Death Stretch Read online

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “I wouldn't know.”

  After gulping, I managed a reply. “Never mind.”

  He opened his mouth and I'm sure he was about to give me the standard warning so I blurted, “I know. Don't leave town.”

  He smiled and nodded. “We'll be in touch.”

  Whoa, baby. His low voice touched a nerve and Cop A-hole made a one-eighty back to Cop Sexy. Given my proximity to a murder, that wasn’t a good thing.

  Chapter Two

  Chocolate. The only thing that could save the day was a cocoa-based gift from heaven. The Chocolate Fix on Main Street was closer and just as divine. Ginger and I headed there so fast, I almost ran. Even if nothing else about today scared me, two bouts of exercise in one six-hour stretch promised nightmares.

  Most people would search for health and life after confronting death. Not me. Exercise or chocolate? Please. No contest.

  I inhaled the unique aroma of the store, feeling my blood pressure drop with every breath. Jimmy Buffett has his frozen concoction that helps him hang on. I have chocolate. Less fuss, less muss, no frozen sinuses.

  We bought truffles and settled into wrought iron chairs at the small marble-topped ice cream tables in front of the Fix's large front window. Sunshine flooded the dark ceramic floor tiles next to us, radiating welcome warmth. Even though spring bloomed outside, my bones ached from delayed shock.

  Mona promised the hot chocolate we ordered would only take a minute but that sixty seconds sounded like a long wait. If you've ever been present when someone died, you know how I felt. Shaken, not stirred.

  Ginger placed her hand over mine. “You okay?”

  Nodding, I bit into a truffle dusted with cayenne. The creamy ganache melted in my mouth while the spice reminded me I still lived and was glad of it.

  My friend glanced at the chocolates beautifully displayed on a square white plate but didn't touch a single one. “This wasn't supposed to happen. I never thought you'd get caught up in my mess. It should have been simple. Find the blackmailer and report him to the cops before anyone found out.”

  By “anyone” she meant her husband, Rob. By my count, he didn't deserve her discretion.

  “Ginger, you've saved my butt more often than I can remember. I'll have your back whenever you need help. Stop worrying and eat a truffle before I eat yours too.”

  She didn't move, not a millimeter, and her stillness scared me. God, gruff humor hadn't worked to make her feel better. Time to up the ante.

  I placed my hand over hers and squeezed. “Ginger, we're the Demonic Duo.” I waited. The corners of her lips twitched but she remained quiet. “Don't make me say it.”

  Ginger's lips curved up. “Say it.”

  “I really hate it when you make me go girly.”

  “Say it or I'll never share chocolate with you again.” Despite her almost smile, tears welled in her brown eyes.

  Oh, crap.

  Grasping her hand, I took a deep breath and spoke past my dry throat. Declaring love out loud was not easy for me. I'd rather show it and Ginger knew that.

  “I love you, Ginger. Don't do this, please.”

  Mona, the owner of Chocolate Fix, plopped two mugs of hot chocolate in front of us. “Don't do what?”

  The hot drink, made with half-and-half, shaved Belgian chocolate and topped with real whipped cream, called to me like a siren to sailors. Not too sweet, smooth and silky, the rich confection had me ready to beach myself on the nearest rocky shore. I licked off my cream mustache before answering. “Get upset about what happened at the Yoga Studio.”

  Mona slid her generous curves onto a nearby chair and picked up the truffle Ginger and I planned to split. She noticed my raised eyebrow and shrugged. “I'll give you another one. Now, tell me, were you there when Morgan died?”

  Ginger's mouth dropped open. “You know what happened already?”

  “Your other classmates came in after the cops took their statements. What took you so long? I had to hear the news from some snarky blonde.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned her attention to me. “I heard you tried to save him.”

  A nod seemed a good enough answer.

  “Too bad. If I'd been there, I'd have told you not to bother.”

  A jolt ran through me, my spine straightened. This was a Mona I'd never seen before. Her eyes held fire, her cheeks stained a mottled pink and her breathing heavy. What the...?

  Mona leaned closer. “The man was trouble.” Her voice dropped. “His beauty was only skin deep, if you know what I mean.”

