Death by Tea (3 page)

At a little past ten, I got up. Nearly everything would be closed by now, and I hoped most of the people would be tucked safely away in their beds. I turned off all the lights in my house and then started for the front door, where I hesitated. I could almost feel Eleanor's eyes through the wall. It very nearly made me reconsider.

Of course, when did I ever listen to reason, even when it was coming from my own head? Slowly, I turned the knob and eased out the front door. I closed it quietly behind me and then guided the screen door closed. From there, I walked on tiptoes to my car, slipped inside, and started the engine with a wince. At least I'd made it this far without making much sound. I just hoped it would be enough.

I backed out of my driveway, turned on my lights, and then headed for Death by Coffee.

Now, if there is one good thing about breaking into a place you own, it's that you don't actually have to break in. All the lights were off inside, and only a couple of cars rolled down the street. I waited until they passed before hurrying out of my Focus and running to the door. I unlocked it, eyes focused on the silhouette of my dad just inside the window. I pushed my way in, started to reach for the light, and then thought better of it. I was here for only one thing and it was here, right by the door.

“Sorry, Dad,” I said with a giggle. My heart was pounding and I was breathing hard as I grabbed the cardboard cutout around the waist. I had every right in the world to be in my store in the middle of the night, but it felt as if I was breaking into a bank.

A twinge of guilt made me hesitate. I promised myself that after a week or so, I'd return the cutout to Rita, claiming I found it somewhere. Maybe then she'd realize how dangerous it was to leave the thing at the store and she'd keep it at home.

The thought made me feel a little better about what I was doing. I wasn't
stealing
it; I was just borrowing it without permission. There was a difference.

I carried Cardboard Dad outside, locked the door, and then took him to my car. The cutout wouldn't fit into the trunk without bending it, so I put it into the backseat at an angle. I closed the car door, hurried around to the driver's side, and got in. I was gasping for breath by the time I was on the road again, heading for home, but I was pretty sure no one had seen me.

Once I was safely back in my driveway, I checked to make sure Eleanor Winthrow's curtain wasn't moving, noted that Jules's pink car was now parked in his driveway and a light was on somewhere in the back of his house, and then removed the cutout carefully from the backseat. I carried it to the front door, slipped inside, and then leaned against the wall, still breathing as if I'd just run a marathon.

I looked over at Dad and smiled. “It looks like you'll be staying with me for a little while. Hope you don't mind.”

Thinking of where he had been spending his nights lately, I was pretty sure he wouldn't.

3

A crash brought me sitting straight up in bed, and face-to-face with my attacker. I screamed and flailed my arms, which didn't have the desired effect of allowing me to escape. Instead, I found myself trapped even farther within the confines of my covers. I rolled sideways and promptly fell off the side of the bed, where I hit with a solid
thunk.
I crawled across the floor, toward the bathroom, in the hopes I could escape before the man who'd broken into my house could kill me.

I made it halfway there before my arm bumped into cardboard.

It all came together then.

Cardboard Dad was leaning against the wall where I'd knocked him. My bedroom door was closed, just like I'd left it when I'd gone to sleep. I'd brought the cutout into the bedroom because I was afraid Misfit would claw the dickens out of the thing if given the chance.

No one had broken in. I'd simply scared myself.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I picked myself up off the floor with as much dignity as I could manage. I glanced at the clock and found that my alarm wasn't due to go off for another hour, but with the way my heart was racing, it was unlikely I'd ever get back to sleep. Early morning sunlight drifted in through the parted curtains. Birds sang. It was going to be a good day.

I started for the bathroom to relieve a bladder that had come within a fraction of releasing when I'd woken up to my dad looming over me. I made it to the doorway when there was a loud thump somewhere within the house.

My entire body went icy cold. I opened my mouth to call out, but snapped it closed again. I didn't want to alert whoever was out there that I knew they were there. I wasn't sure how they'd interpret my screams and my falling out of bed, but I didn't have time to worry about it, either. I looked toward where I usually kept my cell phone overnight to charge. The nightstand was empty. I'd left the darn thing in my purse.

Which was on the dining room table . . .

In the room where my attacker might be lurking . . .

