Death by Tea, page 25
Oh, wait. That’s exactly what I did.
“Krissy . . .”
I looked up at Paul. Tears were in my eyes but had yet to fall. I was so frustrated, I could scream. Was this where all of my hard work got me? I wanted to solve the case so badly, I’d ignored important evidence, refused to talk to the police when in doing so I could have been saved the absolute embarrassment of what had happened back at the shop. It wouldn’t surprise me if my meddling got me run out of town at first light tomorrow morning.
Paul lifted a hand, hesitated like he wasn’t sure what to do with it, and then rested it on my shoulder. He wasn’t smiling. There were no dazzling dimples or any hint of sympathy in his gaze that would make me feel better. Instead, all I saw was a profound sadness in his eyes. And pity. A whole lot of pity.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he said. “If you go around accusing innocent people of murder, it will eventually come back on you.”
“I know.”
“Let us do our job.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Please. You might think we can’t handle ourselves, but I promise you, the force isn’t as bad as it seems.”
That brought a ghost of a smile to my lips. Paul echoed it, though the worry was still in his eyes. The man thought I’d lost it, I was sure. He was probably standing there, wondering what he’d gotten himself into by interacting with me, even on the most basic level. If I kept going, I was going to end up proving his doubts about me right. Five years from now, I could easily become that lonely woman who wears a nightgown and slippers all day, feeding an army of felines and staring out my window with a pair of binoculars.
I shuddered at the thought. I would not become Eleanor Winthrow.
Paul must have taken my shudder as a hint that I was cold, despite the heat. He pulled me in close for a hug, rubbing his hands up and down my back briskly. I pressed my face against his chest, basking in his closeness. It had been far too long since I’d been that close to anyone.
I thought of Will and wondered if he hated me now. And if he was upset about me being near Dan, what would he think seeing me standing here in Paul’s arms? Why did I always have to make a mess of everything?
You need to tell him everything—about the shoebox, the IDs, everything.
“Paul . . .”
He released me and stepped back. “I have to get back to the competition.” He glanced toward his cruiser, as if reluctant to get inside. “I’ll let the others know I got you here safely.” He leveled a finger at me. “Get some rest, okay?”
I nodded. I felt chilled now that he wasn’t holding me. Look at me, all sappy and needy. I guess that’s what happens to a person when she makes a total fool out of herself—she ends up needing someone there to tell her that she isn’t as big of a moron as she thinks.
Paul turned away and slipped into his cruiser. I almost called out to him to tell him to check under the seat of my car, but I didn’t. I felt stupid, and I didn’t want to add to it. I promised myself I’d call him later, once most of my shame had faded.
Paul sat there for a long moment, staring at where I stood huddled outside my front door. He looked torn, as if he wanted to get back out and hold me some more. I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded one bit. In fact, I longed for it.
Instead, he started the car, gave me a brief flick of the hand that was supposed to be a wave, and then, with the rumble of the engine, he was gone.
I turned and unlocked my front door, lonelier than I cared to admit. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me before Misfit could escape. He turned and strutted off, walking away just like Paul had.
My shoulder felt naked without my purse hanging from it. It was sitting in the back room of Death by Coffee where I’d left it. It was a wonder I’d shoved my keys into my pocket instead of depositing them into my purse before work. I should have grabbed the stupid thing on the way out, but I’d been a little too preoccupied with all of the eyes on me to think of something as simple as the one item that held my belongings.
I heaved a sigh and looked down at myself. I was still wearing my apron. I pulled it off and balled it up, thinking that maybe throwing it against the wall would make me feel better, when I heard something crinkle inside it. It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.
Mike’s resignation letter. Just when everything was going insane in my life and Death by Coffee, he up and quits on me.
I pulled the letter out of the apron pocket and unfolded it before tossing the apron aside. I never did read the letter fully. I was curious to see if he gave a better reason than what he’d told me when he’d handed me the darn thing. I had half a mind to call Paul up and tell him about Lena’s theory about Mike. If he’d been stealing, then he deserved to be punished, especially after leaving me hanging like that. Of course, I doubted there was much Paul could do about it now. And since I didn’t have any actual proof, it would be pointless to tell him.
My eyes scanned the page. There wasn’t much to the letter itself. He got straight to the point, saying he was quitting, and then he signed it. No excuses, no warning. I mean, what ever happened to the two-week notice? Quitting suddenly like that was awfully suspicious. It was looking more and more like Lena was right about him.
“Just my luck,” I grumbled, carrying the letter farther into the house. Standing by the door all day wasn’t going to get me anywhere. There was still a murderer out there, and if I wanted to restore my dignity, I needed to figure out who it was.
I was halfway to the island counter when a niggling started in the back of my head. I stopped and stared down at Mike’s scrawl, at how the letters flowed together, making it hard to read. The note was written sloppily but legibly.
Misfit sauntered into the room, head cocked, as if catching the vibes coming off of me. He plopped down on the floor and stared up at me, tail swishing back and forth.
