Killer Closet Case: a Danger Cove B&B Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 6) (12 page)

Bradley laid a protective hand on her knee. Well, protective and also groping for a cheap feel, I'm sure. "Are you sure you're okay to do this?"

"Um," Cris murmured, sitting up a little straighter, hitching her chin a bit higher, and inhaling a deep breath. "I think so," she huffed out.

He squeezed her knee. "I'm right here. If something freaks you out too badly, pass it to one of us."

I stared at my brother, hoping he noticed the cynical snarl I was aiming toward him. Where was the just-push-through-it crap I'd gotten? I guess Cris came with options I wasn't touching with a ten-thousand-foot pole. From that angle, I guess I got the better deal.

He finally looked my way and returned the cynical look, while shaking his head and doing the weird eye thing where only one of them moved.

We sifted through details and dates, pictures and police reports, Bradley and I doing three pages to every one of Cristal's. But she was actually reading and comparing notes, so it took some off of our plates.

Bradley scared us both when he smacked his hand on the table and bounced to his feet. He pointed down at the paper in front of him. "There! That has to be something." He spun the folder toward me.

It was one I'd already looked through and hadn't found anything. I flipped through the pages again. "What?" I tried to fight back the spark of what I was sure was false hope flickering to life inside me, but his wide grin and giddy excitement was contagious. I bounced to my feet, folder outstretched toward him in my hand. "What did I miss?"

He pointed to the place of business on the background information page of one of the dead guys. "Ring any bells?"

It was Jiffy James, the Mafia guy. I dropped the folder onto the table and jumped into his arms. He danced me around the lobby, my feet never touching the floor, both of us squealing with joy.

He lowered me to my feet and spun me around a few times before pulling me back into his arms for a hug. He whispered, "You need a shower, sis."

"Thanks for stating the obvious, bro," I giggled back.

Cris followed us around, clapping her hands and begging, "What? Please tell me too!" 

Bradley released me, waving grandly toward the file. "Do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

I bobbed my head emphatically as I picked it up, tapping my finger at the place of business. "He was subcontracting for the mob guy too. He has to be connected. Maybe he hit on Mom, and Dad hacked him off. Pretty extreme payback, but it seems more plausible that a Mafia guy was framing my dad rather than him actually killing someone."

Cris bounced around clapping again, ending up in Bradley's open embrace this time. I watched as a look of utter contentment melted away the smile on his face. I was now completely okay sharing my BFF with him.

He set her on her feet and pointed at me. "Shower, now! We have to take this to the prosecuting attorney's office. I'll call Ashland and have him meet us there."

I tried to put myself back in superhero mode. Using the shower in the apartment over the garage was one thing, but digging through clothes in that bedroom would be quite another after seeing those photos.

*   *   *

We were all three crowded across the desk from the prosecuting attorney in his tiny, dreary office. Bradley had been unable to get ahold of Ashland, though I doubted seriously that another body would have fit in the cramped space. Cris kind of stood out in her brightly colored dress as she sat in the only cushioned seat. My brother and I perched on folding chairs on either side of her like boring, jean-clad bookends. 

The prosecutor, Frank Wolfe, sat across from us, his elbows planted among stacks of files and strewn papers, his chin resting on his fists.

By the sports trophies on the credenza behind him, and his thick neck, I'd say he wasn't far out of his glory days as a football player in high school and possibly college, which meant he was close to my brother's age. With his perfectly kept blond hair and stunning blue eyes, I was willing to bet he had even been the quarterback every girl had wanted to date.

He glanced at each of us in turn, a pucker of disapproval coming over his face when he eyeballed my brother and me. His old desk chair squeaked and groaned as he leaned back, threading his hands together behind his head. A sly smile stretched across his face when he made eye contact with Cris, though. "Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air? You can't possibly be from around here, sweetheart. I'd remember if we'd ever met before this."

Obviously not impressed with his term of endearment, Cris scowled at him.

I elbowed her, stretching a fake smile across my face and whispering, "Play along," while trying not to move my lips.

She turned her grimace toward me.

I pulled Cris in for a hug and whispered, "For my brother, then?"

