Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery Page 2

  “Still, you’re nearly thirty and never been married.” Woods’s expression reminded me of my grandmother’s Siamese cat—right after it had finished eating my beloved pet gerbil. He prodded. “It had to gall you, making a ‘do me’ basket for your rival.”

  If he thought using crude language would bother me, he had no idea what I’d been exposed to in my past profession. Still, I glanced longingly at the rear exit, wishing I could just run away, or better yet, disappear. But I hadn’t gotten an MBA from a top university, and survived working under a vicious man who considered the glass ceiling his protective barrier, to crumble that easily.

  “First,” I said, in my stop-screwing-around-with-me voice, “my marital status is none of your business. And second, I’m finished answering questions until you tell me what this is all about.”

  “We can do this at my police station if you prefer.”

  “Fine.” Brass tacks were something two could use to pound home a point. “I’ll call my attorney and have him meet us there.” I’d never liked bullies, and this one was ticking me off big time.

  Minutes went by as we stared at each other, and when I didn’t break the growing silence, he blew out an angry breath. “Joelle Ayers was found dead Saturday night.”

  “Oh, my God!” Considering that he’d been asking about her and identified himself as a detective, I was prepared for something bad, but not that.

  As I struggled to comprehend that someone I had spoken to less than forty-eight hours ago was no longer alive, Woods hit me with another bombshell. “You used to work at Stramp Investments.”

  “Yes.” Damn! If he knew that, he’d obviously been checking up on me. What else had he found out? “I quit last May and bought this business.”

  “So, your departure had nothing to do with your boss stealing investors’ life savings?” His nostrils flared. “Or was the cash to buy this store your payoff for keeping your mouth shut about his criminal activities?”

  “No!” I was becoming more worried by the second. It was common knowledge that a lot of people thought Ronald Stramp’s employees were as guilty as he was, and having left several months before he was exposed had not spared me from the accusations or the venom. “I had no idea what he was doing.”

  “Are you telling me that you quit a high-powered, high-paying job to run a little country store for no good reason?” His pupils dilated.

  “I thought I wanted a career—turned out I just wanted a paycheck,” I joked. When he didn’t smile, I tried again. “If at first you don’t succeed, redefine success.”

  “Are you mocking me, Miss Sinclair?” His fist came down on the worktable’s surface and a bottle of Merlot crashed to the floor.

  I jumped. Oops! Evidently Woods didn’t appreciate my twisted sense of humor. So as I cleaned up the broken glass and spilled wine, I quit trying to lighten the mood and said, “The commute from here into the city was brutal, and I needed to spend more time with my grandmother.”

  “Right.” My alarm seemed to pacify him, and he squared his shoulders. “You’re just a dutiful granddaughter willing to give up a six-figure salary to take care of Granny.”

  “It took me a while to see that making a living isn’t the same thing as making a life.” I knew it sounded corny, but it was the truth.

  Woods snorted, then lobbed another grenade. “Is that why you killed Joelle Ayers? She got in the way of your plans for a fresh start. A fresh start that was supposed to include marrying Noah Underwood.”

  “No!” I didn’t like how my voice squeaked, or the fact that my knees had started shaking, but there wasn’t anything I could do about either one. “You’re saying Joelle was murdered?”

  “Don’t act so surprised.” His tone was hard. “Your fingerprints were all over the murder weapons.”

  “But how—” I controlled my voice with an effort. “I mean, that’s not possible.” I regrouped. “Either you tell me the whole story or I’m not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer.”

  “If that’s how you want to play this.” His eyes burned with resentment, and he appeared to be involved in some intense internal debate, which he seemed to be losing. Finally he ground out, “Since the room service asshole who found the vic took pictures with his cell phone and they’re already on the Internet…” He trailed off, then twitched his shoulders as if angry for explaining himself to me. Finally, he continued. “She was handcuffed to the bed, a champagne bottle stuffed down her throat, and a five-and-a-half-inch metal-tipped stiletto high heel rammed into her heart.”

