Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1) (2 page)

"I don't know, Misty," Jax said, shaking his head. "But it's my job to find out."

"Ms. Newman, may I ask you a question about your personal life before we start?"

"What sort of question?" I asked hesitantly.

Alfred Shnocklepops, an unfortunate name tagged to an unfortunate body, sat before me. The plump cop had a row of pimples across his forehead that vaguely resembled the Rockies, and his hairline had been receding since sixth grade.

"How many lovers have you taken since me?" His round eyes stared at me with alarming clarity.

I started. "What?"

"Relationships, Ms. Newman. How many relationships have you had since ours?" he asked with a sweeping gesture.

I glanced around the room where I'd been taken to answer a few questions. I'd been provided with coffee and water, and it seemed like the cops were trying their best to make me comfortable. Except for Alfie's probing questions, that is. "Alfie, we never
had
a relationship."

I was ashamed to admit that Alfred Shnocklepops had been my first kiss—not because of his looks but because of the reason behind the smooch. Looking back, it would've been nice if my first kiss would be a romantic moment, something sweet and memorable, with someone I loved.

Instead, Alfie and I had been two six-year-olds playing dodgeball on an old, rickety playground during recess. At the time, I had whipped the ball as hard as my scrawny arms could at none other than Jax—the elementary school heartthrob—but Alfred's big noggin got right smack dab in the way. It wasn't my fault his head was the size of a watermelon.

Little Alfred had proceeded to cry and scream and generally make a fuss for the rest of recess. Since I desperately didn't want him to tattle on me in front of Jax, I pleaded with him to reconsider his formal complaint to our teacher.

I've never been proud of it, but eventually Alfie agreed to a deal. His one condition, however, was that I give him a kiss. Which was the story of my first smooch.

"I see," Alfred said, after a mini stare-down. He tapped his pencil,
tsking
sadly, as if I were in denial of a special relationship we'd once had.

I made a sound in my throat, but I was trying to follow that old rule: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. A grunt didn't really count as
saying
anything.

"Let's move on." Alfred looked at his paper. "Where were you on the night of Anthony Jenkins's murder?"

I paused a moment to collect my thoughts. "You're going to have to be more specific. I have no idea
when
you're talking about. Today? Yesterday? Two weeks ago?"

"Last night. Anthony Jenkins's body was found in the alleyway outside of your studio this morning, and he was believed to have been killed late last night. Where were you?"

"I was at home." I crossed my arms. "Reading."

Alfred gazed me over. "Reading what?"

"Books." I sealed my lips shut.

"Can anyone vouch for you?" he asked.

"Yeah, a bottle of wine and a bowl of Froot Loops," I said.

"Now's not the time to be funny, Ms. Newman." Alfred's ears tinged a bit red. "Please tell me about your relationship with Anthony Jenkins."

"Anthony?" I still didn't see the connection. I didn't have a ton of feelings one way or another toward the guy. "He was my landlord. I barely knew him."

"That's not what we've heard," Alfie said with a hesitation.

"I don't know where you're getting your information. It's terrible that he was murdered, of course, but it wasn't like I was friends with the guy. We were business acquaintances." I was lying only a little bit to Alfie.

I'd interacted with Anthony once or twice outside of our business transactions, but only because he'd asked me out on a few dates. I'd always declined—he was
married!
—but I didn't want the guy
dead
. In fact, we'd struck a pretty sweet deal on my studio only a month before when I'd moved back to town from shiny Los Angeles. It was one of the reasons I'd made my way back to the Midwest in the first place. He'd given me a price on real estate that I couldn't refuse.

"So you're denying any relationship with the man?" Alfred looked a bit miffed, as if my
relationship
with the landlord was any of his business. Even though I wouldn't dream of even holding hands with Anthony Jenkins.

"I'm confused at this
relationship
you speak of," I said. "I moved back from LA a few weeks ago. I needed space for a studio, and he was the landlord of the Crossroads strip mall. It's in town, a prime location for a dance studio between Sweets Candy Store and the Beauteous Babe salon. We negotiated a good deal. Bam. Done. That's it. I paid him first and last month's rent early. I didn't owe him a dime."

Which was good, because I didn't have a dime. I'd funneled all my savings into ripping down the dusty old market previously occupying the space and turning it into a bright and sparkling dance studio. If I didn't succeed at teaching burlesque classes, I was in deep doo-doo. Right now I was able to afford Froot Loops and oatmeal, a relatively well-balanced meal in my book. It would be gourmet compared to the cardboard boxes I'd be eating if my classes didn't take off.

"What would you say if I knew that there was more between the two of you?" Alfred stared eerily into my eyes, as if waiting for the dirty truth to come out. A dirty truth that didn't exist.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my body suddenly feeling weary. "Can I go? I have classes to teach."

Alfred's gaze didn't waver. "I'll need a list of the students in your class."

"Why?" The main reason I was hesitant to hand over that info was because of the fact that current enrollment numbers were a little on the low end—a.k.a Zero.

"Because the body was found just outside your studio, in the alley. Strangled with a pair of fishnet stockings. We'll know for sure in a few days if they're yours or not, but I do know that you're the only burlesque dancer in this entire town at the moment."

