Little Shop of Homicide (11 page)

Jake quirked an eyebrow, so I explained, “We were playing cowboys and Indians. I was the cowboy.”

“Ah. That makes sense. I guess you were lucky he didn’t go for true authenticity and scalp you.” Jake unfastened his seat belt so he could turn toward me. “I’m glad that’s all he is.”

“Oh.” I felt a shiver of awareness, but fought to ignore it. I had to keep my mind on the fact that I was the number one suspect in a murder investigation.

“Do you have someone special in your life?” Jake’s tone was casual, but there was something about his expression that made my mouth go dry.

“No.” It felt as if I were sucking on a cotton ball, and I had to clear my throat in order to continue. “Not right now.”

In truth, although I would never admit it to anyone, I’d only ever had three lovers. None of them had particularly turned me on, which was fine with me. They were calm and sensible, and after the drama and chaos of my teenage years, the last thing I wanted was a tumultuous romance. Or so I had told myself at the time.

Apparently my desire for a tranquil existence had changed, since, without realizing I was going to ask, I heard myself say, “How about you?”

“Nope.” He stopped, then abruptly added, “It’s tough having a relationship in my line of work, and I’m not the easiest guy to get along with.”

“Oh.” I was captivated by the silent sadness of his face, and wondered what or who had put it there. “I think that can be said for most of us, especially if you’re used to being on your own.”

“Maybe.” Jake flipped up the console between us, creating a bench seat. “But what I don’t understand is how all the guys in Shadow Bend let you get away.” He slid over next to me. “Or maybe you’re too many horses for them.”

I stared straight ahead, not allowing myself to be beguiled by the enthralling scent of what I was coming to think of as eau de Jake—a mixture of lime, saddle soap, and sexy man.

He pushed the button to release my seat belt, then cradled my cheek in his palm.

I tried to breathe normally, but his lips were a fraction of an inch from mine and his gaze searched my face. The feel of his body pressed along the length of mine made me hotter than a flatiron. The warmth of his palm as he slid my coat off my shoulders made me gasp. And when he moved his hand to the neckline of my dress, his fingers trailing over my collarbone, a delicious shudder ran down my spine.

His face was so close to mine, his blue eyes so dark
with desire, that I was mesmerized. I was waylaid by an attraction more potent than any I’d ever felt before, and erotic images flashed through my mind.

I tried to tell myself that I didn’t want him. That he wasn’t my type. That I needed to concentrate on finding out who killed Joelle so I didn’t end up in prison. But a rebellious voice in the back of my mind urged me on.

Before I could gather my resolve, his head dipped and he kissed me, hard. This wasn’t a tentative first-date kiss. He took my breath away as he licked into my mouth, making me squirm against him as he pressed me against the warm leather seat. And all the while, he moved against me, his shirt and skin and heat creating a friction that made me quiver. Unable to keep from pulling him closer, I surrendered and scraped my fingernails hard down his back. Suddenly my earlier waxing episode didn’t seem quite so foolish.

I knew this was too much, too soon, but he drew me like chocolate-dipped sin. My common sense was beginning to lose the battle it was waging against my lust, and his hand was heading toward the triangle of black silk that covered ground zero when his phone rang. It took us both a long moment to understand what we were hearing, but the repeated strains of “Yellow Rose of Texas” finally penetrated our fog enough for him to lift his head.

With one last kiss he reached into the backseat, grabbed his cell from his jacket pocket, and growled, “Yeah?”

From the phone’s speaker, I heard a distinctively feminine voice purr, “Hope I’m not interrupting something hot and heavy, sugar britches. You sound out of breath. You better not be messing around behind my back.”

Nothing like being slapped in the face with the competition to douse your desire faster than a cold shower. I slid my arms into my leather coat, buttoned it, and refastened my seat belt. Playtime was over.

“Can it, Meg.” Jake frowned, watching me. He narrowed his eyes, then turned his attention back to the cell and asked, “What’s up?”

