Triple Chocolate Murder

By Sally Berneathy

USA TODAY BESTSELLING SERIES
Special edition Books 1 through 3 of Death by Chocolate series
BOOK 1: DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
Lindsay Powell's only secret is the recipe for her chocolate chip cookies, but she is surrounded by neighbors with deadly secrets. Suddenly Lindsay finds herself battling poisoned chocolate, a dead man who doesn't seem very dead and a psycho stalker.
Her best friend and co-worker, Paula, dyes her blond hair brown, hides from everybody and insists on always having an emergency exit from any room. Secrets from Paula's past have come back to put lives in jeopardy.
Determined to help Paula and to save her own life, Lindsay enlists the reluctant aid of another neighbor, Fred, an OCD computer nerd. In spite of his mundane existence, Fred possesses tidbits of knowledge about such things as hidden microphones, guns and the inside of maximum security prisons.
Lindsay needs more than a chocolate fix to survive all this chaos.
BOOK 2: MURDER, LIES AND CHOCOLATE
Rodney Bradford comes into Lindsay's restaurant, eats her brownies, and drops dead on her sidewalk. Lindsay enlists the aid of her enigmatic neighbor, Fred, to help solve the mystery of his death while trying to keep her police detective boyfriend, Trent, from getting in their way with his insistence on all those silly cop rules.
On the positive side, sales skyrocket for the special dessert Lindsay calls Murdered Man's Brownies.
BONUS! Chocolate recipes included. Poison optional.
BOOK 3: GREAT CHOCOLATE SCAM
After two years of waiting, Rick has finally agreed to sign the divorce papers and give Lindsay her freedom. But while she’s waiting in her lawyer’s office for him to appear, his car blows up in his driveway. Lindsay is left with an image of her estranged husband’s green SUV flying around the neighborhood along with pieces of Rick—a blue contact lens in Mrs. Hawkins' driveway, a perfectly creased trouser leg hanging on the street sign, a vertebra on the immaculate lawn.
Since their divorce wasn't final and Rick has no family, Lindsay assumes she is his only heir. But before his estate is settled, poor orphan Rick has more relatives than a lottery winner.
Is the obnoxious Rickie Jr. really Rick's son? Why is the woman who claims to be Rick's mother so certain the child is not her grandson? Are these people really related to Rick, or was he actually an alien stranded on earth when the mother ship left without him?
Come for the Cookie Dough Cheesecake Bars, stay for the murder, mayhem and fun!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally Berneathy
• Release date: Dec 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370917846

Sally Berneathy

I grew up in a small rural town in southeastern Oklahoma where our favorite entertainment on summer evenings was to sit outside under the stars and tell stories. When I went to bed at night, instead of a lullaby, I got a story. That could be due to the fact that everybody in my family has a singing voice like a bullfrog with laryngitis, but they sure could tell stories—ghost stories, funny stories, happy stories, scary stories.For as long as I can remember I've been a storyteller. Thank goodness for computers so I can write down my stories. It's hard to make listeners sit still for the length of a book! Like my family's tales, my stories are funny, scary, dramatic, romantic, paranormal, magic.I have two ongoing cozy mystery series: Death by Chocolate and Charley’s Ghost. The first book in each series is a USA Today Bestseller.Death by Chocolate is the first of seven books in that series. The others are Murder, Lies and Chocolate; The Great Chocolate Scam; Chocolate Mousse Attack; Fatal Chocolate Obsession; Deadly Chocolate Addiction; and Wives, Guns and Chocolate. There will be more!Charley’s Ghost includes: The Ex Who Wouldn't Die, The Ex Who Glowed in the Dark, The Ex Who Conned a Psychic, and The Ex Who Saw a Ghost. There will be more!Before my third divorce, I sold fifteen romance novels ranging from comedy to dark suspense under the names Sally Carleen, Sally Steward and Sara Garrett. For those novels, I won several awards including National Readers' Choice, Romantic Times Best Silhouette Romance and two Rita finalist slots. Most of the Silhouettes are available as e-books. Now my focus is on murder.Besides writing, my interests are reading, eating chocolate and riding my Harley.Contact information is available on my website. I love to talk to readers! Okay, I just plain love to talk!http://www.sallyberneathy.com

Book preview

Chapter One

I could tell the minute I woke that it was Sunday. For one thing, it was daylight and the alarm wasn’t shrieking. But mostly because the songs of the birds and the September breezes coming through my open window had that Sunday morning sound and feel to them.

I rolled over and snuggled up against Rick’s warm body.

That’s when it hit me.

Rick and I were getting a divorce. There shouldn’t be a man in my bed.

I sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Who the hell was sleeping in my bed?

Good-looking, dark golden hair streaked from the sun and Lady Clairol, nice tan, complacent expression even when he was asleep.

Rick.

I suppressed a groan as I came fully awake and remembered his unexpected appearance on my front porch…and everything that followed...the night before. I had clearly lost my mind.

Not that my mind ever had much control where Rick was concerned.

When I’d opened the door to see him standing there yesterday evening, feet planted firmly on my doormat with its image of Taz shrieking in bright red letters, Go away!, I’d been glad to see him. Right then I should have called 911 to request that I be declared mentally incompetent and hauled off in chains for my own protection. I couldn’t possibly be glad to see Rick when I knew he’d already moved Muffy or Buffy or whatever her name was into our house and our bed.

Instead I’d just stood there looking at him, and he’d looked back at me with those eyes that were bluer than the Kansas City sky in the middle of summer. Of course, if that sky wore tinted contacts, it could be that blue too.

I did have enough presence of mind to snarl at him. What do you want? I attempted to sneer.

He smiled—the smile that made him top salesman at Rheims Commercial Real Estate for the past six years. Somebody at a party once asked Rick what he sold. He gave the person that same smile and said, Myself.

And he did a damned good job of it.

So I snarled and sneered and he smiled. I knew he wanted to sell me something. Probably himself.

Hi, babe, he said and waved a manila envelope. We need to go over some more terms of the settlement agreement, so I thought I’d stop by in person.

