Chapter Fifteen

His sideways grin and man-hands on my waist said a whole lot about his intentions. “Killjoy. You mentioned my parents during almost wild, almost sex.” I smiled. Even with a thrumming humming throughout my body, somehow, I twisted around and pushed off the bed to stand, a bit lopsided. I held out my hand. “Come on.”

Taking my hand, Allan fashioned a not-very-happy look and let me lead him to the kitchen.

I snagged two sodas from the fridge and motioned toward the table. “Popcorn?”

Allan drew a circle on the wooden tabletop. “If feeding the enemy is allowed… Sure.”

I put a package in the microwave. Mr. O Gorgeous One ate a lot of popcorn over here. I could fix him a ham and cheese sandwich; however, he annoyed me in the bathroom, so nah.

Allan and I popped the cans’ tabs. While the bag of corn circled in the microwave, I waited for his explanation regarding Tracey. He sure was trying my patience.

The kernels underwent a rush of explosions and then slowed. I listened intently because the acrid smell of burned popcorn turned off everyone. The scent lingered forever. At a bing, I grabbed the bag, ripped, and dumped the contents in Grammie’s multi-colored bowl.

I set the popped corn and a paper napkin in front of Allan.

Dragging the bowl to his belly, he tossed back a handful of kernels and chased with a big swallow of cola. He fingered a condensation drop on the top of the can. “I had to talk to Tracey. Her fingerprints are all over Jonson Leggett’s SUV’s door. You know…the one he was found dead in.”

Fingerprints could be damning evidence. On the crime docu-dramas, sometimes, fingerprints could be used as elimination prints, like Mom and Dad discussed last night. Maybe Tracey’s would.

Allan poised his hand over the bowl. “Know how Jonson afforded his car?”

I hoped Allan, the detective, knew a good answer to his question about Jonson’s finances. “I’m clueless. Barbie might know. What does his bank account say? Did her family talk to you?”

He dug his fingers in the snack. “We’re working on those details now.”

While watching him munch, I pulled the popcorn bowl my way and stuffed my face. “What about witnesses?”

Allan shook his head. “None, so far, except for a possible Super Saver employee.” He lifted his chin. “The Cooks family is tighter than tight. I know you think you’re protecting Tracey, but you aren’t. What’s she saying?”

No way could I tell Tracey’s whole story. “She isn’t saying anything for fear of incriminating herself.”

With a puzzled frown and his finger rubbing along the can’s lid in a circle, he stewed over my comment.

“Sooner or later, we get the truth, Hattie.”

“How cliché.” Then I remembered the pictures I took of her bruises. I retrieved my phone from the bathroom. “I forgot to send you the photos.” I clicked on an image. “What's your email?”

“What? You don’t have it memorized? I’m wounded.” He pressed his palm to his heart. “Wounded.”

“Whatever.” I typed Allan’s name, and his email address did appear. A few clicks later, I said, “Done.”

I returned the bowl to the middle of the table. Allan and I snacked on the popcorn for a while, not talking, but obviously, thinking about each other. The “stirring” looks he and I shared said a whole lot more than our words did.

“Tell me from the top why you interviewed my little sister.”

Allan snorted. “Give me a break. You know the drill; I’m not supposed to talk about ongoing investigations.”

“You’d better.” I swooped the bowl to my chest before he could get any treats.

Allan crooked his finger. “Dangerous, sweetheart.”

“Threatening” was written all over his words. “Still not scared.”

He-he-he. Being the nice person I am, I passed the popcorn.

He said, “Jonson Leggett the Third—”

“Can’t anyone say his name without the third suffix?” I asked.

Allan shrugged. “Habit. Anyway, he was found dead in his car at Super Saver Grocery store on Boston—”

“I already knew that. How did he die—”

He held up his hand. “Wait a minute. We need to strike a bargain right now.”

I crisscrossed my arms over my chest. “What do you have in mind?”

“What we discuss is between you and me.” Allan aimed two, V-shaped fingers at my chest and back toward his.

I nodded again.

“You can’t say anything, and I mean anything, to your family or mine.”

Man, Allan dragged his heels. “I doubt you'll tell me anything the public doesn't already know.”

“Probably not, but just in case. Don't tell Jenny. Not your Funsisters. Not my sister. Not your parents. Deal?” He scrunched his brow.

