Death Before Decaf (20 page)

He rubbed my back with long, gentle strokes. “Don't worry. This will all be over before you know it. You'll see.”

I heaved a shuddering breath. “Sorry. I'm a complete mess. There's just so much going on. I feel overwhelmed and not in control. To top it off, Dave's funeral is tomorrow morning.”

“Would you like me to take you?”

I popped my head up, confused by his question. “What, like a date? Because it's weird that you would ask that.”

Stepping back, he gave me a mock wounded look. “I was just trying to be a gentleman.”

“There is nothing gentlemanly about you.”

“Let me prove you wrong.”

“I think I can handle it on my own, thanks.”

“Your loss. About tonight, I don't think you should go back to your apartment until these guys are brought in.”

“Let me guess. You're going to be a ‘gentleman' and offer to let me to stay at your place.”

He nodded uncertainly. “Yeah, that was my plan. What's wrong with that?”

“Really? Bringing a girl who's an emotional wreck into your lair? That's ten kinds of wrong, and you know it.”

He looked wounded for real now. “I was going to sleep on the couch.”

“Right. Because you're such a gentleman.”

“Damn straight.”

I rolled my eyes. “Spare me.”

“Let's put it this way—you don't have a choice.”

“Is that so?”

Ryder's eyes sparkled. “I have handcuffs, and I'm not afraid to use them.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Juliet, be reasonable. Johnny Brewer was lurking around outside your apartment last night with a knife. Either he or Rob Carmichael shot at you today. And I'm betting that it was one of them who called and told you that he wouldn't miss next time. Do the math.”

“Fine, whatever. I give up. I can't have a conversation with you if you're going to throw facts in my face.”

He grinned at me. “I thought you'd see it my way. Now can you get me a Reuben sandwich, waitress? I'm starving.”

“Aaaaand…I hate you again.”

Ryder ate his dinner and left without causing any more commotion, mainly because I stayed behind the counter, and thankfully because Pete didn't come out from wherever he was sulking. The rest of the evening was largely uneventful. That all changed at closing time.

Ryder came back to pick me up, unwisely deciding that he needed to come in and lounge on the couch while I was finishing up for the evening. Pete finally came out from the office, took one look at Ryder, and accosted him.

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” Pete said firmly, straightening up to his full height.

I didn't like the expression on Ryder's face. It was smug. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. For one thing, we're closed, and for another thing, you're no longer welcome here.”

Feigning ignorance, Ryder said, “I'm no longer welcome here? Why?”

I wasn't sure whether I should jump in or not. Once he was mad, Pete could hold his own in an argument, as I had experienced this afternoon. If it came to blows, Ryder could wipe the floor with Pete…but I was pretty sure he wouldn't do it in front of me. I also couldn't decide whose side I was on, since I didn't have a lot of use for either one of them today. Call it morbid curiosity, but I thought I'd let it play out.

“Because you're trouble, and I don't want trouble in my place. You nearly got my manager killed this morning, and I don't want you around her anymore.”

Ryder glanced over at me and gave me one of his sexy smiles. “Your manager is a beautiful, intelligent, grown woman who can make her own choices. She happens to choose me tonight. Sorry, buddy.”

Oh, no, he didn't. I could see a vein in Pete's forehead pop out from across the room. Pete growled, “I think after today it's pretty safe to say that you're no mild-mannered professor. I don't know what you're playing at, but if you don't get the hell out of here, I'm going to spill your secret to anyone who will listen.”

Ryder stood up then, fists clenched at his sides. He had a couple of inches on Pete, so he was just able to look down at him and be menacing. Testosterone. Yay. “That would be a big mistake.”

This nonsense needed to end. Now. Hurrying toward them, I called, “It's time to go,” and snagged Ryder by the arm. I could feel Pete glaring at us all the way out the door. I didn't like fighting with Pete. It was the worst feeling in the world—even worse than being shot at. It was breaking my heart.

Ryder lived just west of downtown, in an older neighborhood with nicely kept up small homes. His tough guy, lone wolf persona didn't really seem to fit the demographic of the area, which seemed to be families and older couples. I was sure that was just one of the many things that would remain a mystery about him.

He led me inside. It was sparsely furnished, like most single men's homes. It smelled freshly cleaned, but I had a hard time picturing Ryder scrubbing a toilet or mopping a floor.

“Nice place,” I commented.

“Thanks.”

“I smell bleach. Did you come home and clean after you invited me over, or did you kill someone and have to destroy the evidence?”

Ryder laughed. “The first one. I'm not nearly as cold-blooded as you think. Have a seat. I'll get you a beer.”

I plopped down on his puffy leather couch, sinking into the cushions. I hadn't got to curl up on a real couch since I had moved down here. It was time I got some furniture.

He returned and handed me a bottle. I warned, “I might not be able to get back up off this couch. It's comfy.”

“Just relax, then. You look like you could use it.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly.

He sat down next to me and draped his arm over the back of my seat. “Sorry. You've got to be tired. Do you really work over fifteen hours every day? I mean, you're there the entire time Java Jive is open. How do you do it?”

