Finn-agled Page 8

  “Yes. I’m telling you, they were up to something. The way that guy got in my face…”

  Spencer stopped cold, his abrupt deceleration throwing me off balance. “What do you mean, he got in your face? What did he do?”

  Now I’ll admit; a guy’s attractiveness quotient shoots way up when he gets all fiercely protective and stuff, but the middle of the dance floor at his sister’s wedding is hardly the place for such a display of machismo. “Can we talk about this later, please? People are staring.”

  I thought that was a pretty fair request, don’t you? Apparently not, as Spencer’s response was to haul me off the dance floor towards our table, which was currently occupied by a trio of horny, teenaged boys gleefully rating the physical attributes of the bridesmaids.

  “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” I scolded as we detoured past the hormone-riddled lads in search of a quiet place where Spencer could grill me. Ending up sandwiched between a five-foot-tall floral arrangement and a plastic recycling can strewn with white tulle and pink ribbons, I scooched a few inches to the left to gain a clear view of the reception over his shoulder, lest I miss anything.

  Determined to be taken seriously, Spencer leveled me with the same look he assigns to the baddest, bad-ass characters in his novels. “Okay, once more from the beginning.”

  Though I’d brought it up to begin with, I was tired of the topic and pretended not to hear him, craning my neck in search of a tuxedo-clad server carrying a tray of those yummy rum drinks. None were nearby, and with a pair of Phthalo peepers (can you tell I’ve been watching The Painting Channel lately?) laser-focused on me, I gave up my quest for a thirst-quenching beverage and sighed morosely. “But I was almost to the end.”

  “Finn…”

  I know that warning tone, having heard it my entire life from pretty much everyone in my family, and rolled my own, less-colorful, ophthalmic organs. “I’m not some hapless child in constant need of looking after, you know! I’ve been on my own for quite some time now, and am a mature adult who’s more than capable of– oh, look! They’re cutting the cake!”

  Spencer’s inability to keep up with my easily-distracted thought processes worked to my advantage as I assumed a place in line for a slice of the traditional wedding confection. By the time he caught up with me, a sugar-laden rosebud of pure deliciousness was melting on my tongue. “We’re not finished discussing this, Finn.”

  “Discussing what?” Nibbling on another frosted flower, I feigned innocence, a talent I’ve gone to great lengths to perfect, though I rarely have the opportunity to employ it. “Do you want a bite? It’s yummy.”

  “You’re infuriating, you know that?” Raking strong, manly fingers through his hair, he raised little tufts that reminded me of haystacks.

  I giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” he growled, his expression a combination of frustration and interest as I licked frosting off my lips.

  A-ha! I had his attention. Taking advantage of the situation, I inhaled deeply causing certain female attributes to strain against aqua chiffon. His eyes snapped to my breasts, then back to my face; his annoyance replaced by lust. And women are accused of being the easy ones. “You want some cake? It’s going fast, so if you want a piece, you’d better get up there.”

  Recognizing a lost cause when it was presented to him, Spencer took his place in line, snagging two slices before joining me at an empty table. “Figured you’d be ready for round two,” he winked, sliding one of the plates towards me before digging into his own dessert.

  Having reduced round one to nothing more than crumbs, I gushed, “I love you,” heat scorching my cheeks the second the words left my mouth. Damn these rum cocktails! “For the cake, I mean. Thank you.”

  Spencer chuckled around a mouthful of layered deliciousness. “I know what you meant.”

  Time to switch the subject before I dig myself in any deeper. “So, what are you currently working on? Care to give me a sneak peek into your next bestseller?”

  “Actually, I’m between manuscripts right now. Before leaving New York, I wrapped up the edits on my latest book, which is due to be released at the end of the summer, and I haven’t started anything new yet. That’s why this is the perfect time to come back to Port New.”

  “You’re really moving back?”

  “I said I was, didn’t I?” Spencer eyed me curiously. “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that,” I said, mashing the remaining cake crumbs with my fork. “But you love New York. Makes me wonder why you chose to come back now.”

