Dead Between the Lines (13 page)

I was doing a quick Internet search for Mrs. Z’s private contact info when Hannah called out, “Dev, a customer needs to see you.”

As I came out of the back room, I heard a cultured contralto scold, “It isn’t polite to shout, Ms. Freeman. A lady doesn’t raise her voice.”

I wouldn’t have to call the principal after all. She was standing at the register, giving my clerk lessons in deportment.

I hurried forward and said, “Mrs. Zeigler, I was just trying to phone you. I’m so sorry I forgot to get your order Friday night.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.” She smoothed the side of her chignon. “I’m afraid that awful man flustered all of us.”

“The evening was a lot more confrontational than I thought a book club would be.” I raised my brows. “Do the discussions often get that heated?”

As we chatted, I took a good look at Mrs. Z. She was a sturdy woman with toned arms and calves. Last summer at the lakeside recreation club just outside of town, I’d seen her doing laps, and she definitely had the muscles to drive a fence post into a man’s heart. Could she have murdered the poet for disrupting her group?

I swallowed a chuckle. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine her staking the guy. Maybe rapping his knuckles with a ruler, but not killing him. Hell, if she couldn’t handle an antagonistic individual, she’d have quit working in public education a long time ago. The PTO meetings alone probably had more hostile negotiations than the senate and congress combined.

“That was a first for our group. As was his later homicide . . .” Mrs. Zeigler frowned at the memory, and then she shook her head, glanced around the store at the remaining customers, and said, “May we speak privately?”

“Sure.” My pulsed raced. Did she want to tell me something about the murder? Of course not. She just didn’t want to be overheard ordering an erotic basket. I grabbed a binder with pictures of my past creations, an order pad, and pen. “Right this way.”

Normally, we could step into the back room, but it was still a mess from the police search, so I steered her toward a locked door that opened to a short flight of stairs. I used my key, then led her up the steps to a small suite of offices that had been part of the adjacent building. I hadn’t been able to figure out a good retail use of the space but I’d kept the rooms intact, hoping I could rent them out to an insurance agent or Realtor. So far, there hadn’t been any takers.

Once we were settled on the ancient wooden chairs, leftovers from the previous occupant, I handed her the binder and said, “Here are some examples of my erotic line. Can you give me an idea what you have in mind?”

After she pointed out some baskets that she liked and indicated which items she found most interesting, I said, “Each of the baskets includes my trademark—the perfect book for both the occasion and the person receiving the gift. Do you have any suggestions?”

“The book aspect of your baskets is my favorite, so I’ve given it a great deal of thought.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “I believe that new novel everyone is talking about by L. L. Charles would be ideal.”

“
Ten Colors of Blonde
?” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. Considering the contents of the basket she’d ordered, I didn’t know why I was so flabbergasted that she was requesting a book that was being touted as S and M–lite and mommy porn, but still . . . ew! “Uh, have you read it?”

“No.” Mrs. Zeigler tipped her head. “I thought that was something my spouse and I could do together on our anniversary getaway.”

I nodded, keeping my face down so she couldn’t see how red my cheeks were. I was normally not one to blush, but, then again, I’d never had this sort of talk with a woman who had been my high school principal before, either. And no matter how many years ago I’d graduated, imagining Mrs. Z as a sexual being was still disconcerting.

After we finished up, I said, “Ever since the murder, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mr. Quistgaard. Did you know him before he requested to speak at the book club?”

“No.” Mrs. Zeigler picked up her purse. “He must not have been a native to Shadow Bend, since I didn’t recognize his name as someone who went to school here.”

“Did any of the club members comment that they knew him or didn’t want him to be one of your speakers?”

“A few people protested having to read poetry, but I don’t recall any mentioning that they were acquainted with him.” Mrs. Zeigler got to her feet and smoothed her skirt. “However, when the notice of this month’s selection went out, Kiara Howard objected to us hosting Mr. Quistgaard. I was a little surprised when she attended the meeting.”

“Did Kiara say what she objected to?” I stood up.

“Not specifically, no. She stated only that he wasn’t the kind of writer that she wanted to encourage or support.” Mrs. Zeigler took a deep breath and admitted, “She didn’t explain what she meant, and I’m afraid I didn’t ask, since by that time it was too late to rescind our invitation.” Mrs. Zeigler shrugged. “Maybe I should have.”

