Death by Pumpkin Spice (16 page)

“Who could that be?” Will asked, craning his neck.

“I don't know.” No one in their right mind would be out in such a downpour. I stood on my tiptoes to get a better view.

I really wish I hadn't.

Striding into the ballroom, looking like a dirty drowned rat, was Officer John Buchannan. He shook water off his hat, glared at the room in general, as if the rain was all our fault, and then his eyes landed on me. With a grimace, he started my way.

Great.
It looked like my already-bad night was about to get a whole lot worse.

16

“It's not stopping anytime soon,” Buchannan said. His voice was muffled by a towel as he swept it over his face and hair. “We're stuck in here until it's done.”

We were sitting in the makeshift interrogation room. Paul had intercepted Buchannan on his way to me and they'd headed off to talk, alone presumably. I wasn't about to let the investigation go on without me, especially now that Buchannan was here. If I wasn't there to defend myself, I knew he would try to find a way to pin the murder on me. He always had it in for me, and I didn't know why. I didn't do anything to him, yet John Buchannan thought I was the devil incarnate.

Or, if Rita Jablonski was to be believed, he had a deep-rooted love for me. If he did, I had yet to see it.

“Is anyone else coming?” Paul asked. He hadn't wanted me to join them, but since I
had
been helping, he couldn't bring himself to leave me out. After giving him my best puppy-dog eyes, he'd grudgingly stepped aside to let me in.

“Not that I know.” Buchannan sighed and threw the towel onto the table, next to the skull. He grimaced at the decorations before going on. “They were still working to get my car out of the way when I decided it best that I come up here to see how I could help.”

“We were handling it just fine,” I said.

He snorted and paid me only the briefest of glances before turning his attention back to Paul. “Fill me in. All I know so far is that some girl got herself killed. What was her name again?”

“Jessica Fairweather.” Paul then related everything we knew about the case to Buchannan. Admittedly, it wasn't much, especially since none of the facts seemed to directly tie to the dead girl as far as we could tell. No one could confirm or deny whether or not she'd slept with Howard Yarborough, let alone whether she was more than an acquaintance to him, or his wife, Margaret.

As Paul talked, I listened, hoping he'd let something slip that I hadn't already known. I couldn't be the only one sticking my nose where it didn't belong, yet the longer he spoke, the more certain I became that I already knew all of the facts, at least all of the ones immediately evident.

We had to be missing something. I couldn't see Quentin as the killer. I suppose if Jessica had slept with Mr. Yarborough and had come looking for money, Margaret could have gotten angry enough to kill her. But I just couldn't see the older woman strangling the much younger, much fitter, Jessica. If it was the other way around, then maybe.

And what about my theory that her death was an accident? I didn't have any facts that pointed to that being the case, but I didn't have any that said otherwise, either. Could she have been in the wrong place at the wrong time? I hated the idea that she'd died for nothing, so it was best I abandon that line of thought until I was certain it could be nothing else.

So where did that leave us? With a mystery killer? Were we both wrong about the boyfriend? As much as I wanted to pin everything on Jessica's less-than-monogamous love life, I couldn't make myself believe it. It was almost
too
obvious, like she was chosen because of her reputation, just to throw us off.

To throw us off of what?

I noticed then that the room had fallen silent and both John and Paul were looking at me.

“What?” I asked.

Before either could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Paul shared a quick look with Buchannan before getting up and crossing the room. He opened the door to find Margaret Yarborough standing with a pile of folded clothes in her arms.

“I thought the officer might want to change out of his wet clothes,” she said with a nod to Buchannan. “I didn't know his size, but he looks pretty close to what Howard was before he died.”

Buchannan made a face like he didn't like the idea of wearing a dead man's clothes. I didn't blame him; I wouldn't like it, either.

The expression vanished as he stood and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, as friendly as could be. He was still dripping mud and water. It was pooling at his feet and on the chair he'd been sitting on. The towel on the table was so filthy, I thought it might be wise for Mrs. Yarborough to save her cleaning lady the trouble and throw the thing out instead of trying to wash it.

