Looming Murder (6 page)

The tall, handsome man, who until then had not said a word, wrapped a possessive arm around the blonde. “Well, well, will you look at who’s out of jail? Do you still want to kill me? Come on, Swanson. Take your best shot. I dare you.”

I had a sudden vision of fists flying and noses getting bloodied. I grabbed David by the arm. “Let’s go.” He stood his ground, hands fisted, jaw clenched, but regardless of his frozen stance, I could feel him ready to pounce.

“What’s the matter? Not so brave anymore?” The man’s lips were stretched into something that looked more like a snarl than a smile. He laughed, and then, looking bored, he said, “Why don’t you do yourself a favor? Turn around and get the fuck out of my sight, unless you want to get arrested again.”

So this was Jeremy Fox. I studied him, not liking anything I saw. But who was the sexy blonde? And all at once, any concern I might have had about David Swanson having an anger management issue vanished. I didn’t even know the Fox guy and I had a crazy urge to wipe the smirk off his face. He made my skin crawl.

“Come on, David. Let’s get out of here. You can show me the apartment some other time.”

His face underwent a range of emotions—rage, uncertainty and finally acceptance. When he turned to leave, I had to restrain myself from patting his back in sympathy. We scampered down the stairs and across the street. I barely had time to close the car door before he stepped on the gas and we took off, tires squealing.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” David muttered, breaking the heavy silence. “I came this close to losing my cool.” He held up his thumb and index finger half an inch apart.

“What did he mean about you being out of jail?”

He shook his head, looking pale. “He was just being stupid. I was only in custody for a couple of hours, until my sister posted bail.” He was silent for a moment, and then he shuddered. “I don’t feel so good.”

No sooner were those words out of his mouth than he swung to the side of the road and screeched to a stop. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel, his breath coming in gasps. “Sorry.” His voice was shaking. He sat up abruptly, stumbled out of the car and around to the back. Poor guy. The confrontation had upset him more than he wanted to let on. I waited in the car, a dozen questions rolling around in my mind—questions I would never ask. They would only embarrass him more.

A few minutes later he returned, looking slightly jaundiced. “Listen, Della, I want to apologize about what happened back there. It was completely unforgivable on my part to put you in the middle of it. I would understand if you—”

“Don’t be silly. You didn’t do anything, David. That man is a jerk.”

He answered my silent question. “That was my ex-wife, by the way.”

I turned to look at him. “She’s . . . Really?”

He nodded. “That’s what the argument with Jeremy was about. He was involved with my sister and broke her heart by two-timing her with my wife.” He grimaced. “He’s a real piece of work.” He added, “As it turns out, so is she.”

I was slack-jawed for a moment, reeling from this revelation. It was too awful for words, and I couldn’t imagine how betrayed he must have felt. “Wow! No wonder you lost control. You
do
deserve a medal for the restraint you showed.”

“Thanks for saying that. God only knows why Jeremy was showing her that apartment.”

“Is Jeremy a real estate agent?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding bitter. “Which, as far as I’m concerned, is completely unethical on his part. He is also a developer and should not sell his own project—conflict of interest. An agent is supposed to represent his client, not himself.”

There was an uncomfortable silence during which his eyes bored into mine. He must have seen what he was looking for, because he let out a sigh of relief.

He started the car and turned onto the road. When we neared the house, I spotted Matthew’s antique Triumph TR6 behind my Jeep, and my heart did a somersault.

“Looks like you have company. Is that Matthew’s car?”

“Of course you would know Matthew.”

He chuckled. “We were in high school and played football together. Besides, this is a small town. Everybody—”

“—knows everybody in Briar Hollow.”

He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Say hello to him for me.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, stepping out of the car. I closed the door, waved good-bye to him and watched his car disappear down the street.
What a nice man he is
, I thought, feeling sorry for him. David probably wanted no more than what anybody else wanted—to have someone who loved him, somebody he could love back. I felt sad for him. Was he going home or heading to a bar to get drunk? And for some reason I couldn’t explain, I had the bad feeling that David Swanson’s troubles were about to get much worse.

Uh-oh. I’m starting to sound like Jenny
, I thought, chuckling.

Next, I’d be seeing auras too.