She backed away from the embrace, mimicking my strained look. She pivoted toward the prosecuting attorney again, fluttering her eyelashes and dropping her chin as she reached across his desk to fiddle with his penholder. "What do you think of this new information my friends brought in for you?" Her eyes widened as she faked nervousness and nibbled on her glossy bottom lip. "It pretty much means the Milfords are innocent, right? I mean, we're talking about a nice middle-class couple compared to a man with alleged ties to the Mafia."

He dropped his hands into his lap and sat up straight, the chair squeaking in protest again. "Oh,
honey
…" His tone was more like he was speaking with his labradoodle instead of a person.

Cris's smile faltered, but she finally plastered it back into place after a long, drawn-out sigh that said I'd be doing all of her laundry for some time to come. "Please, at least take it for the gaping hole in the investigation that it is, and understand that the Milfords just aren't the kind of people who would do something like this."

He leaned across the desk and patted her hand. "While I will take this information under advisement, and it might make a nice way for your attorney to cast some doubt, I have fingerprints, a murder weapon, and a few other things up my sleeve. Case closed."

Another long, hot shower had helped me relax some. Unfortunately, as I dug through my clothes still spread on the bed in the garage apartment, the memories undid it all.

And then some.

At least Mal had cleaned up everything and taped plastic over the hole. But still…

I had spent most of the day either on the couch in the employee area, wrapped up in my dad's comforter, crying myself into a pitiful, dehydrated state or making a list of possible character witnesses for my parents.

As I quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt so I could vacate the room as soon as humanly possible, I contemplated drinking a gallon of water and returning to the couch to repeat the process. My redheaded dander kicked in though, and I decided my brother and I needed to start talking to some of the local people who might know these men or had at least met my parents. It would have to wait until after the arraignment the next day so I wouldn't be bothering everyone at suppertime. Maybe they could provide the connection we were missing and prove Jiffy James was the killer. Proof was out there, and I was going to find it.

I traipsed down the stairs and across the drive in a zombie state, fluffing my wet curls with my fingers as I walked. Voices drifted on the night breeze, coming from the front area of the porch, so I decided to make a detour in that direction for a diversion from the thoughts that seemed to play on loop through my brain of what my parents would face if I let them down and didn't find evidence of the real killer.

Mal leaned against the banister by the front door, dressed in a dark-blue hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans. He had his arms folded across his chest and was listening to a story from my uncle, soaking up his words as though they were gospel truth. Bradley and Cris sat in Adirondack chairs nearby, following along somewhat when they weren't ogling one another.

Cris swatted Bradley on the arm playfully as I walked by. "Your brother is awful, Bree." She giggled.

"In more ways than you'll probably ever know," I added, winking at them as I passed by.

Uncle Eddie was on the porch swing in front of Mal, one foot tucked under him as the other rocked on the deck below, guiding him slowly back and forth. Champ was sprawled across his lap, snoring rather loudly. Eddie scratched under his chin with one hand, the other was clamped on a tumbler full of what I would be willing to bet was tequila. He took a long drink. Most people would probably think he was drinking water after the large gulp, but I still wasn't convinced.

Uncle Eddie let out a forlorn sigh and stared down at the deck floor. I knew the lies were about to commence. He loved to tell his stories. "My tour in Dam Lai was the toughest though. I almost died in a rice paddy. Still have shrapnel in my ass from a shot that ricocheted off a nearby rock, dropping me to my knees and cutting off all feeling I had below the waist." He stopped petting the dog and slapped a leg, causing Champ to bound onto all fours and yap at everyone briefly before wilting back onto Eddie's lap. "Don't worry though. Doctors fixed me right up once I was back at camp. Before that, though, I had to elbow crawl myself to safety through the muck-filled waters of my fellow soldiers' blood and guts. Pieces and parts just bobbed past me like apples in a barrel at a carnival." He tucked the glass between his legs and tapped the old watch at his wrist as he stretched his arm out for inspection. "I took this off some poor guy's severed limb. Pretty sure he wasn't going to miss it."

Mal leaned forward and looked at the presented timepiece, shaking his head. "That must've been a nightmare."

