Hammered Page 3

  The fact that there might be more random objects on the floor altered the situation. There was such a thing as “walking down the hall,” and another referred to as “running the gauntlet.” Nope! No obstacle course for her! Not this early in the morning! There was no way she’d risk tripping and breaking her neck. To make matters worse, the load in her arms had tipped, making setting it down imperative. The glass frames and figurines added to the peril, but she refused to add broken glass and porcelain to her growing list of problems and so she resumed the stealthy creep.

  She didn’t get far before—

  Another object!

  One that wouldn’t kick out of the way!

  This one was big … and pliant. From the size and feel, it had to be a trash bag, but what was it doing in the hall? At least she was thinking, and because she was, the question answered itself. One of the staff left it. Someone had been too lazy to bring it outside and instead left it on the floor for her to trip over. This was not acceptable and the employee who made this boneheaded decision was in “yuge” trouble. “Trouble” as in getting their ear and apron chewed off. She hoped it wasn’t Lyddie. She’d hate to have to rip her best friend a new one, even though she’d deserve it for this mistake.

  Anyone would.

  She edged to the side, averting the obstacle in her path and continuing on her way. Her shuffling paid off. The load was placed on the small cabinet against the wall in her office Unburdened and with her arms free, she hurried back to the darkened corridor to scope out exactly what was going on.

  She darted out the doorway, misjudging the distance. Her toe banged into the same soft material, and without thinking, she bent down to drag it out of the way. She grabbed hold, but one touch was all that was needed for a decidedly creepy feeling to sweep over her and envelop her in terror.

  A panic dulled by early-morning stupor took hold as she tried to make sense of what was going on. Instead of her fingertips grasping the anticipated dry, cold plastic housing rubbish, what she touched was tangled, wet, and warm. The worst part?

  The tangled mass felt like hair.

  Ew!

  She shot up, the prime directive of self-preservation that required running away pointing her in the direction of the door. But that wouldn’t happen … it couldn’t. It was her curse to be born with the penchant for sticking around and solving mysteries and not leaving them for someone else to figure out. And so with the need for her to stay alive dispatched of, she rushed to the light switch and popped it on. The eyes half shut because of the hour widened until whites showed on all sides.

  The apparition couldn’t be real, and yet, it was there. It had to be a mirage, and a wild, unexplainable compulsion forced her to find out for sure. She went down on bended knee to touch the object again and make sure it was really what she thought it was.

  “Sam! The back door was open, so I came in … you want these in the kitch—”

  Clementine Ramone was punctual; she’d give her that. Right on time with the delivery, cardboard boxes filled with pastries—both sweet and savory—were stacked in her arms. The baker’s brown eyes bounced back-and-forth between Sam and the dead body lying at the shop owner’s feet before settling in a fixed downward stare. It seemed a bit askew, but what other than the sprawled body could she be focused on? Only one way to find out.

  Sam followed the gaze to find out.

  Blood!

  That’s what.

  Sam’s hands were covered in rich red blood. That was what had been wet and warm. That was what she couldn’t identify in dark—it was all over the place and puddling on the floor. Pooled to the side of the victim’s head, one of Sam’s new leopard-stenciled loafers was soaking in it. And thanks to her irrational behavior, it was smeared on her leggings, her shirt—even on the wall she’d groped in order to find the light switch.

  Clementine’s eyes leveled with Sam’s There was no ambiguity about what she was thinking. The judgmental expression shouted—

  Guilty!

  “N-no, y-you, d-d-don’t und-erstand. I,I d-didn’t—” Sam started to explain, but the rest of her mewling defense got caught in her throat like a giant hairball.

  The baker dropped the delivery on the nearest counter, giving a wide berth to the coffee shop owner still kneeling on the floor. Clementine adjusted the blue baseball cap atop her dark hair before fishing for the phone in her jacket pocket.

