Bad Medicine (45 page)

Evidently Winnie's son had already drawn the question mark on the side of the balloon, one of those long, skinny kinds clowns made dogs out of. Vic put the balloon to his mouth and began to blow. The balloon began to expand. The question mark changed configuration, and suddenly everyone began to laugh.

"Well, doesn't that about say it all?" somebody demanded.

Molly couldn't have put it better. When the balloon was blown up, the question mark turned into an exclamation point.

The End

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IF LOOKS COULD KILL

Excerpt from

If Looks Could Kill

A Suspense Novel

by

Eileen Dreyer

New York Times bestselling Author

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

Reviews & Accolades

"Generous helpings of mystery, horror and romance blend in a delectably rich treat... gripping."

~The Drood Review of Mystery

"One thriller you don't want to miss... an excellent read, once you pick up
If Looks Could Kill
, you won't be able to put it down until the very end...and maybe not even then."

~The Macon Telegraph

"...has as many layers as an onion and more than a few surprises."

~Gothic Journal

"Ms. Dreyer maintains her unique sense of humor and the macabre situations she is so good at."

~Heartland Critiques

"As in a Shakespearean tragedy or a Hitchcockian film, this book provides comic relief just when the reader's anxiety level is about to overheat."

~Affair de Coeur

"Adroitly crafted and ingeniously plotted. This one is a spellbinder."

~John Lutz, author of UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD

1992

It was Al MacNamara's first day on the job as police chief for Pyrite, Missouri, and he didn't want to screw up. It wasn't that he couldn't get another job if he did. After fourteen years pounding the streets along Chicago's Area Six, he could walk into damn near any metropolitan area he wanted and get work. He had enough commendations, not too many complaints, and only one ex-wife who still really hassled him. Forty was a year or two away and, according to his medical records, the steel plate in his head would only cause problems in airports.

But when he'd spent his medical leave poring over the ads in the law enforcement magazines, he'd ignored the name of every city big enough to be recognized. If he'd been wanting excitement and challenge he would have just stayed in Chicago. He'd spent all those hours while his eye had been bandaged closed looking for someplace just like Pyrite.

It was Monday evening, and the town was all but shut down for the night. Harry Truman High was in the basketball play-offs, which meant that except for the Pizza Hut, where the victorious champions would return to celebrate, the majority of businesses were locked and empty. Everybody was at the game.

With two square blocks of downtown, Pyrite sported the latest in video stores and the most vintage of hardware stores. It had the obligatory funeral home and used car dealership that labeled it a two-horse town, and three stop lights just to slow down the high school kids on Friday night.

Tucked into the northern folds of the Ozarks, Pyrite had once been a bustling little mining town. Now, though, it was just another struggling county seat a hundred or so miles south of St. Louis, in an area where the unemployment rate hovered in the teens. The town square boasted a Civil War monument, the Rock of Ages Baptist Church was the tallest building in town, and the city hall was housed in what had been Pyrite's only brush with supermarket convenience. After Chicago, just what Mac needed.

It was a town to walk, and that was what Mac was doing. He wasn't really used to it anymore, after the years in a black-and-white and then the detective's bureau. His senses were still too keen from surviving the projects to enjoy an easy stroll down Main Street. Last time he had walked a street he had been eyefucked by every gangbanger on the block. Tonight two little old ladies invited him to dinner, and the proprietor of the Kozy Kitchen intercepted him with a free cup of coffee. A long way from Cabrini Green.

For the first time in fifteen years, he could smell the fresh hint of spring on the damp night air. He heard a mourning dove in the tree in front of the barbershop and saw people sitting on their front porches. He was back walking a beat in uniform, and he felt pretty damn good. Not a bad way to start a new job.

He had just turned from Main onto Elm when he saw it. Or maybe he sensed it first. After this long, Mac no longer differentiated.

"Aw, shit."

A shadow, back in the alley. A faint scratching noise. A very low curse. A funny itching at the back of his neck.

No mistaking that. Out of place here in Mayberry, but much too familiar from the real world to ignore.

Mac reached for his gun. Damn, not on his first night. Not on his first goddamn day here. He didn't even realize that he was already sweating, or that his gut had automatically clenched into a hard knot. When he drew his gun though, his hand was shaking, and it made him curse again.

Carefully, he stepped across the street and back onto the sidewalk. No use taking a bad guy out in the alley. It was a lesson he'd learned a long time ago in Chicago. Attempted got a slap. Catch 'em with their sneaky little toes over the threshold, though, and you had yourself a righteous collar with at least a chance at a sentence.

Mac took one more look around to see the streets still empty except for the appliance dealer across Main who was just locking up. But just his luck, there was somebody on the other side of the door the perp was testing. There were lights on in the shop and the shudder of movement behind the desk. Taking a deep, slow breath to ease the sudden staccato of his heart rate, Mac reached out with his left hand and opened the door of the How Do I Love Thee Flower Shop.

The little lady behind the counter looked up. "Oh, I'm sorry, we're closed," she said before her parchment and peach features folded into recognition. "Oh, Chief MacNamara, how lovely."

Mac lifted a finger to his mouth to silence her as he crept in, the gun held flat against his back where it wouldn't surprise her into really giving him away.

"Ma'am—" he began, sidestepping the horseshoe of carnations that read "To our lodge brother and most devoted bison" and heading for a counter that spilled over with ribbons and cards and charitable donation boxes.

The birdlike woman barely cleared the cash register. She was patting at hair the consistency and color of cotton candy and beaming at him with a coyness that looked well practiced. "I'm Miss Eloise Elliott, Chief. Please do call me Eloise. And welcome to town. No matter what Serita Ruth Patterson says, I'm glad to have you here."

So much for discretion.

"Miss Elliott—"

She waggled a finger, even as Mac saw the lock on the back door tremble beneath the stealthy assault from the other side.

"Eloise," she admonished.

He nodded quickly, carefully bringing the gun around. "Eloise," he allowed very quietly, focusing on the job at hand instead of the shakes that threatened to take over, the liquid heat that seared his gut. "I want you to very quietly walk out the front door. I want you to do it now."