Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1) Read online

  "Don't you have to get the kids?"

  "They're at Gram and Gramps for the night. Nathan's picking them up tomorrow morning after his shift. I have time for a quick bite to eat. Then Mrs. Jenkins. I can't imagine she'd be out and about today, with what's happened. The town would swarm her for gossip. She'll be tucked inside her home."

  "I just hope she doesn't mind a little company," I said softly. "Because I really need some answers."

  * * *

  "You're back, eh?" Mr. Olsen croaked, the oldest man in the universe, or so it seemed. He'd been ninety since I was born. "I remember ye."

  "Really?" I raised my eyebrows. "I've changed a bit."

  Mr. Olsen eyed up colorful hair, which was usually a dirty brown, some days blondish, currently with blushing-pink and lusty-lavender ombré tips. I had a tattoo around one shoulder, clearly visible under my stretchy leotard top, and then there were the fishnet stockings, but I didn't think he could see those under my sweats.

  He scooted up a pair of antique reading glasses onto his wrinkled face, white whiskers sprouting from orifices I didn't know could sprout hair. "I see ye have. Takin' ye clothes off for money out in that city of Caley-fornia."

  "California is a state these days." I leaned against the counter. "And I'm a burlesque dancer, not a stripper."

  "Don't you be bringing that back to Little Lake, corrupting all the young minds."

  "I'm offering classes to those over the age of eighteen." I tapped my fingers. "Can I get a very dirty martini and a very large hamburger?"

  "Jax was in here asking about you this morning." Mr. Olsen wiped a glass down, his eyes on me. I guess years of experience made the man capable of moving around the bar like a ballerina. I would've knocked over six glasses and a fifth of vodka by now, but I bet he hadn't broken a glass in over sixty years.

  "About what?" I looked at Donna. Her lips were pursed in a tight line as her eyes scanned the numerous choices of booze behind the bar. As a busy mom, probably she didn't get out much.

  "Double my order please," I said. We'd be here all day if I let Donna decide. "Mr. Olsen, what was he asking about?"

  "He wanted to know if yer was a good egg." Mr. Olsen poured some olive juice straight from the carton into what looked like a jug of vodka.

  "What'd you tell him?"

  "You'z a troublemaker. Cow tippin', high school boozin', purple hair, and tattoos who knows where, takin' off clothes for money…nah. He could do better."

  "I appreciate the honesty." I took two huge martinis, one with extra olives. I smiled. "You remembered. I like a million olives."

  Mr. Olsen grunted. I think that was maybe a sign of affection. "Here's your burger. Maybe you have some potential…"

  I winked at Donna as he mumbled away about rainbow hair and "fishing line" stockings ruining a girl's image.

  "Bottoms up?" Donna extended her arm and hooked an elbow around mine, and together we downed our martinis in one gulp.

  "You feeling like a spy?" I asked.

  "Probably we should have one more," she said.

  "Probably you're right."

  * * *

  Giggly and a little bit tipsy, we walked down the sidewalk and made our way slowly up the steps of the now-widowed Mrs. Jenkins's house.

  "Are you all right?" I whispered a bit loudly.

  Donna shrieked her response, throwing her arms wide. "I haven't had a martini since kid numero four. I feel alive!"

  I belatedly put a hand over her mouth, but it didn't stifle a thing.

  The front door was whisked open by none other than the widow herself, a cigarette dangling from plum-colored lips, her toes separated by those pedicure doohickeys, and a bathrobe half open, exposing a small lacey bra and granny panties.

  "Whadda ya doin' here?" Mrs. Jenkins rasped. "Donna? What the hell? I'm a widow. People is supposed to be leaving me alone. But no. They're bringing all sorts of pies and lasagnas and crap like that. How'm I supposed to keep this figure with all that food?"

  I cleared my throat. Mrs. Jenkins was forty-nine going on eighty-four, having tanned about a hundred times too many in her teens. Her skin put her in the same class as an elephant, and her hair was as fried as a chunk of hay.

  "Well, we didn't bring any food—don't worry." I thought wildly about what might get us through that door.

