Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

And think about my options, I supposed.

I didn’t know if Chintilly would use her influence with the producers to get me fired, but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t going back to The Rambler.

The static image of Joe and Chintilly burned into the back of my skull. Joe propped against the dressing table, Chintilly standing between his parted thighs, her robe falling off her shoulders, his palm cupping one of her perky breasts…

I blinked and grimaced and shook my head until the image scattered. This was the problem with thinking about my future, the past kept sneaking in.

Maybe I’d just grab that coffee and spend the morning visualizing the look on Joe’s face when he discovered how I’d invested his savings.

I took a leisurely walk down Main Road, window-browsing as I went. I was paused outside Binneman’s Books when I saw Mrs Colby step out of Cuppa-Cake. I hadn’t seen her since the incident with Ms Daggon and Muffins last Christmas, but it seemed the intervening months hadn’t done much to cheer her spirits. The shawl she wore over her paisley shift dress was clutched tight around her stooped shoulders and she walked at a quick shuffle, her eyes on the pavement.

I waved and called out, “Hello, Mrs Colby, how are you?”

She glanced up, saw me, and immediately averted her gaze.

I smiled uncertainly. “Mrs Colby?”

Her head snapped the other way. I thought she’d walk straight past, but at the last moment she drew to an abrupt halt and looked me in the eye.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you spread malicious gossip, Maddox Storm,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “Your mother will be hearing about this.”

I opened my mouth to ask what I’d done, but she was already shuffling along.

What in the world?

Lily’s face was plastered to the front shop window, unabashedly watching the show. She met my bewildered gaze, hurried to the door and popped her head out.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Mrs Colby’s in a dreadful fluster.”

That much was obvious. “But what have I supposedly done?”

“It’s not you she’s upset at, Maddie, it’s that new detective. He seems so nice and charming, doesn’t he? Only, he had her hauled into the station for questioning like a common criminal. I’ve been feeding her chamomile tea for the last hour, but poor Mrs Colby’s nerves are shot.”

“Why would he…?”
Oh, no.
Snippets of my loose-tongued rant came back to me and my stomach dropped.

He wouldn’t dare!

Except he clearly had if Mrs Colby’s verbal attack was anything to go by. I wasn’t the one spreading malicious—okay, well, I wasn’t the
only
one spreading malicious gossip and at least I didn’t haul innocent old ladies out of their morning routine and give them the flutters.

I spun about and charged across the green. Lily called after me, but it was just background noise to the red mist bubbling in my head.

I didn’t actually recall telling the detective that Mrs Colby had wagged her finger after the departing Buick, threatening to kill Ms Daggon deader than dead, but it was a possibility. A lot of that morning was a blur, thanks to my early bird surprise and a couple of shots of Jack Daniels. I’d definitely told him about Muffins, that much I did remember, and maybe that was enough for plausible motive?

I bounded up the town hall steps, hooked a right down the passage and barged through the glass-paneled door of the police station. Suzie-Sue was at the front desk, popping gum and admiring her manicure.

“Suzie-Sue?” I said, double-blinking at the round-faced girl with auburn locks teased to high heaven.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, that’s the best her parents could come up with. Maybe they just liked the name so much, once wasn’t enough.

“Hey there, Maddie.” She blew a bubble, popped it, then sucked the gum back in. “I hear you’re the lady of the hour.”

I didn’t even want to ask.

“I need to see Detective Bishop,” I said politely, sounding like a perfectly sane human being without a flicker of homicidal tendencies. An Oscar winning performance, if I said so myself.

Suzie-Sue’s baby blues narrowed on me and her tone became all prissy. “Detective Bishop’s not available right now.”

My blood pressure climbed a notch.

Of course he wasn’t available. He’d probably dragged Mrs Biggenhill in straight after he was done mauling Mrs Colby. Oh dear Lord, who else had I incriminated? I couldn’t think of anyone right now, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t. In any case, the things I’d said about the Daggon-Biggenhill saga overshadowed anything and everyone else. If anyone had motive for murder, it was poor Mrs Biggenhill.

Suzie-Sue popped her gum and went back to admiring her nails.

I rounded the long reception desk, my eye on the swing doors behind. Unfortunately, Suzie-Sue was not
that
engrossed in her manicure. She reached the doors before I did and spread-eagled herself in front of them like a mother bear protecting her cubs.

She was also a whole lot couple of inches shorter than me, which allowed me to glare down on her with serious intent.

“Let me through,” I pushed through gritted teeth. This was ridiculous. Did Suzie-Sue even work here? I was pretty sure she’d still been in kindergarten when I’d graduated high school.

She gulped, and I think she might have swallowed her gum, but she didn’t budge. “I can’t let you go back there.”

“Then fetch the detective,” I said. “Tell him it’s me and I need to talk to him right away. It’s urgent.”

“I told you, he isn’t—”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” My fingers itched to throttle her. “For all you know, this could be a real emergency.”

“Aha.” She brought one arm down to point a finger at me. “You wouldn’t have said that if this
wa
s a real emergency.”

I’d forgotten about that. Suzie-Sue had a sharp mind to go with that sassy mouth.

The door behind her swung inward, nearly taking her with it. Jack put a hand out to prop her upright again as he looked over her shoulder to me.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his brow wrinkling. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing like that,” I assured him. “I’m looking for Detective Bishop and I don’t care if he’s busy, Jack, I really need to talk to him right now.”

“You just missed him.” He nudged Suzie-Sue gently aside so he could get past. “He took a team up to Hollow House.”

“Who does he plan to arrest next?” I spluttered. “Burns?”