“I take breaks. It does wonders for your mental health to step away from the job and do something totally different for a while. Like chasing down impostors and murderers and getting shot at, for example. Activities like that really get your mind off the monotony of your work.”

He smiled. “I'm glad you're joking about it now instead of taking it out on my poor ear.” He rubbed his ear where I had yanked it earlier. “It still hurts.”

“Suck it up, you big baby,” I said, swatting him playfully.

Catching my hand, he held on to it. “Speaking of big babies, what crawled up your friend Pete's ass? He's usually one of those nice guys, but today he seemed to have some anger issues.”

“Well, for one thing, he was pretty much as pissed as I was that you left me at Ron's house.”

Frowning, he stared at our entwined fingers. “You really shouldn't have told him what we did this morning. I'm still undercover, you know.”

“He had to pick me up at the police station, and I was covered in blood. What was I supposed to tell him?”

He shrugged. “I see your point. How much does he know?”

I sighed. “Pretty much everything.”

“Juliet, come on. I told you a lot of stuff in confidence.”

“Pete's cool. Even though he's mad at us, he's not going to blow your cover.”

“He said he would.”

“Trust me, he won't. He's just angry.”

“You got over it, mostly. Why can't he?”

I winced. “Well, that wasn't the bulk of what he was mad about. He knows we slept together.”

Ryder laid his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “Sweetheart, you can't keep a secret for shit.”

“Hey!” I cried, jerking my hand away and slapping him on the arm. “It wasn't me!
You
couldn't be bothered to throw your condom wrapper in the proper receptacle, and Pete found it on my floor.”

His jaw clenched. “So he was in your bedroom?”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “Get over yourself.”

“I'm a guy. I'm territorial.”

“Here's a tip. The ladies don't always like that. Sometimes
muy macho
comes off as
muy estúpido
.”

“Are you sure? Because most of the women I've dated—”

“Did any of them know your last name?” I snipped.

Narrowing his eyes at me, he said testily, “Yes, but—”

“So why can't I?”

“It's complicated.”

“No shit.” I stood up. “I'm ready to go to sleep now.”

He regarded me for a moment, then said, “My bedroom is down the hall. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.”

Ryder's bedroom was much like the rest of the house—plain and mannish. He did, however, have a fluffy comforter that I couldn't wait to snuggle under. But before I did, I had a little job to do. I was going to find out his last name. My thought was, if he had a landline, I'd use it to call my cell, get his number off the caller ID, and then turn around and reverse lookup the phone number. It was a genius plan, except when I looked around his room, there was no phone. Either he didn't have a landline, or he didn't have a handset in his bedroom. Bummer.

However, I had taken note of his address when we got to his house. Davidson County had this cool government website where you could look up property information on any building in the county. Property values and sales were public record, and along with that information came the full name of the owner. I quickly typed his address into their search bar and got a hit. As long as he wasn't renting from someone else, I had him.

Score! This house belonged to one Ryder Patrick Hamilton. Ha! He'd at least told me the truth about his first name. I was about to Google him when there was a knock at the door. I threw my phone down guiltily.

Ryder stuck his head in. “Do you need something to sleep in? Or do you always sleep naked?”

Blushing, I said, “Something to sleep in would be great.”

His mouth curved up at the corner as he crossed the room. He pulled a T-shirt out of a drawer and tossed it to me. “Sweet dreams.” He disappeared out the door.

Diving back onto my phone, I quickly searched for “Ryder Hamilton, Nashville.” I came up with nothing, again! No social media, no phone listings, nada. He wasn't lying when he said he didn't have any social media profiles. Who does that? Everyone has some kind of electronic footprint. That is, unless he purposely scrubbed himself from the whole of the Internet. He obviously didn't want to be found. But why? I didn't have a clue, and I was betting he wasn't about to tell me.

Dejected, I got ready for bed and crawled under Ryder's heavenly comforter. Unfortunately, my mind was still swirling, rehashing everything that had happened today. I tried and tried, but I couldn't sleep. After an hour or more of tossing and turning, I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Ryder was up, typing something into his laptop. Something top secret, of course, because when he saw me, he slammed the lid down quickly.

“Can't sleep?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” I said, draining my glass.

“Come and hang with me, then. Unless you're still busy sulking.”

I hesitated, since I was only wearing his T-shirt. I didn't trust him to keep his hands to himself.

He must have read my mind. “I'm not going to grope you.” Relenting, I went over to sit next to him on the couch. He put his arm around me and lowered his voice. “Although, when I can't sleep, I find it helpful to—”

“Nice try, but I'm not in the mood. And I thought you said you weren't going to grope me.”

“I'm not. I'm only letting you know that my services are available.”

“I'll keep it in mind, Mr. Hamilton.” I couldn't contain my glee any longer about finding out his last name.

His mouth dropped open. “What? How?”

I smiled. “You don't need to know all of my secrets.”

Pulling away from me, he said, “This is serious. You can't tell
anyone
.”

“Why? Are you a wanted man or something?” Watching him squirm was fun.

“How did you find out? Tell me.”

