Mug Shot (2 page)

Shrugging, I said, “Oh, I'm used to her. But she
has
been acting particularly odd today.”

“Today? Try the entire week. She's been bananas.”

“Do you think she's upset about your grandmother? Were they close?”

He shrugged. “Not especially. I don't know. Maybe her new title as CEO has thrown her for a loop.”

Cecilia appeared in the middle of the room, graciously inviting everyone into the dining room and attached sunroom for the meal. The buffet was overflowing with artfully arranged gourmet food, just like at a cocktail party, and there was a bartender pouring drinks from fancy bottles at the wet bar in the den…just like at a cocktail party.

After we got our food, Stan escorted me into the sunroom, where we found seats near Savannah and Carl. The four of us made quiet small talk about nothing in particular, but we were still having a better time than poor Pete. He was stuck between Cecilia, who ignored him, and an ancient lady who was obviously very deaf and very smitten with him. He kindly chatted with her during the meal, but I could tell from his expression and the longing glances toward our table that he would much rather have been sitting with us.

Once dinner was over, Stan excused himself to go speak to some of his out-of-town relatives and I headed to the bar. I wanted to go home, but Pete was my ride, and he was still trapped between the old woman and the shrew.

As I sipped my drink and hid from the gossiping socialites, I wandered around the main level of the house. It was completely stunning. There were more rooms than I could count, all decorated in different color schemes, and each had its own Christmas tree adorned to match seamlessly with the décor. The entry hall was gigantic, with a beautifully curved staircase, a gleaming marble floor, and a two-story Christmas tree reaching nearly up to the ceiling. I was perusing the thousands of books in the library when Pete found me.

“Are you as ready as I am to get the hell out of here?” he asked wearily.

Punching him on the arm, I said, “It's your fault that we're even here.”

“Stan asked you to come, not me.”

“Still, if you would get your head out of your ass and break up with that hag, I think both of our lives would be a lot easier.”

“I thought you said you'd try to give her a chance.”

“I have,” I lied.

He snorted. “Yeah, right. The only reason you're dating Stan is to piss her off.”

“That's not true. I like Stan.”

“You don't like Stan. He's not your type.”

“I don't have a type.”

He grinned at me. “Sure you do. You like guys who are funny, brilliant, handsome, and nice to old ladies.”

“Oh, right. Like Ryder.” That would shut him up.

A vein in Pete's forehead popped out. “Ryder Likeapony? Are you freaking
kidding
me?”

Pete absolutely hated the last guy I went out with, whose name was actually Ryder Hamilton. Detective Ryder Hamilton, to be more precise. Our relationship had lasted about five minutes, but that didn't mean I didn't miss him sometimes and think about him way more than I probably should.

“The man took a bullet for me—”

I didn't get to finish my sentence because a scream rang out from the entry hall. Pete and I hurried out of the library, hearing a sickening series of thuds and bumps. We got to the foyer in time to watch Cecilia and Stan's sister, Abigail, crash down the last few stairs and sprawl out onto the hard marble floor, motionless. Fearing the worst, we rushed to her.

He called, “Abigail! Abigail! Can you hear me?”

I knelt down next to her and checked her pulse. Looking up at Pete, I said, “She's just unconscious. Call 911.”

His attention was focused at the top of the stairs, rather than on the situation.

I snapped, “Pete!”

“Oh, sorry. I'll call them.”

He took out his phone and started dialing. I continued to keep close tabs on Abigail's pulse and breathing. Her pulse was a little weak for my liking, and her breathing was shallow. I took first-aid training yearly to keep my skills up, since restaurants were a great place for customers to choke or for workers to get cut or burned and need immediate medical attention. I didn't dare move her because she very likely had broken a bone or two on the way down, or at least hit her head. However, if necessary, I was prepared to keep her heart beating and her lungs pumping.

“Abigail!” cried a distraught voice behind me. Cecilia ran toward us and shoved me aside. She took Abigail's hand and screamed at me, “What did you do to my sister?”

