Brownies & Betrayal (Sweet Bites Mysteries, Book 1) (15 page)

I struggled out of my clothes and into a pair of soft, cut-off sweats and a T-shirt before calling the police. Through it all, I kept thinking: who would have done that to me? And why did someone hurt me? Could it have been kids playing games?

I didn’t know. If this incident had been isolated, I might have thought it could be kids or a random attack. In concert with the slashed tires, though, it seemed a little more ominous. Was someone trying to stop my investigation?

When I decided the bleeding on the back of my head wasn’t serious, I padded across the living room in my stocking feet and picked up the phone to call in the attack.

The officer who came to my house was young and familiar. A glance at his name tag told me he was one of the Mitchell boys, which was good enough for me. “Hello, Tess. Can you tell me what happened?” he asked when I opened the door.

Before I could invite him in, I heard sirens outside and I saw an ambulance pull up beside the squad car. I groaned. “I’m fine, really. No need for EMTs.”

“It’s just a precaution. We’ll have them take a look. It’s been slow tonight. I’m sure they’ll be glad to have something to do.” He moved past me into the room.

I bit back a sigh when I saw Jack hop out of the ambulance, a huge yellow case in one hand, an oxygen tank in the other. “It had to be Jack’s night, didn’t it?”

“What?” Officer Mitchell asked, scrunching up his freckled face.

“Never mind.” I invited him to sit. Footsteps on the stairs announced the paramedics’ arrival and I let them in. Jack looked worried, and his eyes scanned me. “Are you the one who was hurt?”

“Yes, but I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
Just a Lortab or two for my headache.

He tipped his head. “You look like you’ll live, but how about if we check you out while the officer takes the report.”

I wondered what he would do if I said no. When I hesitated, he added, “There’s no charge unless you ride with us to the hospital, so you ought to at least let us take a blood pressure and make sure everything’s okay.”

I could tell he wouldn’t leave, so I may as well give in. “Fine. No needles, though.”

“Scouts’ honor.” I think he would have saluted, except his hands were full of equipment. His partner came up the stairs behind him.

“You were a Scout?” I asked as I stood back and let the two guys in.

“Sure. Go ahead and sit next to Zach there.” He pointed to the sofa where Officer Mitchell sat. 

I was tired and I hurt, so I did as I was told. When I sat, I realized how disheveled I must look and was embarrassed to have Jack see me like this. Then I wondered why I cared what he thought of me. He was disagreeable in the best of circumstances.

“Okay, start from the beginning,” Officer Mitchell prompted. “When you pulled into the parking lot. What happened?”

I told him about returning from dinner—I didn’t say where or with whom—and being accosted. The paramedics went to work running their gizmos and interrupting my tale to ask about medications I’d taken, if I hit my head when I fell, etc.

“Can you think of any reason that someone might want to hurt you?” Officer Mitchell asked when I finished talking.

I hesitated. Was I jumping the gun by admitting it could be because I was looking into the murder? I decided I might as well be honest.

Footsteps pounded up the stairwell and the door flew open. Bronson stood at the top of the stairs, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. His gaze fell on me and he hurried to my side. “Are you okay? I drove past and saw the ambulance.” He knelt in the space between Jack and the officer. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” He took my hand in his, studying my face.

“Right. What would you tell the Goulds?” I didn’t want him in my home, and my humor and patience were long gone.

Bronson sputtered in response. “This is about
you
, not the Goulds.”

“Who’s this?” Jack asked, jabbing a thumb at Bronson.

“I’m her—”

“Don’t you say it, Bronson, unless you want my fist up your nose.” I balled up my hand and shook it at him. “I am
not
marrying you!”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Well, Bronson, was it? Could you back off while we finish up here? She’s got some scrapes and bruises, but seems fine overall.” His voice held so much authority that, miracle of miracles, Bronson complied. Jack turned back to me. “You said whatever it was hit your shoulder?”

“Yeah. The first blow hit my shoulder, the second one hit me in the back of the head. It was really hard.”

Bronson gasped. “Someone attacked you?”

“No, I needed the company so I thought I’d take up these guys’ valuable time.” I slanted a glare at him, then looked back at the officer.

Jack got up and walked around behind the sofa, which was stationed between the television and the piano, dividing the room. “Lean forward. I’m going to check your spine. Tell me if there’s any tenderness or bruising anywhere I touch.”

While he checked, the officer asked me again, “Can you think of any reason someone might want to hurt you?”

I winced as Jack reached the area where my shoulder blade was and I sucked in a breath.

“There?” Jack asked.

“It’s the shoulder blade, not the spine. Whoever it was hit me pretty hard. And the only reason I can think that someone would hurt me is—” I hissed as he pressed his fingers into my shoulder, even if his touch was light.

“You ought to have an x-ray,” Jack said.

Like that was going to happen. “I don’t have insurance anymore.”

“Sure you do,” Bronson interjected. “They took it out of your paycheck on Friday. They might throw fits that you’re in another state, but I’ll take care of it.”

I ground my teeth together. “Great.”

“The only reason someone would want to hurt you is?” Officer Mitchell prompted again.

“Right. Because of the murder last weekend. I’ve been asking questions. But Detective Tingey has been asking questions too, and I doubt anyone tried to knock him out.”

“Have some sense, Tess, and leave the investigating to the professionals.” Jack started probing around in my hair on the back of my head. “You’re still bleeding back here, but it’s sluggish. It doesn’t look like a very big gash. Check her eyes.”

The last part must have been to his partner, because the man pulled a penlight from the pocket on the side of his thigh. “Close your eyes for a minute, will you?”

Jack put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to look at this shoulder blade, then we’ll load you up.”

