Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,72

house renovations to think about. And there’s no way I’m going to use any of the money earmarked for Bellywasher’s expenses. I won’t do that. Not to Jim. That pub means the world to him.”

“You’re right.” Eve gave in with her usual good grace. She puckered her lips, thinking. “We could sell them at the door. You know, not for a profit. Just for cost.”

I didn’t honor this suggestion with a reply. Instead, I grabbed my purse and keys, got up, and headed for the door. I would have liked nothing better than to have Eve’s company on the drive to McLean, but truth be told, I was still too mortified by my unwitting theft of Beth’s money to admit it to anyone. Once I gave the money back . . . once Beth and I laughed about the crazy situation . . . once she forgave me . . . then I might feel better about telling the story to Eve and to everybody else. For now, I’d have to settle for driving to McLean by myself.

The better to practice my apologies all the way there.

Fortunately, Eve had to get to Bellywasher’s to handle the Saturday lunchtime crowd, so giving her the slip was no problem. A half hour later, I’d parked my car (my real car, the Saturn, since I didn’t have to pretend to be a neighbor anymore and Norman was using his Jag for a personal appearance that day, anyway), and headed up the driveway toward the house.

“You’re not going to believe this!” One last time, I went over what I wanted to say, even though I’d already gone over it a dozen times before. I stopped to try it on the bear and the moose on that Welcome Friends sign near the front door. “The craziest thing happened when I was here for the wine tasting a week ago.”

Yeah, it sounded good. But that didn’t keep me from cringing. After all, if I admitted that the envelope with the cookie money inside was tucked into the cooking magazine, I’d also have to admit that I’d pilfered the cooking magazine. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was enough to make a person as honest as me shake in my shoes.

I was trembling when I rang the bell, and I’d been so worked up about the whole thing, I’d never even considered what I would do if Beth wasn’t home.

But she wasn’t.

Nobody was.

Nobody answered.

More disappointed than relieved, I turned away from the door. As painful as it would have been, I wanted to get the whole thing over with, and knowing I’d have to wait for another opportunity and spend another who-knew-how-many hours obsessing about the whole thing . . . well, it wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

I decided to try one more time.

I turned back and rang the bell again.

There was still no answer.

I doubted Beth was hiding behind a potted palm, watching the door and waiting for me to leave. For one thing, I didn’t remember seeing any potted palms in her house. For another, she couldn’t possibly have known that Tyler and I had discussed the feasibility (or not) of her being a suspect in Vickie’s murder. There was no reason for Beth to hide and not answer the door.

With that in mind, I pressed my nose to the long, skinny pane of glass to the left of the front door.

And that’s when I found out how very wrong I could be.

See, there was a very good reason for Beth not to answer the bell, and it had nothing to do with hiding because she might be a suspect.

When I looked inside, I saw all the beautiful art glass on display at the bottom of the winding staircase had been smashed to smithereens.

And Beth’s body, broken and bleeding, in the middle of it all.

TYLER IS NOT THE WARM AND FUZZY TYPE. WHICH means he wasn’t gentle about it when he braced a hand at the back of my neck and forced my head between my knees.

“Breathe,” he said. “It’s the only thing that’s going to get rid of the light-headed feeling.”

I wasn’t so sure I believed him, but it’s not like I had a lot of choice so I gave it a try. Except for the fact that my neck was killing me, after a minute or so, I did feel a little better.

At least a little better than I had since I scrambled for my phone and made a frantic call