  Donna, meanwhile, took a step and started to speak but got distracted and stumbled, her right foot coming down a little too far off the side of the cement stairs leading up to the front door. She face-planted beautifully into the rose bushes, her arms flailing, hair splayed like a spiderweb between the thorns.

  "Are you drunk?" Mrs. Jenkins asked.

  I extended a hand to Donna, but an idea popped into my head, and I looked behind Mrs. Jenkins hoping for a glance of her kitchen. I was rewarded with a perfect view of a liquor cabinet, more than a single person's supply of wine and a wide variety of the hard stuff.

  I patted Donna on the back and met Mrs. Jenkins's gaze. "I brought you a drinking buddy."

  Donna pulled herself up, nearly toppling me right over with her in the process. Thankfully, she caught on quickly. It was possible the fall had shaken some sober into her.

  "Yep. We thought you might want a swig of vodka, and a girl knows it ain't classy to drink alone," Donna said.

  Mrs. Jenkins's eyes scanned us skeptically for a brief second.

  I took a deep breath, my mind fighting through the alcohol fog to appear as coherent as possible.

  "You gals drink tequila?" Mrs. Jenkins flicked her ashes onto the front steps, barely missing my toes.

  "Heck yeah." I'd drink anything that got me some questions answered. Plus, for all I knew, I was headed to jail soon—I should probably drink as much tequila as I could while I was still a free bird.

  Mrs. Jenkins turned and walked inside her smoke-filled home. It was dusty, rusty, and all sorts of unorganized. I covered my mouth in an attempt to neither cough nor snort as our hostess led us to the kitchen like an awkward duck, thanks to her pedicure toe doodads.

  "I don't got limes. There's a shortage in Mexico, thanks to those drug dealers, so I can't afford them. Salt is in those McDonald's packets by the sink."

  I retrieved three packets as Jenkins poured three double shots. We poured the salt on our hands, licked it off, and downed the shots like we were twenty-one again. Except now it burned much worse, and I could already feel the start of a hangover.

  Jenkins smacked her lips. "So whaddya really want?"

  I stared at her blankly. "What do you mean? We came to pay our respects."

  "Ain't nobody respectin' my husband. He wasn't a man to be respected, and that's just the facts."

  "Well, he was my landlord, and I wanted to express my condolences." I rubbed my forehead as the tequila shot straight into my brain.

  "Were you sleepin' with him?" She stared at me with beady eyes.

  "What? No!" My eyes probably bugged out of my head. "I mean, no offense, Anthony's just…not my type."

  Anthony had been a notch above unattractive in the greasy way a struggling used-car salesman might look almost presentable. He was creepy, morally loose, and a cheater in multiple senses of the word. I'd dated my fair share of fixer-uppers, even one with a unibrow, but I liked to think I retained some standards.

  Jenkins took another shot and crossed her arms. "Yeah, you too pretty, I believe ya. But I tell ya, he was cheatin' on me with someone. I just don't know who."

  Donna gave me an obvious stare. It was a good thing Jenkins was too busy lighting another cigarette and missed it completely.

  "Any idea who it might be?" I asked.

  "Who wants to know?" She blew a perfect ring of smoke right into my face.

  I admired it for a long moment before responding. "Me."

  "Why do you care?"

  "Just curious. You don't have to answer." I shrugged and poured another shot. Like most citizens of Little Lake, Mrs. Jenkins thrived on gossip. Maybe a dose of reverse psychology would get
her talking.

  I handed the round out. I raised my glass. "To Anthony."

  Mrs. Jenkins snorted. The three of us clinked glasses. I downed about half mine and dumped the rest over my shoulder into the sink.

  "So, are you doing okay?" Donna asked, putting a hand on Jenkins's shoulder.

  "I'm fine." She shifted. Something in her body language suggested she wanted to talk but was still skeptical. "House will be quieter without him around."

  Donna made a clucking sound in her throat. I think it was one of those noises that came with being a mother. My mom had made similar soothing noises when I was upset.

  "No, no. That's a good thing." Jenkins looked out the window. "I like quiet. Prefer it, even."

  Lost in a daydream, Jenkins blew out a few more rings of smoke. Donna and I looked at each other, and a prickling crept down the back of my neck. The nonchalance with which Jenkins spoke was eerie, as if she rather preferred her husband permanently silenced. She suddenly grabbed a lemon from the ledge above the kitchen sink, slapped it onto the counter, and slashed through it with a very large knife.