Yeah, right. I knew—and he knew that I knew—there were no more terms of the divorce to go over. He’d demanded the lion’s share and I’d agreed because all I wanted was for the whole thing to be finished. I was asking for four things: this house (not the big one where he and Muffy/Buffy lived but this small one that used to be one of our rental properties), the rental house next door where my friend Paula lived, my coffee/lunch/dessert shop, Death by Chocolate, and my old but fast, red Toyota Celica.

However, I’d been facing another Saturday night alone with a book or playing Scrabble with Paula, and it was one of those evenings when it’s not summer anymore but not yet fall. The air was still warm though it had a nostalgic feel to it, as if remembering all the fun of the summer slowly fading into the past and dreading the cold winter on its way. Or maybe that was just how I was feeling.

Anyway, I let Rick in.

And when I wasn’t looking, he ordered a pizza. Double pepperoni. My favorite.

Like I said, he’s a damned good salesman.

One dumb thing led to another and then another...and now here he was, sleeping in my bed.

I slid out very carefully, trying not to wake him. I needed some caffeine and sugar pumping through my veins before I could deal with his inevitable leaving again. Every time was like another knife straight to the gut. A dull, rusty, serrated knife. The kind I should take to his throat right now...or maybe some portion of his anatomy a bit lower.

Nah, he’d just bleed all over my new sheets and I’d have to clean it up. In five years of marriage, he never cleaned up a single one of the messes he made.

I pulled on the T-shirt and cutoffs I’d been wearing when he came over last night then fastened my unruly red hair into a pony tail, moving quietly so I wouldn’t wake him. As I started out of the room, I noticed his cell phone had fallen from his pants pockets, the pants he’d draped over my wooden rocking chair last night.

I told myself to move on, get out of that room as fast as I could, but the phone was blinking and a faint buzzing was coming from it. During the night I had been surprised and pleased that nobody…like, for instance, that Buffy person…had called him. Guess now I knew why. Creep had it on vibrate.

I picked up the phone. The display showed fifteen missed calls from My Muffy.

He was cheating on her just like he’d cheated on me. Poor My Muffy. I couldn’t restrain an evil smile as I laid down the phone, gathered my dignity about me and tiptoed downstairs, through my house.

I loved the sound of that. My house that held my furniture, most of it vintage garage sale or early American attic, but everything chosen because I wanted it there, not because Rick approved of something and decided we would get it.

Well, everything except for Rick’s elegant, expensive leather briefcase looking very out of place in my living room where it leaned incongruously against one end of my big, cushy sofa patterned with lots of brightly colored flowers.

I rushed past, hurrying outside with the excuse to myself of retrieving the paper from the front yard.

As I walked out barefoot, I savored the feel of the weathered wood of my porch, the rough, cracked texture of my sidewalk, the dew-damp, cool green of the grass, weeds and clover in my yard. I did not get the lawn service in the divorce, so I no longer had a golf-green lawn. The last tenants of this house were an older couple who either didn’t care if the lawn wasn’t perfect or couldn’t see well enough to tell.

I could see just fine, but I didn’t care. I’m not much into yard work. If it’s green, let it grow. Green or white. Clover’s pretty and smells good. And yellow dandelions are nice for contrast. Okay, the truth is, if a rock wants to sit in my yard and not even think about growing, that’s okay too.

I kicked a puffy dandelion, sending the seeds scattering, and took a deep breath of the morning air. It was clear, clean, and cool with the promise of fall.

My house isn’t really in Kansas City but in a small southeast suburb called Pleasant Grove. A few years ago when Rick was looking for some investment property, I checked out this one because I loved the name. Pleasant Grove. And it was pleasant. Too hilly for good farmland, it still had lots of trees and was far enough away from downtown and from the factories north of the city that the air was clean and, well, pleasant.

Renters who wanted to live in the area were pleasant too. Quiet people who paid on time, never wrote hot checks, and didn’t have wild parties that ended with them in jail and our house a disaster. We’d subsequently bought the house next door, Paula’s place, but this first one, a hundred years old, two-stories, a big front porch and lots of trees, was still my favorite.

I picked up the Sunday edition of the Kansas City Star then stopped as I caught a glimpse of the sun glinting off Rick’s dark green Jeep Cherokee parked in my driveway.

For a millisecond I’d managed to put last night completely out of my mind. Well, at least I’d relegated it to the back of my mind.

But there the damned car sat, right in front of me, reminding me of what I had to deal with this morning. Rick in my bed. In the six weeks since we’d separated, I’d been working hard at getting on with my life and forgetting about him and Muffy/Buffy/Puffy. But last night swept away all the healing I’d done in those six weeks. The wound was raw, open and bleeding.

Something soft brushed my leg and I jumped.

A cat. A big cat, marked like a Siamese only gold where Siamese were brown.

He rubbed against my leg again and purred as if he knew I needed some affection right then.

I squatted to pet him. I was sure it was a him by the self-assured stance and the certainty of acceptance that shone in those bright blue eyes. Yeah, I’m a sucker for blue eyes. This pair didn’t even have tinted contacts. This pair didn’t contain any deceit or hidden depths either.

He purred more loudly and arched into my hand as I stroked along his head and back. You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Who do you belong to?

Lindsay! For a second, I thought the cat had answered, claiming me as his owner. Like I said, I should have had myself committed the night before. Hearing a cat talk was nothing compared to letting Rick back into my bedroom and my life.

I looked up to see Paula retrieving her paper next door.

Her son Zach, wearing only a diaper, spotted me, grinned, and charged across the yards, shrieking, Anlinny! Anlinny!

I tossed the paper onto the porch then reached down and scooped up the kid. Good morning, Hot Shot! I brushed his hair back, not because it was long enough to be in his face but just because it was such sweet baby hair, the color and texture of corn silk, and I loved to touch it.

He gave me a noisy smack on the cheek then babbled happily in that almost-language of his, ending with Kee! as he twisted in my arms to point down at the cat.

