Morning Cup of Murder (4 page)

“Is that why we’re here now? To frighten children?” She had the sudden vision of them banging on windows, scaring pimple-faced teenagers into celibacy. Strangely, the thought wasn’t repulsive to her. Maybe she truly wanted to keep kids on the path of righteousness, or maybe there was a hidden part of her that wanted to take a power trip.

“No, that’s not why we’re here.” His warm tone caused her to look up at him in alarm. Surely he wasn’t suggesting they should make out, was he? Her heart started to thump painfully again. “It’s a pretty view,” he added, quelling her quaking nerves back into submission.

“It is that,” she agreed. They both faced forward to watch the last few rays of sunlight dissolve into the horizon.

“I’ve been watching you since you came back,” he announced into the sudden silence.

“Creepy stalker, party of one, your table is ready,” she replied.

He ignored her. “You’re interesting. You keep to yourself, but you’re observant. You watch people. I can’t figure out what’s going on in your head. And you’re funny, even when you’re not trying to be.” She frowned at that, but he didn’t notice.

“Something happened in
New York
, something that hurt you,” he continued. Apparently she wasn’t the only observant one in the car. “No comment?” he asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

She remained stoic, enjoying the opportunity to have a legitimate reason to stare at him. He was so very pretty with his chiseled jaw, kaleidoscope eyes, and long, dark lashes.

She wondered if he read the attraction she felt for him because he swallowed hard and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I didn’t expect you to be interesting,” he commented. “I don’t remember you as being interesting before you went away. And I don’t remember…” He broke off and looked away, almost like he was embarrassed.

“Don’t remember what?” she asked. Why did he have to stop talking just when he seemed to be getting to the good part?

“I should get you home,” he said. He started the Jeep and pulled out of the lot, effectively cutting off any further communication. He pulled up behind her car, still parked in the jail lot. “I’ll follow you home,” he said.

“Jason, what should I do about my grandma?” she asked.

“Hire a good lawyer,” he said.

She frowned, instantly furious with him all over again. “She didn’t do it.”

He shrugged. “If Detective Brenner thinks she did, then he’ll do everything in his power to keep her in jail. She needs a lawyer, Lacy. A good one.”

Lacy felt like crying and was suddenly desperate to get away from him before her tears could start. She fumbled for the latch on the seatbelt a few times before realizing it was stuck.

“That happens sometimes,” he said. He leaned over her and pressed the release button. When it didn’t budge, he released his own belt and moved closer, placing both arms over her to try and reach the belt.

Why does he have to smell so good
she wondered. Female criminals must throw themselves at his feet, asking to be handcuffed.

“This thing is really jammed,” he said. “There.” The latch popped free. He looked up at her with a smile and froze, very close to her face. “Sorry about that,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. She had no idea why they were whispering.

“I’ve never seen someone with red hair and no freckles,” he said. His eyes skimmed her face before resting on her lips.

“Glad I could be the first,” she said. He was so close and so pretty. Never before had she been this physically attracted to someone. Previously she had prided herself on valuing a man’s mind over his body. Personality and intelligence had always been at the top of her list of requirements. Now she began to see why some women went for looks. Jason’s handsome face and well-cut physique made her weak-kneed and addlebrained. When she realized she was the one who put her hands on his shoulders and began to close the distance between them, she came to a sudden stop and jerked back against the car seat. Jason, who apparently came to his senses at the same moment, jumped away from her as if she were a puff adder.

In his haste to get away from her, he hit the steering wheel, causing the horn to beep. The loud sound shattered the stillness, making her already frazzled nerves dance. She jumped down from the car, stumbling a step and using the driver’s side mirror to steady her balance.

“Okay?” he asked, his tone clipped.

“Okay,” she replied. “Thanks for the lift.” She didn’t look back as she practically ran to her car. She wished he wouldn’t follow her home. She wanted to take a few minutes to rest her head against the steering wheel and gather her senses. Instead she drove home on autopilot, let herself in the door, and waved to let him know she was okay.

Once his Jeep was out of sight, she leaned against the door, slid to a sitting position on the floor, and rested her head on her knees. What was wrong with her? She had vowed to have nothing to do with men ever again, and now she had almost kissed a
Jason
. He was everything she didn’t want in a man--cocky, too handsome, a small town guy, and irritatingly out of her league. If she ever decided to date again, she wanted a nice man who was smart and could make her laugh. If he wasn’t horrible on the eyes that would be a bonus, but not a necessity. No matter what, she vowed not to get involved with Jason Cantor. But even as she made the vow, there was a part of her mind that was busy continuing their aborted kiss attempt. How would it feel to kiss Jason Cantor? He was and had always been the nicest-looking guy of her acquaintance and she, Lacy Steele, had come
thisclose
to kissing him. With a groan of frustration she closed her eyes and let her skull thump against the door.

Chapter 4

Lacy was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Thoughts of the confusing evening with Jason as well as the heartbreaking vision of her grandmother rotting in jail were certain to keep her up all night. But they didn’t; she slept well and soundly, only waking the next morning when the phone began to ring.

“Hello,” she said, reaching blindly for the jangling instrument and speaking into the wrong end.

“Miss Steele, this is Ed McNeil. I run a law firm in town, and I hear your grandmother is in need of my services.”

Lacy adjusted the headset, frowning into the correct end now. Ed McNeil was a familiar name in this town. He was a smarmy ambulance chaser, always defending guilty criminals who found themselves on the wrong end of the law. The police hated him. Other lawyers resented him. Even the people he defended disliked him because his fees were so steep, even though he was usually successful at getting them off.