“The trail on Joelle Ayers begins about a year ago in KC when she used a birth certificate belonging to a deceased infant to get a driver’s license.” Meg rattled some papers, then said, “Prior to that, nada. It seems your vic is a Jane Doe.”

“Shit!” Jake tapped his fingers on his knee. “Okay, this is what I want you to do. Tell the local LEOs you got a tip she was involved in a federal crime and request her fingerprints. Maybe she’s in the system and we can come up with her real identity that way.”

“Won’t the detective investigating the case do that for us if we tell him that Joelle Ayers is an alias?”

“He’s fixated on a particular suspect, so I don’t trust him to be thorough in pursuing other leads.”

“Gotcha.” Meg paused. “Oh, I also checked out that other name you gave me. Dev—”

“Gotta go.” Jake pressed the OFF button as he hastily slid back behind the wheel and shot me a guilty glance.

Between Meg and his checking up on me—not that I really blamed him for the latter—I was finally able to drag my thoughts back to the investigation. Pretending we hadn’t just been involved in heavy-duty lip-lock, I commented, “So Joelle wasn’t really Joelle. That’s got to mean something, don’t you think?”

“It’s a start.” Apparently Jake, too, had decided to ignore our makeout session.

After an awkward silence, I asked, “So, what did you think of Anya Hamilton?”

“Let’s just say that if zombies were attacking, she’d be safe.”

I snickered. Jake’s looks and sense of humor would be hard to resist.

He continued: “Anyway, now that I hear this news, what Anya said makes more sense.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Essentially she claimed that Joelle was secretive and never allowed anyone inside her condo.”

“Which, if you’re hiding your true identity, would be the prudent thing to do.” I tapped my chin with my index finger. “I wonder if the cops found anything when they searched her place. They would search it, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Any chance this new information about Joelle will get Detective Woods off my back?” Maybe I’d misheard what Jake had said to Meg.

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“You’re probably right.” In fact, I knew he was. “Still, a false hope is better than no hope at all.”

“Maybe.” Jake’s gaze was sympathetic. “But we need to stick to our previous plan to find another suspect for Woods.”

“I was afraid of that.”

W
hen my clock radio clicked on Wednesday morning, I woke with a smile on my face. It took me a few seconds to figure out why I felt so happy; then I remembered my dream. Jake and I were back in the cab of his truck, but this time his phone hadn’t interrupted us.

Hell!
My fixation on a man I hadn’t known for even twenty-four hours was ridiculous. I wiped the grin off my lips and stomped into the bathroom. Having sex with Jake would just complicate my already muddled life. It was time to get hold of myself and concentrate on my impending arrest. Just because I hadn’t been this attracted to a guy since high school didn’t mean it was okay to forget about everything else—especially when the “everything else” was me ending up in jail.

Gran was folding laundry when I entered the kitchen. I looked around for Banshee and saw him perched on top of the fridge. It was one of his preferred launching pads, so I gave the appliance a wide berth in order to avoid having him leap on my head as I walked by.

My favorite breakfast, puffy French toast with a side of crispy bacon, was waiting in the warming oven, and Gran slid it in front of me as soon as I sat down. She couldn’t wait for me to tell her all about the CDM fund-raiser. She loved hearing about the clothes, food, and
decorations, but her real interest was in my conversation with Noah’s mother.

“Nadine’s always been a few cookies short of a dozen, but it sounds as if even the ones she has left are crumbling.” Gran gathered up our dirty plates and took them to the sink. “Ignorance of what a fish knife looks like does not qualify someone as an uncouth lowlife.”

“Exactly.” I put away the butter and syrup. “All it means is that unlike most of the girls who grew up in Shadow Bend, Joelle wasn’t forced to go to Miss Ophelia’s etiquette classes on excruciatingly correct dinner behavior.”