  “Oh, my God!” Velvet-lined handcuffs and pink champagne bottle—I mentally checked them off the list of playthings in the Strawberry Seduction gift basket I’d put together for Joelle, but I was sure high heels hadn’t been included. “My prints couldn’t have been on the shoe.”

  Woods stared at me without responding.

  Finally I asked, “Who would do something like that?”

  “How about her fiancé’s jealous ex-girlfriend?” His dark, predatory eyes studied me for another long moment. “Where were you Saturday night between six and seven?”

  Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I struggled not to show my panic. A flashback of my one and only visit to my father a year after he’d gone into the penitentiary nearly paralyzed me. I was seventeen, with too much imagination for my own good, and I’d been terrified that when visiting hours were over, they wouldn’t let me leave. What if this man made that nightmare come true?

  “What in the hell? Are you taking a nap?” Woods’s ruddy complexion turned a livid purple. “It’s a simple question. Do you or do you not have an alibi?”

  Ignoring the sharp pain behind my left eye, I lifted my chin and said with as much conviction as I could muster, “Yes, I do. I was home all evening with my grandmother, Birdie Sinclair.”

  What I failed to mention was that Gran generally fell asleep in her chair right after supper and woke up only long enough to watch the weather at the end of the ten o’clock news before going to bed. That, and the fact that although she could tell you exactly what dress she wore on her first date with Grandpa, her short-term memory was a little shaky at times.

  “Grandmothers have been known to lie for their grandchildren. Anybody else see you? Any calls?”

  “No.” Hoping to convince him, I added, “But I can tell you the plot of all the shows I watched.”

  Woods sneered. “Ever heard of TiVo?”

  Crap! On to plan B. “I have no reason to kill Joelle. My brief relationship with Dr. Underwood ended over thirteen years ago and I barely knew his fiancée.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Woods plucked a black satin whip off the table and stroked it. “But how about those fingerprints I mentioned?”

  “Fu—” I stopped myself. I had given up using the F bomb when I left my job in the city. “Of course my prints were on everything. As you pointed out, I made the basket they were taken from.”

  Woods smirked. “All that proves is premeditation.”

  What was up with this guy? “Weren’t there any fingerprints other than mine?” It was almost as if he wanted me to be the guilty party.

  “Look—let’s make this easy for both of us. Just tell me what happened.” Sincerity oozed from his voice. “Juries are suckers for crimes of passion. With a good lawyer, you’ll probably serve less time than your old man.”

  After I quit hyperventilating, it hit me. If he could make a case, he would have already taken me into custody. He was on a fishing expedition, but I was no longer taking the bait.

  “Which would be great if I were guilty, but I didn’t do it.” I crossed my arms and leaned a hip nonchalantly against the table edge. “So, unless you’re ready to arrest me, get out of my store.”

  “Who do you think you are?” His expression darkened, and I became increasingly aware that we were alone. “You can’t order me around.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean it that way.” I backed up, putting more space between us. “Uh, don’t
police officers usually travel in pairs? Where’s your partner?”

  “I sent him on an errand.” Woods moved toward me. “I wanted to do this by myself.”

  His smile sent a chill up my back, and I was about to make a run for it when I finally spotted my cell hiding beneath a pair of black lace stockings. I snatched it up and sent a quick text.

  Woods tried to grab my phone, but I said, “Too late. I already notified my attorney that you’re harassing me and he’ll be here any second.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this.” His eyes glittered with malice. “This time I’m putting you behind bars, where you belong.” He whirled around and marched down the length of the shop, snarling as he went, “You and your boss made a fool out of me once, but you won’t get away with it again.”

  As soon as he stepped out the door, I locked it behind him, breathing deeply, as though the coffee-and-fudge-scented air might ease the thundering in my head. A few steps later, I sank to the floor and leaned my cheek on my knees.

