Fries and Alibis Page 3

  I wave my arms to shoo the cat away, but she—or maybe he—I didn’t check under the hood, so let’s go with “it.” It drops the dead thing on the step and squirts past me into the bookstore in a blur of tan fur and tufted ears that almost knocks me off my feet.

  Pyewacket, I assume. Nice to make your acquaintance.

  Before my brain can send the “give chase” signal, I inexplicably bend down to get a closer look at the leavings.

  “Son of a—” I won’t repeat what I actually say. In fact, I won’t even tell you what’s lying on the step. I run into the bookstore screaming unrepeatables at the cat, who I’m now sure is Pyewacket, while I search for a spoon (ew) or tweezers (yuck) or a dustpan. All I can find are chopsticks.

  I demand that the cat get out of my bookshop, and to my great surprise, as I open the side door the demon-spawn feline rockets into the alley.

  I pick up the “thing” on the step with the chopsticks and fiercely fight my gag reflex as I shuffle-run toward the dumpster at the end of the alley.

  My fingers are shaking.

  The thing is slipping.

  I am less than a foot from the finish line and my arm is poised to dump and run.

  A car turns down the alley.

  BWAAP. BWAAP.

  Two quick hoots from a siren. Hooray.

  Red and blue lights swirl on and off, filling the alleyway with an unwelcome, and wholly misleading, party-like atmosphere.

  I slowly turn toward the intrusion.

  “I thought that was you,” he says.

  Sheriff Too Hot To Handle is back for seconds.

  “Freeze.”

  Did he just pull a gun on me?

  “Don’t take another step.” He inches closer. “And drop the— Is that an eyeball?”

  Clearly the sheriff is not as thoughtful as me. I’m sorry you had to hear it that way.

  I nod and smile. What else can I do?

  “Drop the eyeball,” he repeats. “And step away from the body.”

  Chapter 5

  Wait, what? Did he say “body?”

  In the confusion, I fail to follow orders and instead turn to see the alleged body. At that exact moment the freaktastic feline Pyewacket leaps out of the dumpster.

  Our local jumpy lawman pulls his trigger.

  He misses psycho-kitty, but the bullet ricochets off the dumpster and—you guessed it—grazes my shoulder. I scream, drop the icky thing and the chopsticks, and fall on my rump in the alley.

  Luckily, Twiggy sees my entire catastrophic embarrassment and delivers exactly what I need most. An earsplitting cackle.

  I grab my shoulder and shout, “He shot me! You shot me, you crazy hick cop!” Warm crimson fluid oozes between my fingers, and the alley seems to spin like a merry-go-round.

  “Did she call you a hiccup?” Twiggy says to the sheriff through peals of laughter.

  All of a sudden her jocularity comes to an abrupt halt. “Is that a body?” Her voice is an octave higher and the laughter noticeably absent.

  “I caught her red-handed. Right here, plain as day, trying to dispose of the body.” He picks up his radio and calls in something about a 187, some other numbers, and an afterthought about an injured perp.

  From rich to perp in less than a week. This must be how Willie Nelson felt. I know I’ll probably rot in a cell in this one-horse town, but when Sheriff Too Hot To Handle walks toward me and pulls out his handcuffs, all I can think is how good it feels to be guilty.

  “Stand up real slow—um, what’s your name?”

  I stand. “What’s yours, Sheriff? I can’t keep calling you Too Hot To Handle.” I smile and wobble unsteadily.

  He flushes handsomely and his strong jaw twitches as though he’s stifling a chuckle. “Name?” he repeats in his “all business” voice.

  “Mine’s Mitzy Moon, Officer.” I hold out one wrist.

  “I’ll need both hands for the cuffs, Miss Moon.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I wink, but as soon as I remove my right hand from my injured left shoulder the blood flows, the stinging resumes, and I faint.

  Regaining consciousness in the ambulance, my eyes struggle to focus. The sheriff angles over me with concern, and just a few strands of enticingly out-of-place hair fall over his eye and beg to be touched.

  The paramedic shines a bright penlight in each of my eyes and announces, “She’s coming around, Harper.”

  The man named “Harper” leans in.