“No, thank you,” Lacy said sleepily. “I have someone else in mind.”

“Now, ma’am, from what I hear, your grandmother doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance. I’d say I’m your last hope. You don’t really want to turn me away.”

Her frown deepened to a scowl. Was that true? Was this oily creature her grandmother’s only hope? No. Truth would prevail; and, more importantly, she didn’t want her family associated with this man and his unethical defense tactics. “No thank you,” she restated more firmly.

“But I really think…”

She hung up on him. The phone rang again. She let it go to her grandmother’s old-fashioned answering machine, guessing correctly that it would be Ed McNeil again. He left an obnoxiously long message, extolling his own virtues and reiterating that her grandmother had no hope without him.

When the phone rang again, she let that go, too. Another lawyer from the McNeil firm left another depressing, desperate message.

“Ambulance chasers,” she muttered. Throwing off her covers, she stumbled to the shower. She emerged clean, but not refreshed. A glance at the clock showed her why; it was only seven in the morning.

As she passed by the answering machine in the kitchen, she saw that three more messages had come in while she was showering and she didn’t need to press “play” to know who they were from. The phone rang again, and she turned off the ringer.

She had three hours to kill before she could visit her grandmother. Now was the time to gather information. Grabbing her laptop, she returned to the coffee shop that had become her second home. As usual, the place was filled with a dozen blue hairs. On almost every plate was a large bran muffin.

“Hi, Lacy.” Peggy the cashier’s tone was sympathetic when it was Lacy’s turn in line. “You’re here early today.”

“Coffee, please. And a muffin.”

“We’re out of bran,” Peggy said.

Lacy stifled the unbidden urge to laugh. “Chocolate chip will be fine. That’s my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Peggy said conspiratorially. “Although when you get to by my age, you start giving up the things you love for the things that are good for you.” She set a muffin on a plate, poured a coffee from the pot, and slid them across the counter. They exchanged money, and Lacy turned to go.

The line behind her was still long. She had to pivot around several of the town’s elderly who made no move to get out of her way. She sat at a tiny table not far enough from civilization to suit her. Jason’s comment from the night before came to mind.
You keep to yourself.
Did she really? Did people view her as standoffish?
New York
had taught her to mind her business, but she never lost her insatiable curiosity about the world around her.

She slumped over her muffin feeling suddenly defeated. Maybe she was depressed. Her life had certainly become depressing. Where was the joie de vivre she had once felt? When had excitement over her future been replaced by pessimism? Was she doomed to repeat this muffin-consumption routine until she died? Was her life out of surprises?

Her computer came to life, offering a blessed reprieve from her sad introspection. As soon as she cleared up this mess with her grandmother, she was getting out of this town. Nothing good or interesting ever happened here. What Lacy needed was a shot of excitement, stat.

The town’s only newspaper came to life on the screen. The main headline screamed something about the county fair next week. It took Lacy less than a minute to discover the story she was looking for. “Woman Found Dead in Home,” the headline read. But a click of the link showed nothing more than Lacy already knew.

“Barbara Blake was found dead in her home yesterday. Police are still investigating.”

That was it; that was the extent of the story. After a few seconds of stunned disbelief, Lacy threw down the remainder of her coffee and muffin, gathered her laptop, and stormed out of the café.

The beauty of a small town was that everything was within walking distance to everywhere else, which was good because Lacy didn’t have a car. Occasionally she borrowed her grandmother’s car, but she tried not to do that often, hating to be more dependent on her family than she had to be. She didn’t mind walking; she had grown used to it in
New York
where public transportation made a private vehicle unnecessary.

The newspaper was three buildings from the coffee shop. Lacy walked inside and impatiently drummed her fingers on the counter as she waited for someone to notice her presence and offer help.

Eventually a large woman stood and sashayed to the desk. “Can I help you?” She sounded bored. Or tired. Or both.

“I would like to see the editor, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Lacy looked around the tiny, empty building. “Are you kidding me?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. Turning to look over her shoulder, she yelled, “Len, some girl for you.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and waddled back to her chair. Lacy was almost certain the chair groaned when the woman sat down.

A balding middle aged man--Len?--poked his head outside an office. “What?” he snapped, frowning as he looked Lacy up and down.

“I came to talk to you about the murder story in the paper this morning. Or rather, the lack of a story. I cannot believe that an actual murder in this tiny town got exactly two lines of coverage.”

“The story broke last night after we were closed,” he said wearily.

“And no one was willing to work overtime to report on it?”

“No,” he said sharply. “For what I’m able to pay, no one was willing to work overtime. Not even for a murder.” Turtle-like, he withdrew his head back into his office.

“Wait,” Lacy called.

Again his head poked out of the office while his body remained hidden inside. “What?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Good for you.” The head began to withdraw again and Lacy hastened to continue.

“I could write the story freelance and you can pay me by the word.”

The head paused, considering. “I pay less than average.”

“Shocking,” she said dryly.

He actually smiled at that. “All right. Have at it.”

“So, just to confirm, if anyone calls you and asks if I’m a reporter working for the paper, you’ll cover me,” she said.

“Look, kid, we aren’t Woodward and Bernstein. No one’s going to call. No one’s going to care.”

“They’ll call. They’ll care,” she said confidently. “I plan to rattle a few cages.”

“Rattle away,” he said, looking a little less bored. “What’s your name?”