I
shook off the pall that had descended on me and crossed the street.

“Hello-o, anybody home?” I called out, pushing the door open. A second later Winston came galloping over, almost knocking me down in his excitement.

He whipped out his tongue, giving me a sloppy kiss. “I love you too, Winnie,” I said, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand. “But please spare me those wet kisses.”

From the kitchen, I could hear music and the sound of laughter—Matthew on the phone. But to my surprise, when I walked in, Matthew was not on the phone, but clinking glasses with—of all people—Jenny. And right there, in the middle of the table, was
my
bottle of sparkling white wine—the one I’d bought to toast his new writing career. I struggled to keep my smile from evaporating.

He grinned and raised a glass toward me, saying, “Hey, there you are, kiddo. Come join the party.”

Matthew was good-looking in a clean-cut sort of way, more of a Tom Hanks than a Tom Cruise. He was almost six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes that kept changing color. I’d seen them get very dark when he was angry and almost golden when he laughed. At this moment they were golden.

He tore his eyes away from Jenny, who had changed into a white off-the-shoulder sweater that she kept tugging back up, making her tanned shoulders all the more noticeable—and poured a glass of wine for me. He gestured to the bottle. “Hope you don’t mind I helped myself. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”

“No, no. That’s okay. I got it for you, to celebrate your publishing contract.”

“Matthew was just telling me about his book deal. That is so exciting,” Jenny gushed, looking at him with something I read as fawning adoration.

I lifted my glass in his direction. “You deserve it. And may this be the start of a long and successful career.”

Jenny beamed at him and said, “I always knew you would be a successful author. Didn’t I tell you that?” Matthew looked at her, surprised. She went on, saying, “Don’t you remember when I gave you a reading last year?”

“Oh . . . er . . . right,” he said, clearly remembering no such thing. He rose and pulled up a chair for me.

Turning to me, Jenny set her glass on the table. “After I left this morning, I realized that I’d forgotten my loom in my car. I came by to drop it off, and who opens the door but Matthew?”

I wondered briefly if that was just her excuse to see Matthew, but when I glanced at her, she looked sincere. “I’m glad you’re here and Matthew didn’t have to wait all by himself.”

“I only arrived a few minutes ago,” he said.

Jenny turned back to me. “Did you see anything you liked?” For a second my mind blanked. “Weren’t you out looking at houses?”

“Oh, right.” I nodded. “I was. Actually there’s one place I sort of liked and one I absolutely loved. But that one is listed for sale—not for rent—which makes it impossible.” I shrugged. “It’s really too bad because it’s absolutely gorgeous. I wouldn’t have had to do a thing . . . except get a whole lot of stock. It’s huge. The other one I saw is a little house almost identical to this one. It’s at the other end of Main Street.”

“Oh, I know the place you’re talking about. That used to be Mrs. McLeay’s house. She lived there her whole life, until she went into a respite-care facility about a year and a half ago. Now it belongs to an out-of-town nephew of hers.” She crinkled her nose. “But doesn’t that house need a ton of work?”

“It sure does, which is the main reason I’m hesitating. Most of the work would be cosmetic, mind you, but it would take a ton of plaster and paint. I doubt it would be difficult, just time-consuming—so I could probably do most of it myself.”

Matthew picked up the bottle, offering refills all around. “Speaking of plaster and paint, I can’t believe all the work you did on this house. It looks great. But where did my living room and dining room furniture go?” He looked a bit worried.

“It’s all upstairs in the third bedroom, including a really ugly green La-Z-Boy I had half a mind to throw out. As for the painting, don’t worry about it. I didn’t do that much.”

Jenny’s eyebrows jumped up. “What are you talking about, you didn’t do much? You did a lot. I remember how this place used to look.”

Just how often has Jenny been here?
I wondered. Meanwhile, she was looking at Matthew apologetically. “Sorry, Matthew. No disrespect, but you have to admit, when it comes to housekeeping you’re the worst. What Della’s done is nothing short of a miracle.” She pointed a finger at him. “And just so you know, if it had been up to me, that ugly recliner would be landfill by now.” She turned back to face me. “He never notices when something needs fixing. The roof could leak, the walls could be falling down, and he’d have his nose stuck in one of his books, completely oblivious to the disaster around him.” She shook her head in mock exasperation. “A typical absentminded professor, that’s what he is.”

