Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1) (5 page)

Rumors had drifted around that she'd moved back while I was out of town, though I had yet to run into her. Which was a good thing, because I was still holding a grudge from the time she stole my tooth out from under my pillow at a sleepover and stuck it under hers for a dollar. A dollar bought a lot of gumballs back in those days.

My breath caught at the next surprise. The name loomed large and a little bit wobbly on my screen: Mrs. Jenkins.

This would be interesting.

I refused to let my mind wander to sinister thoughts, like if Mrs. Jenkins would try to strangle me with a feather boa or suffocate me with a man's button-down shirt. I definitely didn't think about whether or not she'd bring her knife with her, and the thought of calling the police only very briefly crossed my mind. But instead of focusing on the negatives, I tried to look at the silver lining.

At forty bucks a pop for the introductory class, I was headed straight for $240. Which was maybe more of a grayish cloud than the silver lining. When I said the number aloud, two hundred bucks didn't seem like a whole lot of money. But I could buy a good amount of Froot Loops with that dough. Or pay my cell phone bill. Hell, I'd even have a little left over for a lollipop at Sweets. Or even get started on my rent payment for next month.

Filled with these jolly thoughts, I attempted to whistle as I straightened my purple-and-pink-tipped hair. I hoisted on a fresh pair of shorty shorts and a clingy tank top, pulling on a skirt over the shorts. I had a few errands to run before class this afternoon, and there was no sense changing in a few hours. I applied a quick layer of mascara and some Peeps-flavored lip balm.

I'd show this town the art of the tease.

I threw a baggie of Froot Loops into my purse and filled up a bottle with tap water. No more fancy Santa Monica bottled water for me—I was a babe on a budget. I grabbed a light sweater and locked up my grandmother's house.
My house
. I wasn't sure if I wanted to get used to that idea or not. Owning a house here meant roots, payments, responsibility. All words that scared me more than a little.

Fueled by coffee and sugar, now was as good a time as ever to start looking for where Anthony Jenkins went out during his late-night escapades. The logical place to start was Sweets. I'd be able to kill not two but
three
birds with one stone: check out the studio and make sure it was free of crime scene debris, prep it for class, then swing by the candy store for advice. And maybe a lollipop. (Fine, four birds with one stone. I was in need of a lollipop to help with my hangover. Greasy food just didn't do the trick for me—I needed raw, pure sugar injections.)

The walk was pleasant and fast, and I arrived at the studio pretty much sweat free, except for a little bit of moisture on my lower back. I passed by Sweets and waved at Donna, signaling I'd be right back. On the way into the building, I nodded at a pretty blonde, probably on her way to a car parked in the lot behind the building. So far so good—no signs of a murder anywhere on the premises. I marched into the studio feeling fairly lighthearted that my baby was up for class. The floors shined, the lights shone clearly, and…

I stopped. The word
Killer
was written across the mirror in dark, shining red letters.

I took one step closer. Below it, in uneven cursive, was the phrase
Watch Your Back
.

My heart pounded. I glanced around the room, frozen. If the trespasser was still here, I didn't want to run into them. Not if they were mad enough to vandalize my property and threaten me all in one swoop.

I took a step back, glancing around the open studio and seeing nobody. But the reflection of the letters made me see red in more ways than one. A burning rage burst behind my eyes. There was only one closet in the place, and the rest of the studio could be seen by mirrors. If the culprit was here, I wasn't going to hide.

In three long strides, I reached the closet full of sexy playthings: satin gloves, button-down shirts, and rhinestone bras. Without thinking, I yanked the door open. A single black feather laced with sparkles drifted lazily to the ground.

I was alone.

"What happened here?" A raspy, familiar voice shattered the eerie silence behind me.

I spun around faster than I thought possible, and the feather caught a gust of wind and floated toward Mrs. Jenkins.

"Did you do this?" I asked.

