Page 68 of Poison Apple Crisp
“Great,” I say. Carlotta’s not around to pick the lock, and I’m not exactly a whiz with a bobby pin. Not that I have one to prove that theory. I give the doorknob a jiggle, and it opens right up.Huh. That’s a pleasant surprise.
“Hello?” I say as I poke my head in just in case Cokie is here primping herself before she does her best to seduce Noah again. For the love of all things holy and right, I wish she’d get back together with Martin for just that reason. But there’s not a soul in the room. Not a living one at least.
“Thirteen,” I say as I spot the glowing black cat sitting on top of a rather huge pile of books that look as if they’ve been knocked off the shelf. The lights are off, but Thirteen’s aura casts a purple hue around the room and Ginger glows like a pumpkin herself.
“Oh goodness, Lottie.” Thirteen’s cute little fuzzy head twitches to and fro. “Ginger and I were engaged in a rather heated game of cat and cutie.” He yowls over at her flirtatiously while swiping the air with his paw. “When cat-astrophe struck, and I nearly lost another life in an avalanche of books.”
Ginger lets out a few spastic barks. “Look, Lottie! Look!”
“Good grief,” I say at the pile of hardbacks and paperbacks littering the floor. “Well, it looks like a good time was had by all. But I’m afraid I’m not playing the part of the cleanup committee. I wouldn’t worry your pretty little furry heads about it. Let’s let sleeping books lie and hit the dessert table. The two of you should really try the apple crisp. It’s to die for.” I suck in a quick breath. “That sounded pretty terrible, didn’t it?”
“No, Lottie.” Thirteen jumps off the book he’s perched on. “This is pretty terrible.”
Sitting on the floor is a hardback with a deep red cover and printed across the front it readsJustice Served Cold: The Story of Desmond Meadows.
“Oh my goodness,” I say, picking it up.
Ginger floats to my side. “It’s the signed copy. Thirteen and I have already investigated this thoroughly. We make quite the team, don’t you think?” She bites the air between them.
I pull the cover back, and sure enough that sloppy signature of Desmond Meadows stares back at me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “How did I not see this here last night? I scoured that bookshelf.” I shake my head in disbelief as I quickly flip the pages, and the book splits down the middle where a series of color photographs eat up the pages. I pull it close to examine them. Desmond Meadows is handsome with a winning smile, but there is a distinct level of evil in his eyes. A woman stands next to him, long red hair, covered in tattoos from the neck down, no smile, just pure unadulterated hatred. The caption below it readsDesmond and his girlfriend Irene Collins outside of her massage parlor. The date of the picture places it exactly three years ago.
The sound of footsteps echoing in the hall begins to grow, and I slap the book shut.
“Quick, Lottie”—Thirteen twitches—“put it in your bag.”
I dunk the book into my tote bag just as the door swings open, and Cokie Hickman gasps as she flicks on the lights.
“What is going on in here?” Her eyes drift to the mess at my feet, then back to me.
“I—uh.” Shoot. I’m usually a touch more mentally prepared to meet up with the killer—or in the least a book thief. But right now, my instincts say they’re one in the same and my instincts are rarely ever wrong. “You’re a crime buff.” The words swim from my lips, so I guess we’re starting there.
“Lottie?” She shakes her head at me, confused. “What are you talking about? Rachelle said you came this way for the restroom. You clearly got lost in the dark. Now come out of there. Did you bump into my books?” That look of abject confusion never leaves her face.
“No—I mean, yes.” My heart begins to pulsate so hard, I’m afraid I might pass out. “I was looking for the restroom. Rachelle said there wouldn’t be a line, and well, I stepped into the wrong place, I guess.” I glance down to find the box of paperbacks I spotted the other night sits overturned. “I tripped over a box, and I picked one of the books up.” I don’t tell her which one. “It looks as if you’re a real crime buff.”
A nervous titter comes from her. “I find it very odd you can read in the dark, but I’m no crime buff. That box was donated to the school.”
Another set of footsteps quickens in this direction. The light clip-clop of what sounds like heels, and in an instant Detective Ivy Fairbanks is in our presence.
“Cokie Hickman?” She sheds a tight smile to the redhead in our midst before flashing her badge. “Ashford County Sheriff’s Department, Homicide Division. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you.” She does a quick double take my way. “Oh, for the love of Honey Hollow. How are you everywhere, Lottie? Would you please leave us alone? Noah is out there losing his mind, looking for you. And once you spot him, send him my way.” She glowers over at Cokie. “I might need backup.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I zoom out of the tiny office so fast I momentarily forget all about the book in my bag. I suppose that’s why Ivy has shown up at the scene. But I’d rather give the book to Noah than head back in there.
Hey?
A thought comes to me. Desmond’s girlfriend Irene is a redhead. Cokie is a redhead… Maybe Cokie is Irene?
I’ll float my theory past Noah once I hand him the book.
The gymnasium is still brimming with bodies, music is blaring through the speakers now, and for the most part, everyone seems to be having a great time.
No sign of Noah as far as I can tell, and just as I’m about to pull out my phone and shoot him a text, a body bumps into me from the side.
“Sorry,” a deep voice says, and I look over in time to see a glass of punch being lifted over my head and I just so happen to recognize the person holding it.
“Martin,” I say, looking into his friendly eyes. “Nice to see you here.” My heart is still thumping wildly from the exchange with Cokie and Ivy.