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All of a sudden, my stomach emitted a low growl, and I realized I hadn’t had dinner. I doubted Edward had either, since I gathered he’d been engaged in cardiovascular activity for some time before I’d walked in on him and his floozie.
“How about breakfast for dinner?” I asked his body. “You’ll probably need to get something into your system after waking up. Then after you finish eating, I’ll ask you to pack your bags and get the hell out of this house so I don’t have to see your lying, cheating face ever again. Pancakes and sausage sound good?”
I took his lack of a response as a yes and opened the cupboard for the frying pan, only then remembering that I’d dropped it on the floor after bopping him on the head. I turned around to go and get it. It wasn’t in the spot I thought I’d remembered it being before, instead it was a few feet closer to Edward, but then again, I’d been so worked up my memory probably wasn’t the greatest. I picked it up and put it on the stove next to the necromancy potion. The potion was coming to a good boil, so I turned down the heat and stirred it for a few minutes before placing the lid on top and setting the timer. 45 minutes should give me just enough time to fry up some apple sausage links and make plenty of pancakes for both of us.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket and clicked on a music app.
“I think tonight calls for some Taylor Swift,” I announced, turning the volume up high. Singing along to the words of one of her sassiest and most popular songs, I started the sausage sizzling and mixed up the pancake batter.
The oven timer went off just as I was flipping the last pancake out of the pan and onto the plate I’d made up for Edward. I turned off the flame and moved the pot of potion to a cool burner. Then I grabbed the butter from the frig.
“I’ll do you a favor, Edward,” I said, reaching into the utensil drawer for a knife. “I’m going to butter your flapjacks even though you were buttering another girl’s buns earlier. It’s the least I can do for killing you. Wait a minute…” my nose scrunched as I thought about this. “If you cheated on me, and then I killed you, does that mean we’re even?”
I glanced towards him. The tips of his toes looked like little white mice.
“Nah,” I answered myself, shaking my head. I reached for the syrup and drowned both our plates of pancakes and sausage with it, then took them to the dinner table and put them in our usual places.
Wiping my hands on my pants, I returned to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot with the necromancy potion. It actually smelled pretty good, kind of like chili. I turned back to the book and read the rest of the instructions, finding them a little strange, but then again it wasn’t my field of expertise. Following the directions, I went to the bathroom in search of two Q-tips, then returned to the kitchen and dipped each end into the potion. I walked over to Edward and crouched down beside him.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” I said, and then swirled one end of each Q-tip in one of his nostrils and flipped them over and swirled the other tips in his ears while reciting the words of the incantation.
I sat back on my heels and held my breath. Would this work?
All of a sudden, Edward emitted a loud burp and rolled over.
“Edward?” I asked.
He rolled back over towards me and barked. “Woof!”
“Ha-ha,” I said, “very funny. Just be glad I didn’t leave you dead, okay?”
“Woof! Woof!” he said, rising onto all fours and shaking his hiney as if it were a tail. He trotted over to me, panting excitedly, and then licked my cheek. Uh-oh.
I watched in horror as he sat back on his haunches…I mean…his knees…and sniffed the air. Then he nearly ran to the kitchen table, where he hopped onto a chair and buried his face in the pancakes, making a mess everywhere.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Could tonight possibly get any worse?
Chapter Four
Logan
I parked the police cruiser at the curb and stopped at the mailbox to pick up my daily share of junk mail on my way into the house. It was dark and quiet, as it always was when I got home from work. I pulled off my boots and left them on the porch to dry before letting myself into the house. Hitting the overhead light switch, I set the small stack of mail on the side table and removed my coat, hanging it on the wooden coat rack that had been there as long as I could remember. Maybe it had even come with the house when I bought the place.
