Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,27

as Clay. But whether the killer was Clay or one of his women, based on what Johnny Jay told me about the tip he’d received, someone was trying to pin this on me!

By the time the sun rose, I was cranky from lack of sleep and ready for hand-to-hand combat with Clay.

But my number one priority every morning, the very first thing I did even before coffee, was go check on my bees. I did a quick buzz past my honeybees. They were happy and busy.

Then I banged on Clay’s door until I noticed that his car was missing from the drive. I never was at my sharpest when operating on zero sleep. Clay wasn’t exactly an early riser, so my guess was he had stayed someplace else last night. Was there another woman already? That would be rotten, even for that scum.

I was so crabby at the moment, I couldn’t stand myself.

Annoyed that Clay wasn’t home but knowing he never locked his door, I let myself in. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but figured I’d know it when I saw it.

One thing I will say for the man, Clay kept his lair clean and tidy. Sexy feet and neatness were two attributes I had admired in him once upon a time. But now I’d take a sloppy, loyal man over one like my ex any day of the week.

Clay lived in several rooms in the back of his jewelry shop. The space wasn’t large—small bedroom and living room, and a very tiny kitchen—so I was through it in less than a few minutes, ignoring the array of sex toys in the nightstand and girly magazines stacked in the closet and next to the toilet. The man needed therapy. Sex addiction is a major relationship buster, as he should have figured out by now.

His wire-making jewelry workshop would take longer to search. There were a zillion hiding places. His workbench looked like a carpenter’s table—pliers, file hammers, vises, torches, wire cutters—and the shelves above the bench were stacked with containers filled with supplies he needed to create his art: wires in copper, silver, yellow brass, gold, beads, gems. Half-finished projects took up another major section.

Then there was the showroom where he displayed his pieces, some of which, and I really hated to admit this, were fabulous.

I had hardly started rummaging through the workshop when I saw his car pull into the driveway. Clay got out and headed for the door. I didn’t have the energy to panic or to hide. Instead, I met him in his living room.

“What are you doing here?” He said, surprised to find me on his sofa. Clay looked like he’d had a bad night, too. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. He moved past me like a sleepwalker and sank into the sofa next to me without waiting for a response. “This is hell,” he said.

“At last we agree on something.” I was on guard, ready for anything, convinced that I could take him, what with all that rage I’d worked up through the night. But seeing Clay like this, all messed up and miserable, reminded me of his nonviolent, albeit totally selfish, nature. He just wanted to be loved. And loved. And loved.

“Did you kill Faye?” I blurted.

Clay bent forward and buried his hands in his face, ignoring me. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said, or at least I think that’s what I heard. The sound was muffled.

“I’m sorry for her and for her family. And for you,” I said. “But did you know the police chief pulled me in last night and all but accused me of killing her?”

Clay uncovered his face and focused on me for the first time. “I didn’t see you down there. They kept me all night. Police Chief Jay thinks I killed her.”

“I thought Johnny Jay had me in his scope.”

“He does,” Clay said. “He thinks we’re in it together.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said. “Everybody in town knows how I feel about you. I just threw a party celebrating our divorce! I’d never do anything with you. I wouldn’t even share the same side of the street with you if I could help it, let alone murder your girlfriend with you.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him.”

I had a few more accusations to throw his way before I went back home. “Why did you tell me Faye was in your bedroom when I came asking about my kayak?” I said. “She must’ve been already dead.”

“We