Inconvenient Murder: An Inept Witches Mystery (10 page)

“I didn’t…”

“Witch here,” she explained, heard him sputter again and pressed forward. “So after we catch the real killer, you can take me out. I like steak, cheesecake, coffee, and wine. I prefer my roses to be lilies.”

“There is no we.” Gabe said, and she felt his flash of humor again followed by frustration as he realized that she intended to stumble through her own investigation.

She shook her head at him, even though he couldn’t see it, and sat down on the bench outside of the overpriced dress shop. She stared toward the ocean and realized that it was a lovely day. Crisp blue skies, the sound seagulls rollicking over the gray waves, big puffy clouds. Warm enough to be comfortable in regular clothes without needing a jacket.

Perfection.

“The thing is,” Ingrid said, “My Em didn’t do it. But you don’t know her like I do. Now I’m not saying she wouldn’t kill someone. She’s got a vicious streak. But she’d probably only kill child rapists and stuff like that. Him harassing her about the inheritance just isn’t her trigger. I’d have been more likely to kill him for making her crazy.”

“It’s good then that I saw you on that ferry when he was being killed.”

“As the sheriff, you do make both great eye candy and a great alibi. Are you coming for coffee?”

“No,” he said, but this time he didn’t hide his laugh.

“You know you want to,” she said as she examined her nails. Maybe she should learn the spell for keeping nails from chipping. She didn’t want to actually work at magic but being able to make good coffee and have clear skin was worth dabbling in the craft. It was possible that nails were worth a little extra effort. Maybe. “I do make a perfect cup. I might even have some sort of food in my apartment, though I’m pretty sure that most of it is expired.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” he said. “Quit interfering in my investigation.”

She grinned when he hung up on her since she felt his delighted humor with her. She’d brightened his day. Like a jolly, interfering sunflower or something.

She dropped her phone into her lap until she saw that she had 11 texts. Emily had made her descriptions of what she thought of dickhead into a fine, but foul, art and each of her text messages were X-rated.

8

Saturday Afternoon

Ingrid considered going back to the bookshop, but it was dusty and the books were stacked almost to eye level. Plus there was the whole crime scene thing. She wondered if dickhead’s spirit would haunt their shop. If so, he had to go. She wasn’t going to put up with that kind of nonsense, and she wasn’t moving as long as Emily didn’t actually get arrested for murder. They’d probably have to move if Ingrid broke Emily out of jail, so it was better to just get a handle on this thing.

She glanced around. Emily was busy. Ingrid had eaten tacos, so the croissant had to be crossed off her list. Stress food had to be exchanged for stress shopping. So….

But she didn’t like the flowy skirts that were the primary style sold on the island.

So no to that.

Then Sage Spa caught her eye. Her nails were chipping. She crossed the street, thinking about adding a facial or a foot massage or something.

“Hey,” Ingrid said as she walked in. Kimmie was sitting behind the counter, painting her nails. The rest of the shop was empty. “Where is everyone?”

“I’ve turned down every appointment today. They’re all the island gossips wanting to see what I know. You know what I think about that? They’re harpies.”

“Plus you need to see what others know so you have something worthwhile to say. That way your first appointments will tell other people, and you’ll have new clients coming just to hear about the body-finding from you, my clever, evil dove.”

“I know!” Kimmie sighed as she pulled out a chair. “But no one will tell me anything. Please tell me things. Details that are morbid and terrible. It’ll really help my business. Think of it as charity.”

“I’ll tell you everything, but you have to give me free manicures for a year.”

Kimmie sighed woefully as she said, “But you’re my best client. And you’re rich.”

Ingrid tapped her nails and waited.

Kimmie sighed again, long and slow. When Ingrid didn’t budge, not even softening her face, Kimmie finally growled. “Fine! But that doesn’t include any extras. Give it to me straight and full of details.”