Okay, Krissy, you can do this.
I looked around my bedroom but found nothing I could use as a weapon. I really needed to invest in a baseball bat or a high-powered rifle or something. Being defenseless sucked.

With nothing but a lamp evident in the bedroom, I went into the bathroom and opened a drawer, quietly so as not to be heard. I grabbed my flat iron and considered plugging it in and warming it up before using it, but another crash, followed by a pained yowl, stopped me.

I rushed for the bedroom door, flat iron in hand, cord whipping my legs behind me. If the intruder so much as laid a finger on my cat, I'd, well, watch as the cat ripped him or her to shreds. Those claws of his should be registered deadly weapons. He could take care of himself.

I stopped at the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it. There were a few more thumps, but I couldn't tell for sure where they were coming from. I licked my dry lips and then turned the doorknob. I opened the door slowly, knowing it was going to squeal as I did, and sure enough it let out one of those ominous
creeeeaaaakkks
you hear in scary movies. I winced, and then rushed out, figuring I might as well leap in headfirst, rather than give the intruder time to prepare.

No one was in the hall. A crash from the living room sent me running that way, flat iron held above my head, ready to smite down whoever dared wake me . . .

. . . and rushed right into a disaster.

Misfit was standing between the dining room and living room, back arched, fur standing on end. Chairs were knocked over. My purse lay on the floor, contents strewn across the linoleum. One of the lamps in the living room lay busted on the carpet. The front door was closed, and even from where I stood, I could see that it was still locked.

My head jerked from side to side, looking for someone, yet it appeared Misfit and I were alone.

And that is when I saw it.

Hanging from his fluffy orange tail was a piece of twine. My gaze traveled from Misfit to the counter where I'd left the wrapping after I'd opened Jules and Lance's gift. The pink paper was lying on the floor, torn into tiny little bits.

The rest of the twine was nowhere to be seen.

Misfit's head jerked back toward his tail. He licked twice, let out an annoyed yowl, and took off toward the couch, where he ran along it sideways, claws tearing, and then around the side, where he vanished behind it.

I leaned against the wall, heart hammering. “Why did you have to scare me like that?” I asked him. I couldn't catch my breath. The morning was already warm, and my terror only made it worse. I made my way across the mess of the floor, stepping around large balls of orange and white fur, and opened the front door. I made sure the screen was fully closed before taking a deep breath of fresh air. There was a breeze and it felt good on my skin. I turned to find Misfit sitting in the middle of the room, rapidly licking his backside.

“Come over here, silly,” I told him. “It's just stuck to you.”

Misfit gave me a frantic look and then tried to climb the wall.

“Stop that!” I rushed over and grabbed him, which was a huge mistake. As soon as my hands landed on him, he turned into a whirling, writhing dervish that was made of nothing but claws and teeth and fur. I yelped and dropped him, arms screaming from at least a dozen scratches. Misfit bolted for the kitchen, running as if his tail were on fire.

I sucked at an especially deep scratch on my left hand and approached him warily. Misfit was standing in the middle of the room, back arched, tail swishing wildly around him. He was panting, and I could tell the twine was just about driving him crazy.

“If you'll just let me help,” I said in as calm a voice as I could manage, “I can make it all better.”

He glared at me, swished his tail a few times, and then charged at me like a bull.

I had only an instant to think. He was coming right for me, intent on getting past me—
through
me if he had to. I dropped to my knees, rapping them hard against the floor, but it was my only shot. Misfit tried to change course, but he was on tile. The fuzz between his toes meant he had little in the way of traction. His feet flailed wildly on the floor and he turned sideways, where he slid directly into me. I latched onto him, tucking him firmly against my chest where he couldn't move.

“I've got you!” I practically screamed it in triumph. Misfit struggled for a moment before he sagged in my grip, panting.

Carefully, so as not to give him a chance to free himself, I adjusted my grip so I could see his tail. There, on the underside, was the twine. I grabbed the end and pulled, thinking it would simply fall off and he'd be fine.

Boy, was I wrong.

Misfit let out a tortured yowl that reverberated throughout the house and probably woke the neighbors if all of the screaming and crashing hadn't done so already. A dog started barking somewhere down the road. The twine pulled taut, only moving a tiny fraction before becoming caught on something.