  Even though Mona was a long-time friend, this was Ginger’s story. Her quickie affair with Morgan wouldn’t just destroy her marriage. It could also land her in jail.

  I caught Ginger's shadowed expression and stalled. “I'd never met Morgan before today. I'd seen him around, but that’s it.”

  Mona sniffed. “You didn't miss much. Not unless you wanted to get screwed. The talk around town made him a maestro in bed.”

  Her face turned candy apple red. Huh? Maybe she was one of Morgan’s multitudes.

  Nah, I was pretty sure Mona didn't like men enough to exchange saliva with one. The blush must've come from the odd sense of decorum I'd noticed before. Odd because Mona had founded an original Hippie commune out west before moving to our little North Carolina town ten years ago.

  I realized I didn't know much about Mona other than her incredible talent with chocolate, a skill that conferred sainthood on a person in my opinion. But, death, possibly murder, had a way of making you think twice about friends. Just what was her relationship with Morgan and why was she in such a snit?

  Without glancing at Ginger, I responded. “No, I didn't know.”

  “He went from one woman to another like a chocoholic running through a five-pound box of Belgian truffles. Rumor had it, his studio was nothing more than a way to pull in harem candidates.”

  I’d bet my last bite of truffle that Mona referred to Flash. “Did the snarky blonde gossiping about Morgan’s death in here look like a runway model?”

  Mona nodded.

  “She told everyone at the studio that Morgan was a stud.”

  “No doubt. But from the gossip today, he'd been asking to be killed for months.”

  The store chimes rang and Mona moved to help a new customer. Ginger's face made a ghost look robust. I pushed the plate of truffles toward her and she lifted one to her mouth. It was easy to see she ate on autopilot.

  “So what? You got hooked up with Svengali. Everyone makes mistakes. Sounds like you had company.”

  My friend smiled halfheartedly. “Yeah. That makes me feel better.”

  We finished our serotonin/sugar input in silence. The store grew crowded, and almost everyone discussed Morgan's death. Without speaking, Ginger and I got up and left. On the way out, I called to Mona. “We'll catch up with you later to redeem our extra truffle.”

  That's a promise we'd keep. Besides, I needed an excuse to talk with Mona with no one around. If she really had the skinny on Morgan, her info might help me identify Ginger's blackmailer.

  “I didn't do it.” Ginger's words sounded torn from her gut.

  “I know. Goes without saying.”

  What neither of us wanted to discuss was who, in our small-town-turned-trendy-growth-suburb, might have murdered Morgan. Because his death sure hadn’t looked natural.

  Now that was a mystery I was happy I didn't have to solve.

  ****

  The doorbell rang. What the...? My friends know to give a shout out and come on in. It's not like they'd be interrupting me doing the dirty with anyone. I haven't had a man in a while. Mona would say “way too long without sex,” but I'm not Mona.

  I grasped the doorknob, ready to throw open the door, when I realized I should probably check the peephole first. After a quick look, my hand flew off the knob. The long-lashed hazel eyes I’d peeped seemed a travesty in Detective Johnson's stern face.

  My face warmed, and my pulse quickened. This was not go
od on too many levels. I was stymied for a moment.

  The doorbell rang again, the sound impatient. Or maybe I picked up the vibes from the man on the other side. Would he be Cop Sexy or Cop A-hole? Either way, I was in deep. Might as well get ’er done. I threw open the door.

  “Don't you know you're supposed to ask who's at the door before you open it?”

  Ah, my answer. Cop A-hole had arrived.

  “Don't you know a peephole when you see one?”

  “What, this thing?” His finger flicked dismissively toward my lighted Kokopelli flute-playing doorbell/peephole combination. One of my former boyfriends installed it before taking off for Arizona. The gizmo didn't fit in with my Southern small town, but sometimes neither did I.

  “My peeper does the job. You came here to insult me, is that right?”

  I watched him inhale, like he held in a rant. Shame on me, but pissing off the man held a certain appeal.

  He took a breath through his nose, his gaze lifted for divine inspiration, or perhaps patience. “Break-ins are common these days, so maybe you should use the dead bolt.”