  “Think we’d better call the police,” she remarked as she punched in the three most dreadful numbers in the universe: 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was a nightmare.

  Sam sat, trapped in her brand new coffee shop with a team of forensic experts and first responders waiting to cart the body away. Oh, and two detectives—one really good and the other?

  Really, really evil.

  It was the evil one who suspected her of the murder, but where did he get the nerve? Just because she had blood on her hands … arms … slacks … shoes … her new shoes …

  Didn’t that clue whisper “innocent” to him?

  As if she’d mess up a beautiful brand new pair of shoes to commit murder! There were enough old pairs of shoes in her closet that would have sufficed just fine.

  “If you didn’t have anything to do with the homicide, how did the victim’s blood get on your hands?”

  There he went again … sounding like the broken record he was. It was Detective Noah Jennings who was caught in the groove. Tall, dark-haired, and insidiously handsome, his hazel eyes were the stuff delectable whipped lattes were made of. But all the lust those features would normally have ignited was offset by the pair of horns growing out the top of his head.

  And why did he seem so familiar?

  “I told you before, that—”

  “She bent down to find out what was on the floor …. the lights weren’t on … remember?” Jennings’ partner, Craig Petrovich, repeated for her.

  At least someone was listening.

  Jennings shot his colleague a stink-eye, which only proved how childish he was.

  “If we could let Ms. Powell answer these questions for herself, please?”

  The six-foot-one-inch, blonde-haired, green-eyed god of an angel nodded. Detective Petrovich really was something. Were the Mountain Valley Police only hiring hunkadoodles these days? What happened to the elderly, pot-bellied, wizened officers who’d seen it all and then some?

  “What he said,” she answered, pointing at the haloed counterpart and ignoring the surly sourpuss.

  How could someone so good-looking be so obtuse?

  Yes, it was a shame Jennings was so dense. For one, where did he get off categorizing the accident as murder? The woman tripped—tripped over the floorboard that should have been repaired. The gaping hole in the floor should have tipped him off to the cause of the tragedy.

  Jennings flashed yet another disapproving look, this time in response to her flippant reply.

  She couldn’t do anything right.

  “Then you don’t know why she was here?”

  Another ridiculous question, but then—

  It was the only kind that came out of that luscious, kissable mouth.

  “Know why she was here? I don’t even know who she is!”

  “You didn’t talk to her?”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying for the past hour,” she shot back.

  “She didn’t confront you?”

  “No-o-o-o-o-o-o ...”

  “That led to an argument?”

  “No!”

  “That prompted you to take a hammer and whack her over the head?”

  “NO! ABSOLUTELY DID NOT HAPPEN!”

  A red flush spread over her face. This guy was infuriating! It was like he was deliberately provoking her. But the mention of a hammer brought back a memory of what she’d seen when she flipped on the light. There had been a few tools scattered near the body, but how they got there, she didn’t know. All she knew was that they weren’t hers.

  “I don’t know anythin
g about those tools, Detective Jennings. I’m assuming the workmen left them behind.”

  “On the floor?”

  She shrugged.

  “Maybe they were left earlier. I did have this place renovated, you know. And the floor was fixed. I used due diligence, but can’t be responsible for someone breaking into my business in middle of the night—”

  “Morning,” the smart ass corrected.

  “Morning,” she drawled.

  “Then you own this shop?”

  “You know I do.”

  “How would I know that, Ms. Powell?”

  “Because there were full-page ads in the papers that spelled out my intention pretty clearly. It’s the thing you have to do in business … advertise … so you have customers.”

  She followed up the snark with a blank, relentless stare that was known to freeze hell over.

  “Is that so? Well, I don’t read the papers,” he quipped.

  What a surprise!

  “I’d never have guessed.”

  He should have seen that one coming, but her mind was on the crowd that wasn’t inside. The nice pretty yellow police tape with the black typography scared them all away. The only people it didn’t strike fear into were the gawkers. The death attracted spectators come to witness the dog-and-caffeinated-pony show. It should upset her more than it did, but she was only focused on the ka-ching of lost revenue.