  "I think we should probably get going." I jerked my head in the direction of the door.

  Donna was eyeing the bottle of tequila again and didn't notice.

  I cleared my throat.

  An icy palm gripped my wrist. It felt like a frozen, nicotine-riddled skeleton clinging to my arm, and I shivered on reflex.

  Jenkins leaned forward, her smoky breath oozing over my face, frying several of my nose hairs. "It wasn't me who kill't him."

  The ugly, scary-looking butcher knife dangled from her other bony hand. The words I wanted to say got lost somewhere around my navel. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Donna watching the exchange with a horrified expression, a bottle of tequila in one hand, a salt packet in the other.

  "Uh…" I tried to pull my arm away, but Jenkins's grip cinched tighter. The nerve endings in my spine were firing away, sending tingles all across my nervous system. Even my scalp prickled.

  "As much as I hated the man, I wouldn't've kill't 'im." She turned and spat a glob of disgusting black goop into the sink. "He waren't worth goin' to jail over."

  "Do—do you know who might've killed him?" I eyed the knife warily, but Jenkins showed no signs of setting it down voluntarily.

  "Tell me why you care so much."

  "I…the police think I killed him." I watched the knife carefully. "But I didn't, I swear."

  "I'd give yer a medal if you did, but I don't believe it." Jenkins's hand crept up my arm, and she had a boa constrictor effect on my bicep. "You wanna find your killer—find out who was sleepin' with him."

  "Where would I start?"

  Jenkins bit her lip. "He didn't talk to me. But he went out at night. Late, late nights."

  "What was he doing?"

  "Hell if I know." In one swoop, Jenkins dropped my arm and continued slashing through the lemon. "Like I said. He didn't talk to me."

  Donna set down the tequila bottle and gazed around the kitchen. "Do you mind if we take a quick glance around, see if there's anything here?"

  Jenkins was more occupied with the lemon than anything else at the moment. "Look at whatever yer want. He didn't come here much 'cept for a few hours of shut-eye now and again."

  I followed Donna out of the kitchen.

  "I thought she was gonna stab you in the guts," Donna whispered. "You got lucky back there."

  "I think we should leave," I said. "I'll take jail over a coffin any day."

  "Quick glance, then we're out," Donna hissed. "Check it out."

  Donna pointed toward what appeared to be a bedroom. There were mounds of clothes on a mattress in the corner, a few empty cages with what may or may not have been animal remnants in the other corner, and a computer from the DOS era lopsided on a desk. The only thing in some semblance of order was a stack of comic books.

  "His or hers?" Donna asked.

  "I don't think she's spending her time reading books," I said. "She's more of a 'learn by doing' type, if I had to guess."

  Donna cracked a smile. Very daintily she thumbed through a few books. She let out a low whistle.

  Tucked inside the cover of one of the comic books was an old Polaroid of a much-younger Mrs. Jenkins in a very compromising position.

  "That's actually pretty impressive." I cocked my head sideways. "I'm not sure how she got her leg like that."

  A noise in the door startled both of us. Donna let the comic book fall back to the desk, and I whirled in a circle. With painfully slow velocity, the Polaroid of Jenkins swirled like a raspy old leaf in late fall down to the floor.

  I raised my eyes after an eternity and met Jenkins's gaze.

  She held the knife in one hand and a shot glass in the other. "I think it's time for you to go."

  "We were just leaving." I took a step sideways, but neither Donna nor I moved toward the scary knife blocking the door.

  "I was hot, wasn't I?" Jenkins asked to nobody in particular. She bent over and picked up the photo, examining it. "I tried to keep in good shape. I kept my skin tan, my nails painted, and my body hair contained. But it wasn't enough. Maybe if I looked younger, we wouldn't be having this little issue."

  "Issue?" I crossed my arms and stepped back. "Are you talking about Anthony's death?"

  Jenkins pursed her scaly lips. "That…among other things."

  I looked at Donna, wondering if Jenkins was referring to the so-called illicit lover she'd suspected her husband of keeping on the side. Donna widened her eyes in response.

