Dead Between the Lines (7 page)

I had to snicker when I heard that last bit. Really? They
suspected
foul play? I would have guessed that a stake through the heart confirmed a criminal act.

The mob finally thinned out around two, and while I was overjoyed at the sales we’d made in the past five hours, I was exhausted. Lack of sleep, serving the larger-than-usual throng, and being careful about what I said concerning the murder had zapped my energy, and I felt my control slipping.

By the time Boone and Tsar arrived, I was happy the only customers left were a trio of teenagers camped out at the soda fountain, munching on chips, sipping vanilla Cokes, and taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. After telling Xylia that I was taking a break, I helped my BFF carry all his stuff into the backroom.

Boone was an urbanely handsome man who wore designer suits, Italian leather shoes, and Serge Lutens Borneo 1834 cologne. His swath of tawny-gold hair fell in a flawless wave on his forehead, and his straight white teeth were striking against his tanned face.

All this made the picture of him wheeling a red cat carrier behind him all the more surreal. As he parked the kitty transporter, pushed down the telescoping handle, and unzipped the mesh flap, I sank wearily into the desk chair. The elegant Russian Blue poked out his nose, took a couple of sniffs, then extended one sleek gray paw. Apparently finding the floor to be acceptable, he exited the carrier and began to check out the perimeter of the room.

Meanwhile, gesturing to the cat’s luggage, which I’d set on the floor, Boone said, “Here’s Tsar’s bowls, food, toys, treats, and bed.” Pointing to a shallow plastic pan filled with a sandlike material, he instructed, “This is Tsar’s litter box. Keep it immaculate, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Why?” I made it a point not to go anywhere near Banshee’s litter box, so I had no idea what a cat’s bathroom requirements entailed. Pun intended.

“If you don’t clean it after each use, Tsar will find another place to relieve himself and it will most likely be in something you treasure.” Boone smiled evilly. “He’s partial to designer shoes.”

“Point taken.” I made a mental note to check the box every time I walked past it. “Anything else I should know about His Fussiness?”

“He’ll only drink bottled water, will cry if his dry food bowl isn’t full, and he gets one can of Fancy Feast a day.” Boone paused, then smacked his head. “Oh, and make sure he has his special treats, or you’ll be mopping up hairballs.”

“What I have gotten myself into?” I groaned. Tsar sounded like more work than taking care of a baby. “Are you sure you can’t board him?”

“You’ll be fine.” Boone glanced at his watch, then said, “I’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes. Tell me all about the murder.”

“Fine, but I’m saying this to you as my attorney.” I’d decided to ask him his professional opinion about the stake situation. “That means what I say is completely confidential, right?”

“Give me a dollar.” He held out his hand.

“Okay.” I dug through my jean pockets and slapped four quarters into his palm.

“Are you somehow involved in the case?” A slight crease marred his usually smooth brow.

“Not exactly.” I reached down and stroked Tsar’s velvet fur, glad the cat had decided to rub against my ankles. I needed the comfort. “But I do have some information that I haven’t shared with the cops.” I explained my discovery of what I suspected was the murder weapon, then asked, “So, am I obligated to tell the police what I think?”

“Well.” Boone’s hazel eyes showed concern. “Since my law practice is more divorce and estate than criminal, I’d have to do some research to be sure, but it may fall under withholding evidence.”

“So it’s probably best that I do pass on my thoughts.” I had guessed as much. “And when I do, I had probably better present the idea as having just occurred to me minutes before I telephone the cops.” I waited for Boone to nod, then added, “And maybe I need to do that ASAP, rather than wait for the store to close.”

“That would be best.” Boone glanced at his watch again. “Now quick, tell me the whole story. Start from when Chief Kincaid called you.”

“Okay. But this is still confidential, since I’m not sure what the cops are making public.”

After I finished, Boone shook his head and was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Wow. That is just too bizarre to be real. Who knew a Shadow Bend book-club meeting would turn into the Dead Poet Society?”