Yes, that’s a kitty. A big one.

Paula strolled over to join us. As always, she looked immaculate and well-dressed in her uniform of nondescript, cover-up clothing that hid all evidence of her past. This morning it was a long sleeved white blouse and tan slacks. She’s one of those tiny, petite little things that I, tall and gangly all my life, have always hated. But nobody could hate Paula. She’s too nice.

The first time we met was over a year ago when Paula answered our ad for a tenant. She showed up to look at the house in an old, beat-up car that spit puffs of black smoke every few feet and, when she came to a stop, continued to rattle and shake for a full minute. Rick and I were waiting on the porch, and he shuddered right along with that car.

I can tell you already, we don’t want her, he’d said.

I admit, I had my doubts too. I could imagine our house ending up in the same condition as that car.

But then Paula got out carrying a tiny baby. At first I thought maybe she was a very young teenager who’d been sent away from home because of the baby. Okay, I’ve read too much Dickens. Her shoulders and head drooped a little, as if she was making an effort to keep them erect but wasn’t quite succeeding.

Did the big sunglasses she wore hide a black eye?

When she got closer and took off the sunglasses, I saw that she wasn’t a teenager and didn’t have a black eye. What she did have were worry lines around her eyes and on her forehead, a scar that makeup couldn’t quite hide on one cheekbone and a terror in the depths of her eyes and in the tentative set of her mouth that suggested the scar hadn’t come from any fall down the stairs. Maybe my Dickensian guess wasn’t that far off.

I knew immediately we were going to lease the house to her, that I’d never be able to live with myself if I sent her and that little baby back out into the world in that awful car. I also knew from the disdain on Rick’s face that I’d have to fight him on that one. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

When the four of us walked into the living room of the rental house and she asked if there was a back exit, Rick shot me a lifted-eyebrow glance suggesting he thought she was worried about escaping in case of a police raid or something.

In the kitchen, I told her. Good question. Of course you need another exit in case of fire. My last words were spoken to her but directed to Rick. He glared at me and his jaw firmed. But it’s a weak jaw. I wasn’t worried.

Paula filled out the rental application on the spot. Well, she filled in her name and Zachary’s and left the rest blank. She told us she’d just moved from California, she didn’t have a job, her husband was dead, her parents were dead, she was an only child and her parents had been only children. She didn’t say, but I assumed her husband had been an only child too and that her son would also be an only child. The condition was probably hereditary.

Rick didn’t buy it. He was ready to reject her on the spot, but I dragged him outside and persuaded him, after a few minutes of serious digging-in-of-the-heels, to rent to her on the spot instead. He may be a damn good salesman, but I’ve got the market cornered on obstinacy. He finally threw up his hands and said he expected a huge apology from me after she trashed the place and the cops raided it. I suspect he only agreed to let her rent the place in anticipation of being able to say, I told you so.

So Paula gave Rick cash for the deposit and first month’s rent, and she and Zach moved in with their two suitcases. She said her furniture would arrive later, but I suspected that furniture was as mythical as her deceased, unprolific family.

I’d peeked over her shoulder when she counted out the rent and deposit and noticed that the rest of her pile of cash was pretty thin. Rick started out the door but I turned back and offered her a job in my shop, Death by Chocolate, a small bakery in historic downtown Pleasant Grove. Even if she was an ax murderess, that baby needed to eat.

Lindsay! Rick exclaimed.

I elbowed Rick in the stomach to make him shut up.

Business is booming and I need somebody to help wait tables, I said. I’ve been thinking about putting an ad in the paper, but I don’t have time to interview people. That was all true, but I’d probably have offered her a job if I was going into bankruptcy.

Over the past year I’d had more than one occasion to say, I told you so, to Rick. Not only did Paula prove to be an ideal tenant, but, thanks to her expertise, Death by Chocolate expanded from a specialty bakery to a trendy breakfast and lunch place with a specialty bakery.

My single culinary skill is cooking with chocolate. I can take a basic brownie recipe, make it more or less according to directions, and it always turns out incredible. I used to share my recipes, but friends accused me of leaving out ingredients when their desserts didn’t turn out like mine. Now I tell everybody my recipes are secret because I have no idea what I do to make them different. Magic, maybe. It’s my one talent. I produce irresistible chocolate concoctions, swamp water coffee, concrete biscuits, leathery filet mignon...well, you get the picture.

So while Death by Chocolate had gained a certain reputation as a bakery, with Paula’s cooking skills, we started to serve gourmet coffee and cinnamon rolls in the morning as well as my chocolate pastries, and at lunch we added sandwiches to my chocolate desserts. I offered to make her a partner, but the idea of having legal documents drawn up with her name on them made her really nervous. I just pay her a salary equal to half the net profits of the place. We both make a decent living.

Working with somebody all day will either make you best friends or worst enemies. Paula and I became best friends and I spilled my guts about everything in my life. Paula didn’t reciprocate, refused to talk about her past. She had secrets.

I’d like to say I respected her privacy, but I fear lightning would strike me if I told such an outrageous lie. I was dying to know what those secrets were. However, she consistently ignored my gentle and not-so-gentle probing. Not only did my curiosity go unsatisfied, but it hurt that she didn’t trust me with her secrets. However, when I left Rick and moved in next door to her, I became so totally selfish in my own pain that I was more than happy to spend our time together talking about me and my problems.

We had become even closer, and somehow we’d switched roles with her being the mother hen and me being the needy one.

That morning with Rick still sleeping in my bed, I was really glad to see her. I could use a little mothering.

You know who this cat belongs to? I asked her, reaching for any topic other than the one uppermost in my mind.

She shook her head. I’ve never seen him before. He’s beautiful, though. She extended her arms toward her son. Come on, Zach. We need to go home. Aunt Lindsay has company.

Rick’s Jeep in the driveway, an advertisement to the whole neighborhood.

You don’t have to go. I didn’t want Paula or Zach or even the cat to leave. I couldn’t trust me alone with Rick.

Paula settled Zach on her hip then looked at me with concern. You okay?

