Ring Around the Rosy (2 page)

Why couldn’t she concentrate? It
wasn’t like she’d never seen a handsome man before. But there was something
about him.

His hand moved quickly over his
note pad, and she couldn’t help but watch, a habit since taking a course in
handwriting analysis.

His handwriting was neat, but with
considerable space between each line. He’s logical and orderly, neither
impulsive nor spontaneous. Good qualities for a cop. Good qualities for a man.

She had to stop this. He wasn’t
applying for the position of boyfriend. Besides, she didn’t need a man.
Especially a cop.

“Miss…Miss…” He touched her
shoulder, startling her back to awareness. “Are you all right?”

Susan’s face burned. The touch of
his hand seared into her shoulder, igniting flames deep inside her. Never had a
man’s touch caused such a reaction.

Lord, she had to get a grip.

“Uh, um, yes, I’m okay.”

“Is there anything else you can
think of? It’s obvious the caller disguised his voice. Did he give you any
other indication why he called you, other than he liked your headline?”

“I can’t think of anything. It was
so hard to understand him. His voice was harsh, almost grating. There was
something evil sounding about it, yet something familiar. I just can’t put my
finger on it. I’m not even sure it was a man.” Susan looked at the ceiling
while she spoke, not trusting herself to look into his eyes.

“I couldn’t hear him at first, and
even when he repeated himself, his voice was so muffled.” She pulled the clip
out of her hair, shook her head and gathered her hair back into the clip. “Oh,
and he said something about strawberries. That’s why I called you.”

“Strawberries. That’s
interesting.” Detective Morgan pulled something from his pocket “Do you
recognize this?” He held an evidence bag in front of her.

Recognize it? Of course she
recognized it. It had her name on it. “That’s my I.D. bracelet. Where did you
get it?” Susan reached for it. “I was going to have it fixed. The clasp is
broke.”

He pulled it away, nodded, and put
the bag back in his pocket. “It was at the crime scene. Maybe you can explain
how it got there.”

“I, uh, um... It was in my pocket.
I must have dropped it. The crime scene tape wasn’t up yet, and I got pretty
close to the body before anyone stopped me. You can’t possibly think I’m
responsible for this...this heinous crime.” Suddenly, the room spun. Cold
engulfed her. She grabbed onto the counter. He considered her a suspect.
 
Like she was even capable of committing that
crime. .

“Besides, the killer called here.
How could I do that?” She pulled herself together and stomped her foot. How
dare he accuse her? She wanted to reach out and slap that suspicious look off
his face.

Suddenly her hand came up and made
contact with his face as if it had a mind of its own. Horrified, she pulled it
back. Oh God, she just hit a cop. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She
wanted to reach up and wipe the slap away, caress his cheek.

“I could arrest you for that, you
know.”

“I really am sorry. I’ve never
slapped anyone in my life, even when they deserved it.”

“So you think I deserved it?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Shoot, she
didn’t know what she meant. “Look, I’m sorry, honest. I don’t know what came
over me. This whole thing has me crazy.”

Detective Morgan nodded. “Anything
else you remember, you give me a call.” He ignored her apology and wrote
something in his notebook. “Oh, and if he contacts you again, I want to know
about it immediately. Understand?” He handed her his card.

“That’s my cell phone on the back.
If you can’t reach me any other way, you call that.” He turned and left.

Her stomach tightened. Susan
slammed the door behind him and locked it. What had come over her, slapping him
like that? Violence wasn’t in her nature. Neither was losing control.

Nausea filled her throat, maybe
from the phone call, the effect of the detective, his attitude, or the thought
she was a suspect. Maybe it was a combination of all four. Whatever it was, she
didn’t like this feeling.

Put him out of your mind, she
thought.
 
She’d probably never see him
again.

Besides, he was probably married.
What did she care, anyway? She wasn’t interested in him or any man. She had a
career to think about. A man in her life would only complicate things. Men
created problems. She had enough of those already.

Bella curled around her legs.
Susan picked up the purring cat, cradling her for a minute before setting her
down and turning on the police scanner. Hopefully, she hadn’t missed any
newsworthy stories. It squawked in the background while she straightened up her
apartment.

The phone rang a few more times
with congratulatory calls on the story from her mother and sisters.

“What if the killer comes after
you?” her mother asked.

Even though her mother sounded
proud, her voice held a note of concern. After almost an hour spent reassuring
her mother that killers didn’t come after reporters, Susan hung up. No point
telling her mother about the early-morning caller. Why upset her further?
Knowing her mother, there’d be no calming her down.

Besides, it probably was just a
crank call; reporters got them all the time.

She had to do something, had to
get out of her apartment, and forget that phone call.

That voice.

She grabbed her purse and keys and
locked the door behind her.

* * *

Dave sat in his car and took stock
of Susan Weston.

Good-looking. Pretty in a masculine
sort of way, probably because of her height. He liked the way she wore her long
dark hair pulled back in a clip. Casual, but neat. Right off, he could tell she
was independent. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, not hunched over the
way many tall girls seemed to do. Self-assured.
 

Something told him she didn’t take
crap from anybody. She couldn’t — not with the kind of job she had. He’d
learned from the reporters he knew it was a dog-eat-dog world. Yet, something
about her screamed femininity. She looked soft and cuddly all at the same
time.
 

What was Susan’s role in all this?
And what made the killer seek her out, call her? If, in fact, it was the
killer. More likely just a crank call, but he had to follow every lead. Still,
the caller said something about strawberries.
 
No one but the killer knew that. Too bad Susan couldn’t understand
everything the caller said.

Damn it, they had 48 hours before
the case ran cold.

