Death by Tea (8 page)

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I called, dropping the bags onto the table. I rounded the island counter and came to a sudden halt.

Cupboards were left hanging open. A few pans lay on the floor from where Buchannan had apparently tossed them in his search. Misfit was busy crunching away at a bag of treats that hadn't quite sealed right. The floor was a mess of crumbs.

“Are you kidding me?” I groaned, snatching the bag from the cat before he managed to eat them all. I sealed it and shoved it back where it belonged, which did little good considering the mess. Misfit made a mad dash for the open cupboard, but I slammed it closed in time. He huffed and sauntered away.

I turned and wandered into the living room. Pillows were tossed onto the floor and the couch cushions were pulled up, exposing the springs that were starting to show through. At least nothing else in here appeared to have been moved.

Anger built. Buchannan had no right to go through my things like that. They were searching for a cardboard cutout, which in no way would have fit in any of the places he'd checked out here. They already had the murder weapon, so Cardboard Dad was the only thing he could have possibly been after. One peek in my bedroom and he would have found the darn thing.

A groan escaped my lips.

My bedroom.

I turned and ran from the living room, down the short hall, and into my bedroom. The bed was still a mess from when I'd fallen out of it, so that was my fault, but the open drawers were definitely new. I walked angrily across the room and peered down into the top drawer, staring at what was once neatly folded underwear. It was now a jumbled mess.

“He didn't.” My fists clenched at my sides. Buchannan had actually come in here and rifled through my underwear drawer!

I pawed through the mess and tried to determine if anything was missing. It was hard to tell, since most of my panties were either white or black, with only a couple of other colors thrown in. I didn't have anything fancy or too embarrassing, which I supposed was a good thing. But still, I wouldn't put it past Buchannan to have stolen a few choice pieces.

“I need a warrant for his house,” I muttered. We'd see how he liked having someone go through his private things then. It might have been perfectly legal for him to look around, but that didn't make it right.

The underwear drawer wasn't the only drawer left open. He'd gone through everything, my entire life practically.

I ground my teeth together and counted slowly to ten. I really wanted to go find him and yell at him, but that would only make things worse. He already had it out for me. I needed to control myself until they found the real murderer. If I started accusing him of things now, he would only come after me that much harder. Not to mention the fact it would make me look as if I was deflecting.

But when this whole mess was over with, I wasn't going to hold back; Buchannan was dead meat!

I looked around at the open drawers, thought about the mess in the kitchen, and realized I wasn't going to be able to deal with it, not tonight, not after a day that wasn't half bad. I refused to let him ruin it for me.

I turned and walked out of my bedroom, down the hall, and to the front door. I paused there and looked back at my house. At least he hadn't overturned the furniture. Misfit watched me from the other room.

“A martini sounds good right about now,” I told him. He cocked his head to the side, and then lay down, putting his back to me.

With one last look around, I opened the front door and headed for Jules and Lance's place, intent on taking them up on their offer.

8

“I'm so glad you decided to join us,” Jules said, leading me toward the kitchen, Maestro yapping at his heels. “Have you eaten? We were just about to sit down and have a late dinner.”

“Oh, I don't want to be a bother.” I tried to back toward the door, suddenly feeling out of place, like an unwelcome third wheel, but Jules stopped me with a hand on my wrist.

“You're no bother, is she, Lance?” He turned to where Lance was standing in front of the stove, apron around his waist.

“Not at all.”

I allowed myself to be led to the table, knowing that now that I was there, I wasn't going to be getting out of it. I should have stayed at home, had my own light dinner, and then cleaned up Buchannan's mess before bed.

But to do that would be to let him win. The man wanted to drive me crazy, and if I let his rifling bother me, then he'd get exactly what he wanted.

“I'll take that,” Jules said, rushing over to the stove and taking a wooden spoon from Lance. “You get the martinis.”

I watched them prep for dinner, and a vague sadness came over me. Sure, I
could
have sat at home and eaten a microwaved dinner, alone and vulnerable. But sitting here, watching how well they worked together, made me realize how much I really didn't want to be doing that again. I didn't know if it was because of Will's recent flirting or the way Paul had looked at me the last time I'd seen him.

And really, I wasn't sure it mattered.

“By the way,” I said, suddenly remembering the couple's earlier kindness. “Thank you for the cookies. They were delicious.”

“I'm so glad you liked them,” Jules said, glancing back at me as he stirred something that smelled fabulous. “I was worried, since you make them for a living. I hope they lived up to your standards.”

“Surpassed them,” I said.

Jules grinned in a way that told me I'd just made his day before he turned back to the stove.

“Here you are,” Lance said, handing me a glass. “One lemon drop martini.” He stepped back and eyed me worriedly as I picked up the martini glass. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised they had the right kind of glassware, but I was.

I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip. I winced, not because it was bad but rather because I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't a drinker, so alcohol often hit me funny, especially the kind that didn't come out of a can.

“Is it bad?” Lance said, clearly worried he'd done it wrong.

“Actually, no,” I said, taking another sip. This time my face didn't pucker. “I'm just not used to it. It's really good.”

He looked pleased as he went back to make another. “I'm glad to hear it,” he said. “But if you would prefer something else, feel free to let me know. We have pretty much anything you could ask for.”

“Lance loves his mixed drinks,” Jules said with a playful swipe at Lance with his spoon. “Whenever he travels, he comes back with something new for us to try.”

Lance shrugged. “What would life be if you didn't try new things?”

“Boring,” Jules filled in, and they both laughed.

I felt warmer after only a few small sips, and after taking one more, I started to get comfortable. Watching Jules and Lance wasn't depressing. In fact, it helped restore some of my faith in humanity. Not everyone had an agenda.

