Charlaine Harris: Dead Over Heels

“So, have you looked at houses?”

“No. I want you to go with me.”

I pushed up on my elbows to look at her.

“Shelby found us this place. I want to find the next one,” she explained, as if every couple operated this way. “But I’ve never bought a house, I don’t know what to ask or look for, and you do. Will you come with me?”

“Sure.” I was glad I had on dark glasses.

Actually, I could call my mother and she could be on the lookout. They’d need at least three bedrooms; maybe they’d have another baby… or Angel’s mom might come to help take care of this one… and they’d want a yard for the child to play in. I projected Shelby’s income and I ran through the neighborhoods in Lawrenceton that would suit it.

“Would you want a pool?” I asked.

I saw Angel’s mouth curve in her slow rare smile. “Sure,” she said. “Gotta get our exercise somehow.”

A shadow fell across Angel’s legs.

“Martin!” I said in amazement. “You’re back early.”

“I told them they didn’t really need me at that meeting. They could have asked me everything they needed to know on the phone,” he said, setting his leather briefcase down on the deck and loosening the knot of his tie, an act I never failed to find sexy.

Lately I’d been finding precious little sexy, and I hadn’t been able to go back to the cemetery. I had a feeling I’d never sit there in peace again.

Angel said suddenly, “I’m done to a crisp, and the doctor told me not to get too hot!” She gathered up her towel and lotion and strode off to her apartment without further ado. I heard her tromp up the stairs, and just a few seconds later, tromp down again. “Gotta go to the store!” she yelled.

Surely that was a little peculiar?

I opened my eyes. Martin had taken off his starched white shirt, his shoes and socks, and was slipping down his pants.

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed.

“No, just me,” he said.

“Did you give Angel some signal?”

“Yes, this.” And Martin pointed at the chaise where Angel had been baking, pointed to the garage, and made a pantomime of hands on the steering wheel.

“What! Why?”

“Because I want to have sex with you on our sundeck right here and now and I don’t want Angel to watch,” Martin said.

“Oh.”

“Because you haven’t seemed to want to do that lately, and I thought maybe an exotic locale would- stimulate your interest,” Martin continued, stimulating my interest right then and there, in front of God and the big blue sky.

“Martin! Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Well… I don’t know…”

“Then why don’t I do it a little longer?”

“Ahhh… okay.”

“Then maybe I could just move this chaise over by yours…”

“Oh. Umhmm. And then?”

“I was thinking you could show me how you put that oil all over…”

“And then?”

“Roe, I may be too old for a ‘then’!”

“Oh, not you,” I said confidently.

And I was right.

Charlaine Harris is the author of four previous Aurora Teagarden mysteries, The Julius House; Three Bedrooms, One Corpse; A Bone to Pick; and Real Murders. She is also the author of two earlier novels, Sweet and Deadly and Secret Rage. She lives with her husband and family in Magnolia, Arkansas.