I craned my neck back to look at Graham and Officer Hightower. They were looking down at me with identical expressions of interest mingled with suspicion.
“Damn,” I murmured. “I totally just made myself a suspect, didn’t I?”
Chapter Five
Why they decided to call it ‘emotional baggage’ instead of ‘griefcase’ is simply beyond me.
- Gwen Goode, loathing the English language
I laid my cheek down on the cool, granite countertop and spun the stem of my wineglass, watching the fading rays of sunset that streamed through my kitchen windows refracting in the deep pour of Bordeaux. Night was finally falling, bringing an end to an excruciatingly long day. A day that started with verbal harassment, continued with ritualistic animal sacrifice, and eventually landed me in an interrogation room, sitting across from two dizzyingly attractive men of the law who were convinced I had something — if not everything — to do with the blood-soaked scene in my alley.
After this delightful experience, I was delivered back to The Gallows by Detective Hightower just in time to close up shop in the company of one disgruntled barista, shooing out several college kids who’d been studying at a corner table for eight-plus hours, during which period they’d collectively spent under ten dollars on bottomless coffee refills.
Needless to say, I was drained.
I hadn’t even changed or taken off my heels when I’d gotten home five minutes before. I’d walked straight to the kitchen, uncorked a bottle of wine, and filled my glass to the brim. Only after I’d sucked down several fortifying sips did I realize drinking on an empty stomach might not be the best idea and forced my tired bones to yank open the fridge in search of sustenance. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and, no matter how killer Hetti’s lattes, pumpkin-spice alone was not enough to hold me over.
The microwave dinged just as my phone began to buzz against the slate gray granite. I retrieved my dinner — a reheated plate of Chinese takeout from the night before — as I answered the incoming call, toggling the speakerphone function so I could talk while wielding chopsticks.
“Hey, Flo.”
“What the hell, Gwennie?” Florence’s worried voice blasted at me, accusation apparent in every word. “Desmond just got home and told me what happened today at your store!”
I took a scorching bite of shrimp lo mein, scalding my tongue in my haste.Ouch. Steam billowed from between my lips as I asked, “How does Des know?”
“Graham told him! They usually have man-night, the last Thursday of every month.”
My nose scrunched. “Man-night?”
“Poker, cigars, sports talk, whatever the heck else men do when unsupervised. I don’t know, I don’t ask questions. I’m just happy for an occasional evening alone where I can watch my trashy shows and do a mud-mask facial and drink a full bottle of sauvignon blanc without anyone around to saybooabout it.” She sighed heavily. “But I’m not getting my solo sav-blanc night tonight, Gwennie. You know why?”
I did know why, but I still gamely asked, “Why, Flo?”
“Because Graham cancelled man-night, on account of a new case he’s working. A case that, according to him, involves you.”
“And men saywe’rethe gossips,” I grumbled around a bite of egg roll. “They spill more tea than the Sons of Liberty did in Boston Harbor.”
“That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that you should’ve been the one spilling, missy! Why did I have to hear about this from Desmond?”
“I just walked in the door! There was no time to call you. My heels aren’t even off, for Gaia’s sake.”
“I can hear you chewing. If you’re chewing, you had time to call me.”
I set down my chopsticks and took a large sip of Bordeaux. It paired surprisingly well with the leftover Chinese food. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t dial you immediately. It was a very long day. I’m tired. I needed a minute to myself to decompress before reliving it a second time for my best friend’s benefit.”
“I get that,” Flo conceded immediately, her voice softening. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just worried about you. When Des told me what happened… I freaked just hearing about it. I’m guessing you must be way more freaked, seeing as you’re the one who actually lived it.”
“I’m okay,” I breezed. “Don’t worry about me.”
But the thing was, I wasn’t okay. She probablyshouldbe worried about me. Or, if not worried, at least mildly concerned. Because after I’d given Graham and Detective Hightower my little crime-scene spiel, they’d decided to bring me in for a quote ‘informal chat’ unquote. Seeing as this chat took place in an interrogation room at the local precinct, it didn’t feel all that informal to me. It felt about as informal as a black tie wedding with a four-string quartet and five-course dinner service, if you wanted my honest-to-goddess opinion on the matter. Then again, I’d never been interrogated by not one but two supremely hot detectives before, so my opinion wasn’t worth all that much.
Once the men decided they needed to bring me in, a minor power struggle ensued. Detective Hightower wanted me to ride with him to the station; Graham was insistent he take me. With neither willing to concede, this left them glaring at one another in the alley for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, during which I stood between them, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to breathe through all the testosterone in the air.
I’m not sure how much time passed — enough for the uniformed police officers to finish blocking off the alley with thick, yellow and black tape, enough for the forensics technician to finish snapping her pictures of the slain donkey and head back to her own vehicle. She shot me a sympathetic look before she shoved her Nikon into her bag and scurried away from the Graves-Hightower showdown.
“Um,” I’d interjected eventually. Two sets of eyes snapped to me with such intensity, I had to lock my knees to keep them from buckling. “I can just walk, it’s not that far.”
Both blue and green stares narrowed in a seriously scary way at this suggestion.