Speaking of which . . . there was one man whose agenda I really was curious about.

“Have either of you heard of a man named Will Foster?” I asked, taking another, longer sip of my martini. If all of Lance's mixed drinks tasted like this, I was going to have to start coming over more often. Then again, did I really want to risk turning into a lush?

Both men turned to me with identical knowing smiles on their faces.

“William Foster?” Jules asked, voice pitched in intrigue.

“I suppose.” I shrugged. “He gave his name as Will. We met at the bowling alley.”

Lance and Jules shared a look.

“You talked to him?” Lance asked.

“Yeah.” I was suddenly worried. “Shouldn't I have? He wasn't wearing a ring.” Had he taken off his wedding band and come on to me as some sort of joke? Could he be one of those guys who cheated on his wife every time he went out? It would be just my luck to talk to the one guy who was an unfaithful jerk.

Jules chuckled and went back to stirring as Lance answered. “It's not that,” he said. “He's not married, and isn't planning on it anytime soon as far as I know. He's just so . . .” He looked to Jules for help.

“Dreamy?”

Lance pointed at me. “Dreamy.”

That he was. I cleared my throat, feeling not just warm but absolutely roasting. I fanned myself off. “He offered to show me how to bowl sometime.”

Jules's eyes just about popped from his head as he glanced back at me. “Please tell me you accepted.”

I blushed as I answered with, “I did. Sorta. I guess.”

Lance laughed. “I can see he has his hooks into you.”

“He does not!”
Did he?
I'd just met the guy and knew almost nothing about him.

But those dark eyes, the skin that was the color of creamer-rich coffee. I shuddered, taking a sip of my martini to cover it.

“What about Officer Dalton?” Jules asked, putting the hand holding the spoon on his hip. “Weren't you two starting to become an item?”

“Not really,” I said. “We went on a date.”

“Just the one?”

I nodded, feeling stupid. “It didn't end well, and after I solved the murder, we just never had a reason to talk. We didn't go our separate ways or anything, but I think we both got busy—he had cop stuff, and I had to make sure Death by Coffee didn't go under.”

It sounded as if I was making up excuses, but really it was the truth.

“Well, he doesn't know what he's missing,” Lance said, setting a new martini down in front of me and scooping up my near-empty glass. “You look as if you could use a refill.”

I nodded my thanks and started in on the fresh drink. “I don't know what to think,” I said. “I like Paul a lot. He's cute and smart, and has an important job.”

Jules nodded along as I spoke, stirring away at the pot. I was dying to know what he was cooking. My stomach was grumbling nonstop, which probably wasn't such a good thing since I was drinking. If I didn't eat something soon, I'd end up drunker than a skunk.

“But?” Lance prodded, knowing there was more.

“But . . .” I shrugged a shoulder. “I don't know. I think he's not sure I didn't have anything to do with David's murder. He acted funny the last time I talked to him.” I looked down at my drink and considered downing it. “Maybe I'm just reading too much into it.”

“Maybe,” Lance said. “But I'd trust your instincts. Don't let your feelings for Paul interfere with your feelings for Mr. Foster. You aren't tied down, so don't act like it. Maybe Officer Dalton isn't right for you. My dad was a cop and I saw how it affected my mother. He was always gone, always on duty, even when he was supposed to be relaxing at home.”

“I don't know. I feel so . . .” I spread my hands, completely at a loss for words.

“Trust me, Krissy, we all feel that way sometimes,” Jules said from his place by the stove.

“At least you two found each other,” I said, not bitter in the least. Maybe a little envious, but definitely not bitter. “I feel like I'm wasting my time.” I sighed and rubbed at my face. I felt suddenly tired. “I probably shouldn't even be worrying about men. After the murder, and now with Buchannan rifling through my things . . .”

Lance's eyebrows rose. “I thought he was looking for that cardboard thing I saw him with.”

“He was,” I said. “And he found it right away. But he went ahead and searched through my drawers, including my private stuff. I feel violated.” My bad mood was slowly coming back, so I took a long drink from my martini.

There, that felt a little better.

“Maybe he was just being thorough,” Jules said, though it didn't sound like he believed it.

“Maybe.”

Lance placed a hand on my own and squeezed. “Don't let it get to you,” he said. “You're here now, amongst friends. You shouldn't ruin it by thinking about things you can't control.”

“I guess you're right.”

“I know I'm right.” He winked when I looked up at him. “Now, let me finish making the drinks, and then we can eat.”

Lance rose and finished up two more martinis as Jules continued stirring. Every now and again he'd check the oven, filling the kitchen with pleasant aromas.

Maybe they were right. I was letting things get to me too much. The police were only doing their jobs, though I still didn't appreciate Buchannan treating me like a murderer and going through my things. Once they'd investigated a little more, I was sure they'd realize I could have had nothing to do with the murder, despite the evidence to the contrary.

What I needed to do was focus on Death by Coffee and my own business. I didn't know if Paul Dalton cared about me as much as I thought I did about him. It was time I found out where he stood once and for all. Maybe then I could move on.

I plopped my chin into my palms and watched Lance and Jules together. It was the definition of domestic bliss. Even when Lance bumped into Jules as he was reaching into the oven to remove what I thought was a pair of Cornish hens, they took it in stride, laughing and nudging each other.

That was what I wanted.

And I wouldn't let David Smith's murder stop me from getting it, even if it meant I would have to solve the case on my own, without the help of the police.

“Dinner is served!” Jules said a moment later, carrying a plate over to the table. He set it in front of me and I just about melted into my seat, it smelled that good.

I waited for them both to take their seats, despite the fact I was practically drooling down my chin, before picking up my fork.

“Dig in,” Lance said.

He didn't have to tell me twice.