  “Maybe I figured it’s time to pursue the girl of my dreams.” He leaned close. “Have you ever read any of my books, Finn?”

  “One or two.” Or seventeen.

  His tone softened. “Hasn’t the main character ever struck you as familiar?”

  Wait a minute. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? My rum-soaked brain scrambled to recall details about his heroine, Lucy Bell. Blonde, intelligent, drop-dead gorgeous. Nope. No similarities there.

  “Nothing springs to mind.”

  “I based her on you, Finn.”

  “Pffft. I haven’t looked in the mirror since this morning, but as far as I can recall, I am neither five-foot-ten, shapely, nor a flaxen-haired beauty. Taking literary license a little far, aren’t you?”

  “Only with her physical description, and that wasn’t by choice. Originally, Lucy had chestnut hair, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a killer smile, but my publisher was adamant that a blue-eyed, blonde-haired sexpot would sell better to the masses. My editor agreed, and though I could’ve fought them on it, at the time, I was a new author who didn’t know better. I was just excited to have a publishing deal. By the time the second book came out, the first was already a bestseller, and it was too late to make any character changes. But if you read closely, she’s you.”

  Few moments in my life have I ever been rendered speechless – just ask my mother – so twice in one week is a record. Grateful the photographer was on the other side of the room, lessening any chance of him snapping a pic of me wearing this bewildered expression, my brain buzzed with a thousand unasked questions. How many years has Spencer harbored his own crush? How could I have not seen it? What brought him back now?

  My lips finally formed one. “Why?”

  “Because–”

  A sharp squelch cut him off. “Attention, all you single ladies out there. It’s time to join me on the dance floor as the bride gets ready to throw the bouquet.”

  Are you kidding me? The DJ picks this moment for the bouquet toss right when Spencer’s getting ready to pour his heart out?

  “Aren’t you going to go out there?” he asked, eyeing the gaggle of X-chromosomed wedding guests gathering in the center of the dance floor. “You’re going to miss your chance to catch the bouquet. Isn’t that the objective of single ladies such as yourself at a wedding reception?”

  “Not this single lady, thank you very much,” I lied smoothly. No need to show my hand so soon after his revelation. Canned drumroll followed by the shrieks of two dozen matrimony-seeking females bounced off the walls, and I shouted so Spencer could hear me over the cacophony. “Please, finish what you were saying about Lucy.”

  Damn if an arrangement of pink and white tea roses adorned with baby’s breath didn’t land on the empty plate in front of me before he could answer.

  Chapter Seven

  “Meet me at the morgue.”

  Five words no one wants to hear when suffering the effects of one – okay, three – too many melon-rum concoctions, much less at 6:17 a.m. while in the midst of a particularly salacious, toe-curling dream. Burrowing deeper under the covers, I grumbled, “And why would I want to do that?”

  Apparently, Zara was in no mood to banter because she barked, “Just get down here,” ending the call before I could reply. Whatever she’s working on must be important for her to be so snappy. Wait a minute, did she say the morgue? You don’t think…?


  Names of family, friends – Spencer – ran like movie credits through my brain as I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Speeding through non-existent traffic, I was near tears and hyperventilating by the time Port New General came into view. Lance’s tires squealed as I sped into the lower level parking garage – three mile per hour speed limit, be damned! Sprinting through the barely open door, I skidded to a halt in front of Duley, who was waiting for me in the hall.

  “Who is it?” I wheezed, my sides doing their best imitation of a bellows. “Is it Mom? Dad? Grandpa? Oh, God, not Grandma Lena!”

  Duley’s massive mitt landed on my shoulder with a thud. “No, no. Nothing like that. Calm down, Finn. Take a breath and get ahold of yourself.” Though speaking in his most comforting tone, he came across like a drill sergeant barking orders.

  “Geez, Duley, scare a girl much? What was I supposed to think being summoned down here at this hour?”

