Death Stretch (2 page)

Oh, Papa. Take me. Anywhere. I'll go quietly.

“You can start with me, Detective,” Flash purred. “I've got nothing to hide.”

My gaze appraised her runway-model figure in a molded, backless outfit. She wasn’t lying.

****

“I'll need your name and address, miss.” Pulaski was no slacker in the looks department either. A dimpled grin, not currently directed at me, and a flat stomach were just the appetizers. I'd had plenty of time to take inventory while waiting in the outer room. After over an hour, I'd finally been called into Morgan's office. Or I should say Morgan's former office. Grammar wasn't my strong suit.

I glanced at Cop Sexy Johnson, who'd planted his tall, dark and dangerous self on the desk. My mouth went a little dry, and not from the stress of being questioned by the police. Okay, so I'm a cliché.

Wrestling my demanding hormones under control, I cleared my throat. “So Morgan didn't die from food poisoning?”

Cop Sexy's stern expression chilled me. “We'll ask the questions.”

“Okay.” A pesky frog made my voice husky.

Sexy's stare put me in the deep freeze. Damn, a jacket would've been nice.

“We've been informed, Ms. Sheridan, that you left the room before the session ended.”

The room's chill deepened to Antarctica level. “Yes, I had to, uh, use the bathroom.”

He consulted his notes. “And you paused next to the deceased, is that correct?”

That sounded scary. Like I was a suspect. “Yup...yes that's correct.”

“Did you touch Mr. Anderson at any time?”

“No.”

“So you paused, walked past him and left the room. Is that right?” Disbelief colored his tone.

Cop Sexy no more. Nope, he’d turned to the dark side and had become Cop A-hole.

“That's right.” I bit off my reply. Didn’t care how it sounded.

“You're sure?”

His arrogance made my teeth hurt.

“Yes, I'm sure I know what I did.” My anger finally broke through. “I had to pee, okay? And I thought Morgan would make me go back to my mat. Just like Mrs. Crankshaw sent me back to my desk.” Crap. That wasn't supposed to come out.

“Mrs. Crankshaw?” He checked his notes. “She's not listed as a class member.”

He waited.

I capitulated. “She was one of my grade school teachers.” I’d hoped he'd let it go, but his raised eyebrow indicated I wouldn't get away without spilling all the sordid details. “She gave me detention or extra homework when I left class early. Mrs. Crankshaw never believed me when I said I had to go to the bathroom.”

Detective Johnson's lips curved up at the corners. The sight was so pretty I forgot the highway and followed the turn. The curve dead-ended when his lips straightened. Johnson didn't comment, just sat with an air of expectation.

“One time she didn't believe me, but I really had to go and well, let's just say things got messy. The same thing would’ve happened today.”

“Hmmm.” His lips quirked. The creep. His throat clearing sounded like laughter. “Okay. Moving on. Did you know Mr. Anderson outside class?”

“What? No. I told you, I just started class today. I didn't know anyone. Except Ginger.”

“Why did you enroll in Mr. Anderson’s class?”

I almost blurted out “his muscles,” but stopped myself in time. “My friend, Ginger.” Her and a blackmailing jerk. “She thought I'd enjoy something new.”

“That would be Ginger Howe?”

“That's right.”

He looked at his notes again, but the gesture was a ruse. This guy knew where he was going and what he wanted.

“Ms. Sheridan, may I call you Kathryn?”

“Katie.” I wondered if he thought that
Columbo
trick would work.

“With your hair, I'd have guessed Kat.” He cleared his throat again. The man should have his sinuses checked.

My eyes narrowed. Wait. My hair? What did he mean? No way my long wavy hair looked like a cat's. Especially when a bad case of yoga mat head had every strand snarled like a web spun by a crack-crazed spider.

He blew out a breath. “You performed CPR?”

My pique dissipated. I recalled Morgan's pulse slowing, coming to a stop under my fingers. “Yes.” My answer sounded quiet, even to my ears. “Yes.”

“Did you notice any excessive sweat? Contorted features?”

He died. That seemed pretty damn unusual to me. “No, nothing.”

