the arm—the right arm that now hurt again. “Don’t worry about it. The attorney will protect your rights while we let the system work.”
He waved and hopped into his jeep. I groaned. Let the system work? Sure. How many times had I read those same words in novels? Enough to know the heroine always had to climb out of hot water by solving the crime herself. So would I…if I had to.
I awoke at three Thursday afternoon to wind, rain, and the shrill ringing of the phone. I rolled over to grab the receiver, but the answering system kicked on before I reached it.
Okay, so I was avoiding the inevitable, but my eyes were gritty and, for the first time since I’d been unearthed, I didn’t feel like bouncing out of bed. Instead, I lay there remembering the morning. Was the gruesome news out? Was I, in fact, the prime suspect? I was supposed to guide a tour at nine thirty, the late shift. Did I still have a job?
The ghost tours ran rain or shine, so I didn’t think a nor’easter would cancel my gig as long as tourists showed up for it. On the bright side, the bad weather would excuse my bad hair, which I probably wouldn’t get completely dry before I had to meet a man about a murder.
On that happy thought, I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. After a quick wash, I gooped leave-in conditioner on my hair and wrapped it in a towel. Then I hurried to the dorm fridge in the kitchen where I kept my Starbloods. As I had my breakfast, I listened to messages.
One from Neil: Talked to the cops. Detective March seems to be an all right guy, but our boards may not be returned for a while. Call Maggie.
Three from Maggie: Call me. I have attorneys for you, Sam Owens and Sandy Krause. Call me. Two from Detective March: Get my butt to the sheriff’s office on U.S. 1 and Lewis Speedway before five. Not his exact words in either message, but I got the gist.
A call from work told me I needed to sign a waiver form if I wasn ’t going to make a claim on the injury to my arm. Someone from the office or an early shift guide would leave the form at the tour substation for me to pick up tonight. I tossed off the rest of my drink, washed and recycled the bottle, and had tackled drying my hair when the phone rang again.
“Cesca! Thank God! I was beginning to worry,” Maggie said when I answered.
“I’m fine, Maggie. Getting ready to go to the sheriff’s.”
“Have you called the attorneys yet? You haven’t, have you? All right, I’ll call their office and get one of them to meet you. They owe me. I’d be there, but I’m stuck in Gainesville with this new client. Don’t talk to the county cops unless at least one of the attorneys is with you. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And call me before you go to work. I want to know how the interview went.”
I promised that, too, and hurried to dry my hair a little more while keenly aware that the clock was ticking. When I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, I put my damp hair in a ponytail and dressed in my favorite comfy jeans, a three-quarter sleeve navy and tan sweater, and tennis shoes.
At four thirteen I blew through the double glass doors to the sheriff’s office along with the wind and rain, and my umbrella with now-bent spokes. A woman with curly red hair shot out of one of the chairs against the wall. Her navy suit screamed expensive, her first words branded her as no-nonsense.
“Francesca, right? Sandy Krause, of Krause and Owens.”
She held out her hand and shook mine. Didn’t even flinch when she touched me. Points for her. I didn’t know exactly what to say, but those ingrained manners kicked in. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Anything for a friend of Maggie’s.” She released my hand and addressed the woman at the reception counter. “Please tell Detective March that Ms. Marinelli and her counsel are here.”
She turned and motioned me back to the row of chairs where she picked up a black leather briefcase and a tan London Fog trench
He waved and hopped into his jeep. I groaned. Let the system work? Sure. How many times had I read those same words in novels? Enough to know the heroine always had to climb out of hot water by solving the crime herself. So would I…if I had to.
I awoke at three Thursday afternoon to wind, rain, and the shrill ringing of the phone. I rolled over to grab the receiver, but the answering system kicked on before I reached it.
Okay, so I was avoiding the inevitable, but my eyes were gritty and, for the first time since I’d been unearthed, I didn’t feel like bouncing out of bed. Instead, I lay there remembering the morning. Was the gruesome news out? Was I, in fact, the prime suspect? I was supposed to guide a tour at nine thirty, the late shift. Did I still have a job?
The ghost tours ran rain or shine, so I didn’t think a nor’easter would cancel my gig as long as tourists showed up for it. On the bright side, the bad weather would excuse my bad hair, which I probably wouldn’t get completely dry before I had to meet a man about a murder.
On that happy thought, I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. After a quick wash, I gooped leave-in conditioner on my hair and wrapped it in a towel. Then I hurried to the dorm fridge in the kitchen where I kept my Starbloods. As I had my breakfast, I listened to messages.
One from Neil: Talked to the cops. Detective March seems to be an all right guy, but our boards may not be returned for a while. Call Maggie.
Three from Maggie: Call me. I have attorneys for you, Sam Owens and Sandy Krause. Call me. Two from Detective March: Get my butt to the sheriff’s office on U.S. 1 and Lewis Speedway before five. Not his exact words in either message, but I got the gist.
A call from work told me I needed to sign a waiver form if I wasn ’t going to make a claim on the injury to my arm. Someone from the office or an early shift guide would leave the form at the tour substation for me to pick up tonight. I tossed off the rest of my drink, washed and recycled the bottle, and had tackled drying my hair when the phone rang again.
“Cesca! Thank God! I was beginning to worry,” Maggie said when I answered.
“I’m fine, Maggie. Getting ready to go to the sheriff’s.”
“Have you called the attorneys yet? You haven’t, have you? All right, I’ll call their office and get one of them to meet you. They owe me. I’d be there, but I’m stuck in Gainesville with this new client. Don’t talk to the county cops unless at least one of the attorneys is with you. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And call me before you go to work. I want to know how the interview went.”
I promised that, too, and hurried to dry my hair a little more while keenly aware that the clock was ticking. When I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, I put my damp hair in a ponytail and dressed in my favorite comfy jeans, a three-quarter sleeve navy and tan sweater, and tennis shoes.
At four thirteen I blew through the double glass doors to the sheriff’s office along with the wind and rain, and my umbrella with now-bent spokes. A woman with curly red hair shot out of one of the chairs against the wall. Her navy suit screamed expensive, her first words branded her as no-nonsense.
“Francesca, right? Sandy Krause, of Krause and Owens.”
She held out her hand and shook mine. Didn’t even flinch when she touched me. Points for her. I didn’t know exactly what to say, but those ingrained manners kicked in. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Anything for a friend of Maggie’s.” She released my hand and addressed the woman at the reception counter. “Please tell Detective March that Ms. Marinelli and her counsel are here.”
She turned and motioned me back to the row of chairs where she picked up a black leather briefcase and a tan London Fog trench
Similar Books