  "Feel free to call us if you need anything…another drinking buddy or something." I spoke directly to the knife. "We should get going now. Donna's got kids at home."

  "Five of 'em," she said quickly. "They'd do terribly without a mother."

  I refrained from closing my eyes in exasperation.

  Jenkins breathed out quickly through her nose and stepped out of the doorway, arms spread wide as if daring us to pass her. The knife pointed the way to the kitchen door.

  I glanced at Donna, subtly sending my last words into her brain. I hoped she'd still be able to read my mind even after all our time spent apart in recent years. And even if she couldn't, it'd work out okay. Probably Donna could craft better last words for me than I ever could. All that was running through my brain at the moment was "uh-oh." And I'd prefer a more eloquent phrase on my tombstone.

  After a hesitant step forward, I made a break for it. Four quick strides later and a heavily sucked-in gut, I felt as successful as if I'd been a knight who'd managed to slip past the dragon guarding the booty. Except in this case, the booty was my own, and it was in a beeline straight for the front door, Donna trailing closely behind.

  "Thanks for the drinks, Mrs. Jenkins," Donna called, waving over her shoulder as we half jogged, half power walked down the front stairs.

  "You're too perfect," I said to my friend. "You even remember to thank the hostess after she threatens us with a knife."

  "Product of a small Minnesotan town," Donna huffed. "Manners. But criminy, I'm out of shape."

  I was breathing pretty heavily too. We'd picked up our pace once we were out of sight of the house, neither of us wanting to be the first to slow down.

  "Probably we're dehydrated," Donna said. "Walk to Froggy's, then take a drink break?"

  "Abso-frickin-lutely. We can call a cab from there."

  "What is this, Los Angeles?" Donna asked. We stopped running. "Here in Little Lake, you call your friends, not a cab. I'll have Nathan give us a ride back in the fire truck. I still get a little rush when I see him in his uniform."

  "Too much information."

  "Deal with it."

  "You're back?" Mr. Olsen greeted us as we hauled ourselves into the bar.

  "Martinis, please," I breathed.

  "And a ride," Donna said. "Please."

  He picked up the phone and punched 9-1-1.

  We heard Lana, the dispatcher, ask in a nasally voice. "Is this an emergency?"<
br />
  "No." I waved my arms at Mr. Olsen. "Not 9-1-1 worthy. Hang up."

  "Yes, it is an emergency." Mr. Olsen glared at us, speaking into the phone. "Lana, darlin', I need help. I got two troublemakers in my bar. Send Nathan to pick up his wife."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Get out." Mr. Olsen shooed us out of the bar.

  As tough as the old man seemed, I caught him watching from the front door of the bar until we reached Nathan's car. Bummer it wasn't the fire truck.

  I tossed Mr. Olsen a jolly wave. He grunted and turned around, disappearing into the bar.

  Donna was already in the car by the time I reached the vehicle. When I saw the driver, I jolted backward in surprise. "You're not Nathan."

  "Nathan has better things to do than pick up two drunkies at one in the morning." Jax gave a half a smile and gestured for me to climb in. Since Donna had apparently called shotgun, I heaved myself into the backseat. I only tipped over once, which was impressive considering the martini count in my stomach.

  "What could Nathan possibly have to do that's better than picking us up?" I glanced out the window. It was pretty neat—I could see stars here. It'd been a while. The City of Angels was named ironically, as it was far too lit up to see a shooting star, let alone an angel or a UFO.

  "Fight fires." Jax clicked the blinker on.

  "Please," Donna said. I could feel her eye-roll from the backseat. "The only fire he's putting out tonight is the one he's using to roast s'mores. I didn't hear a single call come through on the radio. Not so much as a toaster flamin' tonight."

  "You wanted to check in on me, didn't you?" I interrupted, pointing at Jax. "Well, it's fine. I'm not going anywhere."

  "You'd better not," Jax said.

  I opened my mouth, but Donna reached into the backseat and put her hand on my knee. "Jax, you really don't think she did it, do you?"

  I kept my gaze fixed out the window, but I was dying to know the answer as well.

  Jax remained silent as he pulled into Donna's driveway.

  He started to respond, but the long, pregnant hesitation was all I needed to hear.