Uncle Eddie pulled his arm back with a hefty sigh, his expression falling into a somber mask as he took another big tug at his drink. His voice quivering, he mumbled, "One that I can never wake up from, son."

"You've obviously gone through hell. Well, I thank you for your service, sir," Mal stated, standing up straighter.

Eddie patted the seat next to him, his face now lit up bright enough to shut off the porch light, completely contradicting his prior words. "Cop a squat with me. There're plenty more stories where that came from."

I didn't want to interrupt story time now that Uncle Eddie had fresh meat. He was likely to keep Mal hostage for hours. So I walked back around to the side of the porch to listen to the waves instead of another of my uncle's fabrications.

Within a few seconds, Mal leaned around me, taking me by surprise. He grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him. He had a hopeful, lopsided smile on his face. "What's the matter? Are his stories too graphic for you?" He scanned my face, his hopeful facade fading. "Or do you just want to avoid me at all costs?"

I glanced sideways at the driveway, not wanting to talk about much of anything in case there was still enough fluid in my body to produce a tear or two. 

"Not that I'd blame you," he continued. "Your brother and Cristal told me all about what's going on. I'm very sorry."

I shrugged my shoulders, scanning him briefly before shifting my gaze toward the ocean as the last glimmers of day faded from the horizon.

"What I did was inappropriate even without the hell you're going through. I'm really, truly sorry, if that helps any at all. I want to make it up to you."

The honesty in his voice chipped away at my resolve. Not that I really had much strength left to hold my grudge. I looked up into his eyes. It was dim, but I could still see the gold flecks along the rim of hazel in the hints of porch light that made it that far. I shook my head, mostly in an attempt to dislodge the mushy thoughts from my brain and stop gawking at the man but also to disagree with him and change the subject back to my uncle's stories. "The 'damn lie' part is the only truth to his story."

"What? I don't understand." A single brow arched into his bangs.

I spelled out the words
damn lie
instead of Dam Lai
.

He still had the same confused look on his handsome features.

"Uncle Eddie never fought in any war. He's never even left the West Coast, to the best of my knowledge." I held my hands out to my sides and shrugged.

Mal scoffed. "Seriously? His stories seem so real."

"The man has the history channel on twenty-four/seven." I crossed my arms over my body, the night breeze chilling me all of a sudden. "Dad says he'd heard that Uncle Eddie freaked out at the thought of what might happen to him when he got his draft papers in the mail, so he showed up to his physical falling-down drunk on purpose and told them he was an alcoholic and suffered from mental illness." I waved a hand toward the part of the porch he was occupying. "Sometimes a lie becomes the truth. At least it did in this case. I'm willing to bet the last fifteen dollars and seventy two cents I have to my name that the cup in his hand is full of cheap tequila."

"So, instead of drinking to forget the horrors, he drinks to drown the regret?"

"Exactly."

"Huh." Mal looked off toward my uncle, evidently to contemplate my words. When he looked back at me, he turned and leaned against the banister next to me. "I guess we all have our demons. Some people just handle them better than others."

I bobbed my head in agreement, his words really resonating with me. Uncle Eddie was a product of his time and handled things the best he could, I guess. I'd never actually looked at it that way. Even though Uncle Eddie had almost half of a century on me, I already harbored my fair share of demons, with all that had happened the past few days.

Mal waved a hand toward the back steps. "If you'll accept my apology, I took the liberty of using my key to the back door so I could fix you a peace offering. It's in the oven."

I was completely taken aback. "You cooked for me?"

"Well," he started hesitantly. "I believe it's my turn to do the I-don't-think-you're-a-murderer meal. You know, if memory serves me right." He wiggled the fingers of the hand still pointing toward the steps. "Join me?"

I looked over my shoulder at Uncle Eddie. He was still rambling away to his semi-captive audience of Bradley and Cris, so I didn't feel bad about stealing Mal away. I nodded, and we made our way around to the back entrance. When he opened the door for me, all sorts of decadent aromas attacked me at once.

I walked over next to the oven and inhaled deeply as he closed the door behind us. "This puts my sandwich and cheesy curls to shame. I'd return the favor, but I'd really hate to be held responsible for accidentally poisoning you or something. I wouldn't put anyone through the horror of my culinary attempts. But," I added, my tone getting a bit haughty, even to my own ears, "If I do say so myself, my take-out ordering skills are off the charts."

