Death by Pumpkin Spice (24 page)

“Why'd you do it?” I asked, stalling for time. Maybe if I kept him from killing me long enough, Buchannan or Will would burst in and save me. I'd even go for Margaret Yarborough or one of the help, really. As long as it was just me and Philip, I had no doubt who would win.

Philip didn't answer like I hoped. He took a step forward, fingers tightening on his metal pipe.

I tensed and waited. I was either going to do this, or I was going to be knocked unconscious. I refused to run, not when it might end up getting Paul killed if I did.

It wasn't much of a comforting thought.

Philip lunged for me then. His pipe arced down toward my head, and I did the only thing I could. I brought up Will's cane to deflect the blow, much like I had when the dummy had come at me. Cane and pipe met with a jarring crash.

The pipe won.

Will's cane snapped in half as my hands both went numb. I dropped the shattered piece, unable to feel my fingers. Pain radiated from my fingertips, up to my elbows. I staggered back a step, one mirrored by Philip as he pressed his advantage. He swung again, and with nothing in hand to stop the blow, I dropped to my knees.

There was a loud clang as the pipe struck the metal shelving above my head. I hit my knees hard enough to cause me to cry out in pain, but I didn't let it stop me. I had a second or two before Philip would be able to rear back and strike me dead on the spot. There'd be no avoiding the blow this time.

I'd noted a serving platter on the bottom shelf during my hasty perusal of the shelves. I grabbed it then, and using every last ounce of strength I had, I swung it straight at Philip's unprotected shins.

The platter was an expensive one, built solidly, and to last. It struck him in the leg with enough force, I swear I heard it clang against his shinbone. He cried out and staggered back a step. The pipe fell from his fingers as he reached down to grab at his wounded leg. It was all by reflex, and it worked out perfectly for me. I came up from the floor, platter swinging, a scream of frustration ripping from my chest.

His face met the flat portion of the platter with the sound of a gong. With him moving downward, and with me going up, it added to the sudden stopping force of the impact. His head whipped back, and his feet went out from under him like he'd been standing on ice and I'd given him a quick shove. He hit hard, head cracking on the concrete floor. He moaned and went still.

I didn't wait around to see if he'd wake. I rushed over to Paul and dropped to my poor, abused knees. “I'm sorry,” I told him as I patted at his waist until I found metal. I pulled free the handcuffs, thankful he'd included them with his costume instead of using what was his standard zip strips.

“Please don't be fake,” I prayed as I rose and hurried back to where Philip lay. He hadn't moved since I'd last seen him, but I didn't trust it. I'd seen the movies. I was ready.

I reached for his right wrist, cuffs open and ready. Philip's eyes flashed open and he made a grab for me.

“Oh no, you don't.” I brought the cuff down, right on his wrist. It snapped shut, just as his left hand grabbed hold of my hand.

“I'll kill you!” Philip roared. His eyes weren't quite right, as if he was still trying to regain his equilibrium. I think it was the only thing that saved me.

I slammed the other end of the cuff down on the metal shelving, locking it in place. Philip's hand on my wrist tightened painfully, but he was trapped.

“Let me go,” I warned him. His eyes were becoming focused and the rage was clear as day. He grinned, exposing bloody teeth.

So, as casually as you'd like, I picked up a broken fragment of Will's cane with my free hand, raised it above my head, and then clunked Philip Carlisle over the head with it as hard as I could. His light went out. I freed my hand and sagged against the shelving before rising and searching for help.

25

It was another two hours before we were allowed to leave. The crews had finally gotten Buchannan's car unstuck and had lain some hastily acquired gravel to give the cars some traction on the way out. The guests left in an orderly fashion, something that surprised me considering how unruly they'd been during the party.

Paul turned out to be okay after his encounter with the villain, suffering only a cut on his scalp and a wallop of a headache. He wasn't thrilled I'd been wandering around and had happened on the fight, but was appreciative. Apparently, he'd caught up to Philip just as the other man was making his way through the kitchen, toward the back exit. Mitchel had been assigned to watch that door but had been in the kitchen instead, getting something to drink, when it all went down.

Of course, it probably saved him from getting smacked upside the head with a pipe, so it worked out in the end.

After handcuffing Philip to the shelving, and checking to make sure Paul was still with us, I'd quickly gathered a grumbling Buchannan, who took control of the situation. Will took care of Paul's cut and made sure he didn't suffer a concussion, while Buchannan led Philip into the mock interrogation room. Not surprisingly, the killer refused to talk.

There was a buzz throughout the house as we lined up to leave. Margaret Yarborough looked exhausted, but relieved that it was all over as Will and I reached the door.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.

“All in a day's work.” It came out sounding lamer than I'd wanted, but I was too tired to care.

Will led me to the car, hand on my arm as if he thought I might collapse at any moment. Then again, maybe he was making sure I wasn't going to run off again and get myself into even more trouble. My knees were killing me, and my hands still felt tingly, but otherwise, I felt pretty good. I was more tired than anything. The sky was going to start to lighten soon, and I wanted to get a few hours of sleep before the sun rose. I had a long day of work to face in the morning, something I was definitely not looking forward to.

