Murder for Choir (20 page)

“You met Felicia for two minutes.”

“I know the type. Come on. We have work to do before Devlyn gets back.”

I hated to ask. “What kind of work?”

She smiled. “Trust me.”

Thirty minutes later I had been plucked, powdered, and painted. Aunt Millie wouldn’t let me look in a mirror until she was done, which scared me to death. My aunt knew makeup, but she specialized in an AARP clientele. Not exactly the look I was going for.

Millie held up a mirror, and I braced myself for the worst. Wow. I looked nice. Better than nice. My eyes had a smoky, sexy thing going on. As my phone rang, I vowed to learn the technique. Devlyn. He wasn’t going to pick me up for at least another hour. Larry hadn’t said anything incriminating yet, but he had just started on his third drink. Devlyn would call when he was on his way.

While Devlyn was convinced vodka had truth-serum-like capabilities, I wasn’t so sure. If Larry was like me, he’d fall asleep before he could say anything remotely interesting. But knowing Devlyn was going to let me know when he was dropping Larry back home gave me an idea. Larry’s house was empty. This might be a good time to stop by and look around.

I grabbed my purse and barreled out the door. Traffic was nonexistent on the way to Larry’s house. Larry’s lights weren’t on. His silver car sat in the driveway. The minute I
turned off the ignition, my heart kicked into high gear. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Sitting in the car, I looked up and down the street. Nobody was in their yards. I couldn’t blame them. It was hot and sticky outside. The lack of neighborhood activity made my heart rate slow. Besides, it wasn’t like I was going to break a window or something. And if I found a key, well, that wasn’t technically breaking in. Right?

Taking a deep breath, I opened my car door and stepped into the August evening sauna. Trying to look as though I belonged, I strolled up to Larry’s front door and rang the bell. Yes, I knew Larry wasn’t home, but the rest of the neighborhood didn’t have that information. I figured, if anyone was watching out a window, I would look suspicious if I didn’t try the front door first. Having the cops called on me was definitely not on the agenda.

Now that the formalities were taken care of, I headed around the house to look for a side door. Locked up tight and no fake rock to be found. The sliding glass door around back was also locked. The trip was a bust.

I went back to the front of the house and was about to head to my car when I spotted Larry’s silver Neon out of the corner of my eye. I never locked my car door when I parked at Millie’s house. While I needed to change that habit, I wondered if Larry did the same thing. It couldn’t hurt to find out.

I tried the handle to the car door. Eureka! It opened. My heart pounded as I slid into the blistering-hot front seat. Between the stifling heat and the possibility of being seen, I knew I needed to make this search fast. Wow. Larry’s desk at school was a disaster so I would have bet his car would reflect that slovenly behavior. I’d have lost. The car was
spotless. No empty coffee cups. No stray gas receipts or pieces of paper. What a disappointment.

The glove compartment contained the car manual, the insurance card that expired in November, plate registration, and a pad of yellow sticky notes. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and felt around in between the seats. Nothing. Wait. My fingers brushed against something round and hard. After a couple of tries, I finally pulled the object free as a voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Busted. I sucked in air and tried not to hyperventilate. Forcing a smile, I turned and looked up at a frizzy black-haired older woman with a cell phone clutched in her hand. She looked like the type to have the cops, the CIA, and the FBI on speed dial. This was bad.

“Hi,” I said in my most cheerful, least criminal-like voice. “I work with Larry. He’s had a hard week so I came by to check on him, but he didn’t answer the door.”

The phone lowered a fraction of an inch. “I saw you ring the bell and go around back.”

Thank God I decided to go to the front door; otherwise, the police would already have me in handcuffs. “I’m glad to know Larry has people looking out for him. Things at the school have been tough.”

Her frown softened. “Larry hasn’t been himself this week. He’s been coming and going at all hours, and his lights have been on long after midnight. I don’t think he’s sleeping very well.”