Detective Johnson reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. I took it with numb fingers and gave it a cursory glance.

I looked again and snorted. “Dirk? Your first name is Dirk?”

He shifted in his seat. “My mother named me after an actor.”

I’d grown up watching old movies. “Really? Dirk Bogarde?”

He ran a finger around his collar. “Yeah.”

I tilted my head, trying to remember some of Bogarde's roles but failed. “Didn't he play bad guys for a while?”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “I wouldn't know.”

After gulping, I managed a reply. “Never mind.”

He opened his mouth and I'm sure he was about to give me the standard warning so I blurted, “I know. Don't leave town.”

He smiled and nodded. “We'll be in touch.”

Whoa, baby. His low voice touched a nerve and Cop A-hole made a one-eighty back to Cop Sexy. Given my proximity to a murder, that wasn’t a good thing.

Chapter Two

Chocolate. The only thing that could save the day was a cocoa-based gift from heaven. The Chocolate Fix on Main Street was closer and just as divine. Ginger and I headed there so fast, I almost ran. Even if nothing else about today scared me, two bouts of exercise in one six-hour stretch promised nightmares.

Most people would search for health and life after confronting death. Not me. Exercise or chocolate? Please. No contest.

I inhaled the unique aroma of the store, feeling my blood pressure drop with every breath. Jimmy Buffett has his frozen concoction that helps him hang on. I have chocolate. Less fuss, less muss, no frozen sinuses.

We bought truffles and settled into wrought iron chairs at the small marble-topped ice cream tables in front of the Fix's large front window. Sunshine flooded the dark ceramic floor tiles next to us, radiating welcome warmth. Even though spring bloomed outside, my bones ached from delayed shock.

Mona promised the hot chocolate we ordered would only take a minute but that sixty seconds sounded like a long wait. If you've ever been present when someone died, you know how I felt. Shaken, not stirred.

Ginger placed her hand over mine. “You okay?”

Nodding, I bit into a truffle dusted with cayenne. The creamy ganache melted in my mouth while the spice reminded me I still lived and was glad of it.

My friend glanced at the chocolates beautifully displayed on a square white plate but didn't touch a single one. “This wasn't supposed to happen. I never thought you'd get caught up in my mess. It should have been simple. Find the blackmailer and report him to the cops before anyone found out.”

By “anyone” she meant her husband, Rob. By my count, he didn't deserve her discretion.

“Ginger, you've saved my butt more often than I can remember. I'll have your back whenever you need help. Stop worrying and eat a truffle before I eat yours too.”

She didn't move, not a millimeter, and her stillness scared me. God, gruff humor hadn't worked to make her feel better. Time to up the ante.

I placed my hand over hers and squeezed. “Ginger, we're the Demonic Duo.” I waited. The corners of her lips twitched but she remained quiet. “Don't make me say it.”

Ginger's lips curved up. “Say it.”

“I really hate it when you make me go girly.”

“Say it or I'll never share chocolate with you again.” Despite her almost smile, tears welled in her brown eyes.

Oh, crap.

Grasping her hand, I took a deep breath and spoke past my dry throat. Declaring love out loud was not easy for me. I'd rather show it and Ginger knew that.

“I love you, Ginger. Don't do this, please.”

Mona, the owner of Chocolate Fix, plopped two mugs of hot chocolate in front of us. “Don't do what?”

The hot drink, made with half-and-half, shaved Belgian chocolate and topped with real whipped cream, called to me like a siren to sailors. Not too sweet, smooth and silky, the rich confection had me ready to beach myself on the nearest rocky shore. I licked off my cream mustache before answering. “Get upset about what happened at the Yoga Studio.”

Mona slid her generous curves onto a nearby chair and picked up the truffle Ginger and I planned to split. She noticed my raised eyebrow and shrugged. “I'll give you another one. Now, tell me, were you there when Morgan died?”

Ginger's mouth dropped open. “You know what happened already?”

“Your other classmates came in after the cops took their statements. What took you so long? I had to hear the news from some snarky blonde.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned her attention to me. “I heard you tried to save him.”

