It's Just a Little Crush Page 20

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was your story. Please continue,” I reply sarcastically.

  “Who do you think would have been ‘working late’ on a Saturday night?”

  “Ooh! Ooh! I know! Is it Jed and his stripper-secretary Candi?”

  “You are correct. But, here’s where it gets interesting. Sanchez said the fire started inside Stewart’s office, while they were in there. Any guesses?”

  “Let’s see. They had lit some candles to set the mood, and then they had some wild sex and knocked one of them over unknowingly?”

  “No, but I like to see you showing a little imagination.” Blake flashes me one of his smoldering smiles. “The firemen found broken window glass in the middle of Stewart’s office. Had the fire caused the windows to break, they would have busted outward and fallen on the ground directly under the window. Also, the reason why the place burned so badly and why Stewart and Candi had such significant injuries is because they found an accelerant all over Stewart’s office—gasoline.”

  “Gasoline kind of screams arson.”

  “Yes, it does. Can you put this all together, Nancy Drew?”

  I think for a moment. “Hmm. Someone broke into Jed’s office through the window, poured gasoline all over everything, and lit a match?”

  “No, think back. Something very similar happened to someone you know not so very long ago…” Blake is trying to lead me somewhere, but I’m just not getting the connection.

  I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know anyone whose house was burned down.”

  “Now you’re just not trying,” Blake huffs.

  “Oh, just tell me, already!”

  “Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into Stewart’s office window, or maybe a few of them considering the extent of the damage. Stewart and Candi were in there when it happened, and from the appearance of their burns, the EMTs think they got some of the gasoline on themselves. They probably never knew what hit them. Did you know the nine-one-one call came from a neighbor, not this office, so they weren’t even able to get to the phone to call for help?”

  Slowly the realization washes over me, and my mouth drops open in horror. Someone Molotov cocktailed my car last night, and now Jed’s office tonight. I gasp, “Do you think what happened to my car is related to this?”

  “A hundred bucks says it’s no coincidence,” Blake says grimly. “Bombing an empty car is one thing. Whoever did this is escalating. I also think it’s no coincidence that Stewart and his girl were in there. I’m betting someone wanted one or both of them dead.”

  I shiver, even though the night is quite warm and humid. Blake sees my apprehension and pulls me to him, holding me close.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling down at me. “What do you say we get out of town for a while? It doesn’t feel safe around here anymore.”

  So he did decide to bring up what I overheard him and Julia talking about earlier. “I’m surprised you’d want to miss any of the action.”

  “I’m not interested in any action that could get us killed.”

  “What’s to say that if someone wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t just follow us out of town? No one would be around to help us then. The police are patrolling my neighborhood regularly. I think I’d feel much safer at home.”

  “I guess you do have a point there,” concedes Blake. “But I’m still staying with you.”

  “You’re afraid to go home by yourself, aren’t you?” I tease.

  “No,” he says, a little too quickly. “Your safety is my only concern, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s Lizzie,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You two lovebirds seem to be everywhere this week,” William Johnson observes, ambling our way. Blake and I break away from each other. “Out for another evening stroll?”

  I laugh nervously. “You don’t think a reporter could actually stay away from a big story, do you?” I ask, gesturing toward Blake.

  “No, I suppose not. Hey, I’m going to need to talk to both of you tonight. We think this incident could be related to the hit on your car, Lizzie. Can you meet me at the station in half an hour?” William asks. Another shiver hits me. The last thing I want to do tonight is to go to the police station for questioning.

  Blake replies, “We’ll be there, Officer.”

  As William makes his way back to the throng of emergency personnel surrounding Jed’s office, Blake turns to me. “Don’t you think you should go home and change before we go to the station?”

  I look down ruefully at my ruined dress. “Yeah, I probably should.”

  In silence, we walk slowly back to where Blake’s car is parked. Once we’re inside, he turns to me and asks, “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  He pats me on the knee, leaving his hand lingering there. “Tell me what’s the matter. What are you thinking?”

  “Aren’t you nervous about being questioned by the police?”

  “Not really. I can see that you are, though. Why? You have nothing to hide,” he says reassuringly.

  “Are you serious? Did you forget about the breaking and entering?” I ask wildly.

  “You didn’t do that—I did,” Blake states matter-of-factly. “And that has nothing to do with anything that the police might question you about.”

  “I think you’re splitting hairs.”

  He starts his car. “I’m only trying not to further complicate an already complicated situation. Look, try not to rat me out, but if you have no choice, you have my permission to hand me over to the cops.” He smiles at me and chuckles.

  “This is serious, and you’re making it a big joke.”

  “The way I see it, why worry about something until you have something real to worry about? You don’t know what they’re going to ask. They’re probably just trying to establish some kind of connection between your car and Stewart’s office. Don’t stress about it until they ask you a question you can’t answer. Think you can do that?”

  I sigh. “I’ll try.”

  I’m still horribly nervous. Maybe I should have left town with Blake when he asked. Was I crazy to turn down a weekend away, alone, with Blake? Who knows what might have happened? All alone, no interruptions, nothing to do… Yep, really stupid decision on my part.

