Lethal Lasagna (8 page)

When I returned to the living room, Brandon had filled two glasses with soda. He handed me a paper plate. “You have no intentions of butting out of this case, do you?”

My appetite came back in full force at the aroma of warm pizza. “Not on your life.” I smiled and picked up a slice. I almost took a bite but noticed that Brandon sat with his hands in his lap. “Something wrong?”

He grinned. “I was just going to say grace.”

I laid the pizza back down on my plate. “Oh, sorry. I forgot.”

“Not a problem.” He lowered his head and said a quick prayer over the food.

How could I have forgotten to pray? I’d been praying over my food all my life. Seldom did I forget. The desire to make an excuse popped into my head, but I chose not to do so. Instead I silently said my own prayer of thanks.

“So what now?” Brandon asked, picking up a slice of pizza and then taking a big bite.

The smell of pepperoni and onions filled the warm air. I inhaled deeply before answering. “The police will test the brownies and the roast beef, after that I’m not sure. Someone doesn’t like my asking questions. But, who?” Cheese coated my tongue as I chewed.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” He took a swig of cola and swallowed hard. Concern laced his eyes.

I swallowed the now-dry pizza. “Whoever it is, they don’t know much about my life.”

He continued to study me. “No, if they did they would know your mother doesn’t live around here.”

I knew he was trying to be sensitive by not saying that they didn’t know my mother was dead. It was sweet…But, must focus on the matter at hand, not about him being sweet and handsome right now. “So, I’m going to assume it was someone who I’ve just met.” I folded a napkin in my lap.

Brandon picked up another slice of pizza. “It would seem that way. Did anyone act upset that you were asking questions about Mitzi?”

“Not really. Most just showed sorrow for her death.” I scooted back in the chair, my mind working to remember if anyone acted suspiciously. Margery Williams had gotten upset, but I thought that was because of her granddaughter Olivia. Could she be hiding something?

The doorbell rang.

For a brief moment, panic welled up inside me. Having someone break into your home causes you to behave a little irrational at the slightest sound. The killer wouldn’t ring the doorbell I thought as I made my way to answer it. Maybe one of the policemen had forgotten something.

My neighbor, Sara, stared down at me. “Are you okay?”

I sighed and pulled the door open. “Come on in, Sara. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I saw the police drive away a few moments ago.” She followed me through the entryway and into the living room.

Brandon stood when we entered. He’s such a gentleman. I ogled him for several long moments. Stop staring, you ninny, and introduce him to your neighbor. I continued into the room. “Sara, I’d like you to meet Brandon Harvest.”

They shook hands. I couldn’t help thinking how meeting Sara must feel like meeting another man. She shook his hand long and hard.

“Sara lives next door.”

She dropped his hand and moved to sit on the chair I’d just vacated, leaving me to join Brandon on the couch. Once we were all seated again, I said, “Sara, would you like to join us?”

A smile touched her lips. “Sure. Thanks.”

I stood and handed her a paper plate and napkin. “I’ll go get you something to drink. What will it be? Diet cola, cola, or water?”

“Just water, please.” Sara grabbed three slices and dropped them onto her plate. Her gaze never left Brandon.

When I returned they were talking about the college. But as soon as I sat back down Sara turned troubled brown eyes on me. “What were the police doing here? I was worried about you.”

I wasn’t sure how much to tell her but then thought if someone were out to hurt me they might try to hurt her, too. “Someone broke into my house today.”

She looked about. “Did they take anything valuable?”

The urge to laugh hit me. “No, actually they left me a present.”

Her black curls bounced as her head swung back around and she faced me. A frown marred her smooth forehead. “And you called the cops on them?”

“It wasn’t a nice present.” Brandon inserted. He sat back on the sofa and rested his arm across the back.

“Oh?”

“No, it was a pan of brownies.”

The frown deepened. She hesitated but asked. “And you don’t like brownies?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Her expression, and the way I explained it just struck my funny bone. Or, maybe it happened because I was overly tired. Either reason, I laughed.

She looked at Brandon. “I don’t understand.”

He shook his head. “I don’t blame you.”

