Little Shop of Homicide (8 page)

“It was worth a try.” I led Boone over to the soda fountain. “Do you want coffee or something?” My milk shake had long since melted into an unappetizing sludge. Jake’s appearance had switched off one appetite; too bad it had turned on another one.

“No.” Boone perched on a stool. “What I want is for you tell me everything.”

“Fair enough.” I sat next to him. “It turns out that Gran and Tony had a thing when they were teenagers, so she called him for help with my problem.” I held up my hand to stop Boone from interrupting. “They dated, but he ended up joining the Marines, went MIA in Korea, and she married my grandfather instead.”

“Funny I never heard anything about that before.”
Boone pursed his lips. “You’d think someone around here would have mentioned it.”

“Why? I don’t think it was any big secret, just ancient history.” I got up and emptied the contents of the milk shake glass in the sink. “I know people like to gossip about high school sweethearts, and keep an eagle eye out for rekindled romances, but even Shadow Benders draw the line at relationships that happened sixty years ago.”

“Too bad your teenage romance was a lot more recent, because just this morning one of my clients mentioned how nice it would be if you and the good doctor got back together, especially now that Joelle is dead.” Boone’s smile was snarky. “Seems that during her last visit to Dr. Dreadful, he mentioned how glad he was you bought the dime store.”

“I know you can’t reveal your client’s name, but I hope you told her that I haven’t had any feelings for Noah Underwood in over a decade.” I was an excellent liar. Another skill I had picked up during my years in the investment business. “Now, can we get back to what we’re going to do to keep me out of prison?”

“Sure. Let’s go back to Jake.”

“Why?”
Shoot!
In my hurry to change the subject from Noah, I had forgotten we’d been discussing Jake. “I already told you Gran called Tony this morning all upset about Detective Woods accusing me of murder, and Tony offered Jake’s help.”

“As a Marshal?” Boone’s expression was playful. “Or as your lover?”

“Don’t even go there.” I concentrated on drying the glass I had just washed, but made just enough eye contact to show him I meant business. “Nothing like that is going to happen.” Sure, Jake and I had chemistry, but now that I was aware of his effect on my libido, I’d be able to keep myself under control. At least that was the plan.

“So what’s he doing that requires him to call you tonight?” Boone said, watching me over tented fingers.

I wiped down the marble counter. “Having a chat with Anya Hamilton this afternoon.”

“Well, I hope he has your cell number.” Boone’s voice held a hint of satisfaction and he smiled widely. “Because you won’t be home tonight.”

“Why not?” I didn’t like his tone or his grin. “Where will I be?”

“With me.” Boone was nearly quivering with excitement. “We’re going to a fund-raiser tonight. One put on by the CDM to save the Lee Mansion.”

“Why would I want to do that?” CDM stood for the Confederacy Daughters of Missouri, and the Lee Mansion, which was supposed to have been owned by a distant relation of Robert E. Lee, was their latest cause.

“Because Dr. Dishonorable’s mommy is the president of the CDM.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I made a scornful noise in the back of my throat. “Nadine’s been president since gravel was a rock.”

“Yes, she has.” Boone’s tone was impatient. “Which is why it’s the perfect way to guarantee that we nonchalantly run into her. Once we have her cornered, we can question her about Joelle’s death.”

“You’re right about it being best to make it seem like a casual meeting, but I think you should go alone and talk to her.” The last thing I wanted to do was spend an evening at an event with Nadine Underwood. No—correction. The absolutely last thing I wanted to do was go with Jake to talk to her son, Noah. “She hates me, so she’ll be more willing to chat with you if you’re by yourself.”

“Of course, I thought of that.” Boone rolled his eyes at my obtuseness. “The reason you need to come with me is so we can play good cop, bad cop.”

“And I’m the bad cop, right?”

“Duh.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but closed it without speaking. Trying to resist Boone once he had made up
his mind was both exhausting and futile. Instead I asked, “What time are you picking me up?”