  “Sorry.” He sounded anything but.

  My heart catapulting around in my chest, it took a full sixty-three seconds for me to compose myself. “Okay, I’m ready now for whatever this is.”

  Steering me through a set of double doors, Duley stepped to one side once we cleared the entryway. Brrr. No wonder they call it the cooler. Years of watching medical and forensic dramas on T.V. had prepared me for the rows of stainless-steel refrigerated units lining one wall and the drain in the concrete floor. The odor; not so much.

  Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

  My mantra of late. Taking in my surroundings, I zeroed in on the person responsible for my frazzled state. “You rang?”

  Zara was standing next to a sheet-draped body – well, given the room we’re in, I assume it’s a body – and motioned me over. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Like I had a choice.” We both knew I didn’t. “Okay, so why’d you drag me down here? I mean, Duley assured me it’s no one I know, so…oh my God! Did you lie so you wouldn’t have to deal with my meltdown?”

  “That’s not why you’re here,” Zara intervened before her partner ended up with whiplash from whipping his head side to side. Folding down the sheet covering the corpse’s face, she motioned me over. “Just take a look, would you? Do you recognize her?”

  My face screwed up as tightly as humanly possible, I squinted down at the body, seeing nothing but a blur.

  “Finn, we haven’t got all day. Stop playing around.”

  I can tell by her tone that Zara’s questioning her friendship with me right about now. Oh, well. I’m here. Might as well get this over with. Taking a deep breath, I ventured a peek, my eyes popping open wide. “Oh my God, I know her! She’s the one who came into the shop the night I was attacked.”

  Zara and Duley exchanged a look. “Are you sure? Look closer, Finn. I need you to be certain.”

  The dead body smell forgotten; I stuck my nose in the decedent’s face. “It’s her, all right! I’d recognize that mole anywhere…wait a minute. Are those bruises on her neck?”

  “Yup. She was strangled.” Duley sidled up beside me and patted my back. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine, Big Guy.” His thoughtfulness moved me. “So, who is she? When did she die?”

  “The M.E. estimates time of death between 10 pm Tuesday night and 1 am Wednesday morning. Her body was dumped near the seawall and a group of teenagers partying down there last night found her and called 911.”

  “Does her murder connect with my case?”

  Zara made a notation in her notepad. “No. Why should it?”

  “You don’t find it the least bit coincidental that hours after this woman visited my shop, she was murdered? The same night I was attacked?”

  “You weren’t attacked.”

  “What would you call it then?”

  My best friend capitulated. “Okay, you were attacked, but only because you were in the shop when it was robbed. I’ve already told you it’s a case of wrong place/wrong time.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I know you don’t, but those are the facts. And, anyway, that’s all we have to go on.”

  Planting my feet, I dug my fists into my hips. “If you don’t think one has anything to do with other, why call me to identify her?”

  Covering the woman’s face with the sheet, Zara handed me an evidence bag. “This was in with her personal belongings.”

  “What is it?” I turned the bag over. “One of my business cards. The kind I hand out at the shop.”

  “Exactly. And she matches the description you gave in your statement, though you forgot to mention her mole.”

  “Sorry. I was a bit preoccupied at the time, if you recall.”

  “As if that’s an excuse.” I think Zara’s been spending too much time around my mother. “Anyway, it seemed like a good idea to call you down to take a look.”

  I was struck by a thought. “You think her partner killed her, don’t you? The guy who came into the store with her. And then he came back for me.”

  Another visual exchange between Zara and Duley. Anyone not knowing better would think they had a thing for one another. “The man you described as being in this woman’s company is a person of interest, but it’s highly unlikely he’s the one who broke into your store.”

  “Give me one reason – one, good reason – you don’t think it’s the same guy.”

  “Only one?”

  I knew that look; the one Zara was wearing. The one that said she’s humoring me because I’m her best friend, but there’s no way I’m on the right track. You know, that look. I hate that look.