  And the victim, of course.

  But the sight of one of the first responders texting a message brought on a new concern.

  Social media.

  What if each gawker tweeted something like: “Come to JUST ADD COFFEE! There’s a #deadbodyinside!”

  That was the kind of publicity every entrepreneur dreamed of receiving. And if each tweeter had one thousand followers, this could go viral and how would she deal with it then?

  A pang of loneliness hit her in the gut. She was isolated and on her own. Lyddie was turned away, as were Katy Sercavic and Nellie Bryson. Her bff and daytime baristas should have been alerted, but the meanie detective wouldn’t even let her make a phone call, but—

  Lyddie!

  Lyddie was the one she wanted by her side during this ordeal. Even though she complained about not getting along with the fashionista, no one knew her better than her old friend, and having someone convinced of her innocence holding her hand would have helped. But Mr. Devil Horns had objected to Lyddie coming in.

  Movement.

  The body was lifted and put on a gurney.

  “So you don’t know the murder victim?” Jennings repeated, kyboshing her appraisal.

  “Accident victim, and, no, I do not know her!” she blurted a little too aggressively.

  So mad. So so so so mad.

  “An autopsy will decide on the cause of death,” he stated.

  As if she needed a primer on that subject.

  She’d spent enough evenings alone watching crime dramas on TV to give a lecture.

  “Why don’t we go over so you can take another look at the victim? Is that okay with you, Ms. Powell?”

  Even the way he pronounced her name got on her nerves. Arrogant didn’t begin to cover it. She hadn’t encountered that sort of blatant egocentrism since—

  “Hey, Stucco! Hold up!”

  Jennings calling out to the short thick man zipping up the body bag jarred her loose from pinpointing where she’d seen the evil detective before. Inspector Javert, the stalker detective in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, had been way too close to her ear when shouting, but it was all good. Petrovich entered her field of vision and took the bad away as he swaggered over to where the body was parked.

  Would now be a good time to tell Jennings she’d never actually gotten a look at the victim’s face?

  It didn’t matter. How could it? It couldn’t be anyone she knew.

  She pulled the hem of the skin-tight black shirt over the spandex leggings. The fiddling ate up time, which was the entire purpose. She reconsidered her previous decision; she didn’t really want to examine the face close up and personal. Except for her grandfather’s funeral, she’d never seen anyone dead.

  The man Jennings referred to as Stucco took way too long of a gander at her runner’s body, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. She took a deep inhalation and looked down at the corpse.

  “Doris Cunningham!” she exclaimed before slapping her hand over her mouth.

  She did know her!

  Taking a step back, Detective Petrovich caught her by the arm before she fell over.

  “Careful,” he cautioned softly. His firm hold sent a pleasurable rush to parts of her body best left alone in polite company.

  Of all times to be clumsy, but then it was her day for tripping. First over bodies, and then—

  Floorboards.

  She’d forgotten about the hole and stepped right in it, but Petrovich was there for her in so many ways. All the ways she could thank him blew past her like a warm Santa Ana wind.

  “Then you do know her?” Jennings taunted.

  There he went—stating the obvious.

  “Yes! I know her, Captain Obvious! She’s Doris Cunningham … the previous tenant. She ran a restaurant … Cunningham’s … mostly fast food … coffee …”

  “Are you saying she was a competitor?”

  Talk about random.

  “Competitor? Oh, you mean because she served coffee? Hardly! I was working at Bliss Happy Homes as a real estate agent at the time, so what exactly would we be competing for?”

  “Well, she had the lease and maybe you wanted—”

  “The lease was up and she moved out on her own. The place was tenantless for two months before I even started looking for space. Does that answer your question?”

  “Not really. You said you didn’t know her.”

