Death by Pumpkin Spice (21 page)

“Okay,” he said, moving slowly around the bed, away from Margaret, who was watching him with a strange expression on her face, as if she couldn't fathom he could be guilty of anything, even after what he'd been about to do. “There's no problem here. We just had a little disagreement, isn't that right, Margie?”

Margie?
Even Margaret seemed taken aback by the nickname.

“I . . . We . . .”

“It's all right,” Paul told her. “Everything is under control. We can figure this out later.” He returned his focus to Philip. “Nice and slow.”

The sneer never left his face as he moved slowly toward where Paul stood. His eyes flickered to me once, and I could see the understanding there. He knew we had him. He knew I was responsible.

Good,
I thought with some satisfaction. It felt good to be this man's downfall.

Philip took another step forward; then he made his move.

The only martial arts I'd ever seen had come from movies like
The Karate Kid,
which pretty much meant I was clueless to what real karate looked like. Philip seemed completely at ease and willing to comply, when he suddenly burst into motion, aiming a palm strike straight for Paul's chest. It connected solidly, knocking Paul backward, into the wall, where he hit with a grunt and groan. The motion had been so fluid, so sudden, I'd barely had time to register what had happened before Philip was looking at me.

I might do some really dumb things sometimes, but this time, I did the wise thing. When Philip started toward me, I immediately darted to the side, out of his way. I could have tried to tackle him, but it was more likely I'd end up with a punch to the throat instead.

Philip ran past me, surprisingly light on his feet. I made a belated grab for his arm as he flew past, hoping to at least slow him down long enough for Paul to right himself and take over, but I missed completely. He was out the door and down the hall before I could even think of trying again.

By then, Paul had gotten back to his feet. He rushed past me, yelling “Stay here!” as he passed.

Who was I to ever listen?

I bolted after him, feeling only mildly guilty for ignoring his orders yet again. The real guilt came from realizing that my fear for my own safety was what might allow a killer to escape.

I couldn't let that happen.

Philip vanished around a corner, well ahead of both Paul and me. Just as we turned to follow, a door slammed, but neither of us saw which one. There were six doors along the corridor, ones I hadn't explored when I'd wandered the house earlier.

Paul gave me the briefest of annoyed looks and then started forward. He opened the first door, peeked in, and then closed it behind him. We worked our way down the hall like that, Paul in the lead, me trailing behind.

“Mr. Carlisle!” Paul called as he opened another door. “Give yourself up.” He scanned the room and then closed the door.

As we moved, I kept checking behind me, certain Philip would leap out of one of the previously checked rooms and take us both out from behind. The man had proven he was more than he appeared, so it wouldn't surprise me if he was adept at hiding himself, too. It wasn't like Paul was entering the rooms and checking under all of the furniture, so he could be anywhere.

A sound came from one of the doors ahead. Paul glanced at me and then started toward the door. He didn't call out this time. He grabbed the doorknob, hesitated a second, and then pulled the door open. I had to shuffle back a step to give him room as he peered inside.

A white blur flew by as one of the Persians came tearing out of the closet as if its tail was on fire. It vanished down the hall, looking harried.

“A closet?” I asked, turning back. How had the cat ended up in the closet?

Before Paul could answer, the door behind us burst open and something heavy slammed into my back. I was propelled forward, unable to stop myself, and slammed into Paul, who was likewise off balance. We both staggered into the walk-in closet. Before I could so much as think to right myself, the door slammed closed behind us, followed by the unfathomable sound of the door being locked.

22

“Who puts a lock on a closet door?” I shouted, frustrated. We'd been beating on the door to no avail for a good five minutes now. Paul had already given up and was watching me as I pounded on the door as if I thought I could bust it down. He'd already tried forcing it open like he'd done the bedroom door, but this door seemed to be made of sturdier stuff.

“No one can hear us,” he said. “We need to think.”

“We don't have time to think! He might get away.” I couldn't believe we'd come so close to catching the killer, only to be foiled by a closet as secure as Fort Knox.

“We know who he is,” he said. “Even if he escapes now, we'll find him.”

I sighed and stopped pounding on the door. He was right. Philip could run, could pack his things and try to escape, but they'd get him eventually. There was a chance he might flee to another country, sure, but how often did that really happen? It seemed like something you'd only see in the movies.

My shoulders sagged, causing my hand to bump up against my leg. “Wait!” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “Crap.”

“No bars,” Paul said. “I checked while you were trying to smash your way through the door.”

“Great,” I grumbled. “Stuck in a locked closet with an impenetrable door, and no service. What does this thing double as, a bank vault?”

“Krissy,” Paul said, his hand gently touching my shoulder. “Relax. Someone will come by soon.”

“Then we should keep making noise,” I said. “How else is anyone going to know we're in here?”

“We will,” he said, calm as ever. “When we hear someone coming, we'll call out to them.”

“And what if the door is soundproof?”