  “How do you know I don't?”

  “The lock didn't tumble before you opened your door.”

  “Oh.” It's hard to be sarcastic to a guy whose job is to “protect and serve.” Speaking of serve, those lips could offer… no, I wouldn’t go there.

  “So, Detective Johnson, what does bring you by?”

  “I have a few more questions. Mind if I come in?”

  My brain stopped at the word come. Silly, but have I mentioned it's been awhile since I’ve dated?

  He grabbed my arm. “Ms. Sheridan? Katie?”

  The sizzle of his touch jolted me back to life. “Um, sure. Sorry, I haven't cleaned yet today.” Or last week, but who's keeping count? And why apologize?

  I closed the woman's magazine I'd left open to an article on Giving Good Head and shoved it under a pile of papers, hoping Detective Johnson hadn't noticed my reading preference. His smirk suggested he probably had.

  My attention shifted into hostess mode. I might be a slut wanna-be, but my Mama raised me right.

  “Something to drink? I have iced tea, bottled water, Pepsi.” I stopped before adding “wine and beer.”

  The smirk disappeared and his jaw tightened. “All I want are answers.”

  His sudden mood change threw me. I struggled for composure. Cop A-hole had returned.

  He consulted his notebook. “A witness reports you bent over and touched Anderson's body before you left the room. Care to tell me why your accounts differ?”

  Oh, let me count the ways. “First, I told you—I didn't bend over or touch Morgan's body. I stopped to make sure he hadn't seen me then I scooted to the bathroom. Second, I don't know who told you something different, but I'd like to know why they lied. Third, if I had bent over, you would have seen the puddle, because I really had to pee.”

  Crap. I hadn't meant to say that last part aloud.

  Detective Johnson looked away, but not before I saw his grin. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you should stop drinking from that big bottle of water you carry. No wonder you need the bathroom so often.”

  “Toxins. I flush them with water.”

  “Leading to the Mrs. Crankshaw effect.”

  We faced each other so I couldn’t miss his raised eyebrow. “What?”

  “Don't tell me you're on some weird diet. Having as many curves as the Blue Ridge Parkway isn’t a bad thing.” He coughed and looked at his notes.

  My stomach dropped deliciously. I could fall in love with this version of the man. I squashed that thought under my steel-toed work boot. “Who said I bent over and touched the body? Everyone had their eyes closed.”

  “Apparently not everyone.”

  “I guess someone could have seen me standing. When I looked around, everyone seemed lost in Nirvana. The place you're supposed to find with meditation, not the band.”

  “So you looked around? Why? Feeling guilty? Or making sure there were no witnesses?”

  “I didn't do anything to Morgan. I didn't even know the man.” I stopped to control my temper but my raised voice proved my failure. “Who said I did more than stand there?”

  He didn't answer my question. “If you were leaving the room, why didn't you take your things with you? Isn't that proper yoga etiquette?”

  How did he know yoga etiquette? Finally I had a clue to my accuser's identity. The finger pointer had to be Flash. She'd made a big deal about my not removing my shoes instantly when I walked in the door. I knew I didn't like her. But why would she lie about my actions? And why had she been watching me? “I told you. It was my first lesson. I had to use the bathroom. I figured everyone would be up when I returned to the room.”

  “So your story is you didn't know the victim, didn't bend over him and didn't kill him. Is that right?”

  “Right.” My pulse slowed and my chest ached. “Was he really murdered?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, he really was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm working to answer that question. Meanwhile, don't—”

  “Yeah, I know. Don't leave town.”

  He grinned. “No, I was going to say don't forget to lock your door. Any nut job could get in here.”

  “Including you?” Dang, there went my smart mouth again.

  He shook his head. “I don't want another case on my overloaded desk because you're too naïve to take precautions.”

  “So I'm off the suspect list?”

  “I didn't say that. We're investigating everyone. I'll be back when I have more questions.” “Don't forget to lock your door.” He pointed his index finger at me. “And don't leave town.”

  “Sheesh.”