God, he is so serious. “Deal.” I bumped my fist against his.

His chest heaved before he said, “Jonson Leggett, the Third was hit on his right temple with a blunt object.”

Oh my God. I cupped my cheeks and pushed my hands into my hair. Part of me was horrified, and the other part knew Jonson was out of my sister’s life forever. “How horrible.”

“Yup. Someone hit him hard. Brains. Bones. Blood. You know.” He took a hit from his drink. “The photos are…gory.”

Does sound rather horrendous. “Ick. You don’t know what was used?”

Allan scratched his jaw. “Not sure yet. Maybe something ordinary like a hammer or tire iron.”

For a minute, I considered what he said. “Tracey isn’t known for skills with tools. I have never, ever seen her use a hammer or a tire iron, although she might have when we were kids, and Mom forced us into helping Dad fix something. Exactly where were Tracey’s fingerprints?”

“On the driver’s door underneath the window frame.” He leveled his hand in front of his sternum. “About so high.”

Hmm. “Exactly what Tracey said. Didn’t find any of hers inside the vehicle?”

“Not so far. I’ve never seen anyone keep a mouth shut like Tracey.” He blew a short breath and set his hands on his hips. “Not a damn word.”

Allan stared at me. “You sure are pretty.”

I sensed my cheeks grow hot. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I know what works on you.” He winked.

“Stay on your side of the table, and I’ll stay on mine. We’re physically distancing.” I sipped and then, because I had nothing else to do, wrapped my can with a napkin. “You know Tracey didn’t do it.”

Allan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Opening his eyes, he said, “Hattie, I know it. You know it. But the police don’t know it.”

He sighed deep and hard. “I’ve known you for a long time. Your parents raised you and Tracey with good morals and values. You aren’t violent people. However, in my professional experience, something—one little thing—can cause people to snap and do the unthinkable.”

Like a creepy, ex-spouse propositioning and stalking could be a motive. At some point, Tracey will have to tell Allan her story, especially if doing so keeps her out of jail. “Tracey still didn’t do it.”

“As I said, you know it, I know it, but the department doesn’t know it.” Abruptly, Allan stood and thrust his hands in his pockets, dropping his chin to his chest. “Jonson Leggett the Third, a prominent citizen from a long-time Sommerville family, well known in the community for charitable endeavors and his ground-breaking work in computer sales, yadayadayada—”

“Seriously? He worked? A first. And since when is computer sales”—I did the quote thingy—“groundbreaking. He didn’t invent anything. And how did he afford his luxury SUV? Did he drive a company vehicle? I think the key to the whole enchilada is to follow the money.”

Allan glanced my way. “That’s a thought. As I said, I’ll check on who owns the car. Probably leased. I’m thinking some muckety-muck pressured the department to get his murder settled quickly because of his community standing.”

“Ha. You mean toilet standing. You’re making Tracey sound like a scapegoat. How many times do I have to say she didn’t do it?” I motioned for him to return the popcorn bowl.

He set down the bowl, placing his palms on the tabletop and leaning in. “You sound like a broken record, Hattie. If Tracey didn’t do it, she’d have to explain where she was, who she was with, what she was doing, etc. We do know she talked to Jonson.”

“Fine.” Standing, I snatched the bowl and carried it to the trash. The unpopped kernels fell into the can. When I released my foot off the lid lever, the lid snapped sharply shut. “I’ll get Mom and Dad to hire a lawyer, and we’ll find the best solution.”

He barely lifted one shoulder. “Your prerogative.”

After setting the bowl in the kitchen sink, I turned to face him. “What about any witnesses?”

“I said, so far, only one was identified. The security video—”

“Ack so.” I smacked my hand against the countertop. “You admit knowing about videos.”

“You’re killing me, Hattie,” Allan said. “Super Saver Grocery’s video. Tracey is seen standing by Jonson’s car window. She rested her hands on the door frame. Just like I told you.”

“She told me the same thing.”

Allan nodded.

“Let me think for a minute,” I said. “If Tracey’s prints are only on the outside, not the inside, how did she hit him on the right side of his head?”

Allan’s eyes bugged like he hadn’t considered the scenario. Surely, he was a better detective than me. “If you keep studying the footage longer,” I said, “you might see more, maybe someone else.”