"Other people might have stockings," I said.

"We'll wait to see what the tests show," Alfie said, neither confirming nor denying my point. "I'll need a list of everyone who was inside your studio between last night and now. And, Ms. Newman, someone saw something, I guarantee it. We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Good." I raised my chin. "I hope you discover the killer, because it wasn't me. For the record, I have no students currently, and nobody was in the building until Jax asked me to come in for questioning."

He sniffed, as if my acknowledging Jax was a low blow to his ego. Alfie's gaze was cold and stern, as if he believed my reappearance in town had caused someone's death. The thought churned my stomach, and I regretted the second bowl of Froot Loops I'd consumed for breakfast.

"Do you have a reason to keep me here any longer?" I forced myself to keep my gaze strong.

Grudgingly, Alfred stood up. "Don't leave town, Ms. Newman."

"I won't. I didn't do anything wrong," I said, meeting his gaze. Though in my heart I knew I was innocent, Alfred's unconvinced look twisted my stomach in knots as he led me from the room.

I couldn't bring myself to go past the studio on my way home. Not only could I not bear the thought of seeing crime scene crews tear the place apart—not after my heart and soul and money had been poured into the place just as firmly as the cement in the floors—but I also physically couldn't bring myself to the studio. I didn't have a car.

I'd sold everything after moving back from Los Angeles. I preferred not to think of it as a failure. Instead of a walk of shame, I viewed it as a stride of pride. After all, who wants to waltz into the cemetery on their deathbed all intact and beautiful? I was more of the belief that skidding in all torn up, a little bit worse for the wear, was worth the stories behind the scars. That was a quote somewhere, for sure.

But those scars came at a cost, and this time, it was a car. As I walked down the lonely street, I forced myself to focus on the one piece of worth I had left in my life. The car, the costumes, the furniture, the computers had all been sold. But my grandmother's old farmhouse remained in my name. She'd died six months before and left it to me, and I was just coming back now.

On the market, it was worth next to nothing.
Location, location, location
, they said. Well, its location was crap. It was next to a small pond, just outside of Little Lake proper, not quite far enough to be a "private" farm but not close enough to be "in town." The place was old and borderline kept up enough to be livable, but nothing to brag about.

However, I loved it. The pale yellow house was built of character and smelled lightly of peppermint and honey. The floors creaked in all the familiar places, and the ceilings were tall and lofty. Every afternoon sunlight streamed into the huge, cobwebby windows, painting the floor in a golden glow, perfect for reading a book on the couch. More importantly, it reminded me of my grandma. And, it was mine.

A car honk pulled me out of my reverie. I had about two miles left of a hike to get home, a walk I didn't mind. It'd give me something to keep my mind off the murder, get me some exercise, and take up some time. All for the price of zero dollars.

But as I continued down the side of the road, visions of Anthony Jenkins kept coming into my mind. I'd seen him on a few occasions, and even talked to him on the phone before I'd moved from California. But there had been nothing between us. Nothing at all.

I'd paid him my rent. We'd had a bargain—I had no incentive to kill him. And despite him being a little bit creepy, I couldn't see a reason anyone else would want to kill him either. He was a staple in town—a strange man with greasy hair who was harmless. Every town had one of them.

A rush of sadness coursed through my veins. Death was always a sad event, and it irked me beyond belief that people who knew me—had
known
me since high school—thought I was capable of being involved in something so dark. That's what really bothered me.

"Misty May?" A shrill voice pierced my eardrums.

I looked up. "I'd recognize that voice
anywhere
!"

The car stopped in the middle of Main Street, a minivan that stretched just under a block in length. The woman leaping out of the car was all cute and bubbly, short blonde hair kept in a perfectly coiffed soccer-mom bob.

"Misty May, how have you not stopped over yet?" Donna Bartman, née Adams, gathered me in a squeeze. She was a little cushier than during our high-school-days hugs, but I guess that was expected five kids later.

She was just as pretty and full of life as she'd always been. And as it always had been, we lived polar opposite lifestyles—perfect complements to one another. Her days revolved around family and kids, and activities and schedules. Mine varied erratically, leaving me feeling as if I was on top of the world one day and down in the dumps the next. A lot of people would call it unstable. I would agree.

"I've been back only a short time, and with the studio being built…plus, I heard you've been out of town?" I held my lifelong best friend at an arm's length, faux scanning her up and down. "Don, you look
great
."

"Thanks! I've lost thirteen pounds since baby
numero
cinco
. We've been visiting Nathan's family up in the Cities for the past couple weeks before the kids start school again, and we just got back last night." She paused, her breath coming in short gulps. "How are you?"

Her question struck a chord deep inside. It suddenly seemed like it'd been a long time since anyone had asked me that question and meant it. I'd moved across the country, poured my heart into a new business that was on the verge of failing, and been accused of killing a man, but it was this simple question that caused my eyes to well up with tears.

"I'm okay," I said, my voice cracking. I sat down on the curb, right there on Main Street, and let the tears peppering my eyes skid down my cheeks.