"No, I didn't." Mrs. Jenkins walked unsteadily forward, glancing around the room. She bent and picked up the feather, running it lightly across her lips. The effect was a creepiness that caused tingles to scurry down my spine.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to stop by the studio before our first class this afternoon." She fixed me with a nonchalant, even stare that caused me to wonder the level of this woman's sanity. "With my husband being murdered here and all, you'll understand that I had to deal with that alone."

I crossed my arms. "I have to call the police. It's probably best if we don't touch anything and wait outside."

We held each other's stare for a long while.

"Yes, you're right," she said finally, tucking the feather into the pocket of her skintight jeans. There were enough holes in her jeans that I wondered if she'd let a woodpecker loose on them. Her shirt was slightly more material than a bra, cropped to just below her chest and tight enough that I could see the outline of
everything
underneath. Each and every suntanned wrinkle.

I remembered with a crash of reality that I didn't have a phone. "I'm going to go wait in Sweets."

I left the room without a backward glance, hoping against hope that Mrs. Jenkins would leave as well. A part of me wanted her to stay in the studio so the cops could catch her red-handed and take her away. Sure, I wasn't sure if it was Mrs. Jenkins who graffitied my studio at all, but her whole demeanor freaked me out. The sight of her turned my stomach, and it wasn't just the poor choice of clothing or excessive amounts of skin on display.

I pushed open the door to the candy shop.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked. "I gotta call the police."

"For what now?" Donna handed over a light-pink fancy phone. Something I might've had back when I had enough money to live on.

"Someone wrote mean words in my studio. And I'm not sure whether it's blood or spray paint, but I'm not licking it to find out."

The phone rang once. I expected Lana to answer the emergency line.

Instead, I got a male voice. "Hey, baby, what's up? Thanks for the note in my lunch this morning…I don't know what got into you, but I'd
love
to cash in on that offer tonight—"

"Nathan," I interrupted. "This is Misty. Didn't I call 9-1-1?"

There was a long silence. I could feel Nathan's embarrassment from across the invisible phone line. "Oh."

"I didn't know 9-1-1 doubled as a dating hotline." My joke fell flat, and I cleared my throat. "But seriously, is this 9-1-1?"

"Yes. Lana recognizes Donna's number and patches it straight to me. We always got some emergency with the kids puking or pooping or expelling bodily fluids of some sort in a location they shouldn't."

"Ah. Well, I'm looking to report some stuff. Could you give me over to someone?" I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Donna. "Preferably not Jax."

"Sure. No problem. Here you go."

"Sorry about that." Lana, the ageless dispatcher, came back on the line. "I didn't realize…almost everyone has a cell these days."

"Yeah, well. Not this girl." I gave a weak smile at Donna, who was looking on curiously.

"I understand. How are you? It's been a while since you've been back…last time you weren't old enough to drink a beer." Lana cackled. "Though I don't ever recall that stopping you."

"Yes, yes. Good stuff. So, is there someone around I can talk to? Preferably—"

"Preferably not Jax, I'm guessing. You two had a bit of a falling out when you moved away, didn't you? What was that all about, anyway? I always thought you two kids were perfect for each other," Lana drawled.

"Things change," I said. "Distance is tough, you know. Anyway, if you could just…"

"Yes, of course. Say, how are you doing with the whole Mr. Jenkins thing? I personally don't think you could've ever done something as horrendous as that, but you know, the justice system doesn't work based on trust." She laughed until she coughed.

I sighed. "I appreciate your vote of confidence, Lana, but really…could you please?"

"Right. Right. I'll pass you along now."

"Howdy," Alfred sang over the line. "Howdy doody."

"Oh, great," I muttered. I held a hand over the phone and mouthed to Donna. "Seriously? It's
The Brady Bunch
over there."

Donna opened her eyes wide and nodded.

"Hi, Alfred," I said. "I'd like to report some vandalism."

Amid
hhhmmms
and sympathetic
awwwws
, Alfred listened until I was finished speaking.