“Now, what in the world?” I lifted Misfit's tail and instantly saw the problem.

The twine wasn't just wrapped in his fur like I thought; it was coming out of his, well, you know, backside.

“Oh no,” I moaned. I'd completely forgotten about the twine while planning my not-so-daring heist. He must have eaten it after I'd gone to bed. I knew better than to leave something like that lying around. I might as well have sprinkled it with catnip and set it in his food dish.

Misfit looked back at me with a “This is your fault” look on his face. I tugged gently on the twine, pulling it an inch. Misfit squirmed in my arms, clearly not liking the sensation of a long piece of twine being pulled out of his rear. Really, I don't know many people who would.

“It will be over in just a few moments,” I told him as gently as I could. “Maybe this will teach you not to eat things you aren't supposed to.” I grinned, despite the situation. “Everyone could use a little cleaning out every now and again.”

“Why are you flossing your cat?”

The sudden voice startled me so badly, I slackened my grip on Misfit while jerking back with the hand holding the end of the twine. Misfit shot toward the couch so fast, he was nothing but an orange blur. The twine whipped out of him at high speed.

I looked up with a grimace to find Officer Paul Dalton standing just outside my screen door, in full uniform, sandy brown hair tucked under his police hat, with a perplexed look in his startling deep blue eyes.

“I wasn't flossing him,” I said, standing. I could feel my face flaming, but what could I do? He'd seen me pull something out of my cat's butt; I'm not sure how a relationship—no matter how limited it might be—could recover from that.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It looked like you were flossing him to me.”

I dropped the twine into the trash. “I'm sure. I was definitely
not
flossing the kitty. He'd eaten some twine and . . .” I trailed off, knowing how silly it sounded.

Paul stood there a moment, looking bewildered, before glancing toward the door. “May I?” he asked.

“Sure.” What else could I say? I wasn't about to tell him to go away, no matter how unflattering I must look. I was still in my black outfit and my hair had to be a mess.

As he entered, I patted my head, winced at the tangles of my hair, and then tried to adopt a relaxed posture.

“Don't mind the mess,” I said. “Misfit went on something of a rampage.” I plastered on a fake smile. “So, what's up?” The smile slipped when I saw the look on Paul's face.

Normally, he was all dimples and bulging muscles, but today he was anything but. Even after witnessing what would probably be forever known as the Flossing Incident, he didn't even show a hint of being amused. That was definitely not a good sign.

“What's going on?” I asked, straightening. I felt a sudden urge for coffee and headed into the kitchen to turn on the pot.

“I wouldn't do that,” Paul said, voice grave. “You won't have time for it.”

“What? Why?” I turned to face him, a feeling of dread creeping into my gut. “Has something happened?”

Paul stood there a long moment. He'd taken off his hat and was fiddling with it. The brown of his hair was slowly turning a dirty blond during these warmer months. What I wouldn't give to run my fingers through that hair. Maybe once he delivered the bad news, he could make me feel better by taking me to my morning shower.

Instead, he just stood there, staring at his hat. He opened his mouth a few times as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. Definitely not a good sign.

“Paul?” I said. My hands were starting to shake. “Is everything all right?”

He shook his head.

My mind wanted to go to the worst possible places, but then I remembered Cardboard Dad sitting in my bedroom. A smile found its way onto my face as my shoulders eased.

“Look, I can explain . . .”

Paul held up a hand. “Don't,” he said. “Not yet. Not here.”

I frowned. I mean, how much trouble could one person get into for stealing a cardboard cutout from her own store? I knew Rita loved the thing a little more than what was healthy, but to call the police over it? It didn't make sense.

“Krissy,” he said with a heavy sigh that seemed to take all of the strength right out of him. “I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station.”

“What?” I gawped at him. “It's not that big of a deal!”

He looked up at me. “Don't say anything until we get there, okay?”

I nodded, feeling light-headed. He held a hand out to me and I walked over. He gently took my arm and started to lead me to the front door, despite the fact I wasn't wearing shoes.

“Can you at least tell me what's going on?” I asked as we stepped outside.

Paul led me over to the cruiser and opened the back door for me—the
back!
I slid inside without protest.

“There's been a murder,” he said. “And it happened at Death by Coffee.”