Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle, Pauline Jones [top 100 novels of all time .txt] 📗

know, but he could give me the benefit of the doubt. I challenge anyone to shine after getting shot at and tripping over a body.

“I never thought you were.” He hesitated, then said, “Not a bad bit of deduction.” I felt an inappropriate thrill of pleasure until he added, “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t sleuth?”

I drew myself up. “I wasn’t sleuthing. I was thinking. There is a difference.” A fine one, but still a difference.

He smiled, the white of his teeth cutting the darkness—and my angst—in half. “I guess I can’t fault you for thinking. I’ve been thinking, too.” He hesitated. “About you.”

“Really?” Yummy was making a comeback, but I was still suspicious. “What about me?”

He hunched his shoulders, the action shifting him into what little light there was. Or maybe my eyes were just adjusting. I could see his eyes, the blue shining like a beacon in the dark, but the expression in them was less clear. I had a feeling he was uncomfortable—or nervous.

“I’ve just…never met anyone like you.”

I was trying to decide if this was a compliment or not, when I heard someone call my name. I turned in the direction of the voice—and felt the brush of cool air carrying Kel’s scent as he slipped away like a will-o’-the-wisp. If he didn’t stop doing that…

“Miss Stanley?” The man flashed his badge, his voice abrupt, but not unkind. “I’m Detective Dillon of the Homicide Division. I’d like to ask you a few more questions before you leave, if you don’t mind.”

“Couldn’t this wait?” Mike spoke behind him. “She’s already given two statements to two officers.”

“Its okay, Mike. He probably needs further clarification on a few points.” I gave the detective a helpful look.

“You have that down mighty pat, Miss Stanley,” Dillon said, suspiciously instead of gratefully.

“I’m a Columbo fan.” And my dad was a cop. I could have played the dead cop’s daughter card, but I wasn’t that tired…yet.

“Wonderful.” The detective flipped open a notebook.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Stan,” Mike said, dryly.

“So am I.” I sighed a little. He was such a nice guy and Kel was right, Mike wasn’t my type.

“Then you won’t mind answering a few questions?”

“No, detective, I don’t mind. Though I don’t know what else I can tell you.” Actually there was a lot I could have told him. But none of it concerned this particular murder.

“According to your statement,” the detective said, “you don’t know the victim?”

“No.” I studied the detective, wondering why he looked familiar to me. He was a handsome man, about my height, with big dark eyes and a strong chin. “Have we met somewhere before?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Does the name Paul Mitchell mean anything to you?”

“Hair care.” Both men looked blank. “Awaphui Shampoo. Hair conditioner. The ultimate cure for split ends.”

Mike grinned. The detective looked annoyed.

“Paul Mitchell is the victim’s name.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Dr. Lang indicated that his car is parked several lanes over that way. Why did you walk down the lane where the body was, Miss Stanley?”

This was a tricky part. I plastered on what I hoped was an innocent look and offered a half truth. “I thought I saw someone I recognized.”

“In a dark parking lot?”

“It was a nagging impression of familiarity. You know how it is.”

His face said he didn’t. His eyes narrowed for the kill. “And were you right? Was it someone you knew?”

I didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I tripped and fell before I found out.”

He shook his head, hunching his shoulders. I knew I’d seen that movement before.

“Are you sure we haven’t met? What did you say your name was?”

“Dillon. Now look, Miss Stanley—”

“You’re not related to Drumstick Dillon, are you?”

“You know my son?” That got his attention.

“I knew you looked familiar. You’re two peas in the same pod.”

He looked thoughtful. “You have a good eye, Miss Stanley.”

“Stan is an illustrator,” Mike told him.

It sounded better than ‘she draws cartoon roaches.’

“I see,” Dillon said, his gaze intent enough to make me uneasy. “How do you know my son?”

“I play keyboard in his band.”

“His band.” His brows shot toward his ruthlessly subdued Afro. “How…unusual.”

“Me?” I shook my head. “I’m not unusual. I’m the most ordinary person I know. Boring. Dull.”

Dillon and Mike regarded me with unrelenting and obvious skepticism. Mike I could understand, but what was Dillon’s problem?

“Really. Boring. So boring.”

“Let’s go over your statement again,” Dillon said.

10

Dillon let me go home, though I could tell he wasn’t satisfied with my story. The guy had good instincts. I’ll bet his son didn’t get away with a thing. Home again, Mike accompanied me inside, met Rosemary, attraction arced and formed a weld between them, in like five seconds. I was too tired to care that Rosemary was going to get my goodnight kiss. My mother had retired to her bed, so I didn’t have to explain how it was I’d come to trip over a dead body outside a sleazy restaurant. The only nightmare I didn’t have was the one where I didn’t do my biology homework—or I woke up too soon. When I stumbled down the stairs the next morning, feeling like old road kill, I found Rosemary preparing to go out wearing designer jeans and a bulky sweater, with guilt as an accessory.

Careful not to make eye contact she asked, “Tell Mom I’m breakfasting out, okay?”

“Sure.” I let her get her hand on the door before adding, “Tell Mike I said hi.”

She gave me an apprehensive look. “How did you know?”

“I have a gift for seeing the obvious.” She looked so worried I had to relent. “Have fun.”

Rosemary’s smiled was relieved. “Really?”

“Really.” I shrugged. “He’s not my type anyway.” And it would make a good forgiveness card to play when she found out about her car. She left and Candice came in. She was wearing jeans and a big sweater that looked like it came out of her mother’s closet. I looked closer. It came out of my closet. “Nice