  We enter my house, and Blake stops me in the kitchen. “Wait. We didn’t get to finish our dance.”

  Distractedly, I reply, “We don’t have time for dancing. We have to go to the police station, remember?”

  He grabs my phone out of my hand and puts it on my speaker dock. He starts scrolling through my albums. “Just one song. Ah, perfect.” I don’t know what he’s planning, but he has a wickedly devilish grin on his face.

  I hear what are probably the best-known first four notes of any song ever recorded—the ‘wah-wah-wah-waaah’ of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On.” Oh, no, he didn’t. I put my hands on my hips and demand, “Really? You’re joking, right?”

  Blake saunters up to me and hooks one arm around my waist, pressing himself against me and grasping my hand tightly with his free hand. He sways my body back and forth along with the sensual beat. It’s totally sexy, but at the same time, I can’t help but let a little laugh escape.

  Blake looks down at me. “Are you giggling?” he demands.

  “No,” I snort.

  He glares at me reprovingly.

  “Yes.”

  He glares a little more.

  “You’re being so cheesy, I can’t help it!”

  “Shut up and dance,” Blake orders and resumes dancing with me.

  His moves are definitely smooth as he spins me around my small kitchen, pausing intermittently to plunge me into a series of low, slow dips. Never taking his eyes off mine, he makes me feel like we are the only two people in the world. I have to admit, between the song and my dance partner, I am totally in the mood to get it on. I’ve also managed to put my fears about my police questioning out of my head, at least for the moment. Knowing Blake, that’s probably what this who
le production is about—taking my mind off what we’re about to do.

  As the song ends, he breathes into my ear, “You’d better get changed.”

  “Yes, I should.” Neither of us is releasing our hold on the other.

  “Can I help you with that?” he asks slyly.

  Good old Blake—he never misses a beat. And I’ve decided to never miss an opportunity to call his bluff, much like I did this afternoon after the popcorn incident. I’m willing to go pretty far to get him to stop with his nonsense, so I whisper, “Go ahead.”

  I see a little flicker of something in his eyes, but I can’t decide if it’s disbelief or something else, like fear. His gaze lands on my shoulder and he says, “There’s something I’ve been dying to do all evening.” Reaching up, he carefully takes hold of the end of one of my shoulder strap ties. He looks at me for approval, and I nod my head. He begins to pull slowly then stops short.

  He shakes his head. “You got me again, didn’t you?”

  “Yep. It’s my goal to make you either nut up or shut up.”

  “I’m shutting up,” he says sheepishly.

  “Good. I’m going to get changed.” I head for my bedroom, but am suddenly struck with a wicked idea and turn around to face Blake. I reach up and tug one of the shoulder straps until it comes untied. The expression on Blake’s face is priceless—he seems to be both turned on and shocked at the same time. What he is unaware of is that the back of the bodice is entirely elasticized, so the sexy tied straps are basically for looks. My dress didn’t move an inch. “See? Nothing would have happened anyway.”

  Understanding now dawning on his face, he says, “So it wouldn’t have caused a wardrobe malfunction after all.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh. “Sorry.”

  “Well, in that case,” he says, coming across the room to meet me, “I can do this.” He reaches up and slowly pulls the other one of my shoulder straps until it’s hanging slack. Eyes fixed on my bare shoulder, Blake doesn’t move or speak.

  “You’re welcome,” I smirk, disappearing around the corner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My poor dress. Now that I’ve taken it off and examined it up close, I can see just how badly stained it really is. I quickly put on some comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, then head downstairs to soak my dress in some bleach. I honestly don’t think it’s going to do a damn bit of good, but I’m going to give it a try.

  Blake yells down the stairs, “We need to go, are you ready?”

  “Almost done,” I call.

  I hear the unmistakable creaking and groaning of my basement stairs. Blake is coming down here. I have to stop him! My basement is the dirtiest, dampest, messiest, grossest place on earth. Although it’s not entirely my fault it hasn’t been cleaned in decades, I’m sure I could make it look like less of a torture chamber if I would just spend a little time down here.

  “You don’t want to come down here,” I warn. “I’m coming—”

  Unfortunately, before I can finish my thought, Blake has appeared at the bottom of the steps. Great.

  Sweeping his gaze around the room, he asks, “Why don’t I want to come down here?”

  “Um, because it’s freakin’ disgusting.”

  Walking over to my grandfather’s workbench, he begins examining the rusty, neglected tools housed there. “You’ve got some interesting old tools on your hands.” He picks up a hacksaw with a warped blade and a broken-handled hatchet and brandishes them around. “You could film a horror movie down here.”

  “Put those down,” I order impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  Blake reluctantly places the tools back where he found them and turns to me. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I don’t exactly have that much of a choice.”

  ***

  At the police station, Blake and I are met at the front desk by a uniformed officer who shows us to a waiting room down in the basement. He explains that Officer Johnson is on his way back from the fire, so it shouldn’t be long. I’m incredibly thankful that they didn’t put us in an interrogation room like the ones they show on TV—stark and too brightly lit, complete with a creepy one-way mirror on the wall. I think I’d really be freaking out in one of those rooms. So far, I’m only freaking out a little. However, once the door is closed and Blake and I are alone in the waiting room, my breathing involuntarily starts speeding up.