Ingrid told her of finding the body and lusting after Gabe. That was deliberate. The island ladies needed to be aware he was taken now, and it would give them something other to talk about than Emily. She added in stuff about her demon step-children from the marriage with Harrison. That way Kimmie would know Ingrid’s game about laying claim to Gabe.

They commiserated for a while about stepchildren, Kimmie had four, and then Kimmie asked, “So, was he bloody?”

Ingrid snorted before she lifted her hand to admire the job. Kimmie really was very good at manicures, and the pearly pink French tips were just what Ingrid wanted. “I don’t know what killed him, but he wasn’t bloody. But there was vomit. Honestly,” she tapped her finger against her lips. “He was just dead except the puke. He was probably poisoned. That’s what Hazel thinks.”

“That’s kind of disappointing, isn’t it?” Then Kimmie’s eyes widened, she met Ingrid’s gaze, and they both started giggling.

“We’re going to hell.”

“You are,” Kimmie agreed at once. “I mean, you’re a witch.”

Ingrid snorted and then asked, “So you didn’t see anything you can tell your customers?”

She didn’t expect an answer, but Kimmie leaned forward and grinned wickedly.

“Well, I did see something—” She trailed off suggestively, especially with those raised brows. She wanted Ingrid to ask.

Ingrid did, leaning forward. “What did you see?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

Their gazes met, Ingrid’s bright with humor and Kimmie’sfull of mischief. “You witch,” she drawled.

“I know,” Kimmie nodded almost rubbing her hands together.

“Fine, I don’t have to have free manicures for a year.”

Kimmie just waited, wry twist to her mouth.

Ingrid eyed the manicurist, who met her gaze without flinching. “You,” she said calmly, “are a terrible person.”

Kimmie nodded.

“I like it,” Ingrid finished. “You know I’m desperate. It’s a cold, cruel, vicious heart that takes advantage like this, you evil cow-dove.”

“Thank you,” Kimmie said, lifting her paintbrush to finish the last of Ingrid’s top coat.

“What do you want?”

“Free coffees, every day, from your shop.”

“Fine.” Ingrid snapped, eyeing Kimmie.

“The next three bedroom apartment that opens, I want it.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“At half-price.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ingrid snapped.

“My place is a hole. I can’t afford yours now that they’re all pretty. I want to live downtown, and the story I have to tell is very, very good.”

“Worth endless half-price rent?” Ingrid lifted her bag, pulled out the cash for the manicure, minus the tip, and eyed the other with her wallet open.

“Yes. Since you’re rich.” Kimmie said it openly. Her gaze met Ingrid’s and promised to deliver.

“If I don’t think it’s worth it…”

“Then half price rent for six months instead. I thought Emily was your best friend. What do you call her? Your favorite dove?”

“You are a terrible person,” Ingrid said before admitting, “Damn it. She
is
my best dove.” Ingrid grabbed several bottles of nail polish and slapped them down. “Look what you’re making me do! Stress-shopping while you…you…blackmail me.”

“If she’s your best dove, then it’s worth it,” Kimmie said, adding without preamble. “I saw Owen arrive at the shop.”

Ingrid fingered the bills in her wallet, clearly debating the tip she hadn’t placed.

“He had company.”

Ingrid pulled out a five-dollar-bill, placed it on the money in front of Kimmie.

“It was that blonde that used to come out with Emily when you didn’t.”

Ingrid choked, snorted and choked again. She took a long haul of a breath in and started hacking, unable to catch her breath. When she finally recovered, tears were running down her face. “Did you just say that Melinda was on the island with dickhead before he was dead?”

“If she’s the big-haired, big-boobed, forty-something, then yeah.”

Ingrid pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, dropped it on the pile and said, “You can have the apartment for free. Creepy gallery guy is moving.”

“Oh,” she grinned her evil, machinating grin and said, “I saw his light on, too. That guy creeps me out. And I’m holding you to that apartment.”