Me? Sure. Oh, yeah. No problem. Everything’s under control. See you later. I turned to walk back to the house.

Want to come over? I’ve got some cold Cokes.

Since I don’t like the taste of coffee, Coke is my caffeine of choice—morning, noon or night. Coke and friendship were at the top of my current list of needs. I whirled around so fast I stumbled over the cat. I regained my balance while he pretended nothing had happened. I’d love to come over, I said. Maybe Rick will leave before I get back.

As I followed Paula and Zach across our adjoining yards, I noticed she needed a dye job. The morning sunlight picked out the blond roots of her muddy brown hair, roots just a little darker than her son’s hair, the same color as her lashes and brows when she wore no makeup. For some strange reason, while most women would kill for naturally blond hair, Paula colored hers a drab, medium brown. A nondescript brown. Add that to her nondescript clothing and reclusive lifestyle, and I deduced that she went out of her way not to be noticed.

Like I said, Paula had secrets.

We went into her house which was the same basic style as mine...two-story, white, front porch, high ceilings, hardwood floors. Hers was smaller and about twenty years newer so it was less gingerbready, but the major differences were inside. She had put shiny new deadbolt locks on the front and back doors and kept the windows closed and locked all the time. Her furniture was new and—guess what—nondescript, as if she felt the need to blend into the background even inside her own home.

Paula latched the screen door behind us, then closed and locked the wooden door and put on the chain. I bit my tongue and didn’t comment that it seemed a shame to waste one of the half dozen days out of the year when the weather in the Kansas City area was suitable for humans, neither hot and sultry nor cold and windy.

Paula disappeared into the kitchen while Zach brought me a bright orange truck, jabbered, and made appropriate engine noises. I sat on the floor and we rolled the truck back and forth to each other across the area rug. Zach laughed and chattered, obviously enjoying this activity immensely. I can’t say that I got a lot out of rolling that truck, but watching him have a good time definitely made my heart happy.

I revved the truck on the floor. Vrroom! Vrroom! Here it comes!

This time Zach grabbed it up and ran across the room, watching me over his shoulder. This was my cue to chase him. I scrambled to my feet. I’m gonna get you! I caught him just before he dove behind the beige chair.

Paula came back into the room as I lifted him over my head and blew on his soft tummy.

I sank onto the beige sofa with Zach in my lap and she set her tray on the coffee table. It held, among other things, a plate of fudge cookies left over from yesterday’s inventory at the shop and a Coke. I must have looked as stressed as I felt. Usually Paula chided me about having Coke and chocolate for breakfast. Now she was offering it to me.

The tray also held her cup of coffee, a plate of non-chocolate cookies, and a red sippy cup, the last a gift from me. Zach wants to drink whatever his Aunt Lindsay is drinking. Since that usually means a red can, his Aunt Lindsay found him a red cup. He’s happy and I’m proud that the kid wants to emulate me.

I picked up the Coke, popped the top and took a long, satisfying swallow, letting those little bubbles dance over my tongue and down my throat, making my mouth feel clean and awake.

Zach took a long swallow of milk from his red sippy cup then reached for the chocolate cookies.

These are your cookies, Paula said, handing Zach one of the non-chocolate variety. I made some bran muffins and baked part of the recipe as cookies, she explained to me.

Zach looked at the chocolate cookies then back to his. The boy was not dumb.

Wow! I enthused. Look at all the chocolate chips in yours! I pointed to the raisins.

He grinned and began to munch on it. I could just see him in a few years, at the movies, bringing his date a package of Raisinets and telling her they were chocolate covered chocolate chips.

Feeling a little guilty, I selected a cookie of the chocolate variety. Not so guilty I wouldn’t eat it, of course. I needed sustenance to face the morning—and Rick in my bed.

He ordered a pepperoni pizza, I said, as if I had to justify that car in my driveway. Double pepperoni.

Paula only nodded and sipped her coffee. Nonjudgmental.

I drank more Coke and shoved more cookie into my mouth. I was feeling much better already. Paula’s house was always immaculately clean and her paranoia about keeping the door locked and the windows closed made it feel isolated from the rest of the world. Sometimes that wasn’t a bad feeling. Today was one of those times.

"I appreciate your not saying anything dumb like, does this mean you’re getting back together?" I said quietly, staring into the hole in my Coke can as though I expected to find some sort of answers in there. Some people look for answers in a bottle. I look for mine in a can.

No. Paula’s voice was unexpectedly firm and intense. I’d never say that. He’s not going to change. He’d hurt you again if you took him back.

Definitely an abusive husband or lover in her past, somebody she was scared would find her and hurt her again, put a scar on the other side of her face. I wondered how many she had on the rest of her body, how many she was hiding with her long-sleeved shirts, slacks and ankle-length skirts.

I looked at her, trying to see behind that mask she never let down, but I couldn’t. Her spine was straight, her chin tilted upward defiantly.

I know Rick will never change, I replied.

Do you still love him?

That was a tough one. I’d asked myself that question a lot of times over the past six weeks. I’d been in total shock at first, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. We’d had a lot of good times in the early years, then we’d kind of drifted apart as we became busy making money and getting ahead.

Not so busy he hadn’t been able to find time for Scruffy Buffy, of course.

I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. Paula’s not the only one who can do masks. I don’t love him the way I love chocolate and Coke.

We all three laughed. I’m sure Zach didn’t know what he was laughing at, but his mommy and his Aunt Lindsay were laughing, and that made him happy.

A knock on the front door stopped the laughter.

Paula’s eyes went wide, and the blood drained from her face. Total terror. She used to do that regularly at work, freak out every time somebody came into our shop. Fortunately for our profit margin, many people come in every day, and she finally got used to it, but visitors at home were apparently still scary. Of course, she didn’t normally have visitors at home except for the postman and me.

I was sitting on the sofa and the mail didn’t come on Sunday.

She set her cup on the table, her hand shaking so badly the coffee sloshed onto her fingers.

I’ll get it. I bounced up, handed Zach to her and was at the door before she could protest.