  Sighing heavily, she decided to indulge me. “Okay, let’s assume for a minute that your attacker and the man who visited your shop with this woman are one and the same. Why would he risk getting caught burglarizing your store after committing murder?”

  “Because he wanted the writing box.”

  Zara rolled her eyes. “Not this again. Finn, you really need to stop watching so much T.V. You were attacked by a random guy looking for money. That’s all there is to it.”

  “If cash is all he was after, then why bother with the box at all?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he thought he could hock it. Or he needed a birthday gift for his girlfriend and grabbed the first thing he saw. Or he collects antique writing boxes. It doesn’t matter because the two are unrelated.”

  Exactly along the lines of what Spencer said. Why won’t anyone take me seriously? In need of an ally, I spun on my heel to find mine taking an inventory of the embalming chemicals. “Duley, you’ve got my back, right? How likely is it that this woman was murdered hours after coming into the shop looking for the very item that was stolen? The same night I’m strangled.”

  “She has a point.” Duley’s hopeful glance at his partner withered under her glare, but he rallied and pressed on. “You have to admit, Zar, the whole thing is a bit hokey.”

  “Hokey? Which decade are you living in?” A puff of frustrated air passed between Zara’s pursed lips. “We have enough to deal with between that burglary up on the hill, this thing with Finn, and an unsolved without drawing unnecessary – and completely unfounded – conclusions between two of the three crimes.”

  “What burglary?” I piped up.

  “The Newcastle estate was robbed earlier in the week.”

  If my jaw had been made of glass, it would’ve shattered when it hit the floor. Okay, an exaggeration maybe, but had Zara admitted to sitting home every Saturday night watching baking shows and drinking tequila, I would’ve been less surprised. Besides, it was only that one time after she’d been dumped by her loser boyfriend, Kyle.

  Before I could contribute my thoughts to this new development, Zara circled back to the reason we were gathered in the morgue at 6:23 on a Sunday morning.

  “Is there anything else you remember about her–” a nod toward the sheet-draped body “–or her partner? Did he call her by name or anything?”

  “Sheesh. You think I’m holding out on you? I wouldn�
��t do that. Honestly, I don’t even remember her picking up one of my cards. You said she had personal belongings. There must be something with her name on it. I mean, how hard can it be to identify her?”

  “Harder than you think. We don’t have much to go on. Her prints aren’t in the system, and her driver’s license is a forgery. She was going by the name ‘Victoria Stellan’, but the only Victoria Stellan we’ve been able to locate in a fifteen-hundred-mile radius is an 82-year-old great-grandmother living it up in Boca Raton.”

  Sliding the slab back into the refrigerated drawer, Zara slammed the door shut with way more force than such an action necessitated. Afraid I’d end up on the next one over if I didn’t watch my step – wouldn’t that be funny? A detective who makes her living solving homicides committing one? – my eyes skittered across the bank of drawers, only to skitter back when the name of the occupant behind door number two caught my attention. “Jeremiah Newcastle died? When did that happen?”

  “He had another stroke early Tuesday afternoon,” Zara replied absently, frowning as she checked her messages on her phone. “Thanks for coming down, Finn. You were a big help. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know. Ready to go, partner?”

  Duley nodded, and they both moved towards the door.

  Really? Drop a bomb like that and then just walk away? I don’t think so. “Excuse me.”

  His hand hovering near the light switch, Duley stopped and scanned the room. “What? You forget something?”

  “You’re really leaving? Just like that? Am I really the only one here who sees the connection?”

  Zara’s face reappeared in the doorway. A slightly pissed-off face. “What? What is it that we – two experienced detectives – are missing?”

  “Well, for one thing–”

  “That was a rhetorical question, Finn. You know I love you, but I don’t have time for this. Cases are stacking up and the Chief’s breathing down our necks to get them cleared.”

  “But–”

  “Go home. Do whatever it is you do after spending Sunday morning at the morgue identifying a dead body. And, stop worrying. I’m sure the break-in was a one-time thing.”