My Killer Vacation(42)

“You requested protection for us?” I ask, my spatula suspended in animation.

“I asked for protection in addition to me. I wouldn’t trust you to someone else.” He takes a long pull of his beer. “You’re going to burn that meat, half pint.”

So I am.

I fumble with the burner knob, twisting it into the off position. “What do you care if I incinerate it? You said you wouldn’t have dinner with us.”

“That was before I smelled what’s going on here.” He jerks his chin at the kitchen island where I’ve set up the taco bar. “You pickling those onions?”

“That’s right.”

This time, his grunt has the clear ring of approval.

I’m shaking my head at him and smiling at the same time. I’m losing my mind. “Excuse me,” I say, shooing him back a few steps so I can get a bowl out of the cabinet he’s blocking. Before everyone got here, I was climbing up onto the counters to retrieve various serving dishes, since they are all on the top shelf. Now I stand there, frowning at the big bowl on the top ledge, waffling over doing the same thing with an audience. Especially the landlord.

“What do you need?” Myles asks, setting down his beer.

I point at the bowl on the highest shelf. His lips jump, but thankfully he manages to hold in whatever joke he wants to make about my vertical challenges. He steps into my personal space before I have a chance to move out of the way, his hand sliding along the small of my back to my hip, settling there. Squeezing. Twisting a bolt in my abdomen that seems to be connected directly to my sex. All while he easily plucks the serving bowl off the upper shelf.

Apparently I’ll be going vibrator shopping tonight, instead of tomorrow morning.

The speculative silence from Lisa and Jude is deafening.

“Um. Lisa.” I wet my parched lips. “Why has it been the day from hell?”

She groans loudly. After a moment of digging through her purse, she pulls out a neon green flyer and smacks it down on the island. “Would you look at this…this crusade to ruin the livelihoods of honest, business-savvy people? It’s Mayor Robinson again. Coming after folks like my brother for renting homes. Homes they own. This whole rigamarole about the peepholes is only adding fuel to her fire.”

Myles and I trade a look. He shakes his head very slightly and it’s obvious what he’s telling me. Don’t say anything about the press conference in front of Oscar’s house. I have to assume that means he doesn’t want me mentioning anything else about this morning, either, including the letter we found in the floorboard.

Jude picks up the flyer, gaze traveling across the page. “She wants to put a ban on vacation rentals in Cape Cod?”

It’s a good thing I haven’t gotten around to telling Jude. I haven’t told him a lot about developments in the case because a. I don’t want him to worry that I’m too involved. And b. because I want him to focus on relaxing. Leave the murder to me.

“Yes, she does.” Lisa already has most of her beer drained. “To be fair, she is getting a lot of heat from the year-round residents to make changes. They don’t like the constant turnover of out-of-towners. A few loud parties are ruining it for the rest of us.”

“Don’t forget a murder,” Myles interjects, bottle poised in front of his lips.

“That is hardly dinner conversation,” I whisper at him, accompanied by an elbow nudge. To Lisa, I say, “Do you think the mayor will succeed?”

“I don’t know. She’s holding a big rally in town tomorrow. It’s building steam.” Lisa sighs and slumps in her stool a little, but when I set down the bowl of meat and plate of taco shells, gesturing for everyone to dig in, she begins piling her plate with the rest of us. “You know…” starts Oscar’s sister. “I’ve been thinking.” She glances toward the back bedroom. “What if that buoy was meant as a warning for me?”

“What would the suspect be warning you about?” Myles gives me a pointed look. “It’s not like you’re meddling in the investigation. You’re not involved.”

“My boyfriend hired you,” Lisa points out.

Myles adds enough hot sauce to his taco to kill a goat. “Yes. But if we’re operating under the belief that whoever threw the buoy through the window also killed your brother, they are almost definitely aware you don’t live here, Ms. Stanley. They’re close enough to the investigation to know the Basseys relocated to this rental property.”

Perhaps that fact should have occurred to me before, but it hasn’t. Not until now.

“You think we’re being watched.” When did I move closer to the bounty hunter? I don’t know, but his ample body heat keeps me from losing my appetite completely. “Are we definitively ruling out the random buoy theory?”

“That was never a theory,” Myles answers, chomping into his taco. He chews for a few seconds while I try desperately not to name his throat muscles. Connor, Wilson, Puck…Jameson. “This is a good fucking taco.”

The race is on to stem the flow of pride that races through me. I don’t manage it. At all. “Thank you. I know.” I take a normal, human-sized bite of my taco. “Aren’t you glad you decided not to be stubborn?”

He tosses the other half of the taco into his mouth. The whole other half. “Yeah,” he says around the bite. “Could have added a little more chili powder, though.”