My Killer Vacation(9)

“I just got here.” I tip my chin at the bike. “You saw me arrive, right?”

“On your death trap. Yes. But I assume you’ve gotten some kind of advance…dossier. Or case file. Right?”

I give her a narrow-eyed stare, hoping she’ll cower and slink away like everyone else who is unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of this look.

“Fine. Be coy about it, Mr.…”

“Don’t worry about my name.”

That throws her off for a second, almost like she’s disappointed. But finally, she shrugs. “I just thought you might like to speak with me.” With a prim little once-over, she turns and heads back across the street. “Since I’m the one who found the body and all.”

“Come back here.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Half pint.”

“I have a name.”

“Come back here and tell it to me, then.”

What in God’s name is wrong with me? Am I really following this young woman, who is definitely married, probably to someone named Carter or Preston, across the street? I should be in the murder house taking pictures, checking for blood spatter or missed evidence. I should not be suddenly desperate to know this woman’s name. But hell if I can stop following in her wake when her ass moves like an ass ought to move. Damn.

She spins on a dime and I almost mow her down, just like a tractor always does with a dandelion. We end up toe to toe, only I’m a good ten inches taller, so her face is tipped up to the sky and blanketed by sunshine. Something flips in my chest. Something I really don’t like.

“You found the body,” I say, trying my best to stick to the job. That’s what this is.

Get in and get out. No entanglements. That’s what I do. It’s what I like.

Her gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, but it’s enough to make my briefs feel like an XL instead of an XXL. “Uh-huh.”

Why does my skin turn clammy thinking of her around a dead man? A recently murdered one? She shouldn’t have to see something like that. Not this woman who waters flowers and runs into doors. “Tell me you got out of the house immediately. In case the murderer was still on the property.”

“Oh.” She scrunches up her nose. “No. We…did not.”

We. There it is. I grunt, because It’s not a good idea to speak with my heartburn acting up. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s why everything south of my neck is off-kilter. “You and your husband.”

“Me and my brother.”

Where did my heartburn go? It must be coming in waves. “You’re here with your brother,” I confirm, wincing over the thread of relief in my tone.

She nods, eyes serious. “Who discovered the body is very important information. It probably should have been in the dossier.”

Now I have the damnedest urge to smile. Obviously I need my head examined. “We don’t call it a dossier, half pint.”

Curious head tilt. “What do you call it?”

“Notes. Boring old notes. And that’s what this case is going to be. Boring, fast, open and shut. Dude was spying on a bunch of girls and got caught. Dad lost his temper. Physical altercations end in death a lot more often than you’d think. Either someone loses the fight and wants payback. Or one of them can’t let it go. That’s what happened here.”

“But you were hired by Lisa Stanley? Oscar’s sister?”

“Technically, yes, though I’m doing her boyfriend a favor.”

“Did you speak to her? Didn’t she tell you about the issues with the peephole theory?”

My head falls back on a gusty sigh. “You’re one of those amateur sleuths aren’t you? You’ve watched a couple of sensationalized documentaries on Netflix and now you think you’re an honorary member of law enforcement.”

“Podcasts are more my thing, actually—”

I send a groan toward the clouds.

“—but that’s not relevant. I’ve always liked to leave things neat and tidy. For instance, there is a loose thread on your shirt and I am dying to trim it off.” She wiggles her fingers at it and I come very close to stepping forward to give her access to the thread, just to get her touching me. “There is no reason for two peepholes if filming the guests was the goal. Only one would be necessary. Someone had to have spied with their two eyes at one time. And Oscar Stanley could never have fit into that crawl space.”

“Maybe he drilled the holes first, then realized he’d miscalculated his ability to fit.” Chewing on her lip, she says nothing. “There isn’t always a rhyme or reason to a person’s behavior. And a lot of time, people just make mistakes. Sort of like me taking this job.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. Seriously, I need her to go back to her cookie-cutter vacation house across the street because she’s fucking with my peace of mind. I’m starting to notice things about her. A little mole beneath her navel. The way she sucks in a breath before she starts speaking. Her apple orchard scent. “Run on home. I’ve got this covered. Like I said, I’m going to wrap this up quickly.”

After a moment, she nods and begins to back away.

And it’s like she’s pulling my stomach along with her.

The odd sense of loss doesn’t make any sense. Ignore it.