The Rogue Reviewer (Primrose, Minnesota Book 3) (2 page)

Dara’s feet refused to move.

“Go!” Marnie shoved her forward with such
force she had no choice. It was either move or lay on top of the
deceased. Dara plopped down on the sofa, threw her head against the
back cushion, and chanted an inner, hopeful mantra –
this is not
real, this is not real, this is not real
.

“I’ll get some wine.”

Dara snapped her head upright. “There’s a
corpse sprawled on my carpet and you want to have a drink?” She
blinked rapidly, desperately trying to focus. “Who
are
you
and what did you do with my best friend?”

Marnie actually giggled. Again, Dara
glared.

“Sorry.” Marnie cleared her throat. “I’ll
call the police first.”

While her friend called for help, Dara rubbed
both hands across her forehead and attempted to put the night’s
events into perspective. This was entirely too surreal. She and all
four of her closest friends had been tossing back alcohol and
joking about killing someone and then she came home to find a dead
body in her living room.
Surprise!
Now
that
was an
idea for a novel.

She groaned. Thank God they had all been
together in the same place at the same time. Otherwise, she had to
admit, there could have been loads of suspicion about this death.
Not that there wasn’t anyway.

Who was this person? And why were he or she
dead in her home?

“Should we flip it over?” Marnie tossed her
phone back into her purse.

“I don’t think so.” Dara closed her eyes
since she couldn’t seem to distract herself from staring at the
lifeless body. “Let’s just wait for the police.”

“Do you think I should call Alex?”

“Not yet. We don’t have any reason to need an
attorney.”

“And the wine?”

“No! The last thing we need is for the cops
to find us toasting a corpse.”

“Okay Dara, don’t freak out but we are in the
middle of something really bad.”

She squeezed her eyes tighter, almost as if
that motion would keep reality from seeping into her brain. “Ya
think?”

“I’m going to ignore your sarcasm because
you’re distraught. However, there’s a blood trail from your kitchen
to your, uh, visitor.”

Against her better judgment, Dara forced open
her eyes and zeroed in on the prominent, red smear. “Oh my God! She
must have crawled across the carpet.”

“That explains the knife,” Marnie
mumbled.

“Knife? What knife?”

“The one underneath the body.”

Dara looked closer. How on Earth did she miss
that? The only butcher knife she owned peeked from underneath the
right hand of the deceased.

“Oh wonderful.” She ran a hand across her
forehead. “It had to be the biggest one in the set.”

“How do you think it got in her hand?”

“Marnie, I really don’t think this
conversation is appropriate.”

“I’m curious and I know you.
You’re
just as curious.”

As non-humorous as the situation was, she had
to stifle a desperate giggle. It was either that or release a
blood-curdling scream. Marnie was absolutely correct; she
was
curious. She glanced at the bloody kitchen tile and
fought a wave a nausea. Obviously, the trouble began there and
ended at the front door.

“Dara?” Marnie grasped her shoulder. “Are you
okay? You’re deathly pale.”

Her stomach churned at her friend’s choice of
words. “Really, Marnie?”

“Sorry, but you’ve lost all your color.”

“I’m fine, just rattled.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Only that I’m pretty sure the action began
in the kitchen. And, I don’t think this is a one-person crime.”

She noticed a distinct change in her friend’s
normally rosy pallor. “Who?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Well, just relax.” Marnie sat down next to
her. “Help’s on the way.”

Detective Mace Turner and his newly-assigned
partner, Detective Jackson Stewart, parked in front of the Cascade
Glen Townhouses just as his fellow Primrose Police Department
brothers strung a roll of yellow tape around Unit 24. Very quickly,
he moved his gaze to get a cursory fix on the location. Middle of
the complex. Easily accessible.

“Nice place,” Jackson said from behind him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever worked a case in this district.”

Mace glanced around the area at the
well-manicured lawns complete with elegant landscaping. Each
gray-bricked, two-story unit occupied a small lot, the neighboring
building not more than ten feet away. Close enough for sound to
easily travel the distance.

He then moved his gaze to the row of luxury
automobiles parked under covered parking spaces; the complex was
not an everyday crime-ridden area.

