Chapter 4
“Hello, Miss Price, Jon Stewart said you needed to speak with me?” The police officer offered a hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Worn jeans. T-shirt with an Ann Arbor Police Department logo printed on the left chest. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his forties. But he was built like a guy twenty years younger. “Detective Foster.” He motioned through a doorway. “How about we go somewhere quiet?”
“That would be nice.” I followed Detective Foster down a white-walled corridor and into a small room furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. It was small. Cramped. Smelled like stale smoke and sweat. The overhead fluorescent light fixture flickered. At the detective’s invitation, I sat in one of the metal and plastic chairs.
He took the chair opposite me, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“First, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
“Sure. Not a problem.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a holiday. I’m off the clock. Just dropped in to take care of a few things.”
“It’s about Michelle Stewart’s death.”
“Yeah. Stewart said you had some questions.”
“I read an old article in a newspaper that suggested her death might not have been a suicide.”
The detective didn’t respond right away, which made me wonder whether he’d tell me the truth or not. To agree to meet with me like this, at the drop of a hat, had to mean something. Did he owe Jon a favor? Were they old friends? Had he been instrumental in getting Jon off the hook? Would my poking around kick up a hornet’s nest? “That article was partially right. There was reason to suspect her death wasn’t a suicide.”
“Such as?”
“Sorry, I can’t give you that information.”
“Is the case still open, then?”
“It is. But Jon’s been cleared. He had a rock-solid alibi.”
Cleared.
I was almost afraid to believe what the detective was saying. I heard myself make a little squeaking noise. “You’re sure he’s innocent?”
“Absolutely. He was seen in a public place by several people, including a very reliable witness, at the time of her death. There is absolutely no way he could have killed his wife.”
A nervous chuckle bubbled up my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“I understand.” He glanced at his watch again. “Any other questions?”
I bolted from my chair. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m sure you have more important things to do than to reassure me that I wasn’t about to marry a murderer.”
Foster’s smile was genuine. “No problem.” He stood, opened the door.
On the way out, Jon’s warning played through my head. “I’m sorry. Can I ask you one more question?”
“Sure,” he said, looking a little stiff. “Shoot.”
“Are any of the neighbors suspects?”
The detective’s smile was coy. He took a moment to answer. “Let’s just say there are a few people who haven’t been cleared yet.”
“Thank you.” I wanted to kiss the man but I didn’t. For one thing, he was wearing a wedding ring. Instead, I practically danced out of the police station. My heart felt light. My over-wound nerves were unknotting with each deep breath I took. Ah, the joy of breathing easy. I hadn’t even realized how freaked out I’d been.
I sang to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” as I drove home. At the top of my lungs. I collected a few stares as I waited for the traffic light to change. But I didn’t care. I was too happy to worry about what anyone thought. Jon’s wife might have been killed. That was a terrible tragedy, one I shouldn’t take lightly—not for Josh, not for Jon—but at least I didn’t need to worry that I was living with a killer.
After checking the house, and finding I was alone—Jon had said he was going to work and Josh was at a local fair with a friend—I headed down to my girl-cave and pulled out my sketchbook. It had been weeks since I’d had time to work on my collection, with the move and everything. I flipped through my drawings.
Flat.
Boring.
Blech.
Yuck.
What in the world had made me think these designs were any good? Sheesh.
I flipped to a fresh page and gathered a handful of freshly sharpened pencils.
Hours flew by.
I took the occasional break to stretch and eat. Before I knew it, the world outside my window was dark. I took a look at the day’s work—hoping I wouldn’t open my sketchbook tomorrow and think it all sucked—before shutting everything down and going upstairs.
The house was dark. Über quiet. Empty.
I padded into the kitchen for a snack before heading into the family room. I channel-surfed for about two minutes. Cut off the TV. Nothing worth watching. I glanced outside at the deck, the nicely wooded backyard, the silvery moon.
What the heck? I headed outside and flopped onto one of the chaise lounges on the deck.
The air smelled great, like freshly mown grass and damp earth. It was so quiet I could hear the insects, the birds, the skittering of an animal somewhere—I hoped that was just a squirrel. Finding one of Josh’s baseball bats sitting propped up against the house, I moved it next to my chair. Just in case.
I glanced up. There were a couple of floodlights pointed down at me. They weren’t lit, so they weren’t activated by a motion sensor. Must be a switch inside somewhere.
The distant sound of someone shouting echoed through the neighborhood. It was coming from ... I turned my head ... that way.
Hmmm ...
I’ll admit, I’m nosy by nature. Add in the possibility that one of my neighbors might be a suspected murderer, and I couldn’t resist the impulse to snoop. I followed the sound of the voices. They were coming from Erica’s house. She was the one who was yelling. Interesting. Miss Cool, Calm, and Collected was having a moment.