  I smile up at the intense blue-grey eyes and whisper, “What’s your first name, Harper?”

  The sheriff exhales, leans back, and replies, “It’s Erick. But you can call me Sheriff Harper.”

  I attempt to lift my right arm to give him a proper handshake, and that’s when I feel the handcuff clamping my wrist to the gurney.

  “Mitzy Moon, you’re under arrest for the murder of Cal Duncan. You have the right to remain silent. Anything . . . ”

  My ears ring just like the victims in the aftermath of a concussion grenade in a B-movie. Murder? I thought throwing my uniform shirt at SUPERvisor Dean was daring and reckless. I’ve never murdered anything in my life. Except possibly a molten-chocolate lava cake.

  As the ambulance comes to an abrupt halt and the paramedic jumps out to slide the gurney to the ground, I get a bright idea. “I want to speak to my lawyer.”

  “I’ll call him for you while they stitch you up. What’s his name?” Sheriff Harper pulls out his pen and notepad.

  I smile sheepishly. “No idea. I thought I’d call the guy who delivered—” That’s the exact moment I remember that I have wads of cash stuffed into my undergarments. Oops.

  “Do you mean Silas Willoughby? Your grandmother’s attorney?”

  “Mmhmm.” I nod and smile. “I’d like to speak to him before I see the doctor.”

  The sheriff gives me a highly suspicious look and lowers his notepad. “Are you refusing medical treatment?” He puts a hand on the gurney. “Hold up, medic,” he says to the attendant.

  “Not so much refusing as postponing.”

  “Take her into One,” the doctor commands.

  He continues to hold the gurney and replies, “She’s refusing treatment, Doc.”

  Boy that Sheriff Harper is a real stickler.

  “Jump off the gurney and have a seat in the waiting room, Miss. You’ll change your mind when the wound starts bleeding again.” The doctor tosses me an exasperated eye roll. “And it will start bleeding again.” She hustles off to attend to other matters before I can reply.

  Sheriff Harper unlocks one side of the handcuffs from the gurney and locks it around his own wrist.

  A tingle of anticipation slides down my spine. You have my attention.

  “Dispatch, can you send Deputy Paulsen down to County? I’ve got a babysitting job for her.”

  Rude.

  “Oh, and get Willoughby on the horn. Tell him Isadora’s granddaughter is being charged with the murder of Cal Duncan.”

  “10-4, Sheriff.”

  “You can’t possibly believe I murdered anyone.” I stare at the sheriff in shock. “I’d be covered in blood spatter, for one thing, and—”

  He points at my shirt.

  “That’s my blood. From when you shot me!” I shake my head and chew the inside of my cheek. “This is entrapment. You framed me.”

  “Do you want to head over to the station for questioning?” He raises an eyebrow.

  Butterflies in my tummy take note of his sexy arched brow and intense stare and flutter mercilessly. “What about my arm?” I gulp some air and command my stomach to behave.

  “You refused medical treatment.”

  “I didn’t. I asked for my attorney.”

  “Then we can’t discuss the case.” He shakes his head in exasperation and smiles. “You can’t have it both ways, Miss Moon.”

  Before I can enjoy his satisfied grin, our intense flirtation is interrupted.

  “Sorry it took me so long, Sheriff. That Johan Olafsson was
driving his tractor right down Main Street again.” The short, squat deputy sizes me up. “This the killer?”

  “Alleged killer,” I interject.

  “She’s got a mouth on her, eh? Want me to quiet her down, Sheriff?” She rocks back and forth on her tiny feet in a way that reminds me of one of those punching bags with all the sand in the bottom. The kind that kids knock down but the character keeps rolling back up.

  I don’t like the ilk of this deputy—not one bit.

  “There’s no need for that, Paulsen.” He transfers the other half of my handcuffs from his inviting wrist to the ample deputy’s limb. “Take her into the waiting area and keep your eyes peeled for Willoughby.”

  “Figures she’d lawyer up. The guilty always do.” She snarls her lip up and jerks toward me like a playground bully.

  I don’t flinch. One of the first things I learned in foster care was to stand my ground with bullies. I still got the crap beat out of me pretty regularly, but at least I went down fighting.

