Читать книгу Gourd to Death - Kirsten Weiss - Страница 14

Chapter Eight

Gordon paced his condo, his muscular body tense and hard. Like Gordon, the condo was contemporary and minimalist. He crossed his arms over his ivory fisherman’s sweater. “Did you call the police? Because I know you didn’t call me.”

Sucking in my cheeks, I tossed the plastic bag containing the ghost’s sheet onto the leather couch. Unlike anything I owned, the couch was quality. It matched the cappuccino-colored floor. “He was long gone. There didn’t seem much point.”

He paused beside a gray, mid-century-modern chair. “At the very least, when you report it to the police, there’ll be a record of the attack at the haunted house.”

Sure. And also a notation that I was a hysterical female who’d misinterpreted a pre-Halloween prank. “I’ll call Chief Shaw,” I muttered and glanced at the gray-curtained window. I might as well go straight to the top and get the humiliation over with.

He nodded. “Thanks. Now, what Baker Street Bakering would inspire someone to attack you? Assuming this wasn’t a random prank.”

I tried not to stare at the fireplace, covered in narrow pieces of dark brown stone. In front of it stood a freestanding whiteboard covered with a blanket. The mystery of what was behind the blanket was too much for any Baker Street Baker to resist. I edged closer.

“I hate to join Team Charlene,” I said, “but I think it might have been Marla.”

“Marla Van Horn? Charlene’s friend? Why would she attack you?”

“She wouldn’t. Marla’s been talking about our amateur sleuthing into Dr. Levant’s murder. The wrong person may have overheard. Gordon, Shaw may have heard.”

“Shaw wouldn’t attack you.”

“No, but he might cause more problems for you.” I took another casual step toward the covered whiteboard.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “And I’ll have a word with Marla.”

I laughed hollowly. “Don’t tell her she’s putting us crossways of interfering in an investigation. That will just egg her on.”

A smile softened his features. “I’ll never get used to these small-town intrigues.”

“Get used to it? You grew up here.”

“And left as soon as I got the chance. I thought San Nicholas was boring. What an idiot I was.”

I canted my head. “So, what’s under the blanket?”

“Murder board.”

I waited expectantly.

He sighed. “Fine.” Gordon pulled the blanket from the whiteboard, and it folded to the floor.

A headshot of Dr. Levant in her white ophthalmologist’s coat had been taped to the center of the board. Down one side, Gordon had affixed a column of blurry photos from the murder scene.

It would be hypocritical for me to worry about Gordon investigating the murder he’d been told to stay out of. But his movements were quick and hurried, his muscles rigid, his voice sharper than usual. I’d never seen him this tense. But his uncle was a suspect; of course he was tense. So, I worried but said nothing.

Instead, I squinted at the crime-scene shots. “Charlene’s photos?”

“Yeah. Shaw won’t let me near the official police photographs.”