“You okay?” Will asked once we were safely secure in the car and making the slow, muddy trek down the disaster of a driveway.

“Yeah.” I tried on a smile, but it only made my face hurt. A wince worked much better instead. “He didn't hurt me. I did it to myself.” I rubbed at my right knee, which I'd apparently smashed into the floor a little harder than the left. It was going to be black and blue tomorrow.
Maybe I'll have a legitimate reason to call off work in the morning.
If I couldn't walk, I couldn't work.

“You shouldn't have gone off alone.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “You sound like Paul.”

A faint smile lit up his face. His mask was gone, removed sometime while I was off chasing after killers. “Then maybe you should start listening. You could have been seriously hurt. If you were worried about him, you should have come to get me. I would have gone with you.”

“I had your cane,” I said, as if that made it all better. Then, remembering that the cane was now lying in two pieces, I added, “Sorry about that.”

He laughed, though it broke up as he yawned. “Much better to lose the cane than to lose you.”

I blushed and found myself smiling, despite how it made my face ache. It wasn't every day you found a guy like Will, someone who would drop everything to help you. If I would have asked, he would have roamed the house with me, even though he knew he shouldn't. Maybe next time he could be my partner in crime. I'd let him do all of the heavy lifting and wrestling with the culprit. Perhaps then I wouldn't end up hurting afterward.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the car window. Here I was, with a man who was absolutely perfect for me, and my mind and heart were still confused and uncertain. Did I want it to be Will? Or was it Paul my heart pined for? I couldn't believe how hard of a decision it was. I guess that's what happens when all your previous relationships fail and you suddenly have two perfect men in your life. How could anyone make such a difficult choice?

I must have dozed off at some point because Will was shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes and found them heavy with sleep. I smacked my dry lips with a tongue that felt as if it was made of cotton.

“Krissy,” Will said. “You're home.”

“I see that.” I yawned and fumbled for the door handle. “Are you coming in?” The question was out before I could think about what I was asking, and boy did it ever wake me up. I froze and broke out in a cold sweat.

Will's face cracked with a yawn of his own. “I'd better get back home before I fall asleep,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “But if you want me to walk you in, I can.”

A way out or a rejection?
I wondered, then decided it didn't matter. We were both exhausted and had gone through a pretty rough night. The next time someone invited me to a late-night party, I was going to take a pillow and a few snacks, just in case something like this ever happened again.

“I'll be okay,” I said, deciding I didn't want Will to see my house, especially since Misfit had been left home alone all night, without dinner. I'd thought I'd be home in time to feed him. He was
not
going to be happy.

“All right.” Will paused and cleared his throat. “Good night.” Another pause. “Despite everything that happened, I had a good time.”

“Me too,” I said, and I meant it. Sure, chasing after a murderer and running around asking questions of strangers who couldn't care less about who I was, wasn't exactly the most pleasurable experience, but I'd still had some time with Will. And really, I didn't actually hate solving the crime; it was fun in its own way.

What did that say about me that my best dates usually ended with the police getting involved?

Will cleared his throat yet again and looked everywhere but at me. I considered leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek since we
were
on a date, but I was pretty sure if I tried, I'd end up passing out into his lap. That wasn't the way I wanted our evening to end.

“See you soon,” I told him, then dragged myself out of the car. He waited until I'd unlocked my front door and was inside before he waved and backed out. A part of me wanted to chase him down and force him to come in for a little while, but I just didn't have the energy for it.

A meow caught my attention. Misfit was sitting beside his empty food dish, looking as if he hadn't eaten in a week.

“You're fine,” I told him. “It's not like you'll starve to death.” I trudged my way to the cabinet where I kept his food, removed the bag, and poured half of it on the floor when he shoved his head under the bowl, just as I tried to fill it. I was simply too tired to care, so I returned the bag to its cupboard and then headed for the bedroom.

Thankfully, it appeared Misfit had behaved himself. There'd been times when I'd forgotten to feed him on time and he'd destroyed the place. If I'd come home to a shredded pillow or a broken lamp, I would have exploded.

Well, maybe not right away. I would have grumbled about it for a bit and then fallen asleep. His reprimand would have had to wait until morning.

It wasn't until I reached my bedroom that I realized I hadn't grabbed the trash bag containing my dirty costume. My phone and keys were in the pocket of my borrowed pants, so other than my shoes, I didn't care what happened to my lost things. I suppose I'd ask about them when I returned Margaret's clothes.

I stripped out of said clothing and climbed into bed. I was out in seconds.

Even though I was bone-weary, my sleep was restless. Something deep in the back of my mind nagged at me, causing my dreams to be unsettled. We'd caught the killer, yet I was sure we'd missed something. And it wasn't just Philip Carlisle's motive. I was pretty sure the police would eventually get that out of him, or figure it out on their own, so it wasn't that. I felt like I'd stared at something important that was right under my nose and had completely missed it.