Matthew smiled at the description. “Now I can be an absentminded author.”

Jenny rolled her eyes, and out of nowhere she said, “You’re in love, aren’t you? I can see it in your aura. So tell me all about her. Who is she? How did you two meet?”

Matthew looked momentarily stunned, blood rushing to his face. “I’m not seeing anyone right now,” he said sharply.

She frowned. “What do you mean? You look—”

“Whatever you think you’re seeing, you’re reading it wrong.” His tone was meant to end the subject.

Jenny continued. Whether she was being obstinate or just oblivious, I wasn’t sure. “Well, then,” she said, grinning, “that’s a problem. What you need is a woman in your life. I know lots of nice women—clients at the store. I’ll set you up with one of them. Don’t worry. I’ll find you someone wonderful.” Her eyes were gleaming with excitement.

He was already shaking his head. “Thanks, but I can find my own dates, Jenny.”

“Give me one good reason why not.”

“At the moment, all I’m interested in is getting this book written.” He turned to me. “Jenny’s right about one thing. I had no idea how much work you put into this place. When you asked me if you could do a little painting, that’s what I expected. But you repainted the whole house. And you refinished the floors.” He sounded impressed. “Am I wrong or did you also paint the outside of the house?”

I waved away his concern. “Not the entire outside. Only the front door and the window casings.”

He rolled his eyes, and looked at Jenny. “‘Only,’ she says, as if she only worked a couple of hours.” He turned back to me. “You must have spent a small fortune in paint alone. Just tell me how much I owe you.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t want your money. I was happy to do it.” I looked around at the soft yellow walls. “You don’t think the place looks too feminine, do you?”

Jenny interrupted. “Don’t ask him anything about interior decorating. Do you really think he notices things like the color of the walls?”

“I did notice. Didn’t I just tell Della what a nice job she did?”

“Only because I pointed it out.”

I laughed. “I hate to tell you, Matthew, but I think I’m with Jenny on this one.”

He looked sheepish. “Still, I can see you did a lot of work. Tell you what. When you move, I’ll paint, fix, and do anything that needs doing in your new place. How’s that?”

“When you move,” he’d said. Obviously, he wanted me out—not that I could blame him. I’d want my living space back too if I were him. I put on a smile. “That’s an offer I’ll gladly accept. Thank you.”

Jenny set her glass down. “Well, I think I’ll call it a night. I have to get up early. Fran has a dentist appointment tomorrow morning, and I agreed to take over the store for a couple of hours.”

I glanced at my watch. It was only a few minutes after eight. “What time does the shop open?”

“At ten, but I do an hour or two of yoga first thing in the morning. It’s like meditation for me.”

An hour or two
of yoga!
I swallowed hard. Well, that settled it. I would never—in a million years—have a body like hers. Even on the off chance that I took up exercising, I wasn’t about to give up any of my favorite dishes—fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits, corn bread, pecan pie . . . The list was a long one.

“You should join me sometime,” she added. “You’d love it.”

Sure, I would
. “I’m afraid I’m not into yoga. My joints are so stiff I can barely touch my toes.”

A horrified expression descended on her face. “That’s terrible. Maybe you could do Bikram yoga.”

“What’s that?”

Her eyes grew wide as if she could hardly believe her ears. “You mean you’ve never even heard of it? It’s yoga done in a hot and humid environment. It makes you sweat like a horse, but it also makes you lose a ton of weight. And the heat also increases flexibility. It’s really good for you.”

I could think of another, much more pleasurable way of getting hot and sweaty, which didn’t involve twisting my body into a pretzel. I decided to change the subject.

My eyes darted to Matthew. “Did you have dinner yet?”

“No, actually I haven’t. Jenny, why don’t you stay and have a bite with us? I’ll just go pick up some pizza or Chinese food.”

I jumped to my feet and headed for the fridge. “Don’t be silly. I’ll make something. How about—”

“You sit,” he ordered. I moved away from the fridge and sat. “Now, what would you ladies like? You can have anything you want.”

Unfortunately what I really wanted—a successful business and maybe a nice place to move into—was not on the menu.