But despite the mess he was making, Margaret gave Buchannan a smile and a wink before handing the clothes to Paul. Her gaze passed over me, and I thought I saw the smile grow a tad bit strained, before she turned and closed the door.

Paul set the bundle onto the table, well away from where Buchannan had dripped. A pair of running shoes sat atop a pair of silk boxers. I looked away, unable to keep from snickering. Wearing a dead man's clothing was bad enough; putting on his underwear was just the icing on the cake.

Buchannan grimaced and nudged the pile. “I'll be fine without,” he said. “I need a little time to dry out.”

“Change, John.” Paul was grinning as he said it. “We can't have you running around looking like a drowned cat. This
is
a prestigious party.”

Buchannan's grimace turned into a scowl as he set aside the underwear and shoes so he could pick up the shirt. It was a tan button-up shirt, the kind you might see someone's grandpa wear while sitting on the porch, reflecting on the good old days.

“It's too big,” he said. He eyed the rest of the outfit—a pair of tan slacks, the silk boxers, white kneesocks, and the running shoes—and shook his head. “I'm not wearing this.”

“Just wear the shirt and pants, John. Leave the rest. I don't care if you go commando, just as long as you look more presentable than you do now.”

I snickered, which earned me a glare from Buchannan and a brief smile from Paul, who was desperately trying to keep a straight face.

“We'll leave you to it.” Paul held out an arm for me.

I took it, savoring the moment. Buchannan looked ready to spit rocks, and I was enjoying every last second of it. He'd tormented me so much in the past, I felt pretty darn good that the shoe was on the other foot now. I really wanted to rub it in, to make fun of him until his head exploded, but decided I was better than that. No need to stoop to his level.

Paul led me out of the room and closed the door behind him, giving Buchannan some privacy. “He's going to hate every moment of this,” he said, keeping his voice low so Buchannan couldn't hear.

“Good.” The smile that spread across my face measured a mile. “He deserves it.”

“Only sometimes,” Paul allowed. “He
is
a good cop, and a good man if you let him. He tends to get a bit overzealous at times, but don't we all?” He smiled. “But I do enjoy making him miserable every now and again. Keeps up morale.”

A curse came from inside, causing us both to laugh. Our eyes met, and for an instant, it felt like nothing had ever come between us. Those blue eyes of his were like deep pits of clear water sparkling in the afternoon sun. And those dimples . . . I wanted to reach out and trace them with my fingertips so badly, my hands actually moved a fraction of an inch before I caught myself.

We both looked away at the same time. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty. I felt like a cheating jerk, though I hadn't actually done anything. I was at the party with Will, and Paul was here with Shannon. We both had dates, and that meant we shouldn't be making eyes at each other, no matter how innocent they might be.

Paul cleared his throat and took a step back. “We should get back to the ballroom. I'll have Buchannan meet us there when he is done and can bring himself to come out.” The smile flickered back to life before slipping away.

I nodded, still cursing myself over my moment of perceived weakness. I suppose it was good that I hadn't gone crazy and kissed him, let alone reached out to touch him. If I'd given in, I would be no better than that jerk Robert. Maybe it served me right that he was here on a night when I felt pulled between two men. Maybe I should go back to California with him and let him sleep around on me and party like he was eighteen again. It was what I deserved.

Stop it, Krissy. You didn't do anything.
And really, I didn't plan on doing anything that would hurt my chances with Will.

Paul knocked on the door with the back of his hand. “John, meet us in the ballroom when you are done. We're going to have a look around.”

His only answer was a string of curses. This time, however, neither Paul nor I could manage a smile.

He led the way back toward the ballroom, walking a good five feet ahead of me, as if he thought the separation would keep anyone from realizing what had happened in the hallway.

But what
did
happen? Nothing, that's what. It wasn't like we'd torn at each other's clothing or anything. In fact, we'd just looked at each other, something people do all of the time. What made it any different for us? Just because we'd once almost dated, doesn't mean we couldn't be friends. We hadn't touched each other, which was what would have pushed the moment too far.