“I don’t blame him,” I said, sliding the metal object into my pants pocket. “Having someone you know murdered is hard to deal with. I only knew the victim a few days, and I’m having trouble sleeping.” A large poodle and a break-in contributed to my lack of sleep, but I didn’t think the block busybody needed that information.

The woman frowned again. “It’s good you’re a friend of Larry’s, but I don’t understand what you’re doing in his car.” This was not a woman willing to be distracted by entertaining gossip. Darn.

So I improvised. Reaching into the glove box, I pulled out the yellow sticky notes. “I wanted to leave Larry a note, and I know he always keeps paper in his car.” I grabbed a pen from my purse and started scribbling.

Hi, Larry. I was worried when you left so abruptly yesterday. I hope you’re okay. Paige.

When I was done, I pulled the sticky note from the pad, put the rest of the paper in the glove box, and slammed the glove box door shut. “Do you know if Larry goes in the front or the side door? I want to make sure he knows I stopped by.”

The phone lowered all the way down to the woman’s side, and for the first time she smiled. “He goes in the side door. Most of my neighbors never use the front door unless company comes calling.”

I thanked her for the information and slid out of the stifling-hot car. Feeling the resident busybody’s eyes follow my every move, I walked to the side of the house and affixed the note to the door. Leaving a note wasn’t part of my original plan. Personally, I’d rather Larry not know I’d stopped by. But the one-woman neighborhood watch committee would no doubt read the note after I left.

Waving, I walked down to the street and climbed into my car. I could feel the weight of the metal object in my pants pocket. Curiosity was killing me, but I resisted the urge to pull the object out and examine it. Sitting at the curb for too long would make my new friend reexamine her decision not to call the police. With that in mind, I started the car, cranked the air, and hit the gas. The minute my car
began to move, the woman hightailed it up the driveway in hot pursuit of the note I’d left.

I drove three blocks before I stopped the car, reached into my pocket, and pulled out—a pitch pipe. Not exactly a case-breaking clue. Larry was a music teacher. Owning and using a pitch pipe were requirements of the job. I’d be more surprised if he didn’t have one. Oh well. Going back and returning it wasn’t an option. Not unless I wanted my new best friend to watch me do it. I’d just have to slip it under some of the papers on Larry’s desk and hope he didn’t wonder how it got there.

I shoved the pitch pipe into my pocket and headed back to Millie’s. My cell rang the minute I pulled into the driveway. Devlyn had just dropped Larry off at home and was on his way.

I walked into the house, caught my reflection in the mirror, and shrieked. My hair looked like I’d plugged my finger into an electric socket, and mascara was smudged under my eyes. The humidity had taken its toll.

Racing upstairs, I brushed my hair into a ponytail and wiped the raccoon circles from my eyes. The doorbell rang as I was coming down the stairs. I could hear the telltale click of poodle nails coming in my direction, so I hurried to the door. Devlyn stood on the other side, looking a lot less happy than when he left.

“Are you ready for dinner?” he asked.

“What happened with Larry?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled. “I’ll tell you at dinner.
I’m starved, and after talking to Larry I really need a drink. Come on.”

Ten minutes later we were ensconced in a back booth of a local Mexican restaurant. Piñatas hung from the ceiling, and Spanish folk songs played over the loudspeaker. The waiter brought over a large basket of chips and a bowl of salsa, and greeted Devlyn by name. Then he and Devlyn began speaking in rapid Spanish. After
hola
, I was lost. I took four years of French in high school and three years of German in college. Both were great for operatic singing. Too bad their practical application in the United States sucked.

After a bunch more indecipherable conversation, the waiter headed off. “You come here often?” I asked.

“About once a week.” Devlyn salted the basket of chips and shoved one into his mouth. “The food is excellent, and they make the best margaritas around. I ordered one for you. If you don’t like it you, I can drink it for you.”

“On the rocks or frozen?”

“On the rocks.”

“Salt?”

He grinned. “You have to have salt.”

