A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic (7 page)

His eyes bulged. “I’m not dressing up. I’m a Deputy US Marshal. They have to answer my questions. It’s a murder investigation.”

I crossed my arms. “Excuse me. You asked for my help because they wouldn’t talk. What are you going to do? Arrest the whole place for obstruction of justice? Just wear a costume. Jeez.”

Jake opened his mouth, probably to complain some more but didn’t. “I’ll wear my hat.”

Footfalls thundered down the hall. Mark, the head of security, swung through the open doorway, nearly crashing into Jake. He pressed a slimy hand to Jake’s chest to stop himself.

“Sorry,” Mark panted. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Jake examined the greasy stain on his gray cotton shirt. “What the hell?”

Mark doubled over at the waist, gasping for air. “Detective Archer. I could use your assistance. There’s a problem at Sweet Retreat. The Lindseys and Kubickas are in an all-out butter battle and civilians are being hit. I need your badge. They won’t respect my authority.”

Blobs of melted butter dripped from Mark’s sleeves, pant legs and nose.

I giggled and grabbed my clubhouse ID and jacket. This, I had to see. I patted Mark’s back. “Detective Archer is a US Deputy Marshal now.”

Mark sputtered and spun, grabbing my hand and towing me toward the clubhouse door. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” I pushed the front door open so Mark wouldn’t leave a butter print for maintenance to clean off.

Jake tipped his chin back and spoke to the ceiling as he passed. “I hate this place.”

Chapter Nine

“Ow.” I pressed a finger to the large red knot on my elbow. My workday had ended thirty minutes ago, and I still ached from the afternoon butter battle.

The brouhaha was certain to make Bernie’s morning blog. I dumped ice into a towel and rested my elbow on top. The worst was over by the time Jake, Mark and I arrived, but the aftermath was gruesome. Residents caught in the crossfire were doused with handfuls of the melted civil war horse and raging with indignation. By the looks of both shops and the sidewalk outside, it had been the over-fifty equivalent to a cafeteria food fight.

While the Kubickas chased the Lindseys across the street with fistfuls of what was left of their civil war horse, I tended to the injured. Two eye washes, a twisted ankle and lots of bumps and bruises from spills at the hand of one hundred pounds of melted butter. Luckily, Horseshoe Falls had enough retired medical personnel to settle nerves and help bandage scrapes.

I pulled the sleeve of my ice-blue Queen Guinevere dress over the bruise and rested my arm back on the towel. If I hadn’t tripped over Bernie on the sidewalk, I’d have made it out safe and clean. As it was, I’d spent my lunch hour deep-conditioning my hair and disinfecting butter-basted scrapes.

I tugged black knee-high socks up both legs and brushed my freshly dried hair, thankful I hadn’t seen Jake after my fall. Mark sang his praises all afternoon. Apparently, Jake was fast on his feet and his scary lawman voice had settled the fight before anyone ended up in the lake.

My phone vibrated on the counter. Jake’s number glowed on the screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, I’m downstairs. Can you buzz me up?”

Panic shot through me. My condo was ridiculously expensive, the building was brand new, sterile looking and everything about it screamed money. I’d bought it on a whim after a near-death experience, mostly for the twenty-foot walls and twenty-four-hour guard stationed outside the private community, but Jake would only see the cost. He had issues with money—and I wasn’t in the mood for defending mine. “I thought we were meeting at the Faire.”

“I thought we could ride together.”

Jeez. Presume much? Arrive unannounced. Put me on the spot. “How will I get home?”

“I’ll bring you,” he huffed. “Are you going to buzz me up or not?”

I deliberated. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Buzz me up.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it. “Rude.”

Silence.

I pressed the phone back in place. Nothing. “Jake?”

“Buzz me up.”

I disconnected and buzzed him up.

“Shoot.” I made a wild crisscross through the living room, loading discarded socks and unfolded laundry into my arms. I threw them onto my bed and pulled the door shut.

Jake knocked.

I shook a fist at the ceiling and ran for the kitchen. “Just a minute,” I called, sliding on socked feet through the apartment. I swept a half dozen dirty dishes off the counter and jammed them into a full load of clean ones inside the dishwasher.

“Mia?” He knocked again. “Everything okay in there?”

“Yes. Hang on. I’m coming.” I dragged out each response as I kicked wayward shoes out of sight and gave myself a couple mental blows for being an enormous slob.

It was Jake’s fault. The place was fine until he demanded to come in.

“Mia?”

I yanked the door open and worked to slow my rapid breath and pounding heart. That was more exercise than I’d had in weeks. “Yes?”

He peered over my shoulder in full marshal mode. “Are you going to invite me in?”