I didn't want to, but I was up and out of bed after only four hours of rest. I took a shower, got dressed, and then dragged myself to the coffeepot to start it. I dozed as I waited for the coffee to be done, added my cookie, and sipped slowly as I waited for my mind to kick into gear. I still had a couple hours before I needed to be at work and wanted to use them to think.

Misfit was sitting by his bowl—empty, yet again. I filled it, and this time, he waited until there was some food in the dish before shoving his face inside.

What am I missing?
I thought, sitting down at the island counter. I considered grabbing a puzzle to see if working on one would jog my memory, but decided against it. I'd probably only mess it up in my current state. A yawn that swallowed my face proved my point.

I glanced at the clock. It was only eight in the morning. I didn't have to be in to work until noon. I needed more sleep and thought I could set my alarm for ten or eleven and still make it to work on time, possibly refreshed enough to actually do some work.

I stretched out my legs and winced. My knees weren't black and blue, but they still hurt. I so wasn't looking forward to standing on my feet all day.

But the thought of going to bed just wouldn't fly. My mind was too abuzz with whatever it was I'd missed. I'd end up lying there, staring at the ceiling, wishing I was doing something else.

So, instead of getting much-needed sleep, I grabbed my purse and keys, and left Misfit to gorge himself on food. I had a feeling I'd return to a mess on the floor; the cat didn't have an off button when it came to food. He'd often eat until there was simply no room left.

I got into my car, started it up without checking to see if Eleanor Winthrow was watching me from her window, and then headed to my sanctuary.

Death by Coffee was busy when I arrived. Lena was manning the register, and the new hire, Jeff, was running around, filling orders. I was surprised to see Vicki upstairs, selling books, looking fresh and vibrant, as if she'd just stepped off a runway.

I tried hard not to be jealous. My eyes were puffy, and my entire face felt about two sizes bigger than normal. There was no runway for me; scraping myself off the highway maybe, but definitely no runway.

I slouched my way to the back of the short line. Two yawns later, I reached the counter, where Lena beamed at me.

“Have fun last night?” she asked.

“It depends on what you mean by fun.”

She laughed, and I wasn't sure if it was because she'd heard about what had happened, or if she thought I was joking. Either way, it appeared nothing would mar her good mood, something I wished I could manage more than I did. Somehow, something always seeped in.

“So, why are you here so early?” she asked. “I didn't think you were supposed to be in yet.”

“I thought I'd come in and see what it was like to be on the other side of the counter.”

“Oh! Well, what can I get you?” her grin was infectious.

“Black coffee and a chocolate-chip cookie.” As if she didn't know.

Jeff fetched my order as I stepped aside to let the next customer in line order. I watched him nearly drop the cup twice as he filled it, noting that his eyes kept darting my way. When he finally brought me my coffee, I gave him a reassuring smile.

“Don't be so nervous,” I told him. “You're doing fine.”

“Thanks, ma'am,” he said, not meeting my eye.

“Call me Krissy, okay?”

He nodded vigorously before hurrying away to fill the next order. I watched him fondly, thinking that despite his nervousness, he was going to work out. He was going to be a keeper.

I carried my cookie and coffee to an open table in the back of the room. I plopped the cookie inside and gave it a moment to sop up some coffee and begin to break down before taking my first sip. I wanted to check in with Vicki, to make sure she was really okay, but she was pretty busy upstairs. I could catch her when it slowed down. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed, knowing that if I didn't call now, I'd hear about it later.

The phone rang twice before there was a
click
. “Buttercup?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You okay? I saw the news.”

My dad had begun to check the Pine Hills news reports online ever since I'd started getting myself in over my head with murder cases. He'd probably seen something about Jessica Fairweather's death there. Chances were good my name was attached to the article somewhere.

“I'm fine,” I told him, taking a sip of coffee. Bliss. “It was pretty scary, but I think that had more to do with the house than anything.”

He chuckled. “I saw a few photographs of the place. It would be an interesting place to visit.”

Sure, as long as no one got murdered while you were there.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” Dad asked. “You sound strange.”

“I'm not at home,” I said, knowing that wasn't what he'd meant. “And, well, I feel like I missed something.”

“Such as?”

I sighed. “I don't know. I'm positive we got the right guy, and even if he tries to fight the murder charge, he nearly killed a police officer, so he's going to be in some serious trouble no matter what.”

“But . . . ?”

“But what was his motive? The killer is rumored to be a hired hand. I don't see him showing up to a party just to kill some random girl. There has to be more to it.”

There was a long stretch of silence while my dad thought. James Hancock was a semiretired mystery writer, and this sort of thing was right up his alley. It was likely the reason I was so interested in murder mysteries. I always felt like I needed to do whatever it took to prove I could be just as creative as Dad. He'd never pressured me to it; my own competitive nature did that instead.