CH
APTER 7

W
hen I phoned Chief Kincaid, he was extremely interested in the possibility that the picket-fence stake was the murder weapon. He immediately ordered me to close the store, and less than fifteen minutes later, he and his forensic team were swarming over my shop. I was instructed to hand over my key, gather my belongings, and vacate the premises.

Unfortunately, I was informed that Tsar couldn’t stay in the building, either. As I put the cat’s possessions back in his luggage, Xylia came into the back room to tell me she was leaving. Until that point, the Russian Blue had been curled in his carrier, purring, but when my clerk opened the flap and tried to pet him, he hissed and darted into the store.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d run away.” Xylia cowered almost as if she expected me to slap her. “I’ll go catch him.”

“No.” I must have spoken too sharply, because Xylia hung her head, her posture subservient. I gentled my tone and said, “Let me. You can go ahead home.”

“I could pack the cat’s gear while you find him.” She bent over and her cotton skirt rode up, giving me a peek at her underwear.

“Thanks. When you’re finished you can leave.” I hurried after Tsar, silently chuckling that my buttoned-up clerk wore a black lace garter belt and matching thong beneath her demure clothing. I would have never guessed Xylia had it in her.

As I rounded up the cat, I worried about him having to face the wrath of Banshee. But my concern for the sweet Russian Blue’s safety around the evil Siamese was pushed aside as Chief Kincaid followed me to my car and told me exactly what he thought of my behavior.

He was convinced that I had noticed the missing fence post the previous night when we’d walked through the store together, and he reamed me out for not telling him about it at that time. Although I maintained plausible deniability, I don’t think he believed me.

In my defense, I reminded the chief of his prior statement that in a public place like my shop, there were thousands of prints, and that traces from everyone who had been at the meeting would be present just because they attended the book club, not because they were the murderer. When that argument failed to placate him, I asked what evidence he expected to find in my store now.

He didn’t answer me; just growled, turned on his heel, and marched away. As I got into my car, I worried that I had ruined my amicable relationship with the chief. Although he and Poppy were currently on the outs, he and I had always had a certain rapport. I’d helped him on his last murder case, for which he’d publically acknowledged and thanked me.

During my drive home, I reminded myself that Chief Kincaid knew that I often kept his daughter out of trouble—or at least the more serious kinds of trouble—and he had said that the crime-scene techs would be finished by Monday morning, so I could reopen on schedule. If he’d been really mad at me, surely he wouldn’t have been so accommodating regarding my business.

With that positive thought, I pulled into the lane that led to Gran’s house. As I maneuvered my Z4 through the shadow of the white fir and blue spruce lining either side of the road, I felt myself relax. Dorothy was right; there really was no place like home. At least not for me.

Glancing at the duck pond that I liked to picnic alongside when the weather was nice, I wondered if the next time I spread a blanket there, my father might join me in savoring Gran’s fried chicken. According to his attorney, Dad would be released from prison any day now. Although in exchange for a lighter sentence the true embezzler had admitted to having framed my father, it had taken a long time to get all the paperwork completed.

I had so many conflicted emotions regarding his return that I’d been purposely not thinking about it. I felt guilty about doubting his innocence. I was nervous about how his presence would change both Gran’s and my life. I had no idea if he’d be able to get a job. And if he couldn’t, I was worried about whether I could financially support a third person.

His skills would be out-of-date, but, worse, he’d have a criminal record because in the end, Dad’s lawyer had persuaded him to settle for parole instead of taking a chance on a retrial. He
had
been the one behind the wheel of the car that had killed an innocent girl. Even though he’d been drugged at the time, there was no guarantee a jury would find him innocent. That argument, plus our not having the money it would take to finance a whole new trial, had convinced my father to agree to the less risky option.

As the attorney had also pointed out, if Dad was paroled it was highly unlikely that there’d be any new media attention. His wasn’t a high-profile case, and there was no one who might protest his release and stir up the interest of the press. A new trial, on the other hand, would probably result in an onslaught of newspaper and television reporters camping out in Shadow Bend.

Since there wasn’t anything I could do about my father issues right now, I turned my attention to sneaking Tsar into the house without incurring Banshee’s fury. Parking my car in front of the house, I left the Russian Blue in the BMW while I went inside to scope out the situation. As usual, the Siamese was in the living room, sunning himself on the cat tree in front of the picture window.