Not that I think she was capable of speech at that moment.

Chapter Two

I opened the door to see two cops on the front porch—a Suit and a Uniform.

The Uniform looked like a nice guy...young, pleasant expression, a little apologetic as if he hated to interrupt somebody’s Sunday morning. In contrast, the Suit’s face was a study in sharp angles. He did have nice eyes even if they weren’t blue. His were hazel, like trees in the early spring when they’re ready to explode with leaves and even though they’re still winter-brown, you can see a green shimmer.

The Suit flashed his badge. Police, he said, as if I couldn’t recognize the uniforms—both of them.

I lifted my chin and looked down my nose at him. Chocolatier. I couldn’t help myself. Blame it on the Coke and cookies. With all that sugar and caffeine, I was feeling ten feet tall and bullet proof.

The Uniform looked puzzled but one corner of the Suit’s mouth quirked upward as if he wanted to smile but knew he shouldn’t.

He looked me over from my messy hair to my bare feet, so I did the same to him—not that I could tell much from the blue suit, sedate tie and white shirt. Well, the tie was knotted a little crooked and the white shirt was kind of rumpled. Add all that to the trees-in-spring eyes, the way he’d almost smiled at my joke, and I was prepared to like him...unless he wanted to write me a speeding ticket.

Are you Paula Walters? he asked.

No. I felt reluctant to volunteer any information, and not just because of my paranoia about traffic tickets. I could sense waves of fear emanating from Paula who remained on the sofa behind me. She was always a careful driver, so careful I sometimes wanted to lean out the passenger door and push off with one foot to make her go faster. This wasn’t about a speeding ticket.

Is Paula Walters here? the Suit asked, exasperation evident in his voice. The angles of his face seemed to become even sharper.

Yes, I answered.

He waited.

So did I.

Could we speak to her? He was practically gritting his teeth. Now I was the one who had to suppress a smile. It’s not often I can frustrate a cop though I always make an effort.

Reluctantly, I turned back to my friend. She was standing now, holding Zach tightly, her knuckles white. I’d thought her face was pale before, but now she could have been an understudy for Casper the Friendly Ghost. Her eyes were wide, the pupils pinpoints.

I suddenly felt helpless, as though I were turning her over to the executioner. Damn it, I should have found some way to make her tell me those secrets so we could have fixed whatever was wrong.

Yeah, right, like I’d fixed my own life.

She marched bravely toward the door, handing Zach to me as she passed. Zach pointed at the men and smiled. Pees man!

That’s right, I said. Policeman. Policemen are our friends. At that moment I didn’t really believe that any more than I believed it when one of them stopped me on the highway, but I was trying to score some brownie points with them. I had a feeling Paula was going to need a few of those.

Paula moved directly in front of the door and straightened her spine. I’m Paula Walters. She was standing tall but she sounded tiny and weak.

Can we talk to you for a minute? the Suit asked.

Paula darted a quick glance behind her as if looking for an escape route, and I remembered her question that first day about whether the house had another exit.

My heart sank. What was going on? Did her fear go beyond worry about an abusive husband? Had Rick been right? Was my friend a fugitive? Was she an ax murderer after all?

I couldn’t imagine quiet, gentle Paula doing anything bad. Of course, bad and illegal are not necessarily synonymous. Take, for instance, an innocent person going a few miles over the arbitrarily-imposed speed limit.

Paula did not look innocent as she stood rigidly inside the screen door, her stare fixed on the cops on her front porch. She looked scared…and guilty.

What do you want to talk to me about? Her voice was a barely audible croak.

Lester Mackey, the Suit replied. Can we come in?

Paula became even paler. She stood motionless like a soldier guarding the entrance to the fort.

I waited for her to refuse them entrance, to charge onto the porch and chase them away. I considered doing it for her, telling them they couldn’t come inside without a search warrant.

I fervently hoped they didn’t have one of those.

The cops didn’t say a word, just stood on the porch, watching and waiting. This didn’t look good.

Suddenly Paula’s shoulders sloped forward in a posture of defeat. She fumbled with the latch, releasing it and opening the door. Her movements robotic and forced, she stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

They moved past her, invading her house.

She stood stiffly, hands behind her back, her expression that of a woman being led to the guillotine—terrified, helpless, and resigned to her fate.

The uniform’s gun belt creaked. Paula gasped and jerked backward.

The Suit pretended not to notice, but his eyes narrowed speculatively.

I’m Detective Adam Trent, he said, and this is Officer Donald Creighton. Trent was a big man, looming large in the high-ceilinged room. He was the kind who would have loomed large even if he’d been short. The Uniform wasn’t quite so tall or quite so intimidating. I could see this pair doing the good cop/bad cop routine. The Suit would definitely be the bad cop.

Like to ask you a few questions, he said.

Paula gave a jerky nod of permission.

What do you know about Lester Mackey?

She swayed slightly. L-Lester.

Yes, ma’am. Lester Mackey.

She blinked twice and straightened. "Lester Mackey?" Her voice was stronger. Go, Paula!

The cops exchanged glances.

Yes, ma’am, Trent said, a little impatiently. Lester Mackey. What can you tell us about him?

She shook her head. I don’t know anybody by that name. She sounded as if she was on the verge of breaking into laughter, as if she’d just gotten a reprieve from that guillotine.

We’re only trying to locate Mr. Mackey, Trent said. You’re not going to cause him any trouble by telling us what you know. His words as well as the sharp edge to his voice indicated he thought Paula was lying and not doing a very good job of it.

I believed her. Her relief was too visible to doubt.

I don’t know anybody named Lester Mackey, she repeated firmly. She stood with her arms wrapped protectively, defensively, across her midriff.

Take your time and think about it. Trent regarded her suspiciously.

I don’t have to think about it. I don’t know anybody by that name. She was becoming indignant.

Good for you, Paula! Stand your ground!

If you don’t know Lester Mackey, why did he have your name and phone number on a piece of paper in his apartment?

