Little Shop of Homicide (3 page)

His smile sent a chill up my back, and I was about to make a run for it when I finally spotted my cell hiding beneath a pair of black lace stockings. I snatched it up and sent a quick text.

Woods tried to grab my phone, but I said, “Too late. I already notified my attorney that you’re harassing me and he’ll be here any second.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this.” His eyes glittered with malice. “This time I’m putting you behind bars, where you belong.” He whirled around and marched down the length of the shop, snarling as he went, “You and your boss made a fool out of me once, but you won’t get away with it again.”

As soon as he stepped out the door, I locked it behind him, breathing deeply, as though the coffee-and-fudge-scented air might ease the thundering in my head. A few steps later, I sank to the floor and leaned my cheek on my knees.

During my years working in the investment business, I’d developed a way of shutting off my feelings. In such a high-stress profession, emotional disengagement was often the only way to survive situations in which your decisions could ruin people’s lives.

At first, it had taken a lengthy period of concentrated effort to disengage. But with practice, I’d learned to throw the switch much more quickly; so now, within a few minutes, I sat up and started to think.

What had Woods meant about my boss and me making a fool of him once before? Wait a minute—my first impression of the detective had been that he seemed familiar, and I knew that a lot of municipal employees had been among our clients. Now that I had a chance to gather my wits and really consider it, I was convinced I had seen Woods sitting in the courtroom when I testified at my boss’s trial.

Which suggested that Woods was one of the thousands who had lost money with Stramp Investments. And no doubt he, like everyone else, believed that I had been in on the scheme.
Shit!
He intended to move heaven and earth to prove I had murdered Joelle, if for no other reason than revenge.

M
y mind raced as I finished up the basket I had been working on when Woods arrived. What should I do? I couldn’t face being forced into the limelight again. When the news came out that Ronald Stramp was a swindler, and his investment firm nothing but a Ponzi scheme, I had been arrested—briefly—and come under intense scrutiny by the FBI, the federal regulators, the media, and, worst of all, the people in my hometown.

It didn’t matter that I had quit my job at Stramp Investments months before the fraud was revealed; I could see in my fellow Shadow Benders’ eyes that they were thinking the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That like my father, I was a criminal, too.

Eventually, when I was never brought to trial, the stalkerazzi disappeared, and the furor over my involvement in the Stramp scandal faded away. Since then, I had worked hard to keep my head down and blend in to the community I loved. But another brush with the law and I’d be the town freak forever.

Despite my affection for Shadow Bend, the thought of the whispering and gossip in town if I was accused of murdering Joelle Ayers made me want to move to Bora Bora, or Timbuktu, or even New York City—a place I considered about as inviting as Afghanistan. Except I
could never do that to my grandmother. The geriatric specialist we were working with had told me that the familiarity of her hometown would be a huge plus in keeping Birdie independent and functioning for a long, long time. He had warned that although Gran was doing well, with only minimal cognitive impairment, any major changes in her life might accelerate her deterioration.

Chewing on the end of my ponytail, I made a decision. It was time to consult with my lifelong pals Boone St. Onge and Poppy Kincaid. Not only were they the only ones I trusted, but Boone was my attorney, and Poppy owned Gossip Central, the most popular watering hole in the county.

I had already texted Boone the all clear once Woods left the store, and now I phoned him and Poppy to arrange a get-together. We agreed to meet at Poppy’s bar after work. It was closed on Mondays, so we’d have the two things we needed—privacy and booze. Lots of booze.

The prospect of sharing my problems with friends, and the promise of a frozen margarita the size of a goldfish bowl, got me through the rest of the day. But if I had to pull up my big-girl panties one more time to deal with something that wasn’t my fault, I was afraid the elastic would break and someone would get an unauthorized look at my derrière.

At exactly six p.m., after helping Tammy Harper carry her son’s birthday basket to her minivan, I locked up Devereaux’s and hopped into my sapphire black Z4. I loved that car; it was one of the few vestiges of my old life that I had held on to, rationalizing that if I sold it, I’d never get what it was worth. Plus, I knew that chances were mighty slim that I would own a vehicle like it ever again.

Gossip Central was located just outside the city limits, which was best for all concerned, since Poppy’s father was the chief of the Shadow Bend police force. I
tore down the blacktop toward the bar, Rihanna’s newest hit blaring from my radio as I passed weathered farmhouses and snow-covered fields. Geese formed a black arrow in the cobalt sky, and a goat stuck his head out between the fence rails, staring at me as I zoomed by. I waved at the inquisitive animal, loving the peacefulness of the deserted countryside and relishing the lack of traffic and congestion that I’d faced every day when I commuted to Kansas City.

The road had been cleared after last night’s snowstorm, but I kept an eye out for ice patches and suicidal deer. By the time I turned into the bar’s parking lot, the wind had picked up and the sign over the entrance swung on its chains, emitting a bansheelike howl.

Huddled in my leather trench coat and wishing I could afford to replace it with something more practical, I prepared to face the cold. The coat had been ideal when I bought it two years ago in my prior life, but it sadly lacked the warmth needed for the rural Midwest.

After wrapping my wool scarf tightly around my throat, I sprang out of the Z4 and ran up the steps. Poppy was waiting for me and swung the door wide, relocking it as soon as I was inside. With her cobweb of silvery blond hair, amethyst eyes, and delicate build, she had many men believing she was an angel. They often paid dearly for that mistake, quickly discovering that the only angelic title she was likely to claim was “fallen.”

“Boone’s in number five,” Poppy informed me. “I’ll grab us some drinks and meet you there.”