I moved out of his way and let him pass then pressed my forehead to the door behind him.

“Nice place.”

I spun and made a beeline for the living room, searching for any errant bras or pantyhose. “Thanks.”

“Penthouse.”

“It seemed safest up here. The hardest apartment to get to and all that.”

He strolled around the living room at a snail’s pace, stopping for a look through floor-to-ceiling windows. “Do you like it?”

I slouched against the kitchen island. “Not really.”

“No?” He scanned the vaulted ceiling and leaned around the corner, taking a long look down the Italian marble-floored hallway to my oversized bedroom and master bath. “Seems cozy.”

I laughed.

He smiled. “It’s safe, so I like it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. It’s lavish and obnoxious. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? Hot cider?”

“You have hot cider?”

“No.” I had plenty of nervous energy, however, and that made me stupid. “You’re my first guest, besides the family and Nate, I mean. They helped me move. Them and the movers.”
Stop talking!
Change the subject.
Talk about him.
I pressed the ice pack to my elbow and winced. “Do you think John could’ve had a nemesis at the Faire?” Maybe he was part of another dueling vendors set, like the Lindseys and Kubickas.

“I’ll ask around tonight. It’s a stretch, but I’m not counting anything out until after the interviews.”

The ice wasn’t helping. I shook it into the sink and turned to Jake. “Time to get our interrogation on.”

He didn’t look impressed by my enthusiasm.

That was his standard response, but something else was off. I focused on the costume, absorbing details and realizing I’d missed the obvious when he walked in. “What are you wearing?”

“You told me to come in costume. I’m a woodsman.”

I circled him, taking in the green hood, brown boots and gloves. “You’re Link from LEGEND OF ZELDA.”

“So. I found it in Dan’s closet from a high school Halloween party. I left the pointy hat at home. What’s the difference?”

I dialed Nate.

“Who are you calling?” Jake lifted his palms into the air. As if
I
exasperated
him
.

I covered the phone with one palm. “Nate. You need help.”

“Do not.”

“Hey, are you coming to the Faire tonight?” I asked Nate.

“Yeah,” Nate answered. His voice echoed through the receiver. “I’ve got a coffee date with Kenna from Surly Wench.”

Jake gave me a look, clearly overhearing.

I turned my back on him. “Can you bring your brown cloak and meet me in an hour?”

“No problem. See ya.” Nate disconnected.

I turned to Jake. “You’re going to wear Nate’s cloak and be the Sheriff of Nottingham. Take off that quiver.”

He huffed but got the job done. He raised his arms wide like an airplane. “Better?”

“Better.” I stuffed my feet into black boots and grabbed my keys and leather satchel. “Let’s go.” The Craft Faire ran until seven most nights, nine on the weekends. Working full time at Horseshoe Falls meant I felt perpetually guilty for not spending enough time on the family business. Everyone else was retired and waiting for me whenever I arrived. Bree’s day job involved human behavior studies, so even when she was at the Faire, she was working. I couldn’t win, and I was always in a hurry.

“Nate can bring me home. You don’t have to.” The elevator was smaller and slower than I remembered.

“What about his date?”

“It’s just coffee, not a hookup.”

Jake’s reflection watched me in the shiny metal walls. “No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not defensive. You’re nosy.”

“Kind of my job.”

The doors parted, and I jumped out. Jake’s mammoth truck was parked across two spaces five feet from the door. Dual wheels and giant side mirrors reached for the cars on either side.

I pushed the power unlock on my Mini Cooper. “You know, on second thought, we can take Stella. Save the ozone. Park in one space.”

“Nah.” He marched to the blue beast and opened his passenger door.

I beeped to relock Stella and climbed dutifully inside. We’d had this discussion more than once. I always lost. He always drove. Like chauvinists did.

The interior of Jake’s truck was spacious. I felt like a child in my dad’s big chair. Country music CDs lined the sun visors. Mud caked the floor mats, and everything smelled like camping.

Jake drove like a maniac.

I ignored it as long as I could. “Must be nice not to worry about speeding tickets or anything that jumps out in front of you. Is that why you added the grill cover? To keep the things you demolish in this behemoth from scratching the paint?”

He took the exit to the Faire and slowed to normal speed. Barely. “I would have turned the radio on, but I thought maybe you’d like to sing.”

I glared. With any luck, the flush of embarrassment didn’t resurface on my cheeks. “No, thank you.”

“What was that you were crooning about this morning? Bass?”

“Stop it. New subject.”

He flipped his turn signal and steered into the line outside the Faire parking lot. “How’d Nate meet the Surly Wench girl?”

“He’s at the Faire all the time. He knows everyone.”