  There are no windows in this dimly lit room, and the air is a little stale. I’m also having an odd sense of déjà vu about this particular room. Once when I was a kid, I attended a Halloween party here when the building was the town library, and I think this may have been the room where they had set up a mini haunted house. As I recall, it scared the hell out of me, and the feeling I remember having then is disturbingly similar to the one I’m having right now. I feel like I’m not able to get enough air into my lungs, so I try to breathe a little more deeply. This room seems to be getting smaller by the moment, and have the overwhelming feeling I’m being confined in a too-small space. I begin pacing around the room, trying to occupy my thoughts with something other than the suffocating feeling that’s increasingly constricting my chest. My head is throbbing, and I’m starting to feel dizzy and nauseous. I’m breathing as deeply as I possibly can, but my chest can’t seem to expand enough to take in the air that my lungs are screaming for. I was wrong before about only being a little freaked about this—I’m in full-on, going crazy, freak-out mode.

  “Blake,” I choke out, “I’m not feeling so good.”

  Blake jumps up from his chair, takes one look at me, then shoves me down into the chair and thrusts my head between my knees. “Calm down. I think you’re having a panic attack.” I flail my arms and push against his hand, which is firmly pressing down on the back of my neck, holding me in this most uncomfortable position.

  “Quit fighting me,” he orders sharply, pinning one of my arms with his other hand.

  At this point it’s useless to try to get out of his clutches, so I stop struggling. Even though my body is painfully crunched together in a backbreaking pose worthy of any advanced yoga class, my breathing is surprisingly returning to normal and my dizziness and nausea are waning.

  “Let me go. I’m better,” I breathe.

  Blake lifts his hand from my neck and allows me to straighten back up. He crouches down in front of me so that he is at my eye level and takes my hands in his. “Are you okay now?” he asks gently.

  “Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Except for the part where you tried to shove my head up my ass.”

  He grins. “There’s my girl.”

  The door opens, and William strides into the room. “Ms. Hart, Mr. Morgan.” He wearily drops down into one of the chairs and rubs his temples. “Okay, guys. Here’s the deal. We found that the fire at the Stewart-Campbell office was started by a Molotov cocktail. The blast that consumed your car, Lizzie, was also the result of a Molotov. Two similar attacks in two days is more than a coincidence. I need to know how they’re connected so we can catch the son of a bitch who did it. How exactly are you two associated with Jed Stewart?”

  “Well, you know we used to work with Hannah, his wife,” Blake begins. “And, you were there at the fair the night we found Hannah dead. The three of us had been working at the Chronicle booth that evening.”

  “What else can you tell me? Does either of you have a history with Mr. Stewart?”

  “I only knew him from meeting him a couple of times at office parties,” I reply.

  “I hadn’t met him until Hannah’s funeral visitation,” says Blake.

  Technically a true statement, but he totally hedged around the ‘do you have a history with him’ part. I think boning someone’s wife constitutes a ‘history’ with someone, even if you hadn’t actually met, but it’s not my story to tell.

  “What about this week? Have you had any interaction with Mr. Stewart?”

  “Um, I went to his house Wednesday nig
ht to deliver some items Hannah had ordered from me before she died,” I admit.

  “What kind of items?” William asks suspiciously.

  “Cutie Paws items. She had hosted a party for the company I work for.”

  “Oh. You sell that junk?” William looks surprised. “My mom’s house is covered in it. Now, were you aware that someone threw a rock through a window at Mr. Stewart’s home on Wednesday night?”

  Uh-oh. He didn’t ask if I knew who threw the rock, so I’m good for now. “Yes, I was there when it happened.”

  “And did you see who threw it?”

  Technically, I did not see Blake throw the rock—he confessed after the fact. “No. It was dark, and Jed and I couldn’t see anything out the window.”

  “We also found that a rock was thrown through the window of the back door of Mr. Stewart’s office on Thursday. Remember, that’s the night I saw you guys out for your little stroll?”

  I nod, worried that my voice might quiver if I were to say anything.

  “You said before that you didn’t hear any glass breaking and didn’t see anyone in the area. Have you remembered anything else since then?” asks William, eyeing us closely.

  “No, we were off in our own little world. I have to say I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on around me,” Blake answers, gazing at me sweetly.

  I smile nervously. “Yeah, I don’t remember anything else, either.”

  William closes his eyes and wipes a hand down his face in frustration. “Guys, there’s a connection. There’s got to be something you’re not telling me.”

  I sigh and ask him, “Do you remember what I said to you the night that Hannah died?”

  “You gave me your statement,” he mutters, flipping through the file on his lap.

  “I mean, do you remember what I said about Hannah’s death not being an accident?”

  “You weren’t making a lot of sense that night. You were in shock.”

  “Don’t you think it’s fishy that Jed Stewart’s former secretary and his wife both died within a week of each other? Did you know he was having an affair with Audra Downing?”

  William sits up straighter in his chair and demands, “What do you mean he was having an affair with Audra Downing?”