Jill Elizabeth - Frame-Up

“Brrr!” someone muttered and feet stomped the floor. David? Probably. But she couldn’t be certain. And even if it was David, did that mean she was safe?

What legitimate purpose could he have for sneaking outside this time of night? She slid the knife from its housing and turned to face their host. If he was a threat, she was ready.

Her knees shook, but she firmed her spine as a parka-clad figure filled the kitchen doorway, face shrouded in a fur-lined hood. Her gaze fell to the items he carried, and her insides went limp.

* * *

Clutching a load of firewood in the crook of one arm and a flashlight in the other hand, David took in the stark fear staring at him from the pallor of Laurel’s face. Then he dropped his gaze to the knife in her fist. His jaw clenched. So his efforts to reassure his guests this evening hadn’t reduced his threat level in her mind.

“Looking for a snack?” he said, forcing his tone as near to natural as he could muster. “There’s some brick cheese in the fridge that might need slicing, but I don’t think you’ll need the butcher knife.”

Her head snapped back as if his words had slapped her. “No—um— No, of course not. I was just...” She lowered the knife to her side, at a loss to finish her sentence.

“Let me put this wood down by the fireplace, and I’ll help make sandwiches. I could use one, too...and a cup of cocoa. It’s freezing out there, and big daddy storm hasn’t let up any.”

“Sounds fine.” She nodded. “I’ll get started on the cocoa.” She moved to the single cup brewer and plucked a K-Cup from the carousel next to it.

David plodded to the fireplace. He knelt and dumped the load of stubby logs into the box on the hearth. He should be angry with her. Furious even. Or at least offended, but the best he could muster was this deep sadness that weighted the pit of his stomach.

He rose and shed his parka, then tossed it onto one of the pair of easy chairs with more force than necessary. Maybe he was a little angry. He exchanged his boots for the house slippers he’d left on the rug by the door and rejoined his guest in the kitchen.

Laurel was standing at the brewer flamingo-style with one foot on the tile and the other pressed against the navy knit of her sweatpants. Unexpectedly, his heart warmed. Was he that starved for domesticity that the sight of a female at the homey chore turned him sappy? The two of them were on little more than speaking terms. Still, the tawny, sleep-tousled hair brushing her shoulders only added to her appeal.

She turned toward him with a pair of steaming mugs in her hands, and he mustered a smile. “Why don’t you take those into the living room, and I’ll make the sandwiches. Your bare feet must be chilled to the bone.”

Gaze averted, color high on her cheeks, she nodded and hustled from the room. Sighing, David dug cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. A few minutes later, he laid a plate beside her cocoa on a side table. She’d left the living room light off, but the glow from the kitchen conspired with the fireplace embers to outline her form curled up on the easy chair with her feet under her.

“Here.” He stripped the throw blanket from the back of the couch and laid it across her lap. No word of thanks or eye contact acknowledged his courtesy. What was with this woman? Either she was still petrified of him or her mind was consumed with what lay outside in the trunk of her car. Or maybe a healthy dollop of both. Good thing she had no idea what he’d really been doing outside.

“I’ll stoke the fire,” he said.

A jingle stopped him in the act of turning away. He swiveled toward her. A set of car keys dangled from her fingers.

“I found these on the floor near your parka.”

“Really?”

“They must have fallen out of your pocket.”

“I—I suppose so.”

“What were you doing with them?” Even in the twilight, her gaze skewered him. “And how did you get them?”

Heart thumping, he went to the hearth, knelt and began positioning logs in the fireplace. Better if he answered this with his back to her. His face was likely to give him away. “You dropped them. Remember?”

“Dropped them! I don’t—” Her words halted. “Oh, yes,” she said, tone subdued. “When we found the— When we went outside to get the luggage.”

“That’s right.” With the poker, David prodded the fresh logs into position on the embers. “Guess I must have stuck them into my pocket after I caught them in midair.”

“So your excursion into the storm had nothing to do with the keys that happened to be in your pocket. You went outside for more wood?”

David swallowed against a dry throat. “There’s a box on the porch.”

“We don’t need the fire in the fireplace for heat in the house.”

“True, but a little blaze is nice if you can’t sleep and want to toast your toes and sip cocoa.”

He inserted bits of tinder into the smoldering ashes, and flames began to flicker. If only he could be so successful in calming his guest’s suspicions.

“I can’t argue with that statement.” A soft slurp followed her words.

David rose and turned to find Laurel standing with her keys in one hand and her mug in the other. The blanket had slid onto the floor and lay crumpled at her feet.

“I’ll take this to bed with me.” She raised the mug. “Thanks for making the snack, but I guess I really don’t feel like eating. Enjoy your cozy fire.”

The flatly spoken words hung in the air as her graceful stride carried her from the room. David’s gaze followed her retreat—empty protests, explanations, reassurances locked behind his tongue.

Good thing he’d never aspired to an acting career. He stunk at it. Laurel’s body language communicated that she didn’t believe he’d told her the truth. Well, he had; just not the whole truth. Before he grabbed the wood, he went out to her car first and verified his glimpse of that tattoo on the body. The tat was there, all right. His memory hadn’t played him false.

He picked up the blanket and settled onto the sofa next to his sandwich and cocoa. Frowning, he sipped at his hot beverage, then ran stiff fingers through his hair. The thick mop needed cutting, but a trim hadn’t seemed important before he went on a solo retreat to the mountains. Who could have predicted so many complications to a simple plan?

David set his mug on a side table, leaned forward— elbows on his knees—and gazed into the blossoming fire. What was the meaning behind the nearly identical tattoos on jet-setting Alicia and this middle school biology teacher? Was there a real connection between the dead women, or were the tattoos a coincidence? The questions seared his mind, demanding answers. Where did he start looking for them?

Maybe he should hire another private investigator. This would be his fourth. The notion left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d had nothing but empty promises and bills from every P.I. he’d hired to look into Alicia’s murder. Call him paranoid, but he’d had the sense that even the P.I.s on his payroll had figured him as the culprit. Had they looked very hard to find another explanation? Why would they take him seriously this time? No, he wasn’t going to go that route again.

He could point out the similar tattoos to the police once they arrived and let them follow the lead. His insides shriveled. What was he thinking? Major bad idea. If the police caught wind of the tattoo connection on another dead body in his vicinity, they were as likely to try to pin this second murder on him as to look further for answers.

Before he went to the cops with this similarity between the murder victims, he needed to have some idea how the tattoos might point to a different culprit. He knew he hadn’t killed the high school teacher, so if the murders were connected, then this could be proof that he hadn’t killed Alicia either. He sat up stiff.