All her relief disappeared, and I could see her mentally mounting the steps to that guillotine again. I knew she had an unlisted number. She’d been reluctant to give it to me. For this Lester Mackey to have it must mean she knew him.

My home phone number? Her voice quavered.

That’s right.

I don’t know why he had it or where he got it.

It’s unlisted, so you must have given it to him.

"I don’t know! I swear to you, I’ve never heard of Lester Mackey."

Where were you last night between the hours of eight and ten? Trent demanded, taking advantage of her distress.

Nice eyes or not, I’d had enough of the man badgering my friend. I set Zach on the floor and stepped forward, moving up beside her, closer to Trent than she was.

Does Ms. Walters need to call an attorney? I demanded.

He folded his arms and rocked slightly backward, one eyebrow lifted. That depends. Has Ms. Walters done something illegal?

How the hell should I know? But I didn’t say that. If you don’t think she’s done anything illegal, why are you grilling her?

I’m just checking out a missing persons report.

I scowled at him and he scowled at me. Missing persons report? So this Lester Mackey is missing?

I wouldn’t be trying to locate him if he was home in his apartment.

Since you asked Paula where she was last night between the hours of eight and ten, does that mean he disappeared during that time? Don’t you have to wait forty-eight hours or something before you check on missing people unless there’s suspicion of foul play? I watch all those cop shows. I know these things.

Creighton looked to Trent as if waiting for him to field the question.

Usually, the detective said after a long moment. Now, is it my turn to ask a question?

It’s okay, Lindsay, Paula said quietly before I could respond to Trent’s sarcasm. I’ll answer the question. I was at home all night. I left work a little after four, picked up Zach at the babysitter’s and took him to the park. I’ve been right here since about six last night.

Alone?

Yes, of course alone, except for my son.

Why do you want to know? I was feeling very defensive on Paula’s behalf and, I admit it, very curious. Who is this Lester Mackey person and what’s happened to him? Why are you checking out his disappearance so fast?

Trent scowled at me again. Who are you?

I’m Lindsay Powell. I’m her sister.

No, you’re not. She doesn’t have a sister.

Aha! So he’d checked into her background. This was getting deeper all the time.

Well, I’m her best friend.

Trent and I did some more glaring and sizing each other up. I could tell he was thinking about asking me to leave and I was thinking about refusing.

On that piece of paper in Lester Mackey’s apartment, Creighton said, breaking the silence, right beneath Ms. Walters’ phone number was yesterday’s date and a time, eight o’clock. Mr. Mackey left on an appointment and never returned home. His apartment manager was worried and called us.

Failing to return home from an appointment equals suspicion of foul play? I asked. Gee, all those nights I could have had the cops out looking for Rick.

Trent gave Creighton a warning glance. There was more to the story, but they weren’t going to tell us.

Zach, tired of being ignored, ran across the floor, grabbed his favorite truck and charged over to the happening place. Here! Grinning happily, he clutched Creighton’s pant leg in one sweaty little hand and held the toy up to him with the other.

Hey, what you got there? Gun belt creaking, Creighton squatted down to the kid’s level and accepted the truck. Cool wheels.

Zach! Paula stooped and lifted her son, snatching him away as though she thought the cop would harm him. Don’t bother the policeman. Her face was pale again, the panic back in her voice and her eyes. He’s working. Why don’t you go to your room and play with your purple dinosaur? Mommy won’t be much longer, and then I promise we’ll go to the park. She set him down. Go on now. He raised his arms for a hug. She hugged him then patted his diapered bottom and sent him from the room.

Bye! he called.

Bye! we all responded, even the cops. Creighton smiled, but Trent winced and his lips clenched as if he’d suddenly realized what he’d done...let his macho façade slip. Kind of cute. He’d probably clench his lips even harder if he knew I thought that. I considered telling him just to see him react.

Then Creighton stood, the movement making his gun belt creak again, and again Paula flinched at the sound.

But she braced herself, drew in a deep, shaky breath and faced the cops squarely. I don’t know Lester Mackey. I was here at home last night. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. She turned and walked toward the door.

Very classy, slick attempt to get rid of them. Maybe I’d try it next time I got caught going a little fast. Nope, I wasn’t speeding. Must have been somebody else. I’m sorry, officer, but I can’t help you. Then drive away.

Can anybody verify that you were here all evening? Trent asked, ignoring her efforts to get rid of him. It probably wouldn’t work for me with the future traffic cop, either. He turned and looked at me. How about you, best friend?

As if I didn’t already feel bad enough about spending the evening with Rick, now it meant I couldn’t provide an alibi for Paula. If only I had come over to play Scrabble instead of letting him inside my house, both Paula and I would be a lot better off.

I thought about attempting another lie, but Paula had already admitted she’d been home alone.

No, I said. I can’t verify that. I was...busy last night.

Trent’s gaze flickered from Paula to me and back again, studying us in silence for a long moment. Those eyes were intense, almost totally brown, no hint of spring in them now. I’d seen enough cop movies. I knew he was waiting for us to crack. I had to give him credit. He was good at it. I found myself wanting to confess that I’d done eighty down I-70 yesterday evening then spent the night with my almost-ex-husband, thus letting my friend and myself down. But I didn’t really think that was the kind of cracking he was looking for.

Finally he withdrew a couple of cards from his wallet and handed one to Paula. Call me if you remember anything.

Then he handed the other one to me. You too. For just a second there my brain slipped a cog and I thought he was coming on to me. Good grief! Not even completely divorced yet, my almost-ex still asleep in my bed, and I was already reading things into men’s glances and business cards.

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from checking to see whether he was wearing a wedding ring. He wasn’t.

I was glad I’d already taken mine off and tossed it into the Missouri River.

Okay, that’s a lie. I told Rick I tossed it into the Missouri River, but the truth is, I sold it. I wanted to toss it into the river, but it had a big diamond. Heck, I cringed when Rose made the grand gesture of throwing her necklace into the ocean at the end of Titanic. What a waste. She could have sold it, kept the money and lied about throwing it away like I did.