My stomach was growling like an angry wolf, so I made my way through the living room to the kitchen. I opened the door to the refrigerator and peered inside, keeping my expectations low. When was the last time I’d made a trip to the grocery store? I’d been hitting up so many drive-throughs lately nearly every fast-food employee in town had memorized my usual order. Some real food would be good for a change. I actually enjoyed cooking when I had the time for it. Which certainly wasn’t now, given that it looked like Hideaway Hills had its first-ever serial killer. I just had to make sure it would be its last.
The fridge was as shamefully bare as I suspected and screamed of bachelorhood for that matter. I smiled wryly as I ran my eyes over the few contents: nearly every condiment on the market including five varieties of hot sauce, all of them spicy; a couple of packs of deli meat and cheese, one of them covered in mold; a half-empty gallon of store-brand whole milk; and a six-pack of IPA with two bottles remaining. I grabbed one of the bottles of beer, twisted off the cap, and took a long swig of the amber liquid. The bubbly mouthful went down fast—it was almost painfully good, like biting into a tart apple. I removed the meat and fresh brick of cheese as well as jars of mustard and mayo, and then turned to the pantry. There I found half a loaf of cheap white bread and a bag of potato chips. It would be a simple meal, but better than none at all.
I fixed myself two roast beef and cheddar sandwiches and carried the plate in one hand and the bag of chips and beer in the other into the den and took a seat on my comfy gray sectional in front of the big screen television. I’d bought the ostentatiously large thing for myself as a consolation prize after the divorce. Setting my food on the coffee table, I picked up the remote and scrolled through the channels, settling on a re-run of NCIS. I liked the show—those guys knew what they were doing as far investigative work, and I enjoyed following the trail of clues, playing a game with myself by trying to solve the mystery before all was revealed.
I finished eating and settled back into the sofa cushions to nurse my beer and watch the conclusion of the show. The episode featured Agent Gibbs surprising a suspect by showing up at his workplace unannounced. I scratched the scruff on my chin thoughtfully. Could I pay a visit to Ainsley and her good ole’ boy husband at their house tonight? Would she think I was being rude if I appeared on her doorstep out of the blue? From the perspective of a friend, probably. Did I actually consider her to be a suspect in the murders? Remembering how she’d waited at the hospital for word on Gus’s condition and the look in her eyes when the doctor communicated the sorrowful news that he was gone, my gut said absolutely not. However, she was at the scene of all three crimes, and her public persona was a bit too “everything’s-roses-and-wine” to be entirely believable. That certainly didn’t mean she was a killer though. Her being the paramedic was likely coincidental, probably as simple as resulting from the fact that we lived in a small town and don’t have many paramedics on staff at Mercy. And there are lots of people who prefer to keep their private lives just that—private—instead of airing whatever dirty laundry they’ve got in the public mosh pit of social media.
I took another swig of beer. Damnit, no matter how I spun it in my head, one thing was blatantly obvious…I couldn’t get the gorgeous redhead out of mind. That was it. I stood up, took my empty plate and bottle back into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink. Then I headed for the foyer to collect my outerwear and keys.
***
Jeez, they’d chosen just about the most out-of-the-way place to live that they could have in the general vicinity of Hideaway Hills. The Adams’ home was located at the end of a winding, heavily forested road on the edge of Shadow Lake, the shallow reservoir that bordered the town. I couldn’t even see the house from the street where I’d parked my cruiser at the dead-end before the pavement turned into brush. A row of shrubs as tall as I was sat at the edge of the property like a line of soldiers standing at attention. I followed the prickly evergreens around a corner and finally located a rusted wrought-iron gate. The latch was broken, and the gate swung open easily. I hadn’t seen a driveway or any other parked vehicles along the road when I’d pulled up; perhaps if a driveway existed, the access point was from another block or alley.
I walked through the overgrown yard to a dilapidated cabin that upon closer look had once been painted blue. I bet it had been a cute little vacation home once upon a time and had fallen into disrepair because of owner neglect. Hopefully, Ainsley and her husband were up for the work it would take to renovate the thing. I’d done my fair share of remodeling and felt pretty confident about my skills in that area now. Maybe I could offer my assistance if she needed anything?