I tried to sober and explain. “When I came home tonight there was a pan of brownies waiting for me. I don’t know who they came from but whoever it was had to break into the house to get them on the kitchen table. So, we called the police. I think the brownies were poisoned.” I gasped for breath and then exhaled.

Sara tilted her head to the side and studied me. It felt as if she’d speared me and placed me under a microscope before she finally asked. “What made you think the brownies were poisoned?”

The question truly sobered me. “Mitzi was poisoned with a pan of lasagna. So I assumed that the brownies were poison-laced, too. I’m praying I’m wrong.”

“What did you do with them?” Sara took a bite of the pizza and sighed.

“The police took them.” Brandon answered. I felt him gently pull me back to the couch. One hand massaged my shoulder.

She stopped chewing. “Why?”

“To test them for drugs or poison,” I muttered, enjoying the warmth of his palm. I hadn’t realized how tight my shoulders had become.

“Because Mitzi had been poisoned?”

All I could do was nod. Brandon now massaged both shoulders. It seemed to me the girl was awful dense if we had to explain every detail to her.

“I thought you said they didn’t know how Mitzi died.”

Her voice came out low and dangerous sounding. Had I imagined it? I raised my head to look at her. She seemed at ease, but I noticed Brandon had quit massaging my neck and shoulders. Had he heard it, too?

She opened her mouth as if to say something else and then she coughed and quickly grabbed the glass of water. For several moments she fought the cough by pouring more water down her throat.

Finally, looking up through tear filled eyes she said, “I’m sorry. Since I’ve been sick my voice does this funky thing and then I seem to choke on air. I’m sorry.” Her cheeks were now filled with red color.

“Oh that’s okay. As long as you’re all right.” I handed her another napkin.

Brandon spoke as he resumed his massaging, and I leaned back again. “I hate when my throat catches like that. At least you have the excuse of being sick.”

I couldn’t see him, but was sure he smiled at her.

She finished her pizza and stood. “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to head on home now. I need to water my plants.”

Reluctantly, I stood and followed her to the door. I heard footsteps behind me and turned to look. Brandon followed us. It felt good knowing he was there. I dreaded the time that he’d have to go home, too.

Sara moved through the screened-in porch and opened the door. Just before stepping off the last step she turned. “I’m glad you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

I watched her move across the front yard, pat Sprocket on the head, and then go on to her house. She turned and waved when she got to her porch.

“She seems really nice.” Brandon placed one hand on my shoulder and one on the door facing.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed his comforting presence. He gave me a sense of well-being and safety. I could get used to this.

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“Oh, she is very nice.” A little weird but who isn’t?

He stepped back. I missed his warmth immediately. “You know. I’ve been thinking and maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight.” He leaned against the doorway that led back into the house.

“Where should I stay?” I crossed my arms and waited.

“Don’t you have a daughter that you can stay with?”

If the man had said my place I would have thrown something at him. But, he hadn’t. He’d proven once more that Brandon Harvest was a true gentleman.

I relaxed. “I’m not going to bother Megan with this, and I’m not going to live in fear.”

He pushed away from the doorframe and turned toward the living room. “Well, don’t you have friends you could stay with?”

Wasn’t he listening? I’d just told him I wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe with men it’s more complicated to hear. Or maybe he was just being stubborn. Well two could play that game. “I said no, Brandon. I’m staying right here.”

He turned to face me. His hands came up and a smile touched his lips. “Ok. I give. You’re staying here. I get it.”

Later, I wished I’d taken his advice. The house was so quiet and every time it settled my flesh crawled with fear. Thoughts of someone breaking in and force-feeding me poisoned food ran through my mind. Even though it was silly, I couldn’t get past those thoughts.

I hurried and got ready for bed. Sounds filled the night.

A dog barked. Was it Sprocket?

No.

My heart pounded. I grabbed the edge of the dresser and pushed with all my might. It moved against the door. I panted and listened.

This is ridiculous. I moved to my bedside and knelt.

I tried to remember a scripture about fear. Panic threatened to overtake me when, for several minutes, my mind remained blank and only cold fear could be found. Then it was there like a beacon in the night, Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows. Matthew 10:31 Prayers of thanksgiving burst from my lips, and then I crawled into my bed.

Sleep slowly settled over me but the fear had vanished. I nestled down under the covers, with the assurance that the Lord was with me.