As I entered, he opened one eye, saw that it was me, and went back to sleep. Only Gran’s presence could induce Banshee to move—well, her and the sound of a can of tuna being popped open. For the spoiled Siamese, it was always food o’clock somewhere.

Deciding to bring Tsar in through the back, I unlocked and propped open that door, then went to fetch the Russian Blue and his paraphernalia. The elaborate pet transporter could be transformed from a rolling carrier to a car seat to a backpack, so I strapped the Russian Blue on my body, balanced his litter box in one hand and grabbed his luggage in the other, and eased into the utility room.

After a quick peek to make sure the coast was clear, I tiptoed through the kitchen, then crept down the hallway to my room. My plan was to keep Tsar there behind closed doors until Monday, when I went to work. Banshee would never know his kingdom had been invaded by another animal.

In my bedroom, I set the pet carrier and suitcase on the floor. Looking around the twelve-by-twelve space, I opted to put the litter box in the attached bathroom. After I made sure that the litter was perfectly smooth for the finicky feline, and feeling smug at having outsmarted Banshee, I strolled back into my bedroom and froze.

The Siamese was poised in front of Tsar’s carrier and he had managed to hook a claw in the zipper tab. As I watched in horror, the malevolent monster pulled downward, licking his chops and looking exactly as if he were unrolling the top of a sardine tin.

•   •   •

I still couldn’t believe it. Instead of snacking on Tsar, Banshee had sniffed him, given his ears a few licks, and then the two cats sauntered out of the bedroom as if they’d been friends for years. Once I recovered from my shock, I followed them, sure that the Siamese was luring the Russian Blue to his doom. But the kitty couple was curled up together on the sofa, fast asleep.

Thankful for small miracles, I left the dozing duo and went into the kitchen for a snack. I’d skipped lunch and I didn’t want to be so famished by dinner that I inhaled my food. That was so not the picture of me I wanted in Jake’s mind.

One negative of the store closing early was that I had way too much time to fuss with my clothes and hair. Jake wasn’t picking me up until seven, which should have left me with thirty minutes to get ready, but having nearly two hours made me crazy.

I decided to shower, set my hair, put on makeup, and even give myself a manicure. Well, I would’ve given myself a manicure, but since I couldn’t find any polish that hadn’t solidified in the bottle, I had to settle for filing and buffing my nails.

Still, my hands looked better than they had in months. In fact, I looked pretty good, which wouldn’t help me any when I told Jake that I couldn’t see him anymore. But was that what I was going to tell him? To say that I was torn would be an understatement of epic proportions.

For years, I hadn’t been truly interested in any man. Now two of them made me tingle. And the truth of the matter was that I didn’t know if it was Jake or Noah that I really wanted. Which was beyond awkward. Complicating the situation was that neither guy was the type to accept a nonexclusive relationship—at least not for very long. My initial reaction had been to cut them both loose, but that wasn’t what I truly wanted to do.

If I was completely honest with myself, what I wanted was a chance to see which man was right for me. I wanted a chance at love. I wanted a chance at the brass ring of happiness. Did that mean I had to choose one now and hope for the best, or could I convince both guys to give me a little time? I guess I’d find out in the next couple of days if I could have my man, and a second one, too.

Finally, about quarter to seven, I wiggled into my dark jeans and slipped on a black camisole. I’d compromised with Gran. I sure wasn’t wearing a bustier—hell, I didn’t even own one—but since the cami was edged in lace and had a lower neckline, it was a little sexier than my original idea of a tank. As I adjusted the top, I checked my butt in the mirror. Had it gotten bigger? No. That was just nerves talking. If I’d really gained weight, my pants wouldn’t fit.

After I put on the blush pink cropped jacket, I slid into my Jimmy Choos. I was squeezing out the last little bit of lip gloss from the old tube of Venom that I’d unearthed from the bottom of a purse when I heard a vehicle thundering down the lane. Scooping up my bag and taking a deep breath, I sprinted into the foyer and glanced out the side window.