  He stomped out the door, leaving me with too many questions and a vague sense of unrest. If only we hadn't gotten interrupted at Mona's before she'd told us why Morgan had been headed to Corpseville.

  Crap. I should have mentioned Mona to Detective Johnson. On second thought, good thing I hadn't. Her information could lead the cops right back to Ginger.

  Chapter Three

  Ginger answered on the first ring, her voice low and urgent. “I can't talk now. Rob just got home. I'll call you later.”

  I stared at the receiver, the dial tone loud and clear. What the ...?

  My stomach growled almost as loud as the dial tone, so I replaced the receiver and headed for the kitchen. Ginger never hung up on me. And where had her husband been on a Sunday morning? He wasn't a church-going man, and a small paunch indicated he'd taken a hiatus from running.

  Morgan's death was making me crazy. Ginger and I considered Morgan an unlikely blackmailer. So the threat remained. Maybe Mona could shed light on the situation.

  I hopped on my bike and headed for the Chocolate Fix. Yeah, I know. More exercise on the same weekend. I needed to stop before fitness turned into a habit, but I had no choice. My car sat in the shop and the bike remained my only transportation. Ginger offered to lend me a car but I didn't want the responsibility. The combined cost of the Howe vehicles could purchase three of my bungalows.

  ****

  Dang. I stood in front of the Fix, lungs heaving and sweat once more pouring off my forehead. Too bad I forgot Mona closed on Sunday, but then it wasn't every weekend I became a murder suspect.

  I should let things go. Yeah. Just go home.

  Avoiding my sweaty reflection in the store window, I eased onto the bike seat and peddled toward home. I didn't need a mirror to know my black hair stuck to my head, and my brown eyes looked like they belonged on a velvet painting.

  Having taken the same route hundreds of times, I pedaled by rote, barely noticing the houses of friends and neighbors I passed every day. Too bad I couldn't put my brain on automatic. My mind kept replaying the previous day's events. Detective Johnson stayed at the forefront of the memories.

  Morgan's face floated to mind. Such a vital man. Dead.

  Ginger, threatened by a
blackmailer who might or might not have been Morgan.

  Me, questioned by the police. Treated like a criminal. Told I couldn’t leave town.

  Could my life get any worse?

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a dark SUV with tinted windows ten feet behind me. Strange. He had plenty of room to pass me on the back street. The engine noise revved up.

  Time to get this moron on his way. I motioned for him to pass, but he hung back. The engine raced. I glanced over my shoulder. Sunlight glared off the SUV’s chrome grill. I winced. My eyes closed, but not before I saw the vehicle veer toward me. Crap, he wouldn’t miss me. I needed to move and fast.

  I swerved to the side and ran up the Haywood's driveway, steering with one hand. I hit a rock. The bike dropped to the side and so did I. My hands took the brunt of the impact, scraping as I sandpapered the cement. I rolled to a sitting position.

  The SUV raced off, now too far away to catch the plate. If I hadn't turned sharply onto the drive, I’d be hamburger.

  My hands stung. I cradled them to my chest, breathing quickly and trying not to cry. I don't know how long I'd been blubbering when Mrs. Haywood ran from her house, a first-aid kit in one hand and cell phone in the other. My mind blanked as she fussed over me.

  I had to stop asking rhetorical questions. Yes, life could get worse. Much worse. If the SUV driver hadn't just proved that fact, the arriving car did. Detectives Johnson and Pulaski arrived on the scene.

  “So you're working Traffic Division now?” I bit my bottom lip but the gesture didn't retract my words.

  Dirk raised his eyebrows and looked to his partner. Detective Pulaski shrugged and answered. “Just lucky. We were the closest unit.”

  “We’d have stopped anyway. When a suspect or material witness is involved in any altercation, we get notified,” Dirk said.

  Mrs. Haywood gasped and spurted half a tube of antiseptic cream on my hands. She trembled and leaned away from me. “I'm sorry dear. I wouldn't have called the police if I'd known.”

  I looked her in the eyes. “Mrs. Haywood, Detective Johnson is teasing. You've known me for years. Do you really think I'm mixed up with criminals?”