"I'll be right over to check it out." Alfred paused. "Do you have any guesses who did it?"

I paused. "Mrs. Jenkins was around the studio when I found it. Other than that…"

Alfred cleared his throat. "I'm coming. Be over in a jiffy."

I hung up and handed the phone back to Donna, who was watching with large eyes. "Alfie still has that crush on you?"

"Watch it." I gave her squinty eyes. "I don't want to hear about it."

"Or else?" Donna handed me a Red Vine.

I took one large bite. "What did you have planned for Nathan tonight?"

Donna's cheeks turned red as my licorice, and all of a sudden she became very busy reloading the Jolly Ranchers.

"That's what I thought."

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" Alfred looked at me from across the studio.

I sighed. "Do they always come in pairs?"

"I'll start with the good." Alfred walked over. "It's not blood. It's a goopy paint."

"That's good. But I'm scared to hear the bad."

"You're in trouble." Alfred looked up at me.

"Funny, I came to that same conclusion yesterday. What else did you find out?"

He stretched upward and gave a feeble cough. "Well, the words say
Watch Your Back
."

"Yes. I can read."

"That means someone's out to get you. Any idea why?"

I shrugged. "I moved back to this godforsaken town to live in my grandmother's house and be closer to my baby sister. What on earth is offensive about that?"

"What about the whole…Mr. Jenkins thing?"

"I'm trying to figure that out! I already told you, I know nothing about him except he was my landlord. That's it. He had
no
reason that I can think of to be near my studio that day. I can't find anyone who has any idea."

Alfie nodded, scribbled a few notes onto a little pad he pulled from his pocket, and stepped back. "I'll have a few guys take some pictures and see if they can find anything."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"I doubt they'll find anything," Alfie said. "This looks sprayed on, and I'm nearly positive they wore gloves. I don't think we're dealing with an idiot here. We're talking about murder."

"Right," I said. "A murderer dislikes me, and I don't even know why."

"Do you have a safe place to stay?" Alfie asked.

He seemed genuinely concerned, which is the only reason I responded. "Yeah. I'm in my grandmother's old house."

"All alone?" Alfie asked. "Won't you be scared? If you need someone to swing by and make sure things are okay…"

"Alfie…"

"Too far." Alfie took a step back as I took a step forward, and unfortunately we had a minor collision.

He'd reached back to put his notebook away, but his hand accidentally brushed my butt en route to his pocket.

Great
, I thought.
Now I gotta shower off Alfie germs, on top of evading a killer
and
proving my innocence
. What a great day this was shaping up to be.

*   *   *

"Nothing's going right today," I said to Donna as I leaned on the counter of Sweets.

"I don't envy you." She gave me another Red Vine. "Here's one for the road. Go for a run or something. Your class isn't until two, so you'll have plenty of time. It'll help you clear your head until your studio's all cleaned out. I called my janitors, and they'll clean it up for you. It'll be ready by your class this afternoon."

"You're the best." I gave Donna a hug. "You're the one reason I'm not already back in California. Well, that and the fact I might be arrested if I fled the state."

I chomped down a strand of licorice while heading to my small office at the end of the hallway outside my newly vandalized studio. I pushed open the door hesitantly.

I'd barely spent any time in the office to date. Most of my time had been spent in the studio, organizing props, polishing, scrubbing and cleaning, testing out the virgin floors still free of chair scratches. The office smelled like Lysol and fake flowers. Someone, probably Donna, had come in here after the crime scene crew had poked around and cleaned up.

There were flowers on the desk, and there wasn't an ounce of fingerprint dust anywhere. Someone had overdosed on the Febreze all over my chair from the smell of things, and my paperwork was more organized than when I'd put it there.

The faux clean scent started a wave of nausea that began in my semi-singed nostrils and trickled down to my gut. I quickly grabbed my running shoes from the bottom drawer of my file cabinets and turned to get going as fast as possible. I needed a distraction from thinking about Anthony's body tied in a pair of fishnet stockings, and a jog across town should tire me out.