Even if I hadn’t been expecting him, I would have known it was Jake. The enormous Ford F250 reminded me of its owner—strong, tough, and determined, with just a whisper of sexiness and a dash of playfulness for good measure.

As always, the pickup’s black paint gleamed as if it had just left the dealership. Since I knew that unlike a lot of men who drove gigantic vehicles, Jake actually used his on a working ranch, I wondered how he kept it so clean. Did he wash it every time he came to see me? While that was a nice idea, I kind of doubted he’d make that sort of gesture. Noah, yes; Jake, not so much.

To avoid any awkwardness at the front door, I hurried outside. If I invited him in, we might never leave the house. I was determined to have a serious talk with him and not be swept away by our physical attraction. Of course, if he weren’t so damned sexy and gorgeous, concentrating on something other than getting busy with him would be a hell of a lot easier.

As soon as I stepped off the porch, the truck’s passenger door popped open and Jake leaned out, grinning. “Where’s the fire?”

“Uh.” My pulse doubled. This would be tougher than I’d thought. In the weeks since he’d been away, I’d managed to convince myself that the chemistry between us couldn’t be as strong as I’d remembered. “Huh? Oh, you mean me coming out of the house so fast? Gran’s resting, and I didn’t want the doorbell to disturb her.”

“Really?” He raised a dark brow. “Uncle Tony said that your grandmother is away on a senior bus trip. Did he get the dates mixed up?”

“Did I say Gran? I meant Gran’s cat.” I hated it when I got caught in a lie. “Banshee hasn’t been feeling well, and the vet doesn’t want him agitated.” There, he’d made me tell another whopper.

“Seriously?”

I nodded, studying the man before me. Jake seemed to get better-looking every time I saw him. His thick ebony hair curled over the collar of his white Western shirt, making me want to run my fingers through the silky strands. And his full lips tempted me to climb into the pickup and onto his lap. What could one little kiss, or ten, hurt?

“Come on. Invite me inside.” His voice held a satin-edged persuasion. “With Birdie gone, we could have the place to ourselves.”

“Um.” I searched for an excuse. “But what about dinner? I’m starving.”

“So am I.” His expression made it clear that he wasn’t talking about food.

“Terrific.” I chose to ignore his hint. “Then let’s get going.” I placed my foot on the step and used the handle inside the doorframe to hoist myself up into the pickup.
Jeez!
I’d forgotten that it was like climbing a sequoia just to get inside the cab.

“Are you okay?” Jake’s sapphire eyes twinkled with laughter. “I can’t believe how hard you make it seem to get into this truck.”

“Hey, big boy, I’m only five-six, with the upper-body strength of a toddler. Maybe if I were six-four, like you, I wouldn’t have a problem. I bet Meg doesn’t have any trouble at all.” Meg being his ex-wife. I’d never met her, but the image of her in my head was a cross between Wonder Woman and Miranda Priestly in
The Devil Wears Prada
.

“Meg’s never been in my truck.” The bronze skin tightened over his cheekbones and he muttered, “And she damn well never will be.”

As much as I wanted to explore that statement, I contented myself with settling into the brown, saddle-leather passenger seat, then said, “I guess I should start lifting weights or working out or something.”

“No.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I like you soft and curvy.”

“Then don’t tease me about my ascent into the lofty regions of your pickup.” I clicked my seat belt buckle into its slot and asked, “Where are we going to eat?”

“How does Chinese sound?” He put the Ford in gear and made a three-point turn. “I hear the new place in town is good. Have you been there yet?”

Oops!
I’d been there with Noah last month, but I wasn’t ready for that conversation, so I hedged, “I had lunch there with my friends a few weeks ago. The food was fabulous.”

“Great.” He turned onto the main road. “How are Poppy and Boone?”

“Fine.” Was it my fault he assumed that by friends I meant my BFFs? Of course, I could have corrected his misimpression, but why ask for trouble? “Poppy’s spending the weekend in Chicago with her new boyfriend, and Boone’s taking a cruise. He caught a flight out this afternoon.” It was a relief to talk about something other than our love life, and I gave Jake all the details of what Poppy and Boone were up to as he drove toward town.