And damn, if it didn’t look like
Susan was flirting with him with the sexy way she shook her hair out. So
casual, yet so alluring. Like she didn’t even know she was doing it. What a
beauty when she let it loose. Too bad she gathered it back up. And those dark
eyes, they had to be the darkest brown he’d ever seen. Sure was distracting.

Damn it, he couldn’t let a witness
get to him like this. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Those daggers she threw at him
hurt almost as much as the slap. Dave put his hand to his cheek. He had to
admit, she packed quite a wallop. He chuckled. Pretty and a temper, too. Why
didn’t that surprise him?

He never had a witness slap him
before.

Hell, maybe he even deserved it,
taunting her like that. He hadn’t really considered her a suspect, but it was
part of the job. He had to check all avenues. What he would’ve liked was to ask
her out. Damned if he knew why. Something about the way she looked after she
slapped him. Contrite? Scared? Maybe. Satisfied, too. She had spunk. He’d give
her that. He had to quit this. He didn’t have time for such nonsense.

Take her out. What was he
thinking? It was against his policy to become involved with a witness. Even if
it wasn’t, he didn’t want or need a relationship. But something about her…

He shrugged. For a minute, he
thought about giving her back the bracelet, but decided against it. She had an
attitude. Let her stew for a while. He still couldn’t believe she had the guts
to slap him.

Chapter Two

Susan’s mouth watered the minute
she pushed open the door of Meliti’s Market. She loved this place. Loved the
yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread and the sweet, fruity scent of pastry and
pies mixed with the aroma of garlic, onions, pepperoni, and spicy tomato sauce.
An Italian restaurant couldn’t smell any better.

She turned down the volume on the
transistor police radio attached to her belt. Her dates hated it. Few asked for
a second date. Not that she cared. If they couldn’t understand the importance
of hearing about a breaking story and arriving first on the scene, then she
didn’t need them.

Besides, it was hard enough to
break into this business without the complication of building a relationship,
too. She was tired of “Fluff pieces.” While writing about ground breakings paid
her bills, it wasn’t the type of work she dreamed about. She hated
appointments. She wanted the spontaneity, adventure, and excitement of real
journalism. She wanted a real assignment.

Chasing fire trucks and police
cars was the blood and guts of reporting. The crime scene investigation, like
last night — that’s what quickened her pulse, made the adrenaline flow. That’s
what made her feel alive. Ernie, her editor, even said he loved her story. But
if one of the other reporters had gotten theirs in on time with even half as
many details, hers never would have made the paper, no matter how good.

Bringing her mind back to grocery
shopping, Susan pulled out her list.

At the bakery section, old Mrs.
Meliti chatted with her for a few minutes. The sweet, portly, gray-haired old
woman, everyone referred to as a little pudge, spoke with a loud, grating voice
that carried throughout the store. The woman had a penchant for gossip and
one-sided conversation. Never listened to anyone. Talked to hear herself talk.
Usually, Susan avoided her, but today, she had a little time and wanted to
forget the phone call. Who better to take her mind off it than Mrs. Meliti?

“Wasn’t it horrible about that
nice man, Mr. Lucas?” Mrs. Meliti tsk-tsked. “He come in here every day. He
only just lives around the corner. Such a nice man, always with a kind word,
never too busy to talk. I save him cannoli, his favorite. He say I remind him
of his grandmamma, even though I’m not old enough.” Mrs. Meliti wiped her eye
with the corner of her apron. “You remember him, no?”

Susan remembered him, all right,
but right now it wasn’t a pleasant memory. Not the way she’d seen him last
night. She nodded. Mrs. Meliti didn’t expect a response, anyway. Susan looked
around while she pretended to listen. She loved this store. Like many others in
the area, it was a family-owned business. Angelo Meliti ran things. His wife
and old Mrs. Meliti did all the baking. Amanda, Angelo’s daughter, stood at the
register looking bored, and Tony, Angelo’s son, a good-looking guy with wavy
black hair and an infectious smile, looked busy behind the meat counter. Female
customers nicknamed Tony ‘Mr. Personality.’ Susan watched him flirt shamelessly
with a customer.

“Our Anthony will be going off to
college soon.” Mrs. Meliti changed the subject. “Eh, lookit him, that boy — so
handsome. He gonna break lots of hearts some day. Heh, he probably already has.
But he’s a good boy. He’ll make a fine husband when the time come.”

Susan couldn’t help but smile at
the pride in the old woman’s voice. She nodded her way through the
conversation, and at the first opportunity, excused herself to finish shopping.
Mrs. Meliti would talk all day if you let her. Susan could only handle so much.

* * *

“Hey, Horace.” Susan waved at the
building’s maintenance man on the way into her apartment. How that man ever got
any work done sure was a mystery. He always seemed nearby when she came in, as
if he guarded the place.

“Hey, Susan, great story in this
morning’s paper.”

“Thanks, Horace. How are you?”
Usually, she liked talking to Horace. He reminded her of her grandfather,
although Horace looked nothing like him. Horace, a thin, almost frail-looking
man with a bald head, was the total opposite of her stocky grandfather, who
still had a full head of silver hair. Maybe it was his quiet voice and
easygoing manner. But sometimes he rambled on about this tenant or that one,
and she’d had enough gossip for one day.

“I’m okay, on my way to fix the
sink in Mrs. Anderson’s kitchen. I don’t know what that woman does, but it
seems I fix it at least once a week. You take care.” Horace picked up his
toolbox and hurried down the hall,

Of course, it was Mrs. Anderson,
and if truth be known, they were sweet on each other. Mrs. Anderson used her
leaky faucet and other things to lure Horace to her apartment. Susan shook her
head and giggled. Those two were worse than teenagers. Why didn’t they just get
together already? At their ages they sure wasted a lot of time. Oh, well. To
each his own.