Lori Devoti - Amazon Ink

“What’s up?” Peter scooped up the bags and tucked one under each arm.

I thought about going all Amazon and insisting he hand over the bags, but in the interest of being more broad-minded, thought better of it. “There are more in the car.” I jerked my head back toward where the compact sat-the hatchback wide open.

As I did, my newest employee, Nick, wheeled into view on a skateboard. In a graphic T-shirt and torn jeans he looked a lot less like the clean-cut boy I remembered and a lot more like trouble.

I swallowed the thought. Same kid, different clothes.

He stopped by Dana’s car, glanced from it to Peter and me and our loaded-down arms. I dropped my bags at Peter’s feet, hoping he’d pick up my clue-and the bags.

“Nick, you’re earlier than I thought you’d be.”

He flipped the board up and grabbed it by the tip. “Sorry, I have somewhere I need to be.”

“You aren’t staying?”

He shook his head. His attention wandered past me. I turned, thinking Mother had reappeared, but there was no one there.

“You look busy,” he said.

“We are.” Again I looked at Peter, but he hadn’t moved, and seemed fascinated by my conversation with Nick. “But you’ll need to do some paperwork.”

“Sure, not a problem. I’ll stop by later.” Nick’s gaze was on Peter now.

Realizing I had committed some kind of etiquette faux pas, I introduced them. Neither jumped forward to greet the other. They just stood there, each sizing the other up, like two dogs whose paths had crossed in a neutral field. Neither declaring the territory, but neither backing off either.

I rolled my eyes and retrieved the bags I’d dropped. Nick wheeled off, and I didn’t bother to turn around to watch him leave, or to see if Peter was following me as I continued down the sidewalk.

I didn’t get far; Pisto in all her golden glory stepped out of the cafeteria door. Her gaze went first to Peter, then the car, then locked onto me. “Is that Dana’s car?”

“Could be.” I kept walking. There was something about Pisto’s stance I didn’t like. That was a lie. There was something about Pisto I didn’t like.

She stepped in front of me. “Is it?”

I heaved out a breath. Why did this have to be so hard? “You’re in my way.”

She crossed her arms under her chest. “What’s she doing here? And where are you going with those bags?”

I considered not answering again, because, seriously, she was getting on my last nerve, but again, in the interest of having a broader mind…“You’d need to ask her. And upstairs.” This time I shoved my way past her. The shocked look on her face as I bumped her from the sidewalk was beyond rewarding.

Unfortunately, the feeling only lasted about two seconds-the time it took for her to drop her hand on my shoulder and pull me back.

I dropped the bags and turned. I didn’t have a plan and I’m not sure what I would have done, but even in a flash of anger I couldn’t miss Peter’s six-foot-four frame looming up behind us or the unmarked police car pulling into the parking lot.

Pisto wasn’t as preoccupied as I was. She grabbed my hand as I raised it from my side. “I’m not taken in by you,” she murmured. “You may have Zery conned, but not me.”

A fan. How nice.

I wanted more than anything to knee her in the groin…thigh…whatever I could reach, or suck in a big lungful of air and blow her back to northern Illinois, but with my growing audience, neither was an option.

“There a problem?” Detective Reynolds and friend stepped onto the sidewalk. His tone was casual, but I could see the tension in his body.

Pisto tensed, a small move that no one but I noticed. “You knew we had company, right? A well-trained warrior like you wouldn’t slip like that…” I murmured the words, for her alone.

She pulled back her lip, showing her teeth. From a distance, it might have looked like a smile. Up close there was no missing the threat.

I pulled my wrist from her grip. “No problem.” I turned my back on the Amazon. I didn’t want to introduce her to the detective and hoped she’d be too dense to realize that’s what he was. Pretending she wasn’t glowering at my back, I moved forward, as far as the basement steps. “We can go in this way.” I motioned to the stairs. I wanted Detective and friend inside my shop, hidden from the Amazons as quickly as possible.

Reynolds arched a brow. “Aren’t you in the middle of something?” He glanced behind me. I followed his line of sight, hoping he wasn’t referring to Pisto. He wasn’t. The Amazon was gone, and his gaze was only directed to the duffels I’d left on the sidewalk.

Peter stepped forward and scooped them up. “I’ll get them.”

I looked back at the detective. He wandered forward, but his partner hung back.

“You can both come,” I prompted.

Reynolds looked behind him as if surprised to see someone there. “Blake’s not feeling well. He needs some air.” Then he glanced at Peter.

I was done with introductions. I turned on the ball of my foot and tramped down the stairs. I could hear Reynolds tap his hand against the metal railing a few times, as if deciding whether to follow-or maybe it was some secret police signal. Whatever, in a little while he stepped through the basement door behind me.

Bubbe’s door was wide open. I tried sidling past, but Reynolds came to an immediate halt next to it.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I stopped, turned, and immediately hoped Bubbe hadn’t left any wild woodland critters tied to the table.

The detective had half his body in the room. I walked over and pulled the door closed. He had the good grace to step back before it whacked him in the nose. “My grandmother’s business.”

He raised both brows in question.

“She tells fortunes.” I didn’t wait for a reply, just started walking.

I lost him outside Mother’s workout room.

“Some pretty heavy duty equipment you have there.” This time he was all the way in. I’d have had to put him in a headlock to get him out gracefully.

I ground my teeth together at the sheer annoyance of having him control our progress, but then realized something. As long as Bubbe didn’t stroll past, Mother’s workspace was probably the safest place for our chat.

He glanced around, apparently realizing I didn’t have a bowie knife tucked under a stack of weights, and turned to leave. I, however, had already plopped myself down on a weight bench.

“So, did you find another body?” The thought had just occurred to me. I didn’t really think he had-he would have approached me differently, but a piece of me almost hoped he had. Not that I wished another girl dead, but I definitely wanted to believe the killer had severed whatever tie he or she felt to me.

“Should we have?”

I pulled back, too surprised to hide my reaction. “That was aggressive.”

He took a step forward. “You haven’t seen aggressive.”

I almost laughed. I could say the same thing to him.

“Is something funny?”

I could see I’d tripped his trigger. I had to get better at hiding my expressions. I stood up. “No. Nothing about this is funny, especially the fact that you seem to suspect me of killing two girls. I told you before. I didn’t do it.”

“I never accused you of being the killer.”

I made a pfft sound with my lips.

“If anything, I accused you of knowing something about the girls, of doing their tattoos.”

“Well, I didn’t.” As far as I was concerned, our talk was over-or should have been. He wandered farther into the room, picked up a medicine ball, and tossed it in the air as if testing its weight.

“So, why were you at The Tavern?”