“Run the tag on the white Lexus SUV,” he told
his partner as his stomach rolled. He already knew the owner’s
name. Question was, would he find her dead or alive?

Pushing panic from his mind, he stepped from
his department-issued puke green sedan, pulled on a pair of latex
gloves and shoe covers, and prepared to enter the structure.

At the sound of a car engine, Mace turned to
see Coroner Ed Lancaster pull up and stop next to him, window down,
a nub of a cigarette poked between his fingers. “Somebody report a
stiff?”

“I got the same call.”

“You been inside?”

“Not yet.”

The coroner parked the car in the middle of
the lot’s driveway and unfolded himself from the driver’s seat as
he exited his vehicle. Mace flinched when Lancaster pounded him on
the back with his bear’s paw of a hand. The gentle giant had no
idea the force of his strength. “Still can’t stomach the raw meat,
can you?”

He winced. He’d like to claim compassion –
rather than a weak stomach – was the reason, but both Stewart and
Lancaster knew the truth.

“CSI got here first,” he answered, purposely
ignoring the coroner’s jab. “They’re waiting on us to search the
body.”

Mace led the way into the townhouse and
cautiously maneuvered down a short hallway until the stench of
fresh blood closed his throat. He stopped abruptly and glanced down
at the body that rested at his feet while his stomach jumped and
beads of sweat penetrated the surface of his forehead. The pulse of
his cell phone at his hip was the only thing that stopped him from
puking.

He swallowed hard as he unclipped the phone
and brought it to his ear. “Turner.”

“Tell me it’s not Dara.”

He swallowed again, this time around the
softball positioned in his esophagus. Although Jake Rawlings
demanded an answer, he wasn’t entirely sure he could oblige until
he heard the long sigh that broke the silence.

Ignoring the other detective’s demand, he
moved his gaze in the direction of the soft noise and onto two
women perched on the sofa, namely the shapely brunette with a body
put together better than most jigsaw puzzles. His knees nearly
buckled while immense relief choked him.

Dara.

Although she sat hunched over, obviously
distressed, the smooth creamy skin of her legs exposed by her
short, black dress flashed like a red light. And her shoes,
damn
, her shoes. The black high heels that wrapped her tiny
feet made his cock sing. Her long hair fell in waves around her
shoulders, the ends resting on the plump swell of each breast. His
hands itched.

“I need an answer, Turner!” Rawlings’ voice
vibrated his eardrum. “Bri’s with me.”

“It’s not Dara,” he answered finally.

“We’ll wait here.”

Damn.
Until silence crossed the line
and he realized Rawlings had disconnected, he held out hope that
the other detective might actually take his place. With his
attention still centered on Dara, he returned his phone to the
holder on his hip.

“Turner.” Lancaster shoved his shoulder.
“Body’s down here.”

Mace reluctantly glanced down at the victim.
Face down, the rounded hips and backside suggested a female. The
light beige carpet beneath appeared soaked in red wine. His stomach
tilted at his wishful thinking; the only thing wine had in common
with the substance was color.

He moved his gaze from the blood beneath the
body and along a trail that led to the kitchen. The smear pattern
indicated the victim had either crawled or had been dragged to its
current location.

He squatted and looked closer at the victim
who pinned a common, household kitchen butcher’s knife beneath the
right hand. The weapon, he assumed. Flashbulbs bathed the
atmosphere in bright light as technicians continued to process the
scene. Mace eased forward to get a closer look. No visible wounds
from this angle. Clothing intact – skirt, pantyhose, low-heeled
shoes – his earlier observation confirmed. Most likely female.

“All yours, Detective.”

Mace nodded at a crime technician dressed
much like a beekeeper and then at Lancaster, who signaled with a
twirl of his index finger for the body to be rolled.

Half a second into the body’s roll, a gasp
from the sofa directed his gaze back there. Dara raised her head,
her emerald gaze focused on the corpse. Mace swallowed hard. Even
with black smudges under her eyes she was absolutely stunning.

He looked back at the body, purposely
avoiding the victim’s eyes. She now lay on her back, her throat
slit from ear to ear, her skin dyed red.

“Rule out suicide,” Jackson said from behind
him.