  Paulsen tugs me along behind her as though I’m a bad puppy and directs me, rather roughly, into a dusty-rose vinyl-covered chair.

  “Gimme a holler on the squawk box when Silas arrives.” Sheriff Harper tips his chin and leaves me to stew with my babysitter.

  She nods and picks at her teeth with a toothpick that seems to materialize out of thin air.

  Now that my tasty distraction has exited, I notice the antiseptic odor and the chill in the air. I don’t like hospitals. Never have. I reach to pull the edge of my shirt down with the handcuffed wrist.

  Paulsen instantly yanks her hand. “Give me a reason, scumbag.” She massages the handle of her gun and narrows her gaze.

  Seems like now would be the wrong time to mention how badly I need to pee.

  Chapter 6

  You know that scene in the movie when the music swells and the hero rushes in with a dramatic flourish to save the day? This is nothing like that.

  “Over here, Silas.” Deputy Paulsen lifts her pudgy hand from her gun for a moment and gives a quick two-finger wave.

  Silas Willoughby shuffles down the linoleum corridor with absolutely no sense of urgency. His wrinkled brown suit, mystery-sauce-stained tie, and dilapidated briefcase mumble of a forgotten era. Picture present day Nick Cage in a remake of Death of a Salesman.

  “Mizithra.” He nods.

  “Silas.” I shrug my wounded arm and nod my head toward the injury, while fluttering the fingers on the handcuffed wrist.

  He straightens, harrumphs into his mustache, and seems to gain six inches in height. “Deputy Paulsen, remove the restraints from my client. She is a business owner in the community and not a flight risk.”

  To my utter stupefaction, Deputy Paulsen works her fat little hand into her snug polyester pocket, pulls out her key, and unlocks the handcuffs.

  I rub my wrist and stare at Silas with my mouth hanging open.

  He extends a hand, which I gladly take. As he gently pulls me to my feet he places his other hand over my gunshot wound and murmurs something under his breath.

  “I don’t believe you’ll require any sutures, Mizithra. Allow me to convey you to the bookshop, so you have a moment to freshen up before our visitation with Sheriff Harper.

  I nod but can’t seem to find the mental capacity to smile. I’m too busy staring at my shoulder. There’s nothing more than a scratch. The stinging is gone, and the wound is no longer bleeding.

  Mr. Willoughby drives me back to the bookstore in his mint condition 1908 Model T. The seats show some wear and the steering wheel has two smooth indentations that cradle his hands, but other than that the vehicle looks like it rolled off the assembly line yesterday.

  He parks on the street and I slide out of the car. As I walk up to the door I look at the sign. “Bell, Book & Candle Bookshop.” I honestly don’t remember seeing that sign this morning. Maybe I did hit my head when I tumbled all over Sheriff Too Hot To Handle—I mean, Erick.

  “The key, Mizithra.”

  “Oh, right.” I fumble around under my shirt and extract the key, which has snagged on a one hundred dollar bill from my bra. “Oops.” I tug the bill loose and shove it back into my “B” cup.

  Mr. Willoughby shakes his head twice before his shoulders return to their normal curve of disappointment.

  I put the key in, but there’s no “open” sound or feeling. I tug the handle and the door opens. “I left Twiggy in charge,” I offer with a shrug.

  “You powder your nose and I’ll wait in the stacks.” He walks into the rows of bookshelves at the front of the shop.

  I wander around and try to locate my bags.

  An additional instruction floats over the shelves. “Do try to find something other than skinny jeans.”

  The way he enunciates “skinny jeans” makes them sound like poisonous snakes.

  “I put your stuff in the apartment,” announces Twiggy.

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Up the stairs, through the Rare Books Loft, tilt the candle next to the copy of Saducismus Triumphatus and you’re in.”

  “Maybe you could show me?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “I have blood all over my hands. I wouldn’t want to get that on the candle or the Saducismus.”

  A heavy sigh followed by clomping footfalls herald the approach of Twiggy.

  “This way, Your Highness.” We twist our way upstairs and through the rows of carefully aligned oak reading tables, each with a lovely brass lamp topped by a thick, green glass shade.