“Quarter to seven. And wear an expensive dress.”

After Boone left I called Poppy back and gave her the lowdown on the newest member of our Scooby Doo detective team. Now all we needed was a Great Dane, and we’d have the whole cast of characters.

J
ake walked the three blocks to where he had parked his truck, replaying what had just happened. His uncle hadn’t mentioned how pretty Birdie’s granddaughter was or the strange mix of strength and vulnerability she possessed. Devereaux Sinclair wasn’t what he had expected, and he hated being caught by surprise.

He winced as he climbed into the pickup’s cab. His leg seemed to bother him more when the weather turned cold and windy. The physical therapist had said he’d always have a certain degree of soreness, but it was impossible to tell at this stage of his healing whether the pain would be a twinge once in a while or so debilitating that he’d never be able to pass the U.S. Marshal reinstatement physical.

Ignoring his discomfort, and his uncertain future, Jake put the truck in gear and headed toward Brewfully Yours. The local coffee café had Wi-Fi, and he needed to get online. His uncle Tony’s ancient computer was connected via dialup, and downloading information from that antique took longer than Jake’s patience could handle.

It was only a little past two o’clock, so he had a couple of hours before he needed to head out to the country club, and he intended to use the time reaching out to a few of his colleagues about Joelle Ayers. He also planned
to do some research of his own on Miss Devereaux Sinclair.

Tony had filled him in on her previous employer’s trouble with the law, but Jake wanted to make damn sure she was as innocent of any wrongdoing as his uncle thought she was. All he needed was to hook up with another con artist. The last one had left him bleeding on the side of the road, and he hadn’t even felt any attraction for her. He’d just been trying to do the right thing.

As he passed the dime store, Jake glanced in the big plate-glass window and saw Devereaux talking to the fellow who had burst in on them. Was he her boyfriend? She was avoiding eye contact with him, staring over the guy’s shoulder while she twisted the end of her ponytail. Something about the conversation was making her uncomfortable. Was the guy questioning her about him?

Jake felt an unwelcome surge of desire as he scrutinized her. His instincts told him that she was trouble, but his body didn’t care. Even dressed in old jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, she couldn’t hide her curves. The aloof expression on her face seemed at odds with her body’s softness. Softness a man could sink into and lose himself in.

His attraction to her annoyed him. He shook his head. What was he thinking? One thing he’d learned early in his career in law enforcement was to maintain his distance from the good-looking females involved in a case. Too many foolish women imagined they were in love with the image of a U.S. Marshal, but once they were faced with the reality, they ran the other way. And if they didn’t, they wanted something from him—usually something illegal.

Still, as he entered the café, the memory of Devereaux’s sea green eyes interfered with his breathing, and for a crazy moment he wanted to get in his truck, drive back to her store, and see if her eyes really were that color.

A strong cup of coffee and some quality time focusing on his laptop helped take his mind off Devereaux,
and the next thing he knew it was three thirty. Grabbing his coat and computer, he hurried to his pickup and headed to the country club. A few miles out of town, he turned between two enormous brick columns and drove past the snow-covered golf course. The clubhouse was an ultramodern design with lots of angles and an impressive entrance consisting of mahogany double doors and overhead windows that appeared to hang unsupported over the steps.

When Jake stepped inside the foyer, an elegantly dressed woman looked up from the reception desk. “May I help you?”

“I’m picking up a friend,” he lied smoothly. “She’s playing Bunco.”

“Last door on your left.” The woman dimpled up at him. “If she’s not ready to go yet, feel free to come back and keep me company.”

“Thanks.” He touched the brim of his Stetson and followed her directions.

Stopping just outside the party room, Jake peered through the half-open door. He was in luck. The game must have just ended because the women were gathering their purses and coats and exchanging air kisses.