Mace agreed with his partner’s conclusion.
The likelihood of the woman slitting her own throat was slim to
none. This crime represented a homicide, pure and simple.

“Nice, clean cut,” Lancaster squatted beside
him. “Fast and easy.”

As his stomach took another severe dip, Mace
stood and stepped back to allow CSI access to the body. Gladly, he
left Jackson to deal with the specifics and moved next to the sofa.
He laid a hand on Dara’s shoulder. “You didn’t call me this
time.”

Bright, glassy eyes met his, fear evident in
the depths. Ice-cold fingers almost burnt him when she placed her
hand atop his. “Sorry.”

The woman beside her cleared her throat, the
gesture almost one of authority. Yet, neither he nor Dara looked
away.

“Detective,” the woman prompted, “do you need
us to take a peek?”

“I’m afraid so,” he answered, finally
diverting his gaze.

With her hand tucked in his, he helped Dara
from the sofa and his heart skipped a beat. The woman didn’t just
have tiny feet, she was tiny all over and full of curves. In fact,
even though her shoes boosted her several inches, her forehead
would only touch his chin.

“I just need to know if you recognize
her.”

She gave a nod and both women followed until
they stood over the body.

As soon as she looked into the dull,
lifeless, black eyes of the woman resting on the carpet, Dara’s
breath caught. Her mouth fell open and her heart pounded.

Marnie,” she squeaked.

“Yep,” her best friend murmured beside her,
“she looks just like her photo.”

Mace squeezed her hand and suddenly her skin
warmed. “Did you know the victim?”

“Not personally.”

“Are you acquainted with her?”

She gave a short sigh of relief, thankful
Mace was already familiar with the specifics of her occupation. At
least he wouldn’t question her response. “She recently published a
review of my book.”

“I take it the review was negative.”

Maybe it was nerves or maybe she was just
severely pissed off, but Dara bristled at his conclusion. The man
probably wouldn’t know romance if it bit him in the bulletproof
vest. She extracted her hand from his hold. “Why would you believe
that?”

“I read it myself.”

Of course. Everyone reads a negative
review
. However, that fact didn’t excuse his statement. “And
that makes you a worthy critic?”

“I haven’t read the book,” he added with a
grin.

She had approximately milliseconds to
appreciate his change in demeanor – that and the dimple in his left
cheek – before the strictly-business, gun-toting cop was back.

“Can you provide her name?”

“The only name I can relate to her is the
Rogue Reviewer.”

“Where were you this evening, Dara?”

“At a DRAMA meeting.”

“Theatre group?”

“No, just a group of friends. The group is an
acronym with each of our first names.”

“I’ll need names of everyone with you.”

“Me, ‘D’ for Dara

R – Reagan Armstrong,

A – Annie Green,

M – Marnie Carpenter, and

A – Alex Jennings.”

“What about Bri?”

“I suppose we need to add an
S
for
Sabrina, but then we’d need an
L
for Liberty and that
wouldn’t spell anything readable.” She paused, just in case he
wanted to comment on her snarky attempt to bait him. Instead, he
simply shifted his weight from one hip to the other, obviously
expecting her to continue – and although he already knew what she
would say, she figured she might as well humor him. “You know she
didn’t join the group tonight. Jake held her hostage. And before
you ask, Liberty didn’t either because she and Shane are
concentrating on his PTSD therapy.” She released a heavy breath.
“Although, I may require both of their professional help after
tonight.”

“Can anyone confirm you were all
together?”

“Yes. We met at Hannigan’s on Fifth and Elm.
The owner, Chad Hannigan, can vouch for us.” She swallowed hard as
another man approached – a very tall man with striking brown eyes
and a body built for appreciation. His short, neat, brown hair,
though, gave him away. She inwardly moaned. Were all policemen this
distracting?

“Detective Jackson Stewart.” He extended a
hand to her and then to Marnie. “I’m sorry you ladies have had a
rough evening.”

She resisted the urge to release a sarcastic
retort as she shook his hand and released it, instead asking the
one question to which she already knew the answer. She waved a
shaky hand at the carpet. “I don’t mean to be crass, but that’s not
going to come clean, is it?”