There was no fence between our yards. Convenient.
The visibly furious Erica was in the family room, which, like ours, opened onto a wide deck in the backyard. Her back was to the door wall, arms flailing. Thanks to the fact that the wide glass doors were open, I could catch bits and pieces of what she was saying. None of it was nice. Her poor husband. She didn’t have a shred of respect for the bastard. Not an ounce.
But hey, she’d said he was handy with power tools. That had to count for something.
After throwing one last insult about his lack of skills in the bedroom—low blow, if you asked me—she stormed out of the room. The show was over. Just as I was about to head back home, something lunged out from behind a low shrub and sank its fangs into my ankle.
I screamed like a girl. Couldn’t help myself. Then I did what anyone else would do. I kicked my foot like a wild woman while running as fast as I could with some ferocious beast tearing at my flesh. It was agony. I mean, seeing-stars painful. Stomach-clenching painful. Tears-welling painful. I slammed my ankle against everything I could. A tree trunk. The deck post. The house.
The damned thing wouldn’t let go.
Every cuss word I knew flew from my mouth as I clawed at the furry beast, trying to tear it off. From the weak light leaking out through the glass door, I could see the animal was brown. The coat was smooth, like a dog’s.
Maybe it’s a rat.
Gag.
Desperate now, I grabbed the baseball bat, swung.
Crunch.
Another gag.
I shook my leg. The crunched animal flopped lifeless onto the deck. I stooped down to get a look at it, wondering if I should put it in a box, in case rabies was suspected.
Big ears. A little pointy nose. Long, skinny legs. And a rat tail.
What the hell is that?
Creeped out, my ankle throbbing, I set the bat down and went inside to check my leg and look for a box. After cleaning my wound and a ten-minute search that got me nowhere, I opted to sacrifice one of my designer shoe boxes. I went for my least favorite—apologies to Lauren Jones. Box in hand, I headed back to the family room. Before heading out, I searched the wall for the light switch. Found it. Didn’t find the ratdogwhatever.
Gone?
Something caught my eye. A flash of gold. I squinted into the darkness about thirty feet from the deck. Were those ... eyes? Glowing? Big eyes. Was it a big dog? Coyote? Did they have mountain lions in Michigan?
I dove back inside the house and slammed the French doors, throwing the lock. Evidently, the ratdogwhatever had just become something else’s dinner.
I didn’t want to be dessert.
“You’re hurt.”
It was dark. I was in bed. The lights were out. And my bandaged ankle was under a sheet and a blanket. I squinted at the clock. It was three in the morning. I blinked up at Jon, who was standing next to the bed. “How do you know I’m hurt?”
“I saw the bandages and bloody towel in the bathroom.” He sat. The bed sank, and I sort of rolled downhill, closer to him.
“Oh yeah. Of course you did. Sorry. I guess I forgot to clean up.”
“It’s okay. What happened?”
“I was outside in the backyard, enjoying the nice evening, when something jumped out of nowhere and bit me.”
“Hmmm. Let me see.”
“Now? Can’t it wait until morning? I mean, I cleaned it up real good, and it doesn’t look as bad as I thought.”
“I ... suppose.” He stood. “How did your meeting with Detective Foster go?”
“He explained everything. And I feel so bad that I doubted you. I mean, we haven’t known each other long, and we dated long distance, so we’re still kind of strangers. But I should have trusted my instincts.”
“And your instincts tell you I’m ... ?”
“A good man, though flawed. At least, that’s what you tell me.”
His chuckle reverberated through every cell in my body. It was a very pleasant sensation.
I slid a hand over his thigh, gave it a little squeeze. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”
“I’ll think about it.” He stripped off his shirt. The dim light leaking through the open drapes skimmed over the swell of his shoulders, highlighting them while keeping his face masked in darkness. “That happens to be one of my faults, you know.”
“What is?”
“I hold grudges. For a long time.”
I figuratively stepped into his shoes. They weren’t very comfortable. “I guess I can’t blame you in this case. I don’t know how I’d react if you thought I’d killed someone.”
The sound of a zipper being opened—ziiiip—cut through the silence. The sloughing of material followed. And after that, a heavy male sigh. “Okay. I forgive you.” He dove onto the bed, landing next to me, the force of his landing sending me bouncing up into the air. A shrill little squeak burst from my mouth just as he caught me midair and wrestled me onto my back.
“That wasn’t such a long time,” I said, running my hands down the sides of his torso. His body was to-die-for beautiful. I couldn’t keep my hands off.
“I guess the definition of ‘long’ is relative. Now, how about we start over? You’ve just moved in and we’re both insanely happy ... and horny.”
“Oh yes, we are.” I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and kissed him.