It wasn’t hard to spot Anya Hamilton. Devereaux had described her as willowy, with straight sable hair to her waist, hazel eyes, and painstakingly stylish clothes. Jake wasn’t sure what color sable was, but the brunette Barbie with crow’s-feet had to be her. He was a little surprised to see the laugh lines. Women like Anya Hamilton didn’t tolerate wrinkles. He shrugged. Maybe she’d been snowed in on the day of her last Botox appointment.

Anya and another dark-haired woman were among the last to exit. As the others passed them, a petite blonde paused and said, “I know how devastated you must be, darlings. You two and Joelle were like triplets. Call me anytime you need to talk.”

Jake took in Anya and her companion, wondering
whether to try to speak to them both. Devereaux hadn’t mentioned the other woman, but maybe she wasn’t aware of Joelle’s additional “sister.”

Anya and her friend were bringing up the rear of the group when Jake effortlessly cut them from the herd. He patted the tiny canine poking out of Anya’s oversized purse and asked, “What’s this little guy’s name?”

She giggled. “
Her
name is Bonbon.”

“My bad. I guess the pink bow and jacket should have tipped me off.” Jake flashed a repentant grin. “Can I buy you two a drink to apologize?”

Anya looked him up and down appreciatively, then said, “I’m available, but Gwen has an appointment. Don’t you, darling?”

Gwen narrowed her eyes, but said, “Yes.” She excused herself and walked away. Throwing Jake a flirty smile over her shoulder, she added, “Maybe next time.”

Jake took Anya’s elbow and guided her toward the bar he had passed in his search for the Bunco room. It was empty, and as they entered, the bartender quickly fumbled with the remote, shutting off the TV.

Once they had ordered and were settled in a booth by the window, Jake said, “I overheard your friends mention that someone had died.”

“Yes.” Anya’s expression saddened. “My BFF was murdered last Saturday night.”

“Murdered?” Jake forced surprise into his voice. “Around here?”

“In Kansas City.”

“Oh.” Jake paused as the bartender served their drinks. “Was she mugged?”

“No.” Anya touched a manicured hand to the back of her hair.

Jake noted Anya’s gesture and recognized it was calculated to make him think she was uncomfortable with what she was about to say, when in fact her eyes glowed with titillation.

“It was a sex crime.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Anya’s voice held a note of excitement. “My friends and I think the killer was her fiancé’s ex-girlfriend. Everyone says she was horribly jealous when Joelle and Noah got engaged.”

“Interesting.” Jake took a swig of beer to hide his annoyance that Anya and her crowd were already lining Devereaux up to take the rap for Joelle’s murder. “Did the guy break up with his ex in order to date your friend? I mean, being dumped would definitely give that woman a possible motive to kill her.”

“Well…” Anya sipped her apple martini. “Not exactly. But still.”

Jake made a noncommittal sound implying agreement, then asked, “So you and Joelle were best friends?” He put his bottle of Corona on a coaster. “Did you go to school together?”

“No.” Anya wrinkled her nose. “Joelle only moved here last summer, but the minute we met, we just clicked and became immediate besties.”

“Did you have a lot in common?” Jake took her hand. “Was she as beautiful as you are?”

“Well, I’ve been told I’m prettier.” Anya’s tongue traced her lips. “But we did like the same things—Chihuahuas, the same fashion designers, the same kinds of cars, and—”

“The same men?” Jake interrupted.

“The same type.”

“What type is that?”

“It depends.” Anya petted Jake’s arm with her free hand. “For fun, the ones that look like you.”

“And otherwise?”

“The ones like him.” Anya nodded toward a man who had just taken a seat at the bar. The guy resembled an expensively dressed koala bear, with twin tufts of hair on either side of his head, a wispy white beard that ran from ear to ear, and a paunch the size of a watermelon.

“Isn’t he a little short for you?”

“Not when you stand him on his money.”

“Ah.” Jake chuckled, not at all shocked by what Anya and Joelle felt was important in selecting a husband. “Which type was Joelle’s fiancé?”

“Noah is a rare guy.” Anya licked her lips again. “He’s hot
and
rich.”