I held the office door open for Mrs. Zeigler, and as I watched her walk away, I wondered if Lance Quistgaard would still be alive today if Mrs. Z had heeded Kiara’s warning and canceled the poet’s appearance at the book club before someone else could cancel his life.

C
HAPTER 14

B
efore returning to the store, I sat down at the old desk and sketched out my ideas for Mrs. Ziegler’s basket. I liked to get my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh from the client interview. I was making a note to order a copy of
Ten Colors of Blonde
when I heard the steps creak.

Thinking that Hannah might be looking for me, I called out, “I’ll be down in a second.” I jotted one more note and added, “I’m coming.”

I grabbed the binder and order pad and hurried out the door toward the stairs. Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck rose, but before I could turn to see if someone was behind me, I felt what might have been a shove between my shoulder blades and stumbled. Unable to regain my balance, I pitched forward and fell, thumping down each step until I lay breathless at the bottom of the staircase.
What in the hell just happened?

•   •   •

It took me a moment or two, and whatever was left of my pride, before I could get to my feet and ascertain that nothing was broken. By then Hannah had run from the cash register to where I’d fallen. I spent the next thirty or so minutes trying to convince her I was fine.

While Hannah was watching me, I made myself walk around as if I were pain-free and frequently descended the stairs on my ass. But after I waved good-bye to her, I admitted to myself that I was in agony and grabbed the bottle of Advil from behind the counter. Dry swallowing a couple of tablets, I collapsed on a soda fountain stool. I was too sore to lock up or even flip on the
CLOSED
sign.

While my body rested and the ibuprofen started to work, I called the police. Chief Kincaid seemed to think my imagination was working overtime. He said that I had probably tripped rather than been pushed, but if I wanted, he could send an officer over to look around.

I hesitated. Just before Hannah left, I’d checked out the second floor and hadn’t seen evidence of anyone’s presence there. It was a shame that since the door to the upstairs area had been locked, the police had assumed that whoever had hidden in the store hadn’t been able to gain access to it. If they’d processed that space, there’d be fingerprint power to smear. And because my cleaning lady kept the place spic and span, there wasn’t even a layer of dust that might have had footprints to prove someone had been behind me.

Concluding that a search would probably be futile, and realizing that the last thing I wanted was for the police to create another mess or cause any more rumors about me to float around town, I declined the chief’s offer. Maybe he was right. Maybe my nerves had gotten the better of me. Maybe I had just tripped over my own big feet.

Sighing, I checked my messages. Still nothing from Noah about his mother’s health. Earlier, I’d sent a text asking him to give me an update when he had a chance. He couldn’t use his cell in the hospital, but I’d thought he’d be home by now, and I was getting worried.

Although Nadine was far from my favorite person, I hoped her symptoms had been a false alarm and she was all right. I wanted her to be okay, if for no other reason than because a sick Nadine would drive Noah crazy with her constant demands for his attention.

Setting aside my concern for Noah and his mother, I thought about all the stuff I needed to check up on regarding the murder. Number one was getting copies of the past gossip columns. A close second was confirming Addie’s alibi. And third was finding out why Kiara had objected to Quistgaard speaking to the book club.

I reached for the single chocolate-chip cookie left over from the Knittie Grittie meeting and bit into it. Something else was niggling at the back of my mind. Someone else that I should consider a suspect. Someone who was angry with the Bend’s Buzzard. But who? Nope, the glimmer of a memory refused to surface.

Realizing that I couldn’t force myself to remember, I decided to concentrate on the things I had to do. With Gran expecting me for dinner in twenty minutes, did I have time to accomplish any of them before heading home? Confirming Addie’s presence at Gossip Central would probably be the quickest item on my list.

I shoved the rest of the cookie into my mouth and was reaching for my cell when the sleigh bells above the front door jingled.
Shoot!
I
so
didn’t want to deal with a customer, but I’d forgotten to switch on the
CLOSED
sign and lock the door. I’d have to suck it up and smile.

