My Killer Vacation(12)

And then there is his attire. Filthy boots covered in suspicious substances, jeans and a black T-shirt in dire need of washing—or burning—and worn, brown leather cuffs on his wrists.

Sitting on the fluffy white couch and frowning down at the peach-flavored beer, the giant—at least six foot five—man looks comically out of place. He belongs in the back room of a roadside bar playing pool and inciting violence and causing general mayhem. He’s been plucked from that sketchy scenario and dropped into yet another nautical-themed living room, surrounded by tasteful reminders of the ocean and throw pillows covered in little ship wheels.

For all intents and purposes, he should be terrifying.

He might be. If it weren’t for a few little clues that he is, in fact, the opposite of scary.

In regards to me, anyway. I’m sure everyone else’s terror is warranted.

When I informed the bounty hunter that I’d discovered the body, he turned white as a ghost. Looked like he was preparing to toss his cookies right there in the street. For that fleeting handful of seconds, his scowl dropped and he shifted straight into protective.

Tell me you got out of the house immediately.

In case the murderer was still on the property.

He was worried about me. How unexpectedly heartwarming.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t take into account his smile.

Upon finding out that he was correct and I am, in fact, a teacher, we shared a smile across the street and I’m still feeling…kind of jumbled over it. When this man smiles, he’s actually quite handsome. His teeth, though white and straight, look like they could chomp straight through a leather belt or crush a rock, but yes, when he smiles, he’s undeniably attractive. His own brand of attractive. Not the classic kind. Not like the men I usually go on dates with. Tidy businessmen with neat fingernails and upward mobility in their line of work. They are searching for the right partner with whom to purchase a starter home and eventually have children. It’s all outlined in our dating profiles. Serious prospects only.

I wonder if the bounty hunter has an online dating presence.

He’d probably be flashing the middle finger in his profile picture.

All the right women would match with him. Adventurous souls who desire to tear down the highway on the back of his motorcycle and…who knows. Eat fresh clams at some hideaway that only the local baddies know about. Or something.

My last date was at the Cheesecake Factory.

I don’t realize I’m frowning at the bounty hunter until he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Have you ever been to the Cheesecake Factory?” I ask him.

“The what?”

“I knew it.” I force myself back to a pleasant frame of mind, gesturing for Jude to sit down. He’s still caught halfway between the kitchen and the living room, as if undecided about whether or not to call the police. “Well. Would you like to share your first impressions of the crime scene?”

He sets down the peach beer on the distressed white coffee table, sliding the offending drink away with the tip of his finger. “No, half pint. I would not.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you two are technically both suspects until I rule you out. Wouldn’t exactly be wise to give you the pertinent details.”

“Suspects?” I sputter, incredulous. “But we have alibis. We weren’t even in Cape Cod yet when the murder took place.”

“How can you have alibis when time of death hasn’t been determined?”

My mouth snaps shut. I need to start paying closer attention to Etched in Bone. Working on my lesson plans at the same time has clearly led to some important lessons being missed. “I suppose I made an assumption based on the smell of decomposition.”

“Guess we’ll see. Barnstable PD is pulling toll bridge footage to make sure you didn’t get here sooner.” The bounty hunter rolls a shoulder. “Where is the guest book?”

Now that he has shocked me by calling us suspects, I feel a strong urge to return the favor. To surprise him. Let him know he’s not just dealing with a bumbling podcast junkie. I’m a pandemic-era teacher, dammit. That basically qualifies me for a presidential run. A little caught off guard by this new glimmer of self-confidence, I sit up straight. “Did you happen to notice the wood grain of the peepholes?”

His head comes up fast. Ha! So he did notice. And while his gaze is drilling into me, curious and irritable, I notice his eye color is a lovely mixture of brown and mossy. Why do I find that combination so pleasing and hard to look away from? “You’ve been back over there since the night you discovered the body, haven’t you?”

“Of course she hasn’t. It’s surrounded by caution tape,” Jude points out, mid-yawn.

“Yes, and I replaced it exactly as I found it,” I explain, hoping my cheerful tone will make it sound altogether less illegal. “That’s more than I can say for some people.”

Jude leans a shoulder against the wall, expression dazed. “You really went back over there without telling me? Alone?” He studies me closely, half impressed, half horrified. “That’s not like you, T.”

Suddenly I’m jumpy. “I know.” Now they’re both looking at me like a bug under a microscope. My brother is totally right, this is not like me. Do I love a riddle? A mystery? Yes. I love wrapping up debates or discussions with a resolution. No open ends. But those qualities are usually applied to a game of Clue. I am not the type of person who breaks into a crime scene. What I told the bounty hunter is true, though. I surprised myself when I discovered Oscar Stanley’s body. A foreign sort of calm permeated my blood, settling the flow and I started operating on the high wire of adrenaline. I’m extra awake. Noticing every detail. I don’t want to lose that feeling. I want to keep exploring the boost of confidence it gave me to be so…hardy.