Why was her first assumption that this was my fault? “Nothing. Don't touch her, Cecilia. She might have some broken bones, so moving her could make things worse,” I warned.

Pete put his phone away and hurried back over. He knelt down next to Cecilia and put his hand gently on her arm. “Cecilia, sweetheart, we need to stay calm for Abigail's sake. She took a tumble down the stairs and she's unconscious, but I'm sure she's going to be okay. An ambulance will be here any minute.”

Cecilia looked helplessly down at Abigail. Her eyes streaming with tears, she pleaded to Pete, “Get Carl! He's a doctor!”

Pete dutifully left to go find Carl. Guests had begun pouring into the entry hall, crowding around us and gasping and whispering to one another, wide-eyed. The voices of the gawkers grew louder, bouncing off the cavernous room, creating a din that was beginning to hurt my ears. Suddenly a hush fell over the room as Cecilia's mother, Delta, stumbled through the crowd, drink in hand.

When she focused her eyes and saw Abigail lying on the floor, she rushed over and screeched, “What happened? Abigail!”

Cecilia tearfully turned to her mother. “She fell down the stairs, Mama.”

“Is she…?” asked Delta fearfully, clutching her chest with her free hand.

Shaking her head, Cecilia replied, “She's unconscious.”

“Well, we need to wake her up!” Delta roared, raising her glass.

Uh-oh. I could see what was coming. Delta tipped her full glass of liquor, aiming for Abigail's face. I lunged in between the two of them, the drink drenching me from the neck down. Aside from the fact that I was trying to keep a woman alive and from further harm, I wasn't sure that my involvement in this mess was such a great idea.

“What did you do that for?” Delta demanded. “Get away from my daughter!” She was swaying and glaring at me through squinted eyes. I wasn't convinced she recognized me from our earlier conversation. This lady was beyond blitzed.

I stood my ground. “The ambulance is on its way. Throwing booze in your daughter's face is not the proper way to revive her. Leave it to the professionals.”

Carl strode in, and he kindly but firmly cleared all of us away from Abigail. He surveyed the situation, checking her pulse and breathing. Pete consoled Cecilia, and Stan came over to put an arm around his hysterical mother. The ambulance arrived a moment later, followed by a police car. The EMTs and uniformed officers pushed everyone back into the living room so that they could work on Abigail without any onlookers. They did, however, pluck Pete out of the crowd and escort him across the entry hall and into the library.

I needed to find a towel to dry myself off. Dripping my way across the living room, through the butler's pantry, and into the kitchen, I was able to talk one of the caterers out of a dish towel. I hid in the kitchen for a while, wiping myself off and downing a drink before forcing myself back out into the craziness. When I finally returned to the living room, Savannah came over to me and stared at my ruined dress. The red, silky fabric showed every drop of splattered liquid, making me wish I had gone with traditional funeral black.

She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Oh, sweetie. What happened to you?”

I looked down at myself and sighed. “Delta happened to me. She had the bright idea of trying to wake up Abigail by tossing a drink in her face. I stopped her. Or, rather, my dress did.”

Shaking her head, Savannah said, “Girl, you are a trouble magnet.”

“Tell me about it.”

She looked behind me and smiled. “You're also a man magnet. There is a sizzlin' hot guy checking you out.”

“Who?” I asked, not remembering any men here who could have been described that way.

“Juliet?” said a familiar voice behind me. I turned. Speak of the devil. It was Ryder Hamilton.

“Ryder,” I breathed. I hadn't seen him since we'd broken up. “What are you doing here?” He was dressed in a sharp suit and tie, a big change from the tight T-shirts and jeans he normally wore. His dark hair was a little shorter than it had been before, but it was still in the intentional bed-head style I liked. He looked good enough to eat.

He smiled at me, and my heart skipped a beat. “I'm here to ask a few questions. Can we speak privately?”