Twisting to ask whoever had entered if they could come back the next day, I found myself instead beaming at the incredibly gorgeous man entering my store. I was reminded of my first meeting with Jake. The circumstances were similar, although in our initial encounter it was a double dark-chocolate milk shake that I had just chugged. At least this time I had only a few cookie crumbs to brush off my chest, not a whipped-cream mustache for him to laugh at.

“Hi.” I patted the stool next to me, an electrical charge running through my nerve endings as a burst of heat swept through my body. Jake’s striking good looks completely seized my attention, and the pain from my tumble down the stairs seemed to melt away. “What’s up?”

“Tony invited your grandmother over for chili and the
Bonanza
marathon on TV tonight.” Jake’s smile was both devastating and contagious. “When Birdie walked into the house a few minutes ago, I asked what you were doing for supper, and she said you’d have to settle for yesterday’s tuna casserole.” A dimple at the corner of his lips appeared. “From your grandma’s expression, I’m guessing that’s not your favorite dish, so I thought maybe we could get a bite to eat. I’ll save you from leftovers, and you can save me from four hours of Ben Cartwright.”

“Well . . .” This really did feel like déjà vu. The last time Jake had popped into my life with a message from my gran and his uncle, I was in a similar disheveled state of dress—sans makeup, with my hair scraped back into a ponytail, and wearing an oversize sweatshirt and baggy jeans.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “You know you don’t want to eat tuna casserole.”

“True, but I should probably go home, take a shower, and change first.” I sniffed discreetly. Yep. Whatever deodorant and perfume I’d put on at six a.m. were long gone. I smelled like a long day at work—not exactly hot guy–ready. “Once I’m a little more presentable, I could meet you somewhere in, say, an hour.”

“You’re fine.” His chiseled face relaxed into a sexy smile and his gaze was so hot it was like a branding iron on my skin. “I like the natural you.” He smoothed the faded Levi’s that lovingly molded the muscles of his thighs. “I’m not dressed up, either.”

“I
am
hungry.” I realized that I’d missed lunch and I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Except a whole lot of empty calories in the form of a donut that morning and the cookie I’d just scarfed. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Tony mentioned that a new barbeque place over by Sparkville is having a grand opening tonight.” Jake pushed up my sweatshirt sleeve and stroked my inner arm. “You know no one there’ll be dressed fancy.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Tony said the brisket’s supposed to be real tasty and the beer’s guaranteed to be ice-cold.”

The neighboring town of Sparkville had elected a German shepherd to office after their last mayor was caught trying to sell a city council seat to the highest bidder. The shepherd was a cute animal, and I wondered if he would be at the restaurant. The mayor in my own town wouldn’t miss an opportunity for free food, but Sparkville’s doggy head honcho might be more ethical.

“You’ve talked me into it.” My mouth watered and I put my hand into his outstretched palm. “Just let me turn out the lights, stick the day’s receipts in the safe, and make sure the back exit is locked. Then we can go.”

“I’ll get the lights.” Jake stood, pulling me to my feet. “Birdie said you wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of pulled pork, coleslaw, and corn bread.” He winked. “But what I really hope is that you can’t resist me.”

I gave him a noncommittal look, then disappeared into the back room, clutching the cash drawer. Once we were in his truck driving the short distance between Shadow Bend and Sparkville, I brought Jake up to speed on all that had happened since I’d last talked to him. When I got to the part about the anonymous tipster trying to implicate me, he wrinkled his brow and grunted.

Finishing up my summary, I said, “So, I think it would be a good idea if I helped Chief Kincaid find the murderer. The longer it takes for the case to be solved, the more likely people will start looking at me funny.”

“He may not be happy with your meddling,” Jake suggested. “Local LEOs usually aren’t real open to any outside interference.”

“Leos?” I scrunched up my face. “Is that the chief’s zodiac sign?”

“Law enforcement officer,” Jake translated. “Federal agents call them that.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “I’ve heard that expression on various
CSI
shows but never knew what it meant. I thought maybe they were referring to lions, since the cops on those programs seem to roar a lot.”

Jake chuckled, then said, “So, do you think Chief Kincaid will be open to some external help? I was thinking of stopping by the station and seeing if there is anything I can do.”