“Hey there,” Jack said, looking mightily concerned, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped back and I didn’t wait around for his response.

I hurled myself about and stormed out of the station, flying down the passage and breaking into a full-on sprint before I reached the bottom of the town hall steps.

I was acting like a madwoman, I knew that, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I wasn’t just mad, I was scared. I’d indulged in plenty of harmless gossip over the years, but this was serious. I’d shot my mouth off and now people were being harassed by the cops. Visions of Mrs Biggenhill pleading her innocence on death row swam inside my head. My stomach soured and I ran faster, as if I could save the world if I could just catch up to Detective Bishop.

I didn’t pause for breath, not until I came up around the back of Hollow House and the moment I did, my legs turned to instant butter.

Holy crap, I’d just sprinted a half mile without even thinking about it.

Adrenaline was better than jet fuel. That adrenaline still coursed through my veins, but I’d burned off the edge.

On the side of the house, pulled up around the kitchen door, was an unmarked black van, a police cruiser and a black truck. The kitchen door was closed and guarded by a uniformed cop. Short brown hair and a neatly cropped beard, a face I didn’t recognize.

Before I could demand an explanation, he called out, “Please go around the front entrance, ma’am, police business.”

I walked around on my rubbery legs, sucking in gasps of air that my lungs desperately needed, but didn’t seem to want.

My phone chirped crickets at me. I slid it from the elastic inner pocket of my sweats. Between the blood-rush to my brain, the cramp in my side and the swat team at the back door, I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d hit the accept call button and put the phone to my ear before realizing it could be Miss Crawley, the last person on earth I was in the mood to talk to.

“Ms Storm?” queried a pleasant female voice. “I’m calling from Desson, Bright & Russel.”

“Speaking,” I said, vaguely recalling something about the name Bright.

Either way, it could only be one of the divorce lawyers I’d cold-called. What was it about legal firms that they always had to include everyone plus the kitchen sink in their name?

“I just wanted to let you know that we’ve had a cancellation and Mr Bright can see you this afternoon at three,” she went on. “If you can make it.”

My head developed a sudden ache.

“This afternoon’s impossible, I’m afraid,” I told her.

She sighed softly down the line. “Hmm, it’s short notice, I do understand, however if you can’t make it…” Silence for a moment, followed by, “The next available appointment is Tuesday, four-thirty?”

“Excellent, I’ll be there.” I hung up, belatedly aware she might have needed more details from me.

But I couldn’t think about Joe and the divorce now.

My phone beeped as I climbed the steps to the porch. I checked it and saw a text message from the law firm confirming my appointment for next week Tuesday.

Wonderful.

I was getting divorced next Tuesday.

Absolutely freaking wonderful.

The front door stood open and I walked in to find Burns behind the reception desk. On his feet and wide awake. He clutched the lapels of his jacket, his cheeks puffed up like indignant balloons, the confounded look on his face slightly stirred and thoroughly shaken.

That just made me madder.

“Where is he?” I said. “Where’s Detective Bishop?”

“Ms Daggon’s room, last I saw,” Burns murmured. “They could be crawling all over the house by now. I didn’t know if I should stop them, Ms Storm. They have a search warrant.”

A search warrant?
“Where’s Mr Hollow?”

“He went out this morning,” Burns said in a new extreme to that muted tone of his, swallowing more words than he spoke. “I’m not expecting him home until this evening.”

From the look of him, I’d assumed Burns understood the severity of the situation. But maybe not. “You need to call Mr Hollow at once.”

Burns shook his head. “He doesn’t believe in cell phones.”

“They’re not an urban myth, Burns.” I still had my phone in my hand and I held it up to show him.

“It’s the brain tumors he has a problem with, Ms Storm.”

“Of course it is,” I muttered in exasperation.

I didn’t want to deal with all this swat team search warrant crap. All I wanted was to set Detective Bishop straight on what I might or might not have said and get his grubby hands off innocent folk.

Burns just looked at me, white-knuckling his poor jacket lapels.

I threw my hands up. “Fine, I’ll just take care of everything while Mr Hollow enjoys his tumor-free day, shall I?”

“Would you?” Burns exhaled a sigh that pricked the balloons he’d been hiding in his cheeks. He sank into the chair behind the desk and released the death grip on his jacket to fold his arms and assume the napping position.

Apparently the man didn’t understand sarcasm.

I marched across the foyer and down the narrow hallway in a huff, my ears pricked for sounds that might filter from the stairs above. I swear, if I found strangers had crawled anywhere near my bedroom, my head would literally explode.

The kitchen swing doors had been propped open, the threshold crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. This was surreal. This kind of thing didn’t happen to normal people living normal lives in normal homes.

I pressed a finger to the tape and watched the action behind with a sense of ever-dwindling realism. Two men worked the room. One picked away at the charred remains inside the oven. The other appeared to be shopping in our pantry, packing all our groceries into olive green crates.

Plastic slippers wrapped their shoes.

White surgical masks and gloves covered their mouths and hands.

What were they afraid to contaminate? There was nothing left after the emergency sprinkler flood and Burns’ efficient mop.

“Ms Storm?”

I whirled about, slap bang against a granite slab of chest. With a small cry, I jumped back and my gaze shot up into Detective Bishop’s smoke-gray eyes.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “And why are you taking all our food?”

“Everything’s being sent off for analysis. I’m afraid it’s not safe, anyway, not until we’ve identified the source.” He brought out that slow, warm smile of his, the one that invited you to come on in and trust him with your first born child. “I’ve been waiting for you or Mr Hollow to return before we start upstairs. We have a search warrant, but I prefer to keep things amiable where possible.”