Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,36
of weakness and, to him, letting me in on what he was thinking was a little too close to actually asking for help. And asking for help . . . well, to Tyler’s way of thinking, that definitely was a weakness.
I knew I was right when he latched on to my arm and dragged me over near the back door that led into the alley where Jim parked his motorcycle. Jim was still busy cleaning up and Eve was in the middle of showing the Doc calendar to Marc, but Tyler checked over his shoulder anyway to make sure no one could hear us.
“You’ve got to help me out here, Annie. Eve is so worried about this whole thing . . .” He checked over his shoulder again and lowered his voice. “She’s making me crazy. You know how she can be. She’s taken all her worries about Alex and sort of transferred them. You know what I mean? She’s obsessed. With your wedding. And if we don’t do something fast to calm her down . . .”
I thought of the Doc calendar. I thought about Eve’s plans for Fi and Richard’s girls, and about the champagne fountain. I knew Tyler was right. Not only did we need to help Alex, but we needed to de-stress Eve. Fast. Before my own wedding was completely out of my control.
And we had a dog as a ring bearer.
Just thinking about it made me woozy, so I concentrated on the case instead. “You think the phone call is suspicious?” I asked Tyler.
“I think . . .” He ordered his thoughts. “If the person who placed that call was nothing but an innocent by-stander who just happened on the scene, that person would have stayed around. Or at least shown up at the station later. That’s what usually happens. They think about it, they know they have to do the right thing, they come clean and show up and admit they made the call.”
“But that’s not what happened in this case.”
“You got that right,” Tyler grumbled. “If Derek Harold wasn’t such a bonehead, he’d see what this means.”
“And what this means is . . .”
“Well, any idiot can see that,” he said, and then when he realized he’d just called me an idiot without actually calling me an idiot, he had the good sense to blush, but, Tyler being Tyler, not the good manners to apologize. “It means the person who placed the call is probably the person who killed Vickie Monroe. The killer wanted us to find Alex with the body.”
Hope sprang in my heart. Tyler and I were on the same page! Before I could let my relief get carried away, I stuck with the facts. “And that person wanted you to find Alex with Vickie so it would look like Alex was the killer.” Tyler and I eyed each other for a couple seconds, and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking: It was so unusual for us to agree about a case—any case—that he was wondering where to go from here. So was I, so I went for the obvious. “Is there any way you can take over the case?” I asked.
His cynical laugh was the only answer I needed. “Is there any way,” Tyler asked, “that you could talk to the husband? You know, get us some firsthand information so that I don’t have to accept what Detective Harold says? I swear, the man wouldn’t know his head from a—”
I wasn’t as worried about Detective Harold as I was about Edward Monroe. That was why I interrupted. “He’s a suspect?” I asked, then clarified. “Edward Monroe? You think he—”
Tyler’s mouth thinned. “The husband’s always a suspect. And I hear he’s got an alibi, but I’m just not buying it. The whole thing’s a little too convenient. She was stepping out on him, and she ends up dead. It’s every husband’s dream come true.”
I flinched. “That’s a cynical view of marriage.”
“It’s a fact. Most victims are murdered by people they know, and if they’re married . . .”
“Then it’s usually the spouse who did it.” I might not like what Tyler was saying, but I nodded my understanding. “Edward has an alibi?”
“Says he was at a soccer league meeting.”
“Then the people he was there with must have confirmed that.” Tyler didn’t say a thing. He didn’t have to. The police weren’t about to accept an alibi without checking it every which way and backward. I came at the