The chip and spicy salsa in my mouth prevented me from arguing. Then the waiter returned with our drinks. At least, I think they were our drinks. They looked like fishbowls. When Devlyn said he needed a drink, he wasn’t kidding.

Devlyn picked up his glass and saluted me before taking a large gulp. I didn’t trust myself to pick the thing up, so I took a sip out of the straw. Huzzah! This place didn’t skimp on the tequila. After three sips, I could feel the liquor rushing to my brain. Time for food.

We studied the menu, which was mostly in Spanish, and placed our order. I ordered tacos. That seemed safe. Devlyn
ordered something I couldn’t translate and waited for the server to leave. After another large hit of margarita, he said, “Larry didn’t kill Greg, but he knows who did.”

I choked on my chip. “He told you that?”

“Not in those words.”

“What words did he use?”

Devlyn leaned back against the green vinyl-covered booth. “Larry didn’t want to talk at first, but after three vodka and tonics he started to open up.”

One vodka and tonic would have gotten my lips unlocked. I was a cheap date.

“I tried to get him to talk about his past friendship with Greg, but he wouldn’t say a word. After another drink I got him to talk about his new car. Larry said the water pump on his old car sprung a leak and the car was overheating. Buying a new car was cheaper than fixing the old one.”

I slurped down some margarita. “Was he telling the truth?”

“I didn’t have my polygraph turned on.” Devlyn sighed. “Yeah, I think he was telling the truth. Larry isn’t a car guy. The only way he’d know that his car even had a water pump is if something happened to it.” Devlyn ate a couple more chips. “But once he started talking about the car, he relaxed and started talking about Greg.”

I leaned forward. “And?”

“He’s not sorry Greg is dead, but he feels bad that Eric Metz is a suspect. He told me he knows something that could help Eric, but him saying anything would cause a lot of people more trouble. He isn’t going to spill his guts to the police unless he has to.”

I munched on a chip wondering if whatever object Larry took from Greg Lucas’s house and gave to Dana Lucas was the key to Eric’s future. The food arrived, cutting off all
meaningful conversation. The tacos smelled heavenly, and they tasted even better. The only problem was, the minute I took a bite, the shell cracked—sending lettuce, tomatoes, and meat flying. Thank God this wasn’t a real date. Taco sauce ran down my chin and stained my fingers, and I didn’t care. I was in Mexican food heaven.

Devlyn laughed at me.

“What?” I asked with a half-eaten taco raised to my mouth. “I’m hungry.”

“I can tell.”

For the first time I looked at the contents of his plate. I saw some sort of meat covered by peppers and onions in a red sauce. “What did you order?”

He smiled. “Tongue.”

“Tongue? As in that used to be in an animal’s mouth?”

He nodded. “Do you want to try some?”

He said it like it was a dare. If I didn’t try his food, I’d be a wimp. If I did try it, my stomach would never forgive me. I was trapped.

“I’m not going to share my food with you, so you don’t have to share with me.”

He smiled. “You’re chicken.”

“Am not.” Liar. Liar.

“Prove it.” He cut off a piece of the tongue and held out the fork. His eyes held mine as if daring me to refuse.

“No one has dared me to do anything like this since college.” I tried to ignore the forked tongue hovering in front of me.

Devlyn didn’t back down. The fork inched closer to my face. My stomach flip-flopped, and horror music played in my head. No. I was not going to succumb to pressure and eat something I didn’t want. If this was a date and I really liked the guy, then maybe. But this wasn’t a date, and my
eating a piece of cow tongue wasn’t going to get me a fabulous good night kiss.

“No, thank—”

Devlyn shoved the fork between my open lips with a laugh. My stomach heaved. An unwanted tongue was in my mouth. I had two choices, spit it out and embarrass myself in front of the other diners or swallow and make Devlyn pay later.

Cringing, I chewed. The texture was soft. I tried not to think about that as I swallowed. Huh. Not bad. Had I not known what I was eating, I might have enjoyed it. Devlyn raised an eyebrow.