“We heard the cat.”

Oh yeah.

I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn't like listening to reason, even when it made perfect sense. Maybe that was why I was always getting myself into trouble.

An uncomfortable silence fell between us then. The closet might be a walk-in, but that didn't mean it was gigantic. I could smell Paul's cologne and wondered if he reapplied it after his foray into the rain. No one should smell that good after being drenched and running after a suspected killer.

“I'm sorry.”

The apology came so suddenly, I was struck dumb. I squinted into the gloom at Paul, who was an indistinct shape. The only light in the closet was coming from beneath the door, and it wasn't enough to see by. My phone would provide a little illumination, but I'd feel silly holding it.

We're in a walk-in, silly.
They almost always had lights. And since this closet was built to withstand a nuclear assault, I figured it almost had to have a light somewhere. I began fumbling around for a switch or a cord as Paul continued talking.

“I was being stupid. I
knew
I was, yet I kept doing it, anyway.”

My fingers bumped into a thin chain.
Bingo!
I tugged on it and a light came on, blinding both of us.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. At least I'd had the presence of mind not to look up when I'd turned on the light, though I probably should have warned Paul.

He squinted his eyes at me a moment before answering. “You. Me.” He sighed, sounding frustrated. “Us, I suppose.”

“Us?”
Is he saying what I think he is saying?
My entire body broke out in a panicky sweat.
Oh God, not here!

“It was my fault. I do really like you.” He said it like I might contradict him. “Always have, but I let other things get in the way.”

When he didn't continue, I prodded him. A part of me might not want to do this trapped in a closet, but a bigger part really wanted to hear what he had to say. “Like?”

He shrugged. “Like your involvement in the cases. I was scared you were doing it to impress me, and that you'd keep on doing it as long as you thought I'd like it.”

I snorted. “Hardly. I did it because I like to help. Mysteries fascinate me. And I can't stand for murderers running loose, so I do what I can to stop them.”

“I get that,” Paul said with a smile. “I guess I sometimes wish they fascinated you a little less.” His eyes met mine for a heartbeat before he looked down at his hands. “And then there was my mom.”

Oh boy, that was a big one. Paul's mom, Patricia, was the Pine Hills police chief, which automatically made the situation a little more uncomfortable. I mean, it was bad enough Paul was a cop, but his mom, too? It made it look like I was in bed with the law, that I could do anything I wanted and get away with it. It was probably why Buchannan hated me so much.

And then there was the fact she'd tried to hook us up. It was both weird and flattering at the same time. She'd said she thought we'd be perfect together, a sentiment she was near recanting thanks to my actions as of late.

“She hound you about me too much?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

Paul laughed. “Every day. First, it was to give you a chance, asking if we'd gone out, for how long, what we did. I felt like a kid again. I didn't mind so much at first, but eventually, it started to wear on me, especially since we hadn't gone out other than that one time. And then, after that last murder, when you became a suspect . . .”

“She wasn't so eager to push us together.”

“That's an understatement.”

Patricia had told me as much when I'd been locked up for throwing a few harmless punches Buchannan's way. She'd started to doubt my character, which, in turn, made me doubt myself even more than I already did. Apparently, it had affected Paul, too.

“But you have Shannon now,” I said, surprised by how much the words stung.
I'm over him,
I tried to tell myself. I was with Will now, or at least hoping I was. I didn't need to be mooning over more than one man, especially since I'd always struggled to get one to so much as look at me. This whole multi-guy thing was new to me, and I wasn't so sure I liked it.

Paul's smile turned wistful. “I do,” he said, stinging me all over again.

“Have you been dating long?”

“A few months.” He actually reddened at that. “When we started to drift apart, I couldn't stand it.” He started to sound unsure of himself, like he was as confused as I felt. “We didn't really get to date, you and I. But I didn't want to be alone, and since our relationship was going nowhere, I thought it might be me. I felt like I was the problem, that I ruined everything, so I decided to give Shannon a chance.” He paused and looked deep into my eyes. “I'm starting to wonder if I was too hasty.”

“But you like her.” It wasn't a question. I could see it in the way he talked about her, the way he looked at her.

“I do.” He sighed.

My head was spinning. The closet felt as if it was shrinking, and before long, we'd be crushed together, unable to breathe. We'd die, clutched in each other's arms, suffocated by . . . what? A mutual affection turned sour? Our mistakes?

“Why are you telling me all of this?” I asked. My voice came out quiet, almost a whisper.

Paul shook his head and shrugged. “I don't know. We're here. No one else is around. It struck me that I'd screwed up, that I didn't give you a fair shake. I abandoned you when you needed me, all because of my own insecurities and fears. So, I'm apologizing. I see you with that other guy . . .”

“Will,” I supplied.

“Will.” Paul said his name with a sad smile. “He can make you happy.” He paused. “You do care about him, don't you?”

