*
Xander closed the door and watched Sam, clearly upset, stalk into the dining room and begin clearing the cups away. He didn’t like this, not one bit. For a stranger to seek her out was one thing, but to get her involved in a legal predicament, to write letters claiming she was in danger because he was contacting her and now this, leaving her holding the bag with his estate inside? If Timothy Savage weren’t already dead, Xander would have killed him himself.
He thought back to Savage’s letter. He said he’d compiled a list of people who could have murdered him. Who were these people? And why, if it was clearly a suicide, did Savage try to rope Sam into his world with the claim of murder?
There was something rotten in Denmark. Without a doubt.
The crash of broken china came from the kitchen. He hurried in to see Sam with a finger in her mouth, cursing under her breath.
“You okay?”
She shook her head. “Broke a cup and sliced my finger. It’s nothing, just an ouchy.”
She went pale as she said the words, and he knew it was a phrase she’d used with her kids. They slipped out, these motherly incantations, when she was highly upset, or drunk. This was the former—any pleasant tipsiness from the wine at dinner was long gone after the lawyer’s disconcerting visit.
“Let me see.” He went to her, pulled her into his arms. She was right; it was just a scratch, no worse than a paper cut. The bleeding had all but stopped. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the wound. “Better?”
Her shoulders began to shake. He thought there might be tears, but she was laughing quietly. She was back, pulled from the edge by his touch. She nodded.
“I’m fine. If you’d offered to kiss my boo-boo, I would have smacked your bum.”
“I might have enjoyed that. Seriously, are you okay?”
She kissed him, quick and hard, then pulled away and shut off the lights. She turned toward the stairs, let the wrap fall to the floor. “No, I’m not. Help me forget, Xander.”
And he did.
Chapter
7
SAM’S CELL PHONE rang at 10:30 p.m. Fletcher. She extricated herself from Xander’s sleeping form to answer the call. There was still something weird about being naked with Xander and talking to Fletcher. She grabbed the blue cotton button-down Xander had been wearing earlier, snuggled into it and went into the bathroom so she wouldn’t wake him, though she’d learned that as light as he slept, only an actual emergency would rouse him. Years of military training. She wished she could follow suit.
She shut the bathroom door, anyway. “Hey. You have news?”
Fletcher sounded tired, a certain weariness in his tone she understood completely. “Yeah. Did I wake you? I know you go to bed early.”
Some nights earlier than others.
“No, I’m awake. You don’t sound like you’re getting any beauty sleep, though.”
He laughed. “You know how it is. Things are popping, multiple cases, lots of craziness. Listen, I got a call back from the Lynchburg police. They say the dude, Timothy Savage, was a suicide. Took them a day to clear the air enough to retrieve the body. Detergent suicide isn’t deadly only for the victim, but for anyone else who might inhale it, accidentally or otherwise. It’s not a pretty death.”
“I know. Hydrogen sulfide gas is quite lethal. I assume asphyxiation was the cause of death?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t post him. It’s a small town, just a coroner on hand. They sent the chemicals in for testing, but he didn’t see the need for an autopsy. Apparently it was quite clear what had happened. There were warning signs on the windows, and a note, the whole shebang.”
“Lazy of them. All they needed to do was send the body to Richmond. Where is Mr. Savage now?”
“In the cooler at the mortician’s place.”
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” She leaned against the sink, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her dark hair was wild, sticking up all over, and her lips were swollen. She smoothed her hair down, thinking hard. Why had Timothy Savage drawn her into his mess?
“Sam? You still there?”
“Yes. My turn for show-and-tell. I had an interesting visitor tonight. Creepy lawyer from Lynchburg. Apparently Savage named me executrix of his estate, and demanded I do an autopsy on him. He left me a key, too, though I have no idea to what. This is getting weirder and weirder, Fletch.”
“Are you going to do it?” He sounded intrigued.
“No. No way. This is a job for the police, not me. I’ll recommend his body be sent to the OCME in Richmond, and ask my friend Meg Foreman to handle the case personally. But that’s as far as I go. I already declined the legal aspect. I just want to prep for my classes and get the semester under way.”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Sam. You’re totally on the hook.”