  During my years working in the investment business, I’d developed a way of shutting off my feelings. In such a high-stress profession, emotional disengagement was often the only way to survive situations in which your decisions could ruin people’s lives.

  At first, it had taken a lengthy period of concentrated effort to disengage. But with practice, I’d learned to throw the switch much more quickly; so now, within a few minutes, I sat up and started to think.

  What had Woods meant about my boss and me making a fool of him once before? Wait a minute—my first impression of the detective had been that he seemed familiar, and I knew that a lot of municipal employees had been among our clients. Now that I had a chance to gather my wits and really consider it, I was convinced I had seen Woods sitting in the courtroom when I testified at my boss’s trial.

  Which suggested that Woods was one of the thousands who had lost money with Stramp Investments. And no doubt he, like everyone else, believed that I had been in on the scheme. Shit! He intended to move heaven and earth to prove I had murdered Joelle, if for no other reason than revenge.

  CHAPTER 2

  My mind raced as I finished up the basket I had been working on when Woods arrived. What should I do? I couldn’t face being forced into the limelight again. When the news came out that Ronald Stramp was a swindler, and his investment firm nothing but a Ponzi scheme, I had been arrested—briefly—and come under intense scrutiny by the FBI, the federal regulators, the media, and, worst of all, the people in my hometown.

  It didn’t matter that I had quit my job at Stramp Investments months before the fraud was revealed; I could see in my fellow Shadow Benders’ eyes that they were thinking the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That like my father, I was a criminal, too.

  Eventually, when I was never brought to trial, the stalkerazzi disappeared, and the furor over my involvement in the Stramp scandal faded away. Since then, I had worked hard to keep my head down and blend in to the community I loved. But another brush with the law and I’d be the town freak forever.

  Despite my affection for Shadow Bend, the thought of the whispering and gossip in town if I was accused of murdering Joelle Ayers made me want to move to Bora Bora, or Timbuktu, or even New York City—a place I considered about as inviting as Afghanistan. Except I could never do that to my grandmother. The geriatric specialist we were working with had told me that the familiarity of her hometown would be a huge plus in keeping Birdie independent and functioning for a long, long time. He had warned that although Gran was doing well, with only minimal cognitive impairment, any major changes in her life might accelerate her deterioration.

  Chewing on the end of my ponytail, I made a decision. It was time to consult with my lifelong pals Boone St. Onge and Poppy Kincaid. Not only were they the only ones I trusted, but Boone was my attorney, and Poppy owned Gossip Central, the most popular watering hole in the county.

  I had already texted Boone the all clear once Woods left the store, and now I phoned him and Poppy to arrange a get-together. We agreed to meet at Poppy’s bar after work. It was closed on Mondays, so we’d have the two things we needed—privacy and booze. Lots of booze.

  The prospect of sharing my problems with friends, and the promise of a frozen margarita the size of a goldfish bowl, got me through the rest of the day. But if I had to pull up my big-girl panties one more time to deal with something that wasn’t my fault, I was afraid the elastic would break and someone would get an unauthorized look at my derrière.

  At exactly six p.m., after helping Tammy Harper carry her son’s birthday basket to her minivan, I locked up Devereaux’s and hopped into my sapphire black Z4. I loved that car; it was one of the few vestiges of my old life that I had held on to, rationalizing that if I sold it, I’d never get what it was worth. Plus, I knew that chances were mighty slim that I would own a vehicle like it ever again.

  Gossip Central was located just outside the city limits, which was best for all concerned, since Poppy’s father was the chief of the Shadow Bend police force. I tore down the blacktop toward the bar, Rihanna’s newest hit blaring from my radio as I passed weathered farmhouses and snow-covered fields. Geese formed a black arrow in the cobalt sky, and a goat stuck his head out between the fence rails, staring at me as I zoomed by. I waved at the inquisitive animal, loving the peacefulness of the deserted countryside and relishing the lack of traffic and congestion that I’d faced every day when I commuted to Kansas City.