Gossip Central had started life as a cattle barn, and Poppy had played on that theme. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, while the hayloft could be rented for private parties. She’d converted the stalls into secluded niches with comfortable seating and themed decorations. Secluded, that is, except for the concealed listening devices.

Poppy liked to know what was being said in her bar. She never shared the information with anyone except
occasionally Boone and me, but she enjoyed the power. Poppy had serious control issues—a gift from a father who made a Marine gunnery sergeant seem like a warm, cuddly teddy bear.

Boone was seated on a brown leather love seat in our favorite alcove, the one we’d nicknamed the Stable. He greeted me with a wide smile, his teeth strikingly white against his tanned face. He claimed that his skin was naturally that color, but both Poppy and I knew about the clandestine tanning bed in his back bedroom.

Which was only fair, since he knew all our deep, dark secrets. My biggest one was a tiny shooting star tattoo that I had gotten during a college spring break trip to Mexico, and Poppy’s was how she had gotten the financing for the bar.

After shedding my coat, I plopped down beside Boone, and he snatched me up in a swift hug. Before letting go, he asked, “You okay, Dev?”

I shook my head, knowing I didn’t have to pretend with him. “Not really.”

“You didn’t tell us much when you called.” Poppy placed three glass mugs on the wood-and-wrought-iron feed box that served as a coffee table, then dropped into one of the pair of saddle-stitched club chairs facing us. Her fanny hadn’t even touched the leather seat when she demanded, “What’s up?”

“It’s hard to know where to start.” I grabbed my mug and took a healthy gulp. I had been craving tequila, but an Irish coffee would do, at least for the first round. The hot liquid laced with smooth whiskey slid down my throat, warming and relaxing me for the first time since Detective Woods had barged into my store.

Boone barely allowed me to swallow before ordering, “Just tell us everything!”

“You know the text I sent about police harassment?”

“Yes.” Boone’s hazel eyes crinkled. “To be perfectly honest, until you called and explained, I wondered if it
was a joke. It almost sounded like the plot of one of those trashy romances Poppy reads on the sly.”

“They are not trashy,” Poppy protested.

I rolled my eyes. I could understand Boone’s mystification regarding Poppy’s choice of reading material. After all, there was a lot of irony in the self-professed town bad girl devouring sappy love stories. But what Boone didn’t realize was that Poppy liked these books because she knew exactly how they would end. Literature often didn’t have any kind of definitive conclusion, and that was too much like real life for Poppy.

“You just don’t like them because they have a happily-ever-after ending,” Poppy accused, crossing her arms.

“Which is totally unrealistic,” Boone sneered. “Name three couples any of us know personally who have been married for more than five years and are still in love.”

Hmm
. That was a toughie. Certainly no one in my immediate family. My mom was on husband number four, or maybe five. I’d lost track. Since I heard from her barely once a year, the only way I ever figured out she had divorced and remarried again was when her last name changed on the return address of her annual Christmas card.

Poppy’s parents had celebrated their thirty-fifth anniversary last June, but it would be hard to claim that Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid were still in love, especially since he seemed to spend every waking moment at the police station.

Then there was Boone, whose folks hadn’t spoken to each other since he was five. Oh, they were still married and still lived in the same house, but they communicated only through notes. The invention of e-mail had been a real blessing for them, not to mention saving a lot of trees.

When neither Poppy nor I could meet Boone’s challenge, she said, “Okay. Maybe romances aren’t that realistic, but neither are the suspense thrillers you read.
How many serial killers can there be who decapitate their victims and screw their corpses?”

“Uh, guys.” Before Poppy and Boone got into an all-out literary debate—all three of us were avid readers, but with extremely different tastes—I intervened. “Could we discuss my problem before I’m too drunk to care?” To prove my point I chugged the remainder of my drink.

“Sorry.” Poppy and Boone apologized in unison.

“Okay, then.” I took a deep breath and told them everything, recapping what I had said on the phone and fleshing out the details.

“How does Woods know the fingerprints on the murder weapons are yours?” Poppy asked.

“The cops fingerprinted me when I was arrested after my old boss’s Ponzi scheme came to light.” My heartbeat still skittered into high gear when I thought about that time. “And even though Boone bailed me out within a few hours and the charges were eventually dropped, my prints are still in the system.”

“That’s certainly not fair,” Poppy huffed. “They shouldn’t keep your prints if you’re innocent.”

“Honey, you have no idea how much data the government has on all of us.” Boone wrinkled his nose. “And they never willingly get rid of any of it.”

Boone was a bit of a conspiracy nut, and I knew I had to stop him before he started in on JFK’s real killer, and the true story behind the most recent stock market crash, so I asked, “How much trouble am I in?” Since he was the lawyer in our group, his opinion carried the most weight.

“It’s hard to say.” Boone pushed a swath of tawny gold hair off his forehead. “Most of my practice is in real estate and divorce, not criminal law.”

I cringed. Boone messing up his perfectly styled tresses was never a good sign.

“Depending on how big a jones this Detective Woods has for you, he could make your life miserable.” Boone frowned, then used his thumb to smooth the line between
his brows. “You probably wouldn’t be convicted, but then again, juries are a crapshoot, and with your past…”

He didn’t have to draw me a picture. A jailbird father and a crooked boss wouldn’t win me any sympathy or earn me much benefit of the doubt. “Damn it all to hell!” The Irish coffee threatened to come back up. That was not the answer I wanted to hear.

“Do you think Woods would go as far as planting evidence?” Poppy asked.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “When I was employed at Stramp Investments, I worked with people so shady, their code of ethics and a list of the seven deadly sins were identical, and they didn’t scare me half as much as Woods does.” I rested my chin on my fist. “What am I going to do?”