“Like what?” He gave a squint, then drank deeply.

“Just a suggestion.”

“If you know something, you should say so.”

I laid my hands on my hips. “I. Know. Not-a-thing.”

“The video is grainy at best. You'd think Super Saver would utilize better technology.”

“Here’s what I think”—I rubbed the tip of my nose. The Sommerville police had weak evidence against Tracey, which gave me some hope—“you can’t positively ID my sister from the video.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” Allan said. “An expert is working on clarifying the footage, and we’ll be asking nearby businesses for their videos.”

“Good move.”

He stroked his chin. “We rounded up several Super Saver employees to interview, but most likely, some already left without knowing what took place. Only one reported seeing an older woman in the vicinity, which doesn’t mean Tracey was with Jonson. Super Saver’s a huge grocery store with a large parking lot. Many people are in and out all day long.”

“Okay.” I ran my finger across the tabletop. All his statements about Super Saver were true. “No one can specifically identify Tracey. And she can’t be ID’d from the video?”

I swear to God the man had mastered the policeman stance—hands on hips, a narrow look off to the distance—primarily used when frustrated.

“Not yet.”

More hope blossomed in my heart. “And you don’t have a weapon?”

“I think I’ve said enough,” Allan said.

I pointed. “Here’s what I think. If you found the weapon, you’d test it for fingerprints and find Tracey’s aren’t on it.”

“Like I said—”

“Right. Like you said.”

Each of us was lost in our respective theories, hopefully figuring out a way to help Tracey out of her mess.

I said, “I’ll get her to talk to you.”

“You do that”—Allan chugged the rest of his drink, crumpling the now-empty can with his left hand—“and I want to know as soon as possible what you find out, or better yet, convince her to come to the station and tell me. Get it?”

After dropping the can in the recycling bin, he walked over to my side, and skimmed his right index finger over my cheek, off my chin, and along the column of my throat to the valley between my breasts.

I went hot. Red, hot coal, bonfire-flaming hot.

A little mysterious smile shaped his mouth as his finger traced my lower lip.

“You looked cute all messy in the tub.”

Snorting, I did the “whatever” expression, combining it with the rolling of my eyes, but didn’t knock away his hand. Women all over the world beat themselves silly, trying to look their best for their man, and this one liked me wet and messy. The truth? If Allan and I were meant to be together, he would have to take me with all my pimples and scars. I shuffled closer.

“I liked the bubbles,” he said. “One pert little nipple peeked out.”

Golly. “Thanks for informing me.”

He slanted forward.

I had a great deal of experience with him and “leaning in.” “Leaning in” suggested a whole lot more than leaning. Like boy-slash-girl things.

His nose nearly Eskimo-kissed mine. “Glad to be of service. I could do delicious things with it. Do you taste as good as you look?”

Overcoming my embarrassment, I met his gaze. “Better.”

In one fast move, he pulled me to his chest and captured my mouth in body-numbing kisses.

“Oh God,” I moaned and traveled my lips over to the soft spot below his ear, where a faint scent of pine bloomed. A vibration began in my girl parts and moved to my chest, where it quickened into lust between my legs. His left hand inched under my shirt, tracking a course along my ribs, toward my breast when—

Buzz, buzz.

Allan stopped kissing. “Sorry.” He stuck his hand in his inside coat pocket for his phone and checked the screen. “Not me.”

I rubbed my cheek over his jaw. “Has to be. Your phone’s the personification of bad timing.”

Again, he studied his device. “Sorry. Still not me.”

“Must be mine. Whoever it is can leave a message.”

Allan took in lip action.

His mouth sluiced across mine in a sloppy, hungry mode—God, what a red-blooded male. I wanted more and nearly scaled his body to get it, too.

But my phone didn’t roll to messages. Somehow, in our grasping and grappling, we smashed the Accept button.

What I heard would never be music to anyone’s ears.

“Harriet Lee Cooks, where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Pick up. Pick up. PICK UP.”

My body altered into freeze mode. Mother. My mother. She would be the one calling right in the middle of hanky panky with Allan Wellborn.

I dropped my arms. I looked at Allan through my lashes and repeated the line he said way too many times, which I despised as much as I despised cold, canned green peas, “Gotta go.”