Donna didn't miss a beat. She just plopped right next to me and threw her arm around me, rubbing my back lightly as she'd done numerous times before: after the first night we'd discovered wine and decided to drink
all
of it, when we'd gotten in trouble for breaking curfew, when we'd cried over unreturned phone calls from boys in fifth grade. I felt home for the first time since I'd been back.

"What's wrong?"

My lip quivered, and I prayed silently that neither Jax nor Alfred would drive by and see me weeping on the side of the road. Then again, Donna was Jax's sister, and she'd ream him a new one if she knew he was the reason for my tears.

The day's events poured out in uneven glops. My retelling of the story was all over the place, sprinkled with tidbits of my reasons for moving back from the City of Angels, the struggles of building a studio and adjusting to small-town life, and the reality of failing with my roster of zero students. How she managed to piece together my phrases into a coherent story was pure and utter magic.

"Wowzers, life is never boring around you, is it?" Donna put her arm around my shoulder. "The most exciting part of my day was when Nathan Jr. pooped on the potty."

"You don't want
this
kind of exciting," I sniffled.

"Look at the bright side," she said. "You didn't do it, right?"

"Right."

"Exactly. So find out who did, and you're golden."

"Find out who…you mean, like a detective?" I raised my eyebrows. "Isn't that what the police are for?"

Donna smirked. "Yeah, yeah, but they got a lot on their plates. Like enforcing the lawn-watering rules and making sure Bonnie Mayweather's dog doesn't crap on the fire hydrants."

She leaned forward. "Misty, let's make it happen. I'll help you. I could use a little excitement in my life."

I looked up. "I don't want to get you involved. You have a family, and I'm sure Nathan wouldn't approve."

"We won't do anything dangerous," she said. "Just poke our noses around a bit."

I shifted. "How do you mean?"

A slow smile spread across Donna's face. "I do have one piece of news to tell you, and I think it'll be
perfect
to help you figure out who knew Anthony Jenkins."

"Tell me!" I said, leaning forward. My eyes were now dry, an effect Donna always had on me.

"I'm taking over Sweets Candy Store! We'll be business neighbors!"

"That is amazing!" I said, squeezing my bestie into a bear hug. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she said grinning. "And it will be perfect. People come to gossip in Sweets all the time. I have to kick Bonnie Mayweather out at store close three nights a week. She goes through a bag of jelly beans a day just to hear the latest news. I am sure Anthony will be the talk of the store over the next few weeks. I'll be able to poke my nose around a bit."

My lips quirked upward. "That would be so great, Donna. Wow. Thank you so much."

Donna nodded. "Of course. I
have
to show you what I've done with the place. I hate to toot my own horn, but I really love the new setup."

Sweets, the rusty town candy store, had been around ever since my parents were born. There was an old-fashioned soda fountain, a counter full of enough ice cream to give you a brain freeze for years, and so much sugar your teeth decayed a little bit every time you walked into the store. It was glorious.

"I'm thrilled that you've found something you want to do," I said. "I don't know how you manage your time. Are you Superwoman?"

She shifted, uncomfortable as usual with a direct compliment. In addition to being awesome in all sorts of ways, she was also humble. But as soon as Donna resumed talking about her new business, the sheen returned to her eyes, and her voice sizzled with life. "I can do it part time when the kids are in school and have the high school students help out in the other seasons. It'll keep me busy—plus it's good for the town. They were gonna shut it down. But anyway, more about that later. Right now, we gotta focus on getting you out of this mess."

"How do you figure we do that?"

Donna shrugged. "Well, if it wasn't you, then it's gotta be somebody else. We could start by trying to figure out who might've wanted Anthony Jenkins dead."

"Or at least what he was doing in the alley behind my studio, or who else was around on Wednesday," I said thoughtfully. "But it's been so long since I've been back in town, I can't think of who Anthony might've had a beef with recently."

"Good thing you have me on your team then," Donna said with a wink. "Like I said, Sweets is great for gossip!"

"By the smile on your face, I'm guessing you have an idea where we could start?"

"I would suggest starting with his wife," Donna said, looking at her watch.

"So soon? Do you think she'll want to talk about her husband's murder already?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins had a very unique relationship," Donna said slowly. "Strained might be the word to describe it. Let's see if she's open to us stopping by. If not, we'll leave."

"I don't know what I'd do without you," I said, leaning in toward my friend and nudging her gratefully. "You're one of the main reasons I moved back."

"Little Lake's not the same without you," Donna said happily. "I'm glad you're back."

A decent line of cars had built up behind Donna's ginormous van on Main Street. There was plenty of space for them to go around, but Little Lake was full of the nosy type of citizens, small-town folk who loved to gossip. Seeing me have a breakdown on the side of the road would be the beauty parlor equivalent of obtaining a front-page scoop. They'd be rich in gossip for the week.

"You'd better go," I said. "Thanks again."

"Call me!" Donna said as she waved at all the cars and took a small bow. "I want to help you with this thing."

The drivers honked and hooted and catcalled, most of them over seventy years old.

"I will," I said, gesturing for her to get in the vehicle.

"Hey, why are you walking, anyway?" Donna asked.

"No car." I shrugged.

"You got food?" she asked.

"Froot Loops."

"Get in."