“Sure,” I said. With him looking like that, I would have agreed to
anything
he asked me.

Ryder led me through the entry hall, where the EMTs had Abigail strapped to a gurney and ready to wheel outside. Her eyes were open, which was a good sign. I breathed a sigh of relief. He ushered me into the library and closed the door behind us.

He looked me up and down, a smile creeping over his face. “You're always in the middle of the shitstorm, aren't you?”

The one thing I didn't miss about Ryder was how much he enjoyed needling me. “Are you going to question me or make fun of me?”

He chuckled. “Do I have to choose?”

I glared at him in response.

“Oh, come on. What happened to you?”

I looked down ruefully at my dress, which was now much drier but still clinging to my body. “I got between a drunk mother and her warped idea of first-aid.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Delta Hollingsworth has never been known for her sobriety
or
her good judgment.”

“Sounds like you know these people.”

“I do, sort of. I worked an arson case at Hollingsworth Industries a few years ago. That's why I got sent out here—since I know a few of the players, the chief thought they'd be more willing to talk to me.”

“But why do we need a detective to ask questions about an accident?”

“Because it isn't an accident.”

I gasped. “Seriously?”

“Not according to your boyfriend.” I looked at him blankly. “Pete,” he added.

Wrinkling my nose, I asked, “Why would he say that? He saw what I saw, which was Abigail rolling down the last few steps and onto the floor. And he's not my boyfriend, by the way.”

“So you didn't see anyone else in the foyer, or maybe at the top of the stairs?”

I frowned. “No, I guess I didn't think to look up. I rushed straight to help Abigail, and I wasn't really thinking about much else. Sorry.”

“That's okay. Has Pete been drinking tonight?”

“No. Not that I know of. Although I wouldn't have blamed him if he had been. This place is a freaking zoo.”

He regarded me thoughtfully. “That's another thing I want to know—why are you here? No offense, but the Hollingsworths are a little outside your social circle, aren't they?”

“Ouch. Judgmental much?” It was true, but still not a nice thing to hear.

“You know what I mean. You're too down-to-earth to want to hang around with snobby socialites.”

“You mean I'm too poor to run with the rich folk. I'll have you know that I am the proud new owner of a sofa.” I barely had any furniture or the money to buy it, so my getting a sofa was a big deal, and Ryder would be well aware of that. “It looks nice with the new carpet I had to have installed after you ruined my old one.” Not long ago Ryder had shot a guy in my apartment and got himself shot in the process. Hence, a big, bloody mess in my living room.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I told you I was sorry about that. You know, it could have easily been
your
blood all over that carpet instead.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

Ryder reached up and tucked a lock of errant red hair behind my ear, making me tingly all over. “Now will you tell me why you're here? What's your connection to these people?”

Wincing, I said, “I'm sort of…not really…dating Stan Hollingsworth.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Stan Hollingsworth? That rich prick? He's not even your type.”

I chuckled. “So I've heard.”

Ryder grimaced. “He's shady. I don't think you should see him.”

His reaction was interesting. I crossed my arms and asked innocently, “Why do you care who I go out with?”

He ignored me. “How about Pete? Does he have a beef with Stan? Maybe something to do with the two of you dating?”

“No…Why?” Ryder knew something, but he wasn't telling me.

Shrugging, he said, “No reason.”

“Hey, don't give me your secretive detective bullshit, Ryder. This sounds like something I need to know.”

He sighed. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I'm sure Pete will spill his guts to you the first chance he gets, so you'll find out anyway. Pete said he saw Stan on the balcony near the top of the stairs when Abigail fell. He said it looked like Stan was trying to duck into one of the rooms upstairs so he wouldn't be seen.”

“What?” I asked, shocked by Pete's implication. “Is he trying to insinuate that Stan pushed her? Stan wouldn't do that.”