“I told you I was a good sleuth, but you dissed my skills.”

“Juliet…” he growled.

“All right, all right. Don't get your panties in a bunch. I looked up your address on the county property assessor's website.”

He blew out a pent-up breath. “You're nosy, you know that?”

Throwing my hands in the air, I said, “If you would tell me stuff, I wouldn't have to be.”

Smiling again, he put his arm back around me and pulled me close. “Now that you know my last name, I don't feel as mysterious anymore.”

“And I don't feel as slutty.”

He chuckled. “You're far from it. But what I don't get is that most women, once you sleep with them, start shopping for a wedding dress. I don't get that impression from you.”

“It wasn't long ago that I had a relationship end very badly. Worse than I could have imagined. I had my wedding dress picked out. Big mistake.”

“Was it the guy who stole everything from you?”

“Yep.”

“What happened?”

“Hell if I know. I met Scott a few years ago. I should have known immediately that he was a dickhead, right?” I made a face. “Scott.”

“Every guy I know named Scott is a dickhead.”

“Same here. He was a sales rep for a food-service supplier, and the bakery where I used to work was one of his customers. That's how we got to know each other, because I was the manager there and had to deal with him to purchase our food and supplies. We started dating, and I told him how I wanted to open my own place. He said that was something he had always wanted to do, too, so we started making plans. Two years ago, we opened up a café together. It was mostly mine, though, because I had put up most of the money.”

“That wasn't a red flag right there? That you took all the risk?”

I shook my head ruefully. “The day we opened, he put a ring on my finger.”

“Slick.”

“Very. We moved in together, and everything was so perfect. I never saw it coming. One day, he faked being sick and stayed home from work. What he was really doing was cleaning out our apartment and the café's bank account. At the end of the day, my best waitress quit, and I went home to an empty apartment. I found out later that she left with him. It was going on right under my nose, and I didn't have a clue.” I sighed, hanging my head. “I can't believe how stupid I was.”

He gently took hold of my chin and turned my face toward his. “You're not stupid. You trusted someone you loved. That's what you're supposed to do.”

“I'm not convinced I loved him all that much. I loved my café. Sure, the rejection hurt, but what really knocked me for a loop was having to close the restaurant. It was like losing a part of myself. I was kind of hoping to redeem myself with Java Jive, but it's going to hell in a handbasket.”

“You're a fighter. If anyone can get it turned around, you can.”

“I'd have a lot more time to spend on the coffeehouse if people would quit trying to murder people on my watch.”

“Yes, you would.” He leaned toward me and kissed me.

It was a sweet kiss, not too short, not too long. I asked, “So do I get to know some of your backstory now? You're thirty-four and single. There must be something wrong with you.”

He smiled. “I was married. A long, long time ago.” I didn't expect to hear that.

“You don't seem like the marrying type. What happened?”

“My wife was murdered.”

I gasped, feeling terrible for making jokes before. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked—”

“It's fine. It was years ago. I turned obsessing about her killer into a profession.”

“That's why you're a PI?”

He sighed, muttering, “Yeah.”

“Did you ever solve the case?”

Shaking his head, he said, “No. Never did.” Wow. Ryder was even more screwed up than I was. Maybe we
were
perfect for each other. He changed the subject abruptly. “Want to watch a movie?”

Relieved that our melancholy conversation was over, I wrinkled my nose and said, “With Seth Davis, film studies professor extraordinaire? I don't know. I don't want to have to watch some artsy-fartsy film and discuss the underlying subtext or some shit like that.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the marathon of shark-themed movies on the Syfy channel.”

“Now you're talking.”

We snuggled together on the couch, laughing at inappropriate times and cheering for the sharks until we fell asleep.

Ryder nudged me and said, “It's morning, sunshine. Don't you have a funeral to go to?”

I kept my eyes closed, not about to give up my cozy spot next to him. “Nope. Dave's funeral isn't until noon.”

“So what you're saying is that you have a little free time?”

I opened my eyes and looked at his hopeful face. “A little.” As he nuzzled his way from my collarbone to my earlobe, I amended my previous statement. “Okay, a lot.”

A couple of hours later, we were on our way to my apartment so I could get ready for Dave's funeral. I wasn't looking forward to it, but it was something that I needed to do. Java Jive was closed today, but Pete was hosting a meal there after the funeral (a “repast,” as it was referred to here in the South). He had the staff coming in to work a little overtime today. As soon as the funeral was finished, we all were to hightail it over to the coffeehouse and start setting out food.

“Hey,” Ryder said as he parked the car. “Since you won't let me take you to the funeral and hold your hand, I'll be there watching at a safe distance.”

“That sounds even creepier than asking me on a date to a funeral in the first place.”

He snapped, “Would you be serious, please?” I gave him a mock serious look. “Carmichael and Brewer are dangerous, and they're still out there. Since they were fellow inmates of Dave's, they might try to come to the funeral.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Not if they killed him. That would be awkward.”

“You're still not being serious.”

“Sorry.”

“If anything feels off to you, come to me immediately.”

“Will do. But don't you have better things to do than spy on a funeral?”