“That’s good to know. So, he didn’t meet her while nosing into my case on John Francis?”

I scoffed. “Please. Don’t be nuts.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He flashed his badge at the parking attendant and rolled into the grassy field without paying.

We bounced over grooved and pitted earth to a place not meant for parking, just outside the castle gates.

“You know this isn’t a parking space, right?”

He got out and opened my door. “You’re awfully concerned about the rules until they apply to you.”

Accurate
. “Fine. Who do we question first?”

Jake shut the door behind me and tapped his marshal badge. “
We
aren’t questioning anyone. You agreed to introduce me to the vendors. I’ll do the rest. I figure if you can walk through the Faire with me once, make some introductions, smile, look like you like me, then you’re done. Services rendered. I’ll make another lap and talk to everyone on my own.”

I adjusted my glasses and pulled a foot of brown curls over one shoulder. “Whatever.” I had plenty of time to talk to vendors when he left. “Have you looked into the financials for John Francis and George Flick?”

We moved toward the gates. He flashed his badge.

A pair of lovely damsels in soft blue velvet gowns and floral headpieces curtsied as we passed. I nodded magnanimously.

“You said Flick wasn’t worried about their finances, but did you check?”

“I’ve got that under control.”

“So, not yet?” I waved to my family gathered at the new Guinevere’s Golden Beauty display. “I took a look last night. The business is fine. It’s not making fat rolls, but it’s doing better than plenty of others. The partner’s personal finances seem legit. He’s comfortable. Here’s where it gets weird. John’s financials were a mess. His business and his partner are okay, but he was barely paying his bills. What do you make of that?”

Jake waved to my fast-approaching sister and her husband. “Did you get all that information legally?”

“Mostly.”

Jake dropped his head forward.

Bree skipped the last few steps to my side and grabbed my hands. Her lavender-and-vanilla perfume took me back ten years. “You’re brilliant. Anyone who says differently is a liar.”

“Who says differently?” Probably her.

“Never mind.” She tugged me toward Dad. “The gypsy carts are a hit and you know how Mom and Dad love gypsies. They were upset when we walked in. They saw the wagons and poof! The frowns disappeared.”

Tom met us halfway. “Like panties at a brothel.”

She whacked his middle. “No more brothel jokes.”

Tom raised an eyebrow and wrote something in his notebook.

Jake closed in on the gypsy wagons. “You did this?”

Brilliant afternoon sun obliterated the autumn chill and warmed my cheeks. “Yeah. They’re rentals for parties, but I figured we could use them as storefronts until the booth is rebuilt.” As an added bonus, they came dressed for Christmas.

The largest of the wagons had three wooden stairs and windows on either side. Shoppers could walk through the wagon for an authentic gypsy experience. The two smaller wagons flanked the large one, creating a crescent. The smaller wagons were strictly for displays. No one allowed on board. All three were lined in twinkle lights, adorned with thick scarlet curtains and dusted with a shimmery coat that resembled a winter’s frost. The wrought-iron luggage racks mounted on top were decked in holiday greens and red faux berries.

Grandma had set up a table as her point of sale in the center of the semicircle. I’d hired a stage setter to cover every inch of the display surfaces with silk scarves, arrange the products and hang an array of crystals on fishing line. The company also painted a new sign for the display and mounted large golden flags with our logo. Stage setters were my new superheroes.

Nice as the wagons looked, something was missing. “Where are the customers?”

Bree released a sigh. “It’s a little slow, but that’s to be expected after yesterday’s bad press. We’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t convinced. A scan of the area showed a hearty crowd of eager shoppers, nearly all of which had bags.

“Never mind that for a second.” Bree pointed to Dad. “What do you think of him?”

“Dad? His gypsy costume finally coordinates with the display?”

“No, silly.” Bree smiled. “What do you think of Adam?”

“Who?” Jake asked.

Bree’s eager expression waned. “It’s nice to see you, Jake. You’re here because of what happened to John, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, she turned back to me. “Adam is the accountant I told you about. From the brothel. I met him last year. You must remember him. He’s the man talking to Dad.”

Jake chortled.

Man
was a generous interpretation. The fellow talking to Dad was my height with excessively curly white-blond hair and freckles. “Is he twelve?”

Tom leaned his head over my shoulder from behind. “He’s twenty-six. Graduated top of his class in business finance and makes a nice living at Wade and Thomas. He’s smart. Funny. Travels.”

“He’s tiny,” I whispered. “Not that I’m judging, but he’s really small. I bet I could wear his pants. Young, too. Does he know I’m pushing thirty?”

Jake stepped closer. “You don’t look thirty.”

“You only think that because you’re over thirty.”