The cops started to leave, but Trent turned back at the door. You don’t sound like you’re from around here, Ms. Walters, he said. Do I detect a hint of Texas in that accent?

She froze. No, she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. I’m from...Wyoming.

Interesting. She’d told me California when she leased the house.

Trent didn’t believe her, but he nodded. I see. Just thought I’d ask. Lester Mackey’s from Dallas.

I’ve never been to Dallas. Paula was doing a very poor job of lying. We both needed deceit lessons. I made a mental note to check at Longview College for night classes.

Trent gave me another quick glance. It couldn’t be to see if I was lying. I hadn’t said anything. I winked at him just to see what he’d do.

That man had stoicism down to an art. He didn’t react at all.

Except I did see some green lights come back into those eyes.

When the cops were finally out the door, Paula turned the deadbolt lock and put on the chain with trembling fingers.

I collapsed onto the sofa, grabbed another cookie and swigged some more Coke. What was that all about? I asked.

I don’t know, she mumbled. Zach!

He charged into the living room, laughing and clutching a purple dinosaur that was almost as big as he was. She scooped him up and sank onto the sofa, holding him so tightly he protested and squirmed to be free.

She let him go. He sat down between us and helped himself to a chocolate cookie. Paula didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t about to spoil his fun. Heck, what harm could one do? Oh, I know what they say! You think you can try it and not get hooked, then before you know it, you’re a chocoholic. Hey, at least the kid would have a constant source of the good stuff from his Aunt Lindsay, the Chocoholic Queen.

Are you in some kind of trouble? I asked Paula. Tell me, damn it! I’m your friend. Let me help you.

She shook her head, chewed her thumbnail and looked across the room.

Did your husband beat you?

The crude question got her attention. Her head spun toward me so fast, I was afraid it would keep on going and we’d find ourselves in the middle of a scene from The Exorcist. Two pink spots stood out like clown makeup on her cheeks.

Please don’t do this, Lindsay, she said.

Well, that answers that question. Since I already know he put that scar on your face and that you’re hiding from him, you might as well tell me the rest.

Again she confirmed my speculation by failing to deny it. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am that you gave me a job and a place to live. You saved my life and Zach’s. You’ve always been there for me, and I’ll always be there for you. I’ll do anything you ask me to do except tell you about my past.

Okay, we’ve made some progress. This is the first time you’ve admitted you have a past and didn’t spring, fully grown, from the front seat of that rolling wreck you drove up in.

Paula bit her lip as if she regretted saying that much. Her blue-gray eyes clouded, and I realized the subject was closed.

I pushed myself up from the sofa. I guess I’ll go see what I can do to get Rick out of the house with minimal damage to what’s left of my emotions. I leaned over to Zach. Give Aunt Lindsay a hug. He reached up and hugged my neck then planted a kiss on my cheek. A bonus.

I want you to know I’m not mad at you, I told Paula, just because you’re supposed to be my friend but you won’t even tell me the intimate details of your sex life.

She relaxed enough to smile.

I ruffled Zach’s hair then crossed the room and unlocked the door. I turned back to say goodbye and wasn’t surprised that Paula had followed me. She’d have that door locked again before I was across the porch. Time to touch up those blond roots, I said, just to let her know I’d noticed. And those blond brows and lashes are a dead giveaway.

Paula blanched, losing what little color she’d regained. Do you think they noticed? The question came out in a desperate whisper, and I immediately regretted adding to her fear.

I don’t know. Men can be pretty unobservant about stuff like that. But I didn’t for one minute believe Trent had failed to notice. Any time you need help, you know where I live, I said.

Paula nodded, that jerky motion again, and twisted her lips in an imitation smile. Thanks.

I felt like a jerk for the blond roots remark. I ought to do something to help her, but I was clueless what that something might be.

I wasn’t even sure I could help myself. I took my time going back toward my house. I wasn’t in any hurry to face the task of dealing with the man that one part of me wanted gone from my life and the other part wanted back. In a different way, I was every bit as terrified of him as Paula was of the abusive man I was now certain she’d known in her past.

I slapped the fender of Rick’s SUV as I went past, deliberately leaving fingerprints. He hated that.

I stepped up onto my porch and saw another problem. The cat was still there, lying on my door mat, draped over Taz, creating a perfect border for the Go Away! part. Obviously he couldn’t read.

But then, neither could Rick who had stood on that same mat last night and paid just as much attention to the message as the cat did.

Go home, I ordered.

He stood up and stretched, arching his back.

I picked up the newspaper, opened the door, and he darted inside.

Yes, it was pretty obvious this cat was a male. He ignored me just like Rick did.

What’s that cat doing here? Rick demanded as the feline leapt gracefully onto my faded rose-colored recliner. He was a big cat, completely filling the seat and draping his head and front paws over one arm of the chair. He looked up with those killer blue eyes and gave a contented meow before settling down, completely at home.

Rick sprawled on my sofa, making himself as much at home as the cat. I’d been gone long enough for him to shower, blow dry his hair with my dryer, shave with my razor, and slip back into his khaki slacks, Italian loafers and white Polo shirt that enhanced his tan. To top it all off, he was drinking from my favorite mug, the one that said Life is uncertain. Eat chocolate now.

Go home, I repeated.

Yeah, cat, go home.

"I was talking to you. This is— I looked at the regal creature in my chair— this is King Henry, my new cat. He’s staying and you’re going."

Chapter Three

Rick set my cup down on my coffee table, the one I found years ago at a garage sale and he would never let me use in our house where everything had to match. The table was wrought iron with a top of colorful mosaic tiles, most of which were intact and unchipped. It had character.

You never liked that table, I snapped, tossing the newspaper down beside his cup. Get away from it.

He lifted his arms toward me and smiled. Given enough time, I could learn to hate that smile. But not quite yet. Against all common sense, it still had the power to tickle the edges of my heart.

C’mere, babe.

I took a step backward.