One drawer caught my eye as I began to close my office door. It was slightly ajar, and there was a silvery-looking finger hanging out.

A glove finger
, I told myself.
Relax
.

Pulling the drawer open, a full-length silver glove was half in and half out of a new package.

Hmmm
. I had been saving these gloves for my first class and hadn't opened the package yet. I pulled the glove out and glanced over it quickly. The packaging had been torn, but the right glove was untouched in the wrapping. The left glove dangled haphazardly over the edge of the drawer.

"Ugh!" I let out a frustrated grunt. I'd been looking forward to one small luxury for my first class. New gloves. And the crime scene investigators had ruined even that. I felt a few angry tears building up, so I stashed the gloves back in the drawer, slammed it shut, and slipped on my running shoes.

I had to get out of here. Nothing felt clean. Nothing felt new. The joy that should've been cropping up for my first day of a new studio, new students, new classes was ruined. And not only was it not my fault, but I was being blamed for it. Why?

Why?
The question pounded over and over in my mind as I set off down the pavement. I hadn't run in quite a while—not since I'd moved back, in fact. Fueled by the unfairness of it all, I felt ready to tackle a marathon. My feet carried me down the familiar road I'd run in high school.

It was a state trail running through the woods. Golden leaves fluttered around my shoulders, and orange, red, and yellow hues created a magical glow. I'd only ever felt compelled to bring one other person here with me. And it hadn't turned out well.

Memories of Jax and me strolling hand in hand during similar fall weather ten years before pushed out all grizzly thoughts of looming murder and danger. We'd been so in love. But I'd been stupid. So damn stupid, and by the time I'd tried to fix things, it'd been far too late. He'd moved on. And was still quite happily existing without me.

Why had I come back?
There was nothing here for me except accusations of murder, threats to my safety, and a former lover I'd thought I was over, but wasn't…at least not according to the slivers of pain jolting through my core whenever Jax was around.

My pace quickened, breathing matching my faster strides. I hadn't run this fast in forever. I needed to be gone. To go away. To run.

I pulled up short at a small clearing, bent over in half, heaving as my guts burned and my breaths came in short, staccato bursts. The pain felt good. I took a few slow steps to catch my breath, gazing around the amazingly unchanged clearing.

A fallen tree trunk made a perfect bench along one side of the circular patch of dirt. All around, the trees cuddled in close, creating a cozy little fort where I'd come as a kid to gather my thoughts. I liked to think that the only other person to set foot here was…

I kicked aside some leaves and brushed a spot clean on the makeshift bench, plopping down unceremoniously. Charred remains of a decade-old bonfire pit littered the center circle, and I bet if I dug deep enough I could find a stolen beer bottle or box of cheap wine.

I'd been a straight A, overachieving student for most of my high school career. Not the obnoxious type, just the type who worked hard, didn't have a social life, and wanted to become the first female CEO of a bazillion dollar company. I'd been valedictorian and winner of the
Most Likely to Be Successful
banner at graduation.

The only fun I'd ever had was with Jax. Whatever had prompted him to notice a mousy, studious, absolutely average girl was beyond me. But once we'd started dating, he'd slowly begun pushing my buttons, helping me to lean on my rigid views of life. He'd given me my first beer, helped me achieve
drunk
for the first time, and kept me out past curfew. I pushed back, studying hard and vocalizing my need to get good grades and go to a good college, but little by little my self-imposed rules bent a bit and even broke on occasion.

He'd been the first (and arguably only) man I'd ever loved.

The night he told me he loved me, I'd had one thought:
if this isn't love, I don't know what love is. I don't want to know
.

My emotions had run so high: scared, thrilled, exhilarated—I'd cried out of happiness and sobbed out of fear that I'd lose him.