  The road had been cleared after last night’s snowstorm, but I kept an eye out for ice patches and suicidal deer. By the time I turned into the bar’s parking lot, the wind had picked up and the sign over the entrance swung on its chains, emitting a bansheelike howl.

  Huddled in my leather trench coat and wishing I could afford to replace it with something more practical, I prepared to face the cold. The coat had been ideal when I bought it two years ago in my prior life, but it sadly lacked the warmth needed for the rural Midwest.

  After wrapping my wool scarf tightly around my throat, I sprang out of the Z4 and ran up the steps. Poppy was waiting for me and swung the door wide, relocking it as soon as I was inside. With her cobweb of silvery blond hair, amethyst eyes, and delicate build, she had many men believing she was an angel. They often paid dearly for that mistake, quickly discovering that the only angelic title she was likely to claim was “fallen.”

  “Boone’s in number five,” Poppy informed me. “I’ll grab us some drinks and meet you there.”

  Gossip Central had started life as a cattle barn, and Poppy had played on that theme. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, while the hayloft could be rented for private parties. She’d converted the stalls into secluded niches with comfortable seating and themed decorations. Secluded, that is, except for the concealed listening devices.

  Poppy liked to know what was being said in her bar. She never shared the information with anyone except occasionally Boone and me, but she enjoyed the power. Poppy had serious control issues—a gift from a father who made a Marine gunnery sergeant seem like a warm, cuddly teddy bear.

  Boone was seated on a brown leather love seat in our favorite alcove, the one we’d nicknamed the Stable. He greeted me with a wide smile, his teeth strikingly white against his tanned face. He claimed that his skin was naturally that color, but both Poppy and I knew about the clandestine tanning bed in his back bedroom.

  Which was only fair, since he knew all our deep, dark secrets. My biggest one was a tiny shooting star tattoo that I had gotten during a college spring break trip to Mexico, and Poppy’s was how she had gotten the financing for the bar.

  After shedding my coat, I plopped down beside Boone, and he snatched me up in a swift hug. Before letting go, he asked, “You okay, Dev?”

  I shook my head, knowing I didn’t have to pretend with him. “Not really.”

  “You didn’t tell us much when you called.” Poppy placed three glass mugs on the wood-and-wrought-iron feed box that ser
ved as a coffee table, then dropped into one of the pair of saddle-stitched club chairs facing us. Her fanny hadn’t even touched the leather seat when she demanded, “What’s up?”

  “It’s hard to know where to start.” I grabbed my mug and took a healthy gulp. I had been craving tequila, but an Irish coffee would do, at least for the first round. The hot liquid laced with smooth whiskey slid down my throat, warming and relaxing me for the first time since Detective Woods had barged into my store.

  Boone barely allowed me to swallow before ordering, “Just tell us everything!”

  “You know the text I sent about police harassment?”

  “Yes.” Boone’s hazel eyes crinkled. “To be perfectly honest, until you called and explained, I wondered if it was a joke. It almost sounded like the plot of one of those trashy romances Poppy reads on the sly.”

  “They are not trashy,” Poppy protested.

  I rolled my eyes. I could understand Boone’s mystification regarding Poppy’s choice of reading material. After all, there was a lot of irony in the self-professed town bad girl devouring sappy love stories. But what Boone didn’t realize was that Poppy liked these books because she knew exactly how they would end. Literature often didn’t have any kind of definitive conclusion, and that was too much like real life for Poppy.

  “You just don’t like them because they have a happily-ever-after ending,” Poppy accused, crossing her arms.

  “Which is totally unrealistic,” Boone sneered. “Name three couples any of us know personally who have been married for more than five years and are still in love.”

  Hmm. That was a toughie. Certainly no one in my immediate family. My mom was on husband number four, or maybe five. I’d lost track. Since I heard from her barely once a year, the only way I ever figured out she had divorced and remarried again was when her last name changed on the return address of her annual Christmas card.