“The chief may not admit it, but as long as I approach him in the right way, I’m pretty sure he won’t be adverse to receiving tips from me.” I crossed my arms. “You might be more of a threat to his manhood. Sort of like saying he’s not up to the job.”

“In that case . . .” Jake paused as he swung the pickup into the barbeque joint’s parking lot, found an empty spot, and pulled in. “Maybe we should look into some of the suspects on your list together and then you can bring the information to the chief.”

“We?” I liked the sound of that. “Will you be around for a while?”

“I’ve got a week off and might be able to take a few more days if nothing comes up.” Jake shoved his Stetson back. “I don’t like the idea of your reputation being smeared, but what really worries me is that the killer might start thinking you know more than you do. What if you saw something that night that you don’t remember seeing or that didn’t seem important? The murderer could decide he needs to get rid of you.”

“Well.” I sagged back against the truck seat. I hadn’t mentioned my fall—the chief had half convinced me I’d imagined the push and the footsteps—but Jake’s words made me rethink that conclusion. I hated to admit my clumsiness, but maybe I should get his take on what might have happened. “Do you really think I’m in danger?”

“It’s hard to say.” Jake shrugged. “But even the slightest possibility makes me nervous. And I . . .” He cupped my cheek, and for a millisecond, I could almost see the sexual awareness zinging between us. Then a shutter seemed to come down over his eyes, and whatever he’d been going to say was lost.

“Yes?” I wanted to know what Jake had decided not to tell me.

“Nothing.” He moved away from me, got out of the pickup, and walked around to my side to help me down. “I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Then I guess I should tell you what happened to me this afternoon.” As we headed across the asphalt, I explained about hearing the footsteps, feeling someone put their hand on my back, and being pushed down the stairs. I finished with, “I called Chief Kincaid, and he seemed to think I had tripped over my own feet.”

“But you didn’t?” Jake’s voice deepened with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me this right away? Are you okay?”

“I’m a little sore. Otherwise I’m fine.” I didn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t mention it because the chief sort of convinced me that I had stumbled and I was embarrassed about being so klutzy.”

“Has something changed your mind?” Jake opened the restaurant door.

“You did.” I bit my lip. “In the back of my mind, I wondered if being shoved was connected with Quistgaard’s death. But I didn’t want to admit to myself that his killer might be targeting me.” I thought of the murderer coming after me and shuddered. If Jake was right, this wasn’t just about me being the subject of gossip again. This time, my life might be in danger. “What could I possibly have seen?”

“Who knows?” Jake took my hands. “I hope you did just trip, but if someone is after you, we need to be careful.”

“You’re right.” I took a breath. “If the murderer thinks I know something, then I’d better start figuring out what that is.”

“Right.” Jake squeezed my fingers, then looked around. He pointed to a corner booth and said, “Let’s nab that table.”

Once we were seated and had ordered the special and a couple of beers, I asked, “So, what do you think we should do first?”

“’The Bend’s Buzz’ seems like a good lead.” Jake took a notepad from his shirt pocket. “We need to get back copies of the
Banner
. Do you think the library has them?”

“It shut down last month. Most of the other little towns around here closed their libraries quite a while ago.” I frowned. “I’ve heard there’s a committee trying to raise money to reopen it, but right now the nearest library is over in the county seat.”

“Then I guess the newspaper office is our best option.” Jake jotted a note on his pad. “I’ll stop by there tomorrow afternoon, then meet you at the dime store at six to go over the columns.”

“Great.” I paused while the waitress served our drinks and put a basket of steaming corn-bread muffins on the table. “I think we should concentrate on anyone who was both mentioned in the column and present at the book-club meeting Friday night. We can compare the list I have on my computer against people mentioned in the ‘Buzz.’”

“Good idea.” Jake took a swig of his Budweiser. “Your clerk mentioned two members who were arguing about Quistgaard’s poetry. We should look for their names or anyone close to them. Remember, the motive for Quistgaard’s murder might not be something that was printed about them personally.”

“True.” As I paused to spread butter on the warm muffin, I finally remembered what had been nagging me. It was something Noah had said about his physician’s assistant. “There’s one guy who I know was at the meeting and was ticked off at being mentioned in the column.” I explained about Yale Gordon’s beef with the Bend’s Buzzard.