Ryder held out his hands. “Now, let's not get hasty here. After Abigail regained consciousness, she told me she tripped and fell all on her own. Nothing has been proven otherwise, but it's my job to check out every possibility.”

“Is that the reason you don't want me to see Stan anymore?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Maybe.” Despite my efforts to keep my cool, what he said made my heart flutter furiously. He asked, “Do you still have my number?”

Pushing my pesky feelings aside, I smiled contritely. “Ryder, I don't know if it's a good idea that we revisit our relationship—”

“I meant that I want you to call me if you remember anything else about what happened tonight.”

“Oh,” I said, my cheeks flushing. Could I be more stupid? Flirting was his go-to tactic for an investigation, at least with women. It was laughable that I hadn't learned my lesson, considering our history. He had undoubtedly moved on and probably had a new girl or two by now. “Right, of course.”

“It was good to see you, Juliet.”

“You, too.”

Ryder let me out of the library, and I returned to the living room/cattle stall. Savannah swooped in on me immediately.

“Who was that? You two seemed to
know
each other. Wink, wink.”

I blushed. “You could say that.”

“I thought I heard you call him Ryder. Is he
the
Ryder, the cop you keep mooning over?”

“I don't
moon
over him.”

She smiled at me knowingly.

Savannah and I had become good girlfriends lately, which was nice, because when I moved back here a couple of months ago, the only person I could really talk to was Pete, and he
so
did not want to hear about anything to do with my love life. Looking at her now you'd never guess it, but Savannah had come from humble beginnings. She was a farm girl from Georgia who had put herself through school on pageant scholarships and money she made selling peaches at roadside stands. She'd created a successful business on her own before she even met Carl, who brought her into the prestigious social circles she ran in now. Savannah knew firsthand what it was like to be an outsider in town, and because of that, we'd bonded quickly.

She said, “Ooh, you weren't kidding when you told me how fine he was. I don't see how you could have broken up with that man candy, you crazy thing.”

“I told you—he lied to me and used me to get information on a case.”

“He was undercover. He had to.”

I lowered my voice. “Yeah, but when he was under
my
covers, I expected a little honesty.”

“Darlin', not every man is Pete Bennett.”

Giving her a perplexed stare, I replied, “Pete? What does he have to do with this?”

Savannah rolled her eyes. “You're so blind. Never mind. Perfect men are as scarce as hen's teeth. Besides, every dog should have a few fleas. It keeps things interesting.”

“Are you speaking English right now?”

“Sorry, I sometimes forget you're a Yankee. What I'm trying to say is that I'd settle for Detective Hunky any day.”

“He had his chance—”

Pete appeared next to me, so I abruptly cut off our girl talk. I hoped he hadn't heard whatever it was that Savannah had just said. It didn't seem like he had, because he wore a serious expression. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to a quiet corner of the room.

“I'm taking Cecilia to the hospital to be with Abigail. Carl said he and Savannah would drive you home.”

“That's fine,” I replied.

He hesitated. I knew what he was going to say. Pete was such a decent guy—he was probably incredibly conflicted about what happened tonight. “I need to ask you something. When we found Abigail, did you happen to glance up the stairs?”

“No, I didn't. I noticed you looking up there, though. You're going to tell me you saw Stan, aren't you?”

Nodding, he said, “Yeah. I'm worried about you, Jules. I don't think you should be alone with Stan until the police have time to clear this up.”

“Oh, come on. You know Stan. I'm sure this is all simply a misunderstanding.” Now both Ryder
and
Pete had warned me about Stan. I didn't want to think badly of him, but frankly I was starting to worry a bit.

“Yeah, I
do
know Stan, and that's why I'm asking you to stay away from him. Detective Likeapony told me that Abigail said she tripped and fell, but why would Stan run away if he was there when his sister started falling?”

“I really can't believe Stan would have pushed her on purpose,” I said. At least I didn't think he would have. I hadn't known him that long, but he didn't seem like the violent type. Pete was being pretty adamant about the issue, though, and I trusted his judgment.