He came over and checked the timer on the stove. "Just another five minutes or so."

"So, did you teach yourself to cook? Or maybe
the ex
did?" I fished.

He turned, leaning against the counter. "All that woman taught me was how to know when I'm being tailed and how to write out a police report. It was actually my mum who taught me to cook. She wanted a wee girl so very desperately but ended up with three strapping young men instead. I'm the youngest. The joke in our family was that she wanted to keep trying until she had a girl but was afraid she'd still be having kids when she turned seventy and be stuck with dozens of us blokes. So she broke down and taught me to cook, instead of chancing it. I drew the line at the frilly apron she wanted me to wear though." He winked, the only clue to his teasing on his subdued, handsome face.

I giggled, his wit finally chipping away the last of my resentment.

"Ah, so you forgive me then?"

I shrugged my shoulders, wiping away the grin and forcing a snobbish look to my face. "I am a redhead, and I'm told we can hold the world's record for grudges."

He scoffed. "You know where I come from, right? I've seen my fair share of just that." His face softened along with his voice. "I really am sorry about that stupid song. I was a total wanker. Summer Breeze is a beautiful name. I just got caught up in some weird rivalry with you about who'd stretched the truth more. Albeit immature, I'm not one to back down when there's something as important as who's blacker, the pot or the kettle."

I laughed so hard I snorted and popped a hand over my mouth in embarrassment. Which, of course, made me laugh even more. And snort again. At least Mal had joined in, only in a snortless manner.

The stove timer buzzed, pulling us back to our surroundings and squelching most of the laughter. He pulled a deep pan from the oven, melted cheese bubbling on top, and set it on the stovetop. He then grabbed another shallower pan from the bottom rack, sliding it next to the other.

I pointed to the dark, gooey, sinful stuff as I distinctly made out the scent of chocolate. "Homemade brownies?" I asked, my voice trembling with unbridled happiness.

"Ah," he drew out. "A fellow dessert lover." He waggled his brow. "We will have dessert first. There's ice cream in the freezer. Makes for an even tastier experience." He motioned toward the other pan. "Now, I know you were probably expecting some Scottish fare from the likes of me such as haggis and bread pudding, but the other pan has chicken enchiladas in it. Once you've been introduced to the spices different foods have to offer, you realize my country's dishes lack so much."

I fanned my hands at my face as I quickly closed the gap to the fridge. "Stop it. I might follow you home."

He cut the brownies in large pieces and wedged two out onto plates. "You're welcome at my home, as long as you keep in mind that while I may bake a mean brownie, my house-cleaning skills leave a bit to be desired, especially during landscaping season."

I put two scoops of ice cream on top of each plate of steaming goodness. "Hey, I know how to clean. Maybe we can work out a deal," I quipped.

We laughed and ate the scrumptious dessert in between one-liners and satirical comments, standing at the counter. After the plates were all but licked clean (yes, I contemplated it), I set them in the sink.

"You don't want seconds?" Mal asked.

"Yes, but I'd like to have some of your enchiladas first." I smiled up at him, feeling at ease, almost like maybe life really
wasn't
crumbling around my ankles.

"Can you grab the salad out of the fridge for me while I garnish this?"

I opened the refrigerator door to see a fully dressed spinach salad in a bowl with tongs stuck along the side. "Seriously? Now you're just showing off."

He shrugged, a self-satisfied smirk popping his dimples to full pucker.

I set the salad on the island and grabbed two place settings, arranging them in front of the chairs, complete with folded paper towels like the fancy linen ones I used to be in charge of as a kid.

"Now who's showing off?" he muttered as he filled the plates.

"I'm classy like that," I added in a serious, matter-of-fact tone.

"Indeed." He pulled my chair out for me, snapping at the seat with the dish towel he'd had hanging from his shoulder then placing it over his forearm like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. "Does this seat please the lady?" he cooed, his accent thicker than normal. He waved gallantly at the chair, as he bent slightly at the waist.

I tilted my nose into the air, pulling myself in character as I took my seat. "I suppose it will have to do."