****

The sun filtered through my curtains. I stretched and yawned. The desire to roll over and sleep away the day fought strongly with my desire not to become a sloth in my old age.

My gaze moved to the dresser I’d pushed in front of the door the night before. That explained the soreness in my arms. “Crazy old woman,” I muttered to myself as I shoved the covers back, and forced tired leg muscles to work. A warm shower might get the circulation going again and help with the soreness in my arms and shoulders. Maybe.

I moved stiffly to the dresser and pushed and shoved against it. It inched across the carpeted floor and for a brief moment, I wished for the adrenaline of fear that had possessed me the night before. Once it rested in its usual spot, I rested for a few minutes and then pulled clean clothes from the dressers depths. I hurried to the shower.

For the first time in years, I pushed in the knob to lock the bathroom door. I turned on the water and soon the room filled with warm steam and the scent of my lavender body wash. I’d chosen lavender because it was supposed to help me relax but could I relax knowing a killer had been in my house?

I could. And I would. The soothing scent washed over me, and soon I felt much better. “Fear will not win.” I declared as I dried the moisture from my body. That too seemed to give me confidence I could face the day.

So much so that I donned my favorite hot pink tee shirt that proclaimed, in flashy silver letters, ONE HOT CHICK. Next I pulled on a pair of blue jeans.

My flowerbeds were begging to be weeded, and I had decided I’d see them weed-free by the end of the day. After tying my shoelaces, I stood, smiled into the mirror and opened the bedroom door. I took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen for a scrambled egg and a slightly browned piece of toast.

The sound of something scraping across the front porch froze my confident steps. I stopped breathing and listened. No further sound met my ears. After several minutes of standing like a statue, I realized it was all in my head.

Exhaling, I moved on down the hall to the living room. I’d almost made it into the kitchen when I heard a thump come from the direction of the front porch. This time I dropped to the floor and panted with fear.

Sunlight filtered through the windows. I could hear a lawn mower running somewhere on the block. Everything seemed and sounded normal. But, I knew someone was on my front porch.

With the bravery of a wet worm, I pushed myself from the floor, tiptoed to the kitchen, found my big butcher knife, and then hugged the walls back to the living room. Furniture kept me from clinging to the wall in the living room. I stooped low and duck-walked to the door. Just as I got to it, someone knocked. My heart leaped, my pulse quit beating, and for a moment I thought I was going to die from lack of oxygen to my brain.

“Claire!”

It was Brandon. I still couldn’t move from my bent position.

“Honey, I know you’re there. I heard you coming. Open the door.”

Honey? Honey? The man had scared me out of my wits, and he had the nerve to call me honey? If I wasn’t so relieved to hear his voice I think I’d kill him with the big knife in my hands. No, that wouldn’t do. Detective Howard would lock me up for sure.

I stood slowly. Hid the knife in a potted plant beside the door and ran my sweaty palms down my jean legs before opening the door.

He smiled. “I thought I heard you up and about. What does a fella have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?”

A desire to slap that knowing smile off his face was strong. Instead of answering him I asked a question of my own. “What are you doing here so early?”

He stepped to his left and leaned on the doorframe. With one hand he gestured toward my cozy morning corner and said. “I slept here last night. Hope you don’t mind.”

One look at his rumpled clothes and messed hair confirmed he was telling the truth. “Why?”

A slight flush filled his cheeks and he looked down at his shoes. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you being here all alone and scared, so I came back. But the house was dark, and then I got to thinking what if the killer came back.”

I could have helped him out but after the scare he’d just given me I wasn’t feeling too charitable so I waited until he realized he’d have to explain himself completely.

“I was worried about you so I made a bed of your reclining chair and stayed the night.” He offered that boyish grin that I couldn’t seem to resist and finished, “So see? I protected you. Think you could reward me with a cup of coffee?” Rumpled and looking boyish, I couldn’t refuse him.

“Come on in, Sir Harvest, and I’ll prepare you a feast for your night of gallantry.” I turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Aware he couldn’t see my face, I smiled. He’d stayed on the porch all night to protect me. That was about the sweetest and dumbest thing I’d ever heard of.

“Thank you, hot chick.”

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