I caught Mr. Stratford staring at me across the sales floor, the look in his eyes wary and watchful as I worked to close down the counter for the day. Did he suspect as I did that his daughter had been murdered? And if so, why keep the fact that Shasta was his daughter a secret? Wouldn’t that help the police find out who killed her and why? Maybe she was killed in retaliation for something Mr. Stratford had or hadn’t done. Maybe her murder was some kind of warning to him. Or maybe—and this was kinda farfetched—he killed Shasta, setting it up to look like an accident.

Or the more likely scenario was that having a murdered ex-boyfriend made me see conspiracies where there was nothing more than lazy workmanship and a father distancing himself from his drugged-up screw-up of a daughter. But that wasn’t nearly as interesting to me, so I was going with “Murder for a Thousand, Alex”.

“The police want to interview you,” Daryl said, drawing me out of my conspiracy theories. He was in red because it was Wednesday. “There’s a detective waiting in my office to speak with you.”

Yeah, I didn’t do cops. Unless you counted Super Agent. Him I’d do upside down and sideways on a trapeze in the rain. “Can’t I just write down what I saw and give it to him? You know, like a report?” I hated reports, but I hated cops more. They gave me hives. I’d already starting itching like an addict coming down off a fix.

He reached up and squeezed my elbow, real concern on his face. I didn’t know he could do concern or any other kind of emotion other than avoidance. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I wish there was a way I could take your place. Do you want me to go in there with you…as support?”

I blinked down at him. This was the nicest he’d ever been to me. “Thanks. That’s really sweet of you, but I can handle this.” I glanced up at his closed office door. “I guess.”

He bowed his head, cleared his throat and gave my elbow another squeeze before letting go. “I’m always here for you,” he mumbled.

Shuffling my feet, I glanced anywhere but at him. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” Tragedy did strange things to people I guessed, like turning them into human beings.

As I headed off toward Daryl’s office, I could feel Mr. Stratford’s eyes still on me. The look on his face was almost pleading. Did he really think I’d spill my guts under pressure like some cheap 99-cent store piñata? Well, he’d see I was made of sterner stuff. And why I cared what that man thought of me was beyond me. Other than wanting to keep my job in his store I had no reason to be afraid of him. So why was I sweating through my clinical-strength antiperspirant?

I knocked on Daryl’s office door, then pushed it open without waiting for a reply. “You wanted to speak with me?”

Oh, cripes. Not another hot one. Really, whoever was doing the law-enforcement recruiting these days was better than a casting agent for a nighttime TV drama. This one was long and lean with the lazy-eyed squint of a young Elvis. His dark hair and goatee shined blue-black under the fluorescent lights. Suddenly I was sweating for a whole other reason.

“Maggie Mae Castro?” Da-yam that voice.

“That’s me. How long is this going to take?” I made a show of checking the time on my cell phone. “I’ve got plans.” I said this to remind myself. Plans = date. Date = boyfriend. Boyfriend = can’t throw myself at him like the sex-starved slut I was.

“Have a seat.” He smiled, but there was something not quite right about it and the look in his eyes that accompanied it. “I’ll try not to keep you. I’m Detective Cruz. I just have few questions about what happened today.”

He asked me for my contact info, then took me through what had happened with Shasta. It was all very conversational and inappropriately flirty. My hives hardly itched at all until he asked me who had access to the stockroom.

“Anyone in the cosmetics department. They haven’t changed the access code since I started here three years ago. Why?”

“In the past few days, did you see anyone hanging around the stockroom who shouldn’t have been?”

Honestly, I hardly paid attention to anything other than keeping my sales numbers up and how long until I was off work. “No.”

“Can you think of anything that seemed unusual or out of place to you?”

“No.” I didn’t think he’d care about all the crap I’d misplaced over the past few weeks.

“Okay, well, thank you for answering my questions. If you can think of anything else—” he handed me his business card, “—give me a call.”

“This wasn’t an accident, was it?”

He sat back in his seat and regarded me with his sexy, panty-melting bedroom eyes. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Why are you answering my question with a question?”

“Why won’t you tell me why you think this wasn’t an accident?”

“Why don’t I call you if I have any more questions?” I got up from my chair and headed for the door.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Halting midstride, I turned back to look at him. My initial attraction to him had slowly morphed into unease the more time I’d spent with him. Even if I wasn’t deliciously tangled up with Super Agent there was no way I’d go out with this guy. “I’m not seeing enough of someone.”

He laughed, but it had an odd edge to it. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not in the market for any more frustration. But thank you.” I opened the door and paused. “Oh, and thanks for answering my question.”

“What question?”

“The one about this not being an accident.”

“I never said that.”

“Actually, you did. I’ve gotten pretty fluent in verbal evasion.” And I had a big ole broad-shouldered FBI agent to thank for that. “Nice meeting you.”

Heading back to the counter to gather my things and go home, I thought about all Detective Cruz had said and not said. Shasta’s death wasn’t accidental, so who wanted her dead?