the murder weapon confidential, I suspected that was his wish, since I hadn’t heard any gossip about the bizarre way Quistgaard had been offed. But I’d had to tell Poppy about the fence post being used to kill the poet when I couldn’t come up with any other good explanation for why the police had waited until the next day to search my store.

That made four people I’d told and sworn to secrecy, and Poppy was the only one I was really worried about blabbing. Not that she would purposely break her word to me, but she tended to blurt things out first and think about the consequences later—giving the chief another reason to be upset with both of us. Too bad letting the cat out of the bag was a whole lot easier than putting it back in.

Though I truly hoped I hadn’t screwed up the police investigation by revealing how Lance had died, I was pretty darn sure it wasn’t in my best interests to keep that information from any of the people I’d taken into my confidence—except for Poppy. And if there was one thing I’d learned from my previous run-ins with the law, it was to look out for my family, my friends, and myself first, because the cops certainly wouldn’t do so.

Poppy and I worked in silence for a few minutes, and then she glanced at the clock and said, “I thought Noah was supposed to be helping us out. What time did you say he was planning to be here?”

“Eight.” I checked my cell phone to see if I’d missed a text from him, but there were no messages in my in-box. “It’s not like him to be late. Maybe he got an emergency call from the clinic.”

“Shoot!” Poppy wiped her forehead with her arm, leaving a smudge. “This will take forever with just the two of us. Trust Boone to be off on a cruise when there’s any physical work to be done.”

“He does hate to get dirty.” I chuckled at the image of a less than immaculate Boone. The man disliked having his hair mussed, much less getting his hands filthy, or ruining the crease of his pants.

“We should have gotten someone else to help us,” Poppy complained.

“I did.” As I started to rebuild the May flowers display, I noticed that the entire length of fencing was missing and guessed it was in police custody. Making a mental note to stop at the hardware store on the way home to replace it, I said, “I asked Xylia if she had class this morning and she doesn’t, so I hired her to help us out. She’ll be here at nine.” I looked around. “I just hope she doesn’t freak out. She’s another one who doesn’t like it when things are out of order.”

Before Poppy could comment, I heard a thud and saw through the glass door that Noah had arrived, bearing gifts. In one hand he held a tray with four coffee cups, and in the other was a pale pink box tied with white string. The thumping sound must have been him kicking the bottom of the door to get our attention.

Poppy elbowed me in the ribs. “Clearly, Noah thinks the way to your heart is through your stomach.”

“Which is true,” I informed her loftily, then leered at his tight-fitting jeans. “Although there are alternate routes.”

Poppy elbowed me again, then shoved me in Noah’s direction.

As soon as I unlocked the door and held it open for him, he stepped inside, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Sorry I’m late. I stopped at the bakery to pick up some donuts and gossip.”

“Since when do you indulge in that local sport?” Poppy asked, grinning.

“Since someone was murdered behind Dev’s store.” Noah set the carton on the soda-fountain counter, shrugged off his hooded sweatshirt, and looked around. “Wow. The mess here is even worse than I thought it would be.”

“Yep.” I nodded toward Poppy, whose expression had darkened again, and gave a tiny shake of my head, then said, “But I’m sure the police were only doing their jobs.”

Understanding dawned in Noah’s eyes, and he changed the subject. “Did you two hear the local news this morning?”

“I didn’t.” I looked at Poppy and she shook her head. “What about it?”

“An ‘anonymous tipster’ reminded the reporter that Dev was involved in a couple of other police investigations.” Noah looked into my eyes and added gently, “The insinuation was that you might have something to do with this one, so I wanted to check out the town’s reaction, and I figured the bakery was my best bet.”

“Fu—” I cut myself off. I had vowed to stop dropping the F bomb. “I was afraid of that.” I sat down on a stool and asked Noah, “Do you think I’m in trouble? What did the rumor mill have to say?”

“About thirty-seventy in your favor. The majority didn’t put much stock in the idea that you’re involved,” Noah assured me. “In fact, they were promoting the theory that the cops were being deliberately led astray by someone. I wonder who phoned in the tip.”

“It has to be my dad,” Poppy growled. “Who else would dare?”

I put my hand on her arm. “This is not your father’s doing.” I hoped that my faith in the chief was justified. “He plays by the rules and would never make an anonymous statement like that.”

“Humph,” Poppy grunted. “You might be right. He’s not much for covert action. He’d much rather look you in the eye when he stabs you in the back.”

“Huh?” I raised my eyebrows at her mixed metaphor. Or whatever that was she’d said. “How can you look at someone if you’re behind them?”