“Why is this writing so familiar?” I asked him. I reread the letter, but nothing in it was pinging the persistent thought that was attempting to break through. I tried to remember if Mike had written something down for me at some point, other than his signature back when I’d hired him. He’d filled in the application, but he’d printed that.
But looking at this writing here now, I knew I’d seen it somewhere else.
And then it clicked.
“No way.” I looked wildly around, but what I was looking for was gone. John Buchannan had taken it the night the rock was thrown against my front door.
That was where I’d seen the near indecipherable scrawl before—on the warning note that had been strapped to the rock. It had to be.
Mike Green was the killer!
He had access to Death by Coffee. In fact, he closed the store that very night. He’d also been acting strangely lately, eyes darting around as if he was paranoid that people were watching him. I’d thought it had to do with the missing money and Lena’s theory, but perhaps he was nervous because he’d killed David Smith only a few nights before and was afraid someone would figure it out.
Like me.
What I didn’t know was why he murdered a man who was a stranger to him. It wasn’t like David would be able to tell me who killed him. And as far as I could tell, there was no evidence pointing Mike’s way. What could have happened that night after Vicki left? Was there something I was missing?
The sound of an engine shutting off outside had me running for the door, thinking Paul had come back with my car. If I would have stopped to think about it, I would have realized that it was impossible for him to be back already. He had been gone for only a few minutes at most.
I threw open the door, letter in hand, ready to proclaim Mike the killer, restoring both my dignity and reputation, when I saw what awaited me.
It wasn’t my car sitting in the driveway.
And that sure wasn’t Paul Dalton walking toward me with a tire iron in hand.
I backpedaled and tried to get the door closed before Mike could reach me, but he was too fast. He thrust the tire iron through the door opening just before it closed. He used his scrawny frame to slide sideways, through the door, despite my best efforts to keep him out. I was too exhausted from work to put up much of a fight, and he was determined. He thrust me away by shoving the door before stepping inside and closing it quietly behind him.
“I knew I made a mistake,” he said. “Man, I totally blew it, didn’t I?”
“Uh, hi, Mike!” I put as much cheer into my voice as I could manage, which to tell you the truth wasn’t much. “What are you doing here? Change your mind about quitting?”
“Don’t play stupid,” he said. His eyes flickered to the letter in my hand. “So, you figured it out, huh?”
“That you quit? Sure, you told me yourself.”
Mike sighed and ran his free hand through his stringy hair. “I’m serious. I like you and all, but I’ll hit you with this if I have to.” He hoisted the tire iron.
“Okay, okay,” I said, backing slowly away, hands held out before me. Of all the times not to have my purse, this was the worst. I thought I’d be able to make a run for it and lock myself in the bathroom before he caught me. Then I could call Paul on my cell and he’d come and save me.
But I needed my cell phone for that, which was in my purse, which was back at Death by Coffee, where it would do me no good.
“I should have told you my key had come up missing and then just come in and told you I was quitting, rather than leaving you the stupid letter,” Mike said, smacking himself in the temple a few times with the palm of his hand. “I wasn’t thinking, you know? I don’t have a computer or anything, so I wrote the thing out, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak to you, but that was the wrong thing to do. I realized my mistake almost immediately, but when I returned to take back the note, you were already gone.”
“We all make mistakes,” I said. “I forgive you.”
He snorted. “I’m not sure your forgiveness helps me much.”
Okay, so talking my way out of this wasn’t going to work. I needed to buy time until Paul, or at least somebody he trusted, came back with my car. I didn’t know if they’d be arriving in ten minutes or two hours. I wasn’t sure I had enough time either way.
“Why’d you do it?” I asked, figuring that as long as I kept him talking, he wouldn’t have time to kill me.
Mike chewed on his lower lip a moment before answering. “He caught me,” he said with a shrug, as if it explained everything.
I should have been thrilled. He’d just confessed to David’s murder in a roundabout way. But if he’d killed a man he’d hardly known, what was stopping him from doing the same to me, especially since I posed a greater threat to him?
“Caught you doing what?” I asked, taking another step back.
“Stop,” he said, hand tightening on the tire iron. “No farther.”
I did as he said. “I just want to know why you did it.”
With a sigh, he answered, “I was skimming from the register, man. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“I was working it out.” There was no way I was going to tell him Lena had pointed it out to me. If he finished me off here, I didn’t want him to go after her once he was done disposing of my body.
“Well, I’d ring stuff up, delete it, and then pocket the money. It wasn’t hard, since no one really paid much attention to what I was doing. And the money really wasn’t all that good. But it was enough to get by. Living is expensive.”
Living was something I wanted to keep doing, but I kept that to myself. “And David caught you?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head, almost as if the thought of anyone catching on to him surprised him. “He watched me, I guess. The dude seemed like it was the sort of thing he’d done before. After I closed that night, he came up to me and confronted me. I thought for sure he was going to turn me in. Everyone was right there, getting into their cars.”
“But he didn’t?”
“Nope. He wanted a cut.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. A cut of what he was skimming wouldn’t have amounted to much.