He rose and came after me. I reminded myself that he hadn’t come after me the evening I left. In fact, instead of falling to his knees and begging my forgiveness after I’d caught him in our bed with that Fluffy person, he’d pointed out that this house was between tenants, empty and available, and maybe I should move in. He and Buffy the Erection Slayer would keep the one we’d been living in since it was too expensive for me. Real magnanimous of him.

The memory of that nightmare afternoon—the pain and the anger—washed over me. I turned and headed for the door. I’d go back outside. Hide in the bushes. Crawl down the storm sewer. Take up jogging and run to Oklahoma. Whatever it took to get away from him.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind and started nibbling the side of my neck.

Somebody moaned, somebody with no pride and no common sense. Me.

We never used to have the paper delivered, he whispered. Let’s toss that one in Paula’s yard, and I’ll go out for another one, just like I used to do every Sunday. I’ll bring back a paper and some of those chocolate doughnuts you love. We’ll sit in bed and read the paper while we eat doughnuts. He nibbled the other side of my neck. And you can read the comics out loud while I do some wicked things to your body. He ran his hands over my body and pulled it against his, reminding me of some of those wicked things he’d done as recently as last night.

Fortunately, the chocolate doughnuts also reminded me of some other wicked things he’d done.

I jerked away and faced him. You chose that doughnut place across town so you’d have time to go see your girl-friend-of-the-week for a quickie before coming home. The doughnuts were to give you the energy to perform again with me.

He ducked his head and looked repentant. Well, as close to repentant as it was possible for him to look. Lindsay, I’m sorry. I made a mistake, a lot of mistakes. I love you and I’ve missed you.

I’m sorry. I made a mistake, a lot of mistakes. I love you and I’ve missed you. I knew they were just empty words, a sales spiel. I knew he wasn’t going to change. Still, I’d been waiting six weeks to hear him say that...and he did know how to press all the right buttons. I knew I needed to shove him away, check out the storm sewer, run for my life and sanity. But I remained standing there, inches away from my tormentor.

He could see I was vacillating. He moved closer and put his arms around my waist, his forehead against mine. Affectionate and familiar rather than seductive. He was a very good salesman. "Remember when we first got married and we were so broke we had to sleep on the floor? The ironing board doubled as our table. A big night for us was a picnic in the park. I’d take that old guitar I got at a pawn shop and sing to you. For our first anniversary, I climbed a tree and sang Mariah." He began to sing softly in a voice that matched his smile.

This trip down Memory Lane was much more seductive than all the caresses of the night before.

Behind us something thudded and made a hideous rowring noise.

We both whirled around. The cat stood on the coffee table, tail in the air, back arched, his blue eyes looking demonic with their black vertical slits. He opened his mouth to make that noise again, and his fangs looked half an inch long. He seemed twice as big as I remembered. I had one instant of panic, wondering if he was rabid or something, but his glare was focused solely on Rick.

Something’s wrong with that cat, Rick said, backing away. We better call Animal Control.

The cat in question dipped his head and peered into the mug Rick had been drinking from then gave a cat sneeze or maybe a snort of disgust. He was acting strange, but he’d given me the diversion I needed to find some of my common sense and maybe a smidgen of pride. I pulled away from Rick and went over to the cat who now looked as docile as ever though he still had that I am cat, I am superior expression.

I leaned down to pet him in order to give myself a few more seconds to recover from the Invasion of Rick. As I did, I peered idly at the dark liquid in the cup, curious as to what Rick might be drinking that the cat found so disgusting. The only drinks I had in the house were Coke, tea, water and milk.

Water is clear, milk is white, tea is amber, and Coke is brown and bubbly. This was dark with no bubbles. There was a remote possibility he could have made hot chocolate, but it didn’t look like that either. What it did look like was—

What are you drinking? I demanded. I don’t have any coffee in the house.

I had a jar of instant in my briefcase.

He’d brought his own coffee.

I could feel the steam suddenly pouring from my ears, just like in one of those cartoons.

Obviously the arrogant man had intended to spend the night all along!

I looked around for a blunt weapon.

That’s what comes from having a clean house. There wasn’t a weapon in sight.

I stomped to the end of the sofa, grabbed his briefcase, and tossed it at him with as much force as I could muster.

It hit smack in his stomach, a bit higher than I’d been aiming. Too bad.

Ow! That hurt!

Good. Now get out. I glared at him and pointed toward the door.

Calm down, babe. I’ll go get some chocolate doughnuts and we’ll talk about this—

That final reminder of his deception sent me over the edge. "If you call me babe one more time or remain in my house one more minute, I’m going to get my brand new double-barreled shotgun and change you from a bull to a steer right here in my living room, and that’s one mess I won’t mind cleaning up!"

He grabbed the briefcase, held it in front of him and gave a nervous laugh. I know you. You’d never buy a gun. But I could tell he wasn’t sure. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

I fisted my hands on my hips. Wouldn’t I? Remember all those times when I questioned your late night appointments and the perfume on your shirts and you told me I was crazy? Well, guess what? You were right! I am crazy! I bought a gun and I’m going to shoot off your public-property penis and grind it up in the garbage disposal and they’ll give me Prozac and therapy and I won’t even have to go to jail because I’m crazy! I moved to the coat closet and wrapped my hand around the doorknob.

Now, babe—

"Stop calling me babe!" I turned the knob and yanked the door open. I had so much stuff in there, I knew he couldn’t tell if I was hiding a cannon. I pushed aside some coats and groped behind the vacuum cleaner.

Uh, listen, ba—uh, Lindsay, I gotta go. I’ll call you.

He dashed out the front door. I didn’t watch him go. I just stood there beside the coat closet that held several coats, my snow boots, an ice bucket with no lid, a vacuum cleaner, a broom, and other odds and ends...but no shotgun.

I had successfully scammed Rick into leaving my house. I felt good, real good. The adrenaline was surging. I laughed and danced an uncoordinated little jig around my living room.

My empty living room.

Yep, I’d managed to get Rick to leave. Accomplished what I set out to do, what I needed to do. I’d done good.

When that adrenaline rush passed, it sure did leave a nasty residue behind.