Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,25
with a beer delivery today and Damien, one of our cooks, has been sick. Jim wanted to be here—”
“But he’s busy. Aye. I understand. And I know he’ll come by when he has a chance.” Alex shifted in his chair. “And the house? I feel so awful about the house, Annie. The redecorating, it’s my gift to you and Jim. And now . . .”
“It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t. But a thing not mattering and that same thing not being of burning interest, those are two different things. I tried not to sound too eager when I said, “I’m sure you’ve already accomplished a whole lot in the house. You probably got the living and the dining room done, and . . .” I drew out the last word, encouraging him to chime right in.
Instead, Alex laughed. I shouldn’t have been offended, seeing as how I’d intended to cheer him up with this visit. I wouldn’t have been offended if he didn’t shake his head in wonder. “You’re brazen, you know that, woman? Even here in a jail in the midst of the worst thing that’s ever happened to me—”
“I’m sorry,” I groaned. “I can’t help myself.”
“And I don’t hold it against ye. And I do appreciate all you’re doing for me. There couldn’t be any better friends in the world than you and Jim. I owe you for that, surely.”
Hope blossomed in my heart. It had nothing to do with my case, and everything to do with finding out what was happening inside the home I would soon be living in. I sat up. Smiled. Leaned forward, eager to hear more.
Alex sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not sayin’ another word. Not about the house.”
“But . . . but . . .” I was stammering and it wasn’t pretty. Then again, Alex was a relative (or soon would be) and I didn’t have to put on a front for him. I stammered some more. “You said . . . what about appreciating what I’m doing for you? And . . . and . . . visiting here . . . and—”
He interrupted me with a laugh. “Wish I could help. Can’t. I’m sworn to secrecy by Jim. And in case you haven’t heard it lately, Jim and I—”
“Like brothers. Yeah, I know.” I, too, sank back in my chair. “I could blackmail you, tell you that if you don’t let the cat out of the redecorating bag, I won’t work on your case.”
“And I could promise all the broken biscuit cake you like, as soon as I’m out of this place.”
Talk about a stalemate.
I swallowed my pride and opted for the cake. “All right,” I said. “But this isn’t about gluttony, it’s about respecting Jim’s wishes.”
“Which means you’re still my personal private eye?”
“I wish I had better news.” I went through what I knew about the case so far. It didn’t take long. I waited until the end to bring up the two things that were bothering me most. “What are the chances you were drugged?” I asked Alex.
Thinking, he cocked his head. “I can say this much for sure: I had only a couple of glasses of beer, so that surely shouldn’t have knocked me on my arse. And if I was drunk, it was a drunk like I’ve never felt before. When I woke up in that alley . . .” A shiver skittered across his broad shoulders. He twitched the memory aside and started again. “My head was poundin’, my heart was racin’. I thought it was all due to being arrested. You know, you don’t expect to open your eyes and the very first thing you see is a police officer with his gun trained on you and the second thing you see is a body, a woman, dead.” He looked away. “Yes, I could have been drugged, I suppose. But wouldn’t I have noticed something?”
“How about someone?” I’d been itching to ask. “If someone slipped something in your beer, that same someone must have been hanging around your table.”
Frustrated, he shook his head. “We were dancing. And it was crowded. Even then, you think when I came back to the table and took a drink—”
“If everything I’ve read on the Internet is true, date rape drugs are pretty much colorless and odorless. Some of them have a slightly salty taste, but you were drinking dark, heavy beer. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”