“I’m not going into the ER in the ambulance,” I protested.

“Sure, sure. Lean forward.” He shifted the pillow I’d been leaning against.

The other paramedic had me open and close my eyes while his light added to the pain beating against my skull. Jack pulled up my shirt in the back to expose the injury. I was glad the shirt was oversized so it still covered me fine in front. “Some scratching, minor abrasions on the surface, but you’ll have a whopper of a bruise. You said he knocked the wind out of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, quit touching her!” Bronson protested as Jack felt the damaged area with his fingertips. Jack’s touch was all very clinical, but Bronson didn’t seem to realize that.

“Jack’s a paramedic, you idiot,” I said with a grimace as he pushed an especially tender spot further down my back. “He’s doing his job.” The pain shot through my body. “Is that really necessary? I hurt, okay?”

“Oh, so it’s
Jack
. Is he an old friend as well?” Bronson asked. “How many
old friends
do you have in this town?”

“No, he’s not my friend. More like my new nemesis.” I winced as he lightly pressed around the edges of the bone. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“I think you have a concussion,” the partner said.

“I’m done.” Jack put my shirt down and came around to the front. “Now, about going in for that x-ray?”

I noticed that Officer Mitchell had given up on asking questions, but he appeared to be patient. I supposed he was used to sitting back and waiting for the paramedics to do their jobs before moving in for the kill. Might as well let them make me miserable first. Concussion. Now that was something I didn’t want to deal with. I wondered how serious it was.

“I can drive myself,” I said through clenched teeth. No one was going to strap me onto a gurney and wheel me into the hospital.

“No, you can’t drive yourself. You have a concussion,” Bronson protested. “I’ll take you.”

“Listen to the guy you’re not going to marry,” Jack said as he put things back into his yellow supply case. “If you won’t go in with us, let him drive. It’ll be easier on you if you do. Unless you’re considering getting a restraining order against him for not taking no for an answer, in which case, I’ll be happy to call Honey for you.”

I glared at Jack for a moment before I decided he had a point. “Call Honey.”

Bronson let out an exasperated huff. “Tess, don’t be foolish. I’m going to the hospital either way. I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

“Your blood pressure has gone up since we arrived,” the second paramedic announced as the air left the cuff again. He started pulling it off. The Velcro made a loud ripping noise that caused me to jump in surprise.

“You think? I wonder why that might be.” I couldn’t help the sarcasm; Bronson was reason enough to raise my blood pressure. The thought of going to the hospital wasn’t helping. I’d never been a fan, but after watching my grandma slowly die in one, I had no great love for the facilities.

Bronson folded his arms over his chest and stared at me. I decided I could get some really wonderful pain medications at the hospital, and sighed. “Fine, I’ll go in with Bronson.” I shot a glare at Jack. “Satisfied?”

“Very. Take care of yourself.” Jack stood and picked up the equipment he’d brought in. “I’ll see you around. My daughter is excited about your shop. If that cake was typical of your baking skills, I think I might be excited too.” He exited the room.

Was that a civil conversation I just had with Jack? Odd. And he liked my baking, even if he hadn’t mentioned it before. Hmmm. Wait, did he say daughter? Honey had mentioned he was divorced, but she hadn’t said anything about a daughter.

Officer Mitchell stood. “I’ll lead you out to the hospital. We can finish this discussion there.”

“Let me find you some shoes and a jacket,” Bronson said as he also stood and headed for the hall.

“Room on the right.” I supposed I was going to have to sort through Grandma’s stuff since I would want her bigger closet. I’d worry about that next week.

A minute later, Bronson brought a pair of shoes, socks and a jacket. He’d dug through my closet. Great. He pulled on my shoes and socks, kneeling at my feet, then helped me stand, slid the jacket over my shoulders, locked the apartment behind us and led me out to his car. He did all of this without a word of complaint or reproach, making me feel like he really did care about me. It felt kind of nice having him coddle me. It didn’t happen very often, but I rarely allowed him to coddle me, either. On the few occasions when I had felt under the weather or needed his support, I remembered Bronson had always been there for me. Always. How had I forgotten that?

As we pulled out of the parking lot behind Officer Mitchell, I thought my life couldn’t possibly get any more complicated.

Of course, one always thinks things are going to get better instead of worse, and I admit, I was relieved to learn that my shoulder blade was only majorly bruised instead of broken—I can’t imagine the kind of cast that would take. I was also happy about the pain killer samples they sent home with me, along with a prescription for more.

Officer Mitchell took the full report, admonished me to leave the detecting to the police and to add a security system—complete with floodlights—to the back of my building. I promised I’d make the call in the morning. He deserted me with a worried Bronson hovering over my shoulder. No matter how many times I told Bronson to sit in the waiting room, he was back again in minutes, checking to see if I needed a drink, a snack from the vending machine—as if we hadn’t eaten a huge dinner—Was I too hot or cold? He was driving me nuts.

When we reached my apartment, he followed me in, despite my best efforts to make it clear that he wasn’t invited. “Are you going to be okay? The doctor said you have a concussion,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” I told him, as I had done a dozen times already.

“The doctor said you shouldn’t be alone tonight, that you should have someone waking you up every few hours. Maybe I ought to stay.” He rubbed his hands up and down my arms, studying my face.

“You are not staying over here.”

“You have another bedroom,” he pointed out. “You don’t need the second bed for yourself.”

I ground my teeth together. “It’s my grandmother’s room. No one else has stayed there since she died, and the sheets haven’t been changed since the funeral, if not before that.”

“I can make a bed. I’ve been known to do it before.” He touched my cheek, using a finger under my jaw to lift my face until I was looking him in the eye.

I pulled out of his grasp. “Forget it. You have a hotel room.”