“Hard to believe that parents are still making their children endure such torment,” Gran deadpanned.

“Isn’t it?” I had hated those lessons.

“And I heard Miss Ophelia required that this year’s young ladies take out all items stuck in their various piercings, other than a single pair of earrings in their ears, and cover up any visible… uh…”

“Tattoos.”

Gran nodded, then handed me a stack of clean clothes and changed the subject. “Who are you talking to next?”

“I’m not sure.” It was better if she didn’t know that Jake and I planned to interview Noah. She had spent her whole life in a small town where people took family feuds seriously. So despite the fact that Noah had betrayed me more than a decade ago, the mere mention of my high school boyfriend’s name usually sent Gran into a paroxysm of cursing that would make a rap singer blush.

“When are you seeing Tony’s grandnephew again?” Gran’s blasé expression didn’t fool me one bit.

“We haven’t made any firm plans.” Last night, the moment Jake pulled up to my back door, I’d hightailed it out of his truck without giving him a chance to even say good-bye, let alone set up a time to question Noah.

Escaping from the kitchen, I went into my bedroom to get ready for work. Since there was a good chance I’d
be seeing both Noah and Jake today, I considered wearing something other than my usual clothes. But I decided that dressing differently for them would be admitting I cared what either man thought of me. I did put on my best, most slimming jeans, and the aquamarine Devereaux’s Dime Store sweatshirt that brought out the color of my eyes, but I drew the line at makeup, or changing my hairstyle from its usual ponytail.

As I headed into town, I noticed that the wind had really picked up overnight. It was so strong that the birds were riding their feeders as if they were Tilt-A-Whirls, and sleet blew across the blacktop, making it hard to see where the road ended and the ditch began.

It was a relief to cross into the city limits since there the streets were plowed and salted. The snow-covered village square, with the bandstand at the heart of it, reminded me of everything I loved about Shadow Bend. I had fond memories of playing tag with Boone and Poppy among the eight white cast-iron columns and then, once we had exhausted ourselves, lying on our backs and staring at the summer blue sky through the intricately carved decorative arches that linked the pillars.

I cruised the four blocks, passing the Greek Revival building that housed the bank, the unadorned cinder-block newspaper office, Little’s Tea Room in its Queen Anne–style house, and the movie theater with its limestone facade and art deco entrance. Because it was too cold and too early for many folks to be out and about, the sidewalks were deserted, and the area looked like a postcard of an idyllic Midwestern small town.

Shadow Bend had an oddly divided population. On the homegrown side were the farmers, ranchers, and people who worked at one of the three small factories that had managed to ride out both the first recession in the eighties and the more recent economic slump of the past few years.

On the nonindigenous side were the individuals who had moved to the area to raise their families in a more
wholesome atmosphere than most city neighborhoods could offer. Although they were willing to face a long, often brutal commute to provide a simpler childhood for their kids, many felt the town should adjust to them rather than vice versa. And that attitude often created problems.

Native Shadow Benders were trying hard to maintain the way of life with which they had grown up. A way of life that meant taking civic responsibility and working hard. A way of life in which it never occurred to people that they were entitled to something just for being born. They wanted their world to remain a safe and orderly place, as it had been for the past hundred years. And they distrusted the change the newcomers brought with them.

Since I had worked in Kansas City for many years but always lived in Shadow Bend, I tried hard to make my store a spot where both factions felt comfortable. Unlike Brewfully Yours, which catered to the commuters, or the feed store, whose sign out front said it all—GUNS, COLD BEER, BAIT—my goal was to offer a neutral zone where the two groups could find some common ground.

And I had been succeeding; Blood, Sweat, and Shears, the sewing club that met on Wednesday evenings at the dime store, had nearly equal numbers of townies and outsiders in its membership. In addition, the kids who hung around after school had accepted my decree that if I saw any evidence of cliques, discrimination, or bullying, everyone would be kicked out, not just the guilty parties.