could hear the whine in my voice. Appalled, I clamped my lips over my teeth and simply glared. Or tried to. I had the awful feeling I probably looked more like a kicked puppy.
Chief Talbot muttered something under his breath that sounded like a four-letter word beginning with S. He heaved a sigh and glowered at me. “Let’s suppose,” he said, “that you’re right. If Martin Kellerman was murdered, then there’s a killer out there. The killer is not going to be pleased about anyone asking questions. Particularly someone who’s actually getting answers.”
I hung my head, staring down at the Hitler mustache, now all alone on the top shelf of the display case.
“I get paid to ask questions,” the C hief pressed on. “It’s my job. It’s the job of my detectives. They’re trained for it. They may not get paid big bucks, but they knew what they were doing when they signed on to risk their necks.”
And Gywn Halliday didn’t. So here it came, the final nail in the coffin.
“You, however,” he intoned, “are in the costume business. You are not trained. You are not paid to snoop. I have enough problems at the moment without worrying about some costume designer who thinks she’s Sherlock Holmes. Find another hobby, Miss Halliday. Your sleuthing days are over.”
He stopped abruptly, his cop face twitching into something that looked remarkably like guilt. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sometimes I get up on my high horse and just can’t get off. Guess this is a bad time to ask you out to dinner?”
“Right.” My stubborn chin angled up, but at the same time I heard the lock on the Talbot niche snick open again. My sub-conscious was playing hell with my best intentions.
Cop face back in place, the C hief nodded. “Until next time.” Then Boone Talbot was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.
My pheromones screamed, Call him back. Ask when and where .
Instead, I slumped on my stool and made a litany of calling myself a stupid idiot. I’d broken out of the designer box in New York and look what happened. Now I’d done it again and . . . Boone was right. I’d already suffered the destruction of my dreams. Of trust. Of love. I knew the ultimate terror of risking my life. So why, why, why would I plunge back into a pit I’d fled to Florida to escape?
I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t. I’d stick to costume design, and, well . . ., I couldn’t forget Letty. Helping a friend was neither nosy nor dangerous. No chickening out of Tea at four. I tucked Martin Kellerman into a niche beside Boone Talbot and shot the bolt on both of them. The trouble with that was, the dead bolt knobs were on my side, in easy reach.
I groaned and went to work. Just two costumes going out today. A classic Mrs. Santa with a full-cut red corduroy dress, big white apron, and stylish mob cap with narrow red ribbon trim. And a Christmas Elf, all in green. Dagged tunic, tights, a matching feather in his suede cap (which also doubled for one of Robin Hood’s Merrie Men), and crinkly green vinyl shoes with turned-up toes.
In twenty minutes I was done, the costumes ready for pick-up. I glanced at my watch. Five hours until tea with Miss Letty.
Crystal came in at one, wearing a caftan I’d never seen before. I suspected she might have whipped it up for today’s visit. The shell pink flowers, scattered haphazardly over a hot pink background, looked suspiciously shiny. She confirmed my suspicions by continually fluffing the dress in the air. “Can’t sit down ’til the paint dries,” she explained.
Bless her, and she’d even coordinated her colors to mine. Talk about best friends.
“So how are we going to do this?” I asked. “Miss Letty blew you off when you asked if anything was wrong. Any suggestions for a new approach?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ve looked in my ball a dozen times, and all I see is shadows. Creepy swirling mists, same as her aura. Spooky.”
Crystal was beginning to spook me too. When she first
Chief Talbot muttered something under his breath that sounded like a four-letter word beginning with S. He heaved a sigh and glowered at me. “Let’s suppose,” he said, “that you’re right. If Martin Kellerman was murdered, then there’s a killer out there. The killer is not going to be pleased about anyone asking questions. Particularly someone who’s actually getting answers.”
I hung my head, staring down at the Hitler mustache, now all alone on the top shelf of the display case.
“I get paid to ask questions,” the C hief pressed on. “It’s my job. It’s the job of my detectives. They’re trained for it. They may not get paid big bucks, but they knew what they were doing when they signed on to risk their necks.”
And Gywn Halliday didn’t. So here it came, the final nail in the coffin.
“You, however,” he intoned, “are in the costume business. You are not trained. You are not paid to snoop. I have enough problems at the moment without worrying about some costume designer who thinks she’s Sherlock Holmes. Find another hobby, Miss Halliday. Your sleuthing days are over.”
He stopped abruptly, his cop face twitching into something that looked remarkably like guilt. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sometimes I get up on my high horse and just can’t get off. Guess this is a bad time to ask you out to dinner?”
“Right.” My stubborn chin angled up, but at the same time I heard the lock on the Talbot niche snick open again. My sub-conscious was playing hell with my best intentions.
Cop face back in place, the C hief nodded. “Until next time.” Then Boone Talbot was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.
My pheromones screamed, Call him back. Ask when and where .
Instead, I slumped on my stool and made a litany of calling myself a stupid idiot. I’d broken out of the designer box in New York and look what happened. Now I’d done it again and . . . Boone was right. I’d already suffered the destruction of my dreams. Of trust. Of love. I knew the ultimate terror of risking my life. So why, why, why would I plunge back into a pit I’d fled to Florida to escape?
I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t. I’d stick to costume design, and, well . . ., I couldn’t forget Letty. Helping a friend was neither nosy nor dangerous. No chickening out of Tea at four. I tucked Martin Kellerman into a niche beside Boone Talbot and shot the bolt on both of them. The trouble with that was, the dead bolt knobs were on my side, in easy reach.
I groaned and went to work. Just two costumes going out today. A classic Mrs. Santa with a full-cut red corduroy dress, big white apron, and stylish mob cap with narrow red ribbon trim. And a Christmas Elf, all in green. Dagged tunic, tights, a matching feather in his suede cap (which also doubled for one of Robin Hood’s Merrie Men), and crinkly green vinyl shoes with turned-up toes.
In twenty minutes I was done, the costumes ready for pick-up. I glanced at my watch. Five hours until tea with Miss Letty.
Crystal came in at one, wearing a caftan I’d never seen before. I suspected she might have whipped it up for today’s visit. The shell pink flowers, scattered haphazardly over a hot pink background, looked suspiciously shiny. She confirmed my suspicions by continually fluffing the dress in the air. “Can’t sit down ’til the paint dries,” she explained.
Bless her, and she’d even coordinated her colors to mine. Talk about best friends.
“So how are we going to do this?” I asked. “Miss Letty blew you off when you asked if anything was wrong. Any suggestions for a new approach?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ve looked in my ball a dozen times, and all I see is shadows. Creepy swirling mists, same as her aura. Spooky.”
Crystal was beginning to spook me too. When she first
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