“Fine,” she huffed. “Knifes you in the chest.” She smiled cruelly. “And if it isn’t him, he’s going to be blowing his stack that someone is revving up the press’s interest in the case.”

“Let’s hope he finds out who it is and does something about it before my reputation is smeared.” I felt another one of those remorseful twinges that I’d been having since finding out my father was innocent. When he’d been sent to prison, I’d worried so much about what the people of Shadow Bend thought of me, I hadn’t even considered that Dad might have been set up. Now that he’d been exonerated, I’d been thinking that I could quit being so concerned, but if I was implicated in another murder, I could kiss that hope good-bye.

“Even if my father says you’re in the clear,” Poppy said, interrupting my guilt trip, “we can’t count on him to staunch the gossip. We need to do something about it ourselves.” Crossing her arms, she turned to Noah and demanded, “Did you hear anything else about the murder? Any clue?”

“Uh . . .” Noah hesitated, taking a sip of coffee and then opening the donut box and staring at the contents for several seconds.

“Yes?” I prompted. I could tell that something was making him uncomfortable and whatever it was might be important, so I prodded, “What?”

“I ran into Riyad Oberkircher at the dog park this morning.” Noah handed me a vanilla cream–filled Long John—my favorite.

“The lawyer?” Poppy waited for Noah’s nod, then snatched a cruller from the carton. “What about him? Did he have something to say about the murder? Spill it, Doc.”

“Maybe.” Noah selected a Bismarck. “He mentioned that he was going into his office at seven thirty today because a client had phoned him, begging for an emergency meeting.” Noah took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “He wouldn’t say who the client was or what he or she wanted, but—”

“But it sure could be about the murder,” Poppy deduced.

“Yes.” Noah nodded. “That would certainly be my guess, and I think Riyad thought so, too. Not that that bit of info will do us any good.”

“I don’t suppose you thought about hanging out in front of his law office and seeing who went inside?” I asked, knowing the answer was no. Noah was too good a person to do that to a friend who had confided in him.

“Of course not.” Noah raised a brow. “That wouldn’t have been right.”

Poppy and I exchanged a look, indicating that Noah’s personal moral code wouldn’t have stopped us; then I asked, “Anything else interesting? Maybe something that we can actually use?” I knew I sounded testy, but I was sick and tired of people talking about me.

“I considered making a few phone calls this morning to see if anyone would admit knowing that Quistgaard wrote ‘The Bend’s Buzz.’” He twisted his lips. “But you really need to tell the chief about that before we start asking people. It’s sure to get back to him, and he’ll be furious if he’s the last to know.”

“The murdered guy was the gossip columnist?” Poppy squealed.

After we filled her in on that development, Noah looked around at the mess and said, “Now, don’t you think we’d better get to work?”

“Definitely.” I handed him a rag and the spray bottle of detergent solution that I had prepared according to the directions I’d found on a Web site devoted to cleaning up fingerprint dust. It’s amazing what you can find online these days. “Use this on any items the vacuuming hasn’t completely cleaned.” He nodded, and I added, “Make sure they’re waterproof before you spritz them, and you might have to do it two or three times to remove all the powder.”

When Xylia arrived half an hour later, she was wearing her usual sweater set and had even added a silk scarf. Why she was so dressed up to clean was beyond me, but I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I didn’t comment. We left Poppy and Noah wiping down the front displays, soda fountain, and cash-register counter areas, and went to tackle the craft alcove.

As we worked, Xylia said, “According to the radio, the murder took place behind the building, so why did the police search the store?”

“The back exit wasn’t locked,” I explained, but didn’t add my theory about the murder weapon. I’d already told my quota of people.

“How odd.” Xylia continued to sort skeins of yarn, placing them in their proper sections. “Is there any chance you forgot to lock the door?”

“Maybe.” I decide to stick with the story I’d told Vaughn. “It was a little frenzied around here that night with people getting mad and storming out of the meeting and all.” I started in on the scrapbooking supplies. “I lost track of where everyone was. Did you notice anything? Someone who wasn’t where they should have been?”

“I don’t think so.” Xylia scrunched up her face in a visible attempt to dredge up that night’s activity, then shook her head. “Sorry, no. Like you said, with all the comings and goings, it’s hard to remember.”

We worked in silence while I thought more about that evening. Earlier, after Noah had told me about the newscaster’s innuendo, I’d checked my computer for the list of book-club attendees. I really needed to talk to everyone who had been at the meeting and get his or her impressions, recollections, and alibis. If someone was trying to implicate me as an accessory to the crime, I wanted to be proactive rather than reactive. The more info I could give the police about that evening, the faster they’d catch the killer.