“This whole family is freaking bonkers, in case you hadn't noticed.”

I shook my head. “That's not a nice thing to say about your girlfriend's family, although it's totally true.”

“The thing is, I wouldn't put it past Abigail to cover for Stan, even if he did push her. The Hollingsworths may fight amongst themselves, but they protect the family name at all costs.”

“So you think they'd circle the wagons to protect Stan? He seems to be the odd man out.”

Pete shrugged. “Who knows what goes on behind closed doors here? It's bad enough what happens when there are people around.” He looked down at my dress. “I saw your little scuffle with Delta. I think it's safe to say that you're off her Christmas card list.”

“That old bag ruined my dress.”

He hadn't taken his eyes off my dress, which was still damp and clinging inappropriately to me. “It doesn't look ruined to me.”

“Pete, quit staring at my boobs.”

“What? They were looking at me!”

After one of the uniformed officers had cleared the three of us to go, I said a quick goodbye to Stan and left with Savannah and Carl. It was his turn to be questioned by Ryder. I was relieved Stan wasn't able to take me home, because I didn't know what to say to him. He was smart enough to put two and two together and realize it was either Pete or me who had narced on him, so any conversation would be awkward, to say the least. He seemed a little angry when we said our goodbyes and didn't make a move to kiss me. Our brief relationship may have ended before it even started, not that it would be a big loss in my dating life. I worked at Java Jive sixteen hours a day, six days a week, so it's not like I had time for dating in the first place.

I asked Savannah and Carl to drop me at Java Jive. I had to admit that simply walking through the door to the place at Christmastime immediately melted all my stress away. The coffeehouse always felt cozy, with its dark wood floors and exposed brick walls, but in December, when we covered the place in twinkle lights and garlands, it absolutely glowed with warmth. Being here was exactly what I needed to get my mind off the craziness I'd just had to endure.

I changed out of my damp dress and got to work with my mostly new team of baristas. After the dust settled from the murder that occurred here a couple months back, I'd had two baristas and a kitchen worker to replace. Good help was difficult to find, and training took time. Needless to say, we were still working with a learning curve here.

I heard a sputtering noise, and then one of my newbie baristas, Tiffany, screamed at the top of her lungs. It got eerily quiet in the coffeehouse, and everyone looked toward the counter. Already knowing what had happened, I reluctantly headed her way.

Tiffany was wiping off her arms, whining, “Why does this always happen to me?”

“Did the steamer try to kill you again, Tiffany?” I asked sympathetically.

“Yes,” she replied glumly. She had been splattered (for the third time this week) with hot milk. She had a bad habit of yanking the milk pitcher away from the steam nozzle too quickly.

I very patiently explained (for the third time this week), “You need to turn the steam off
before
you lift the nozzle out of the milk. Otherwise, when the burst of steam hits the surface of the milk, it shoots out everywhere.”

“I'm never going to figure this stupid machine out,” she wailed.

I refrained from pointing out that if she actually listened to the instructions I kept giving her, she would have already figured the stupid machine out.

Cole, who unfortunately was my best and most experienced night shift barista now, rolled his eyes at her. “Dude, seriously. Why don't you work the pastry case for a while, Tiff? At least the cookies can't attack you. Damn.” Ouch. If Cole, of all people, cast doubt on your intelligence and job skills, you were pretty much a loser.

Pouting, Tiffany slouched over to the pastry case, letting Cole take her spot at the espresso machine. Haley, my other new hire, was at the cash register, watching our exchange through her big, buggy glasses and chewing on a piece of her hair. I grimaced. I couldn't stand it when she played with her hair while she was behind the counter—it was so unsanitary. Someone was going to end up with her hair in their food at some point. But, every time I said something to her about it, she would dissolve into tears and cause a big scene, and then I had to deal with that. I didn't have the energy tonight, so I let it slide. At least she was handling money instead of food.