The little voice in the back of my head refused to relent, no matter how much I rationalized it. I kept wondering if Paul had felt something in that moment, too, if he'd wanted to reach out and touch my cheek. I mean, he would have had to, right? He'd looked as embarrassed as I'd felt, so something had to have passed between us.

We entered the ballroom a moment later. Paul stopped just inside the room and glanced around. Most of the guests looked annoyed, more than likely because they felt trapped in the house, which indeed, they were. Even though they hadn't stopped enjoying the snacks, or visiting the various rooms, they acted as if they were locked away in a cell at the police station, rather than at a party.

“I should wait here for Buchannan,” Paul said. “Thank you for, uh . . .” He shrugged helplessly. Turns out, my presence while filling in for Buchannan hadn't been necessary.

“You're welcome,” I said, not really sure what I'd done, and not caring. It wasn't often I was thanked for my help. Most of the time, I got told to keep my nose out of the dangerous investigation. And even after I helped solve the cases, I was warned not to do it again.

So, this, I would take.

I wasn't sure where to go from there. I glanced around the room, hoping to spot Will, but I didn't see him anywhere. He was probably exploring with Darrin or Carl, or off with his parents. Vicki was with Mason, talking to a couple I didn't know. Both Jules and Lance were back, picking over the snacks and talking with their heads nearly touching. Both were smiling, as if they were sharing some deep, dark secret about someone or something in the house.

I decided I'd head over and see if they'd include me in on the joke. Lord knows I needed something to lift my spirits just then. Even the thought of seeing Buchannan dressed like an old man wasn't as appealing as it was only a few minutes ago.

I made it only a step when Igor came running over to where Paul stood. I did a complete three sixty and turned to face them, not wanting to miss whatever he had to say.

“Officer,” he said. He was out of breath as if he'd run this entire way. “I tried to stop him.”

“Stop who?” Paul was all business, alert and ready for action. His back straightened and those blue eyes of his sharpened like razors.

“I don't know his name.” Igor glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Paul. “He pushed past me when I tried to stop him. He went out the front door.”

Paul and I shared a look. We were both thinking the exact same thing.

Someone was trying to escape.

“Stay here,” Paul commanded, loud enough that most of the people around us heard. He bolted for the door, hand going to his bobby hat to keep it from flying off his head.

I looked at Igor, who looked back, eyes wide and scared, like he just now realized there really
was
a killer on the loose, and that he might very well have had contact with him.

“Keep everyone inside,” I told him. “If the other policeman comes looking for us, tell him where we've gone.” I didn't like the idea of Buchannan looking for me, but if it
was
the murderer out there, I'd appreciate the backup.

And then, pointedly ignoring Paul's orders, I took off after him.

The rain was still coming down pretty hard, making it hard to see as I stepped outside. I squinted into the downpour and, at first, didn't see anyone. Then, I caught a glimpse of Paul, dressed in that silly old police uniform. He was heading toward the parking lot, shoulders hunched against the rain.

I took a step forward, wincing as the icy cold rain slammed into me like it was intent on driving me into the ground. I pulled my hat down over my ears, for the first time thankful I had it, and started for Paul. I'd only taken a couple of steps when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

This man wasn't near the cars where Paul was investigating. In fact, he was moving away from them, heading toward the side of the property where the trees would give him cover.

And Paul didn't see him.

“Paul!” I shouted, waving my arms above my head. “Over there!”

He didn't so much as glance my way. The rain hitting the hoods of the cars was probably as loud as a drum. Even if I'd been standing next to him, he would have had a hard time hearing me.

The shape stumbled and fell in the mud before he pushed back to his feet. He staggered forward a few more steps and then vanished into the deluge.

I had a split second to make up my mind. I could run over to Paul and tell him what I saw so he could give chase.

But that would take too much time. The man was already out of sight. By the time I reached Paul, told him which way to go, our suspect would be gone.