And when he asked me to marry him…

"Thought you might be here." The man himself stepped from the woods behind me, pulling a book of matches out of his pocket.

"What are you doing here?" I leapt up and took a few steps back. I didn't feel like getting surprised, scared, or arrested at the moment, and he'd already hit two of the three. I wanted to avoid the third.

Jax stepped past me, pushed away extra debris, and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves into the fire pit. He lit a match and tossed it onto the small teepee. It was ablaze in a second, a beautiful little fire. Looking around, he carefully selected a larger log and added it to the flames.

Watching him was a thrill in itself despite my desire to stay far, far away from the man I'd loved so hard. His naturally earned muscles rippled as he lifted another piece of wood, twisting his chiseled midsection and exposing a row of beauteous abs, visible through his tight, plain T-shirt. His hands, with a softness that I remembered so perfectly, gently placed the log on the pit and adjusted the fire as if his fingers contained magic. (Which they did—I can vouch for them. Pure wizardry, in fact). There was no other explanation for the feelings he could invoke through a single touch or a soft stroke.

My mind flickered through a reel of thoughts, none of which I could find the words to voice. He moved so easily, it seemed almost sacrilegious to break the flow with which he caressed the fire to a warm, sparkling life.

Appearing satisfied, Jax's gaze washed over me quickly, a question silent in his eyes. He looked away just as fast. A few short steps later, he perched next to me on the log.

"You're running." He stated a fact, didn't ask a question.

"No." I glanced down at my shoes. "Well, yes. But not far. Just…jogging."

"Right." The skepticism with which he spoke pained my stomach. It was as if he'd lost all faith in me.

I shook my head. I'd broken his trust, badly. I deserved it. I looked anywhere but him: up through the tree branches, deep into the fire, at each and every single twig and grass strand beneath my dirty running shoes.

I worked up the courage to look at him. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened ten years ago."

Jax started to speak, but I put a hand up and spoke over him until he quieted.

"I should've apologized a long time ago. I tried but…well, I tried. But I didn't come back to take abuse for it."

"Why did you come back?"

It was my turn to pause. "Different reasons."

Jax let it drop. "Did you do it?"

"Do what?"

He leveled his gaze at me, and I knew he was speaking about Anthony Jenkins.

"Do you honestly think I did?" I met his gaze straight on. Neither of us wavered for a long moment. Eventually he looked away into the fire, and I followed suit.

"Tell me about the vandalism."

"What do you want to hear?" I watched the flames flicker red, blue, yellow. "Someone broke into my studio and painted a mess. I'm sure you've seen pictures."

He didn't disagree. "Did you do it?"

"I already…wait, the vandalism?"

Jax merely tipped his head downward as if not wanting to repeat his question.

"Why on earth would I?" My jaw hung open a bit. "You think I'd vandalize my own studio—a
brand new studio
that I poured my heart, soul, and every last penny into—with a threat to myself? For crying out loud, I'm so broke I eat Froot Loops for three meals a day."

"Not a healthy diet."

"Some people prefer their fruit in the form of a loop." I turned my nose up, dismissing his questions as the nonsense they were.

"You're a smart girl, Misty. I have no doubt you've already put together why I might suspect you did the vandalism. Nobody in their right mind would destroy something so important to their livelihood…unless they were trying desperately to avoid jail time. A few scribbled words on the wall beats a life in jail, eh?"

A bitterness welled up in my throat.

"The paint washes off, doesn't it?" Jax pressed.

It was too much. I couldn't handle this latest accusation. I leapt from the bench. "If you think I'm capable of murdering someone and vandalizing my own studio, then arrest me now."

My chest heaved as I looked down at Jax sitting quietly on the log.

I stuck my hands out front. "I'm sick of this. I can't stand it. Go ahead."

Jax stood and stepped toward me. I closed my eyes.

Instead of the cool clasp of handcuffs, Jax's warm, soft hands encircled my wrists.