A nod seemed a good enough answer.

“Too bad. If I'd been there, I'd have told you not to bother.”

A jolt ran through me, my spine straightened. This was a Mona I'd never seen before. Her eyes held fire, her cheeks stained a mottled pink and her breathing heavy. What the...?

Mona leaned closer. “The man was trouble.” Her voice dropped. “His beauty was only skin deep, if you know what I mean.”

Even though Mona was a long-time friend, this was Ginger’s story. Her quickie affair with Morgan wouldn’t just destroy her marriage. It could also land her in jail.

I caught Ginger's shadowed expression and stalled. “I'd never met Morgan before today. I'd seen him around, but that’s it.”

Mona sniffed. “You didn't miss much. Not unless you wanted to get screwed. The talk around town made him a maestro in bed.”

Her face turned candy apple red. Huh? Maybe she was one of Morgan’s multitudes.

Nah, I was pretty sure Mona didn't like men enough to exchange saliva with one. The blush must've come from the odd sense of decorum I'd noticed before. Odd because Mona had founded an original Hippie commune out west before moving to our little North Carolina town ten years ago.

I realized I didn't know much about Mona other than her incredible talent with chocolate, a skill that conferred sainthood on a person in my opinion. But, death, possibly murder, had a way of making you think twice about friends. Just what was her relationship with Morgan and why was she in such a snit?

Without glancing at Ginger, I responded. “No, I didn't know.”

“He went from one woman to another like a chocoholic running through a five-pound box of Belgian truffles. Rumor had it, his studio was nothing more than a way to pull in harem candidates.”

I’d bet my last bite of truffle that Mona referred to Flash. “Did the snarky blonde gossiping about Morgan’s death in here look like a runway model?”

Mona nodded.

“She told everyone at the studio that Morgan was a stud.”

“No doubt. But from the gossip today, he'd been asking to be killed for months.”

The store chimes rang and Mona moved to help a new customer. Ginger's face made a ghost look robust. I pushed the plate of truffles toward her and she lifted one to her mouth. It was easy to see she ate on autopilot.

“So what? You got hooked up with Svengali. Everyone makes mistakes. Sounds like you had company.”

My friend smiled halfheartedly. “Yeah. That makes me feel better.”

We finished our serotonin/sugar input in silence. The store grew crowded, and almost everyone discussed Morgan's death. Without speaking, Ginger and I got up and left. On the way out, I called to Mona. “We'll catch up with you later to redeem our extra truffle.”

That's a promise we'd keep. Besides, I needed an excuse to talk with Mona with no one around. If she really had the skinny on Morgan, her info might help me identify Ginger's blackmailer.

“I didn't do it.” Ginger's words sounded torn from her gut.

“I know. Goes without saying.”

What neither of us wanted to discuss was who, in our small-town-turned-trendy-growth-suburb, might have murdered Morgan. Because his death sure hadn’t looked natural.

Now that was a mystery I was happy I didn't have to solve.

****

The doorbell rang. What the...? My friends know to give a shout out and come on in. It's not like they'd be interrupting me doing the dirty with anyone. I haven't had a man in a while. Mona would say “way too long without sex,” but I'm not Mona.

I grasped the doorknob, ready to throw open the door, when I realized I should probably check the peephole first. After a quick look, my hand flew off the knob. The long-lashed hazel eyes I’d peeped seemed a travesty in Detective Johnson's stern face.

My face warmed, and my pulse quickened. This was not good on too many levels. I was stymied for a moment.

The doorbell rang again, the sound impatient. Or maybe I picked up the vibes from the man on the other side. Would he be Cop Sexy or Cop A-hole? Either way, I was in deep. Might as well get ’er done. I threw open the door.

“Don't you know you're supposed to ask who's at the door before you open it?”

Ah, my answer. Cop A-hole had arrived.

“Don't you know a peephole when you see one?”

“What, this thing?” His finger flicked dismissively toward my lighted Kokopelli flute-playing doorbell/peephole combination. One of my former boyfriends installed it before taking off for Arizona. The gizmo didn't fit in with my Southern small town, but sometimes neither did I.