Was this a test of some sort? A legitimate question? Why did everything have to get so tangled up and confusing, just when I was starting to think I knew what I wanted?

“I do,” I said. It felt like the temperature had risen a good twenty degrees since we'd first gotten trapped together. “But he's not the only one I like.”

The silence that fell right then wasn't just uncomfortable, it was practically murderous. My breathing was fast, my heart was hammering. I couldn't see straight, and there was a ringing in my ears that was making me dizzy.

Paul didn't look any better. His hand was hovering between us, seemingly lost in the void that had grown there over time. He looked confused, scared. Basically, he looked like I felt.

“Paul . . .” I nearly choked on his name.

Here we were, trapped in a closet together, where no one could see us or hear us. We could say and do anything we wanted and no one would be the wiser.

The thought caused my heart rate to speed up. I felt myself move forward, an inch, maybe two. Paul looked up at me, longing and fear in his eyes.

“Are you sure they went this way?”

Buchannan's voice broke the moment. Paul and I stared at each other, wide-eyed, as if we'd never seen one another before. Buchannan's voice got louder, telling me he was coming our way. I sucked in a breath and, for a moment, was unable to speak or move.

Do I really want this to end?
Paul had been completely honest with me, and it had been one of the best moments of my night. It felt like everything that had happened did so to lead me to this moment.

But was it really what I wanted?

Both Paul and I turned and started beating on the door at the exact same moment.

“John!” he shouted at the same time I yelled, “Buchannan!”

His voice cut off. There was a moment of silence on the other side of the door; then the lock clicked. A second later, the door swung open. Buchannan stood there, grinning like a fool, Margaret Yarborough at his side.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Taking a little time out for personal reasons, are we?”

“Can it,” Paul said before I could formulate a response. He was much kinder than I would have been. “Our suspect got away.”

“He locked you in a closet?” Buchannan asked, glancing past us into the small space.

“He shoved us from behind,” I said, a bit defensively. “We couldn't help it there was a lock on the door.” I looked to Margaret, who only shrugged.

“When Mrs. Yarborough found me, she told me you went after the killer?” Buchannan asked.

Paul nodded. “Philip Carlisle. Fedora, horn-rimmed glasses, long coat. He might have ditched some of the attire, so you can't go solely by that alone.”

“I can't believe Philip would have done such a thing,” Margaret said.

“Wasn't he assaulting you when we found him?” I asked, shocked that she could still want to defend him.

“We had a . . . disagreement. We all have them.”

I gaped at her, shocked. The man very well might have been about to seriously hurt her, and yet she refused to believe he could have killed someone, might have even killed her. Either she was too trusting, or he'd worked her over pretty good.

“We need to find Mr. Carlisle,” Paul said, taking control of the situation. “Buchannan, take Mrs. Yarborough and find somewhere safe for her. Once she is secure, man the front door. No one is to leave.” He frowned. “We can't cover all of the exits, so if you can convince some of the help to guard the other doors, it would be appreciated. Tell them not to try to stop him, but to find you or me and tell us the moment they see him. This man is dangerous.”

“I can assist with that,” Margaret said. “They'll listen to me.”

Buchannan gave a curt nod and then turned to his charge. “Mrs. Yarborough, if you would.” She took his proffered elbow and they hurried down the hall, back toward the ballroom.

“Go with them,” Paul said as I turned to ask him what he wanted me to do.

“What?” I gasped in shock. After everything that was just said, he was going to do this to me? “I can help!”

“You need to get somewhere safe. You saw what he did. You don't need to be wandering the halls where he can find you.”

“But . . .”

“No.” He held up a finger and gave me a stern look. “This is not your job. You need to go back to the ballroom and stay there. I don't want to have to worry about you while there is a killer on the loose.”

My stubbornness kicked in then, and all of the good things we'd discussed in the closet became a distant memory. “I
can
help. You wouldn't even know about his past if it wasn't for me.”

“Krissy, please.” He gave me a pleading look. “Don't make this difficult. I'm thankful you helped identify the suspect, but leave the rest up to Buchannan and me. We'll take care of it.”

I wanted to continue to argue but realized it would do no good. Besides, Paul was right; the man
was
dangerous. I saw him take Paul down with a single open-palmed punch. If he got hold of me, there was no way I was going to be able to stop him from doing whatever he pleased.

“Fine,” I said, pouting. I might have realized it was the right thing to do, but it didn't mean I had to like it.

Paul looked relieved. “Thank you,” he said. “Chances are good our suspect is long gone by now. There's probably nothing to worry about, but I want you to be safe.”

I nodded, still unhappy. Paul gave me a smile and, shockingly, touched my cheek. “I'll see you in a bit.” And then he turned and hurried down the hall, checking rooms as he went.

I stood there for a few long seconds before turning and doing what Paul wanted me to do. I'd done my part. I should be happy about that. For once, I'd helped without getting myself shot or choked. It was silly
not
to be overjoyed.