  “Okay! I assumed I didn’t.” The comment was directed more at Petrovich, and he gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “Why don’t we have a seat?”

  Jennings’ peskiness interrupted her, making a mental map of the good cop’s face. Then there was chatting him up and—

  Those body parts not mentioned in polite company came back into play.

  “But—”

  Starting to object, she acquiesced, stamping her way over to the table where they’d been seated. She crossed her arms and legs, trying to imagine how this could be any worse.

  It couldn’t.

  But did anyway.

  The crowd outside had burgeoned—and in the front row, was Mrs. Eunice Sager with cell in hand. Sam’s heart sank as she collapsed against her cushioned chair. She’d been right in choosing them. They were uber comfy, but even the ergonomic back support didn’t take the edge off the town gossip having a front row seat to the proceedings.

  “So you want to tell me again about what happened when you arrived here this morning?”

  She sighed, answering his question for the thousandth time and well aware that Sager was snapping away.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Lyddie, it was worse than bad! It was an inquisition!”

  Sam was past famished. She’d been answering questions all day and had only arrived home at half past six. Throwing together a makeshift dinner of day-old meatloaf and a stale baked potato, she wolfed it down as she related the excruciating details of the ordeal to her bestie.

  Lyddie reached out and held the hand not involved in shoveling food, and for that, Sam would be forever grateful. If the blonde goddess hadn’t been so respectful, she might have ended up being jabbed by a fork. The force used wouldn’t have been hard enough to cause damage, only to warn her off.

  “So sorry, Sam,” Lyddie commiserated, but why the grin? Why the twinkle in her eye? Was she getting a kick of her new nickname for Detective Jennings?

  ‘Detective Death’ was so apropos.

  “But,” Lyddie continued, “I’ll bet having that sex-on-a-stick honey-poo lead the investigation took the edge off.”

  What had she said?

  Sam must have hear
d her wrong. If she didn’t, then perhaps the fork plunge would be initiated after all.

  She stopped eating, her face turning stony. The self-pity gone—

  Sam was suddenly ready to hunt bear.

  “You better be joking, Lydia. And in case you didn’t understand, that is a hint for you to say you were kidding, even if you weren’t. Don’t test me on this.”

  The lovely-if-overly-made-up face froze, the mouth opening only enough to allow breathing. Sam could guarantee her friend’s respiratory system would not be functional much longer if she didn’t obey the command.

  Let the battle of wills commence.

  The girl in the turquoise caftan drew away.

  Smart.

  Lyddie was officially out of range.

  “But he’s your type.”

  What?

  Kaboom!

  The fork clattered to the plate. Sam swiped the paper napkin across the mouth filled with half-masticated food. A few swallows of water cleared the impediment to speech. With that dispensed of, the Great Snarkfest would start in T minus 0 seconds.

  “He is not!” Sam roared in response.

  The guided missile landed short of the target sitting three feet away. The only thing it disturbed was Taz, the calico cat, sleeping peacefully on his hammock. Of indeterminate age and pedigree, all Sam knew about Tazzy was that he’d shown up on her doorstep one evening and refused to leave.

  “Is too,” Lyddie shot back, not letting go of her end of the rope. “He’s tall, uber buff, has dark hair … and those eyes … va-va-voom!”

  “First off, who says ‘va-va-voom’ anymore? Second, he’s absolutely not any of those things! In fact, I wouldn’t even have noticed he was in the room except for the fact H-E W-O-U-L-D N-O-T S-H-U-T U-P!”

  It was mostly true.

  She had noticed him, but the attraction was canceled out by the uncompromising evil oozing out his very studly molecular pores.

  “Oh, come on … this is me you’re talking to, Sam! You had to have noticed. I was in the last row in that crowd and didn’t have my contacts in and I noticed. By the way, did you catch Eunice? Of all days for her to drop by, it had to be—”

  “I SAID I DIDN’T NOTICE!” she screamed.