Ingrid paused, considered giving Kimmie more money and remembered that she just got the apartment for free. Ingrid and her big mouth.

“Um, that doesn’t include utilities and also, yeah, art gallery creepster has a stay-away-from-me, never-find-me-in-a-dark-alley vibe.”

Ingrid opened the door, looked around the downtown area, grinned wide as she pulled out her phone and shot a group text to Emily and Gabe, “Yo! Guess what whorish sister-in-law was sneaking around on the island with señor sleaze bag? That’s right, it was Melinda. Let’s have lunch sometime, m’kay? Please let it be her who killed sleaze-o. There’s no one I’d rather see in an orange jumpsuit. Keep your hands off my man, Emily. Gabe, dream of me. Hugs, I’m off for either booze or chocolate depending on which demon wins the battle on my shoulder. P.S. Kimmie saw it all. She’s taking creepy gallery guy’s apartment once he goes. Her rent is free. My bad on the whole trying to blackmail the nail lady and getting taken to the cleaners. Good thing Sheriff Hotpants has such a reliable job. XOXO”

•

Saturday Afternoon

Emily stared at the age-yellowed walls of the police station’s interview room, tapping her purple fingernails. She checked her cell phone for the thousandth time. Still no phone call or text from Davis. And Melinda wasn’t answering either. Sheriff Gabe stuck his head back in the door.

“Any word?”

“No,” Emily sighed. “I can’t reach Davis or Melinda. I knew she wasn’t coming, but she assured me that he would still be here.” She motioned for him to come in. “Just come in and ask whatever questions you want.”

He stepped inside the room, gently closing the door behind him. He was always so damn polite. Ingrid could pick someone worse to hook up with than this small-town classic nice guy.

“Emily. Are you sure you want to waive your right to have an attorney present?”

She rolled her eyes. “Gabe. Seriously. It’s me. Remember, the girl that helped you through high school English. I didn’t kill Owen. And you know it. And I know you know it. I’m not worried. All right? Just get on with it, okay?”

He smiled, pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Okay, Em. I’m going to record this. This is just a formality. I know I took your statement yesterday but this gets it on the record.”

He pushed a button on the recording device in the middle of the table and spoke clearly. “This is Sheriff Gabriel Tate. I’m interviewing Emily Brown, widow of the late Owen Brown. It’s Saturday morning.” He looked up at her, and she tried not laugh at his serious cop voice. “Mrs. Brown, you agree that you have waived the presence of your attorney.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m innocent. I have nothing to hide.”

“Okay, then. We’ll get to it. Can you tell me where you were between the hours of nine pm and two am of Wednesday night/Thursday morning?”

“As I said when you asked me before, I was home in bed. Alone. There is no one that can verify that. To save your next question.”

“It’s routine to ask you these questions on the record, Mrs. Brown.”

Emily rolled her eyes again, but nodded.

Gabe continued. “You were married to Owen, but you were separated. Is that correct?”

“Yes, like I said before it was a very messy divorce. It’s common knowledge that I hated dickhead and he hated me back. We hated each other. He was dragging out the divorce and making my life miserable. But I didn’t kill him. Now, perhaps you could answer a question for me. Who else is on your suspect list?”

Their eyes met, neither blinking for a second. Gabriel was the first to look away. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the investigation with you.”

Emily rolled her eyes, feeling much too much like a rebellious teenager and sighed again.

“What else do you want to know? I’ve got things to do. Clearly I’m going to have to solve this murder myself in order to clear my own name.”

“As I told your friend, Ingrid, you two need to stay out of this investigation. I’ll arrest you for obstruction, Em.”

She was silent, planning her next move and unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an argument. He continued his interrogation.

“Is there anyone you know that would kill your husband?”

“Unless you want me to throw up all over your pretty little recorder, don’t call him that. His name was Owen. And yes. Besides everyone he pissed off in his career, there was Ingrid. She hated him. And she totally would kill him. But of course, she has a very convenient alibi.”