“Told the dude to meet me at the store later that night, once everyone was good and gone. I was totally going to pay him and hope he’d simply go away. I was done after that, for sure.”
“Didn’t work out that way, did it?”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Nah. The dude came in, took his cut, and then demanded more when he saw how little it was. I was like, ‘Whoa, dude, chill,’ but he was insistent. Put his hands on me and shook me a few times like he thought I was hiding the extra bills in my hair or something.”
I cringed at the bad lingo but refrained from commenting on it. I glanced from side to side, looking for a weapon within easy reach. He had me out in the open, out where if I made a move one way or another, he could get to me before I could grab anything. Misfit was sitting nearby, watching the proceedings with mild interest. I doubted he would be much help.
“He wanted everything, man.” Mike shook his head, almost sadly. “He was going to wipe the place out, steal every last thing he could reasonably sell, including that stupid teapot, and wanted me to help him. When he turned his back, I don’t know, I just sort of snapped. I clunked him on the head, hard enough to knock him out. I was going to leave him there for the cops, but I realized he’d just turn me in when he came to. So I hit him again. And again.” He moved the tire iron into a two-handed grip.
Something had come into Mike’s eyes as he spoke. It was as if remembering David’s death was enough to send him into a murderous frenzy. I knew then that no matter what happened, what I did or said, he was going to come at me.
I wasn’t going to stand around and let him do it.
Mike took a step forward. I feinted toward the kitchen, which seemed to be the best place to go. I figured Mike would think the same. He moved to cut me off, and I immediately changed direction and darted toward the living room. I snatched up one of those solid candle holders that are about the size of a small cup. I turned and threw it as hard as I could, aiming for Mike’s head.
It smashed into the wall about three feet to his left. He snarled at me and charged. I started for the hall, realizing there was nothing I could use against him in the living room, unless I wanted to try to beat him over the head with my TV.
Mike spun around a chair and swung his tire iron. I jerked back, avoiding the blow, but my lamp wasn’t so lucky. It shattered on impact, spraying glass and ceramic pieces all over my freshly cleaned floor.
I screamed and scuttled backward, right into the TV I’d considered using as a weapon. It was one of those HD flat screens that should normally be bolted to the wall or a stand of some sort. Unfortunately, I’d done neither. I hit it hard enough for it to crack back against the wall and then heave forward. I made a mad grab for it and realized that in doing so, I’d be giving Mike a chance to clock me a good one, so I shoved on it instead. Mike managed to leap back before it came crashing down at his feet.
“Break all you want,” he said. “It won’t help you.” He wasn’t even breathing hard, while I was panting.
I looked for a way out of my predicament. Misfit, who should have been hiding somewhere due to all the noise, was sitting in the dining room, watching us with his ears pinned back. It appeared he was my final hope.
“Attack!” I yelled at him, startling Mike. He jerked back, clearly expecting a massive dog of some sort to come flying at him. All he found was an orange cat giving him a curious look.
“Traitor,” I grumbled as Mike chuckled. The cat was going to be of no help.
Mike came at me then, tire iron held above his head, poised to strike. I shoved on the coffee table as he neared. It didn’t move much, but Mike’s leg clipped the edge of it, anyway. He tripped and fell into the stand that used to hold my TV. He went down hard.
I bolted between the coffee table and couch, thinking I’d caught my break and could get out the front door before Mike could right himself. Too bad I was watching Mike struggle to his feet instead of watching where I was going.
When I’d moved the coffee table, it had not only turned to get in his way but also cut off the clear path to the door between the table and the couch. My knees hit the corner of the table at a full run, and I went tumbling over it. I hit the floor hard and skidded across, giving myself some serious rug burn in the process. I came to rest near where Misfit had been sitting a moment before. At some point, he’d taken off and left me to fend for myself.
I tried to scramble to my feet, but before I could so much as get to my hands and knees, Mike was atop me. I spun and kicked out, hoping to hit him where it counted, but instead I ended up kicking the wall. My leg went instantly numb, and pain shot through my foot as one of my toes snapped. I was on my back, Mike atop me, his hands on my throat.
He’d lost the tire iron in his fall, apparently, which would have been great if he didn’t have all of the leverage and was choking the life out of me instead. I beat at him with my hands, but it was to no avail. If he’d been any stronger, he could have crushed my windpipe and been done with it. As it was, he was cutting off my air, which might be slower but would make me dead just the same.
And then, thankfully, that was when the blessed sound of sirens filled the air.
Mike’s grip lessened on my throat as his head jerked up. I sucked in a gulp of air, which burned going in but felt good. It might be my only moment of reprieve, and I needed to take advantage of it.
“Oh, man.” Mike jumped to his feet and started to run for the door.
There was no way I was going to let him escape. Despite the pain in my foot, despite how every breath felt as if I were swallowing fire, I rolled over onto my side and grabbed for his leg. The grab was wild, but I caught him. Mike went down hard, nose cracking the floor. I held tight to his foot, even as he began kicking at me.
“Let me go!” he shouted as the siren reached a crescendo outside.