  Despite my irritation with Twiggy’s curt manner, the secret door does not fail to impress.

  “Thanks.”

  Twiggy exhales and stomps back down the staircase.

  I run my hand along the edge of the bookcase door and grin maniacally. My grandmother, who some people in town call Myrtle and others call Isadora, is—was . . . I wish I could’ve known her. I think she would get me, and vice versa.

  After I complete a quick treasure hunt and pull all the hundreds out of my clothes, boots, and undergarments, I stuff the bills under the mattress. I don’t know. I’m spitballing at this point.

  I whip off my shirt, wash the blood from my hands and arm, and slip on a clean T-shirt. I glance down at the shirt. A cat spilling a cup of coffee with the tagline, “I Do What I Want.”

  Not quite the right message for an interrogation.

  Pulling that one off, I dig through my crap duffle bag for an attitude-free shirt. The best I can find is a blue shirt with images of cassette tapes, huge old cellular phones, CDs, pagers, and other “dead tech.” It doesn’t have a tagline and it’s all I’ve got. I hope no one gets the joke.

  I exit the apartment and tilt the candle back to level. The secret bookcase door slides shut. Sweet! I pitter-patter down the steps.

  Silas Willoughby glances up. His face says “not pleased” in at least five languages.

  I shrug.

  “Do you have identification?”

  “Yep.” I pat my back pocket. “It’s in my pocket,” I hastily add, in case he thinks I think my rear end is identification.

  “Of course it is,” he mumbles as he shuffles out the front door.

  Chapter 7

  The sheriff’s station looks exactly like I imagine it should. A touch of Sheriff Valenti from Roswell with a heaping helping of Sheriff Andy Taylor from Mayberry.

  Sheriff Harper walks out from his office.

  Oh my, I need to add a slice of sex on toast to that description. “Hi, Erick.”

  “I asked you to call me Sheriff Harper, Miss Moon.” While his words say “no,” his grin says “maybe.”

  Silas steps on my witty reply. “Sheriff Harper, you cannot possibly believe that my client would take the life of Cal Duncan. She’s hardly been in town long enough to make the man’s acquaintance. What possible motive would she have to dispatch a perfect stranger?”

  “Silas, you know as well as I do that Cal is this woman’s grandfather. I wouldn’t
call that a perfect stranger.”

  Once again, I find my jaw flapping in the breeze. A grandfather! A week ago I was a poor orphan and now—now, I’m still an orphan. My relatives are dropping like flies. I guess I’m not poor, though. However, I am being accused of murder . . .

  “Follow me, Miss Moon.”

  Sheriff Harper walks toward the back of the station and I eagerly follow. I make no effort to keep my eyes above the waist. If this is the last fine man I’m going to see before they send me up the river, I don’t want to miss a thing.

  He pulls out my chair and takes the one opposite.

  “Miss Moon, what were you doing in that alley this morning?”

  I open my mouth, but Silas places a firm hand on my arm. “You are not required to answer, Mizithra.”

  I ignore the odd heat of his fingers on my skin. “I’m happy to answer, and let’s agree that you’ll call me Mitzy from now on.”

  A pained exhale escapes Mr. Willoughby’s person. His hand drops to his side. “As you wish, Mitzy.”

  “Well, Erick, I was disposing of the thing that Pyewacket dropped on my back step. I barely looked at it, and I never saw a body until you pulled up and shot me.”

  “By ‘thing’ are you referring to the eyeball?”

  I gag a little. “Yes.”

  “When did you arrive in Pin Cherry Harbor?”

  “About five minutes before you walked in the diner and pulled me into that horizontal embrace.” I nod with a hint of “game on.”

  “Can anyone confirm that, Miss Moon?”

  “There were at least seven people in the diner. I’m sure one of them saw what happened.”

  He doesn’t take the bait.

  “What I’m asking, Miss Moon, is if anyone can confirm that you arrived in Pin Cherry this morning?”

  Touché, Erick. Touché.

  “I’m sure my client can produce her bus ticket, Sheriff. I assume that will suffice?” Silas pushes his chair back.