Chapter 4
FOUR
Ethel Brown was indeed dead, and Scarlett’s shop was a crime scene.
As soon as the police arrived, things moved quickly. Officers secured the scene by taping off the shop and placing an officer at the front entrance with a clipboard to track people moving in and out.
The county sheriff had to be called in to provide crime scene technicians and support. They parked near the scene, eyes scanning the crowd that assembled to watch the goings-on.
And the crowd was growing. The bloodhounds of Stirling had sniffed out a bit of juicy gossip, and they were gathering outside the shop with alarming speed.
This would be bigger than the attempted theft at Leo’s company retreat, bigger than Camilla’s bakery being targeted, even bigger than Lucy’s car blowing up.
A clump of older ladies shared hot tea in a Thermos mug on the far end of the police tape. One of them pulled out a pack of cookies to share. A block away, the door to Bussy’s, the local bar, flew open, and a veritable stampede of people came barreling down toward the local entertainment.
Scarlett watched blankly, mind reeling.
Ethel Brown had died inside her store, amidst the perfume of Scarlett’s flowers and the rich soil of her potted plants. It almost didn’t make sense. Why was she dead? How did she end up on Scarlett’s shop floor?
The elderly woman had become notorious in Stirling, first as the leader of a ring of thieves that had operated under the radar for years. Her sister, Meredith, had been arrested just over three years earlier for attempting to steal a vivid pink diamond engagement ring from Fred Goodhew, a wealthy local business owner.
Then only a few months later, another one of Ethel’s associates—her “grandson,” who turned out to not be related to her at all—had been caught trying to steal a precious, bejeweled cake topper from Goodhew’s wedding celebration. That was around the time Camilla had been dealing with her bakery being targeted by a local loan shark with a grudge.
Things went quiet when Marlon caught the bad guys and saved Camilla, and it had seemed like everything would be okay. No one had seen or heard from Ethel since she first ran. The gossip died down, as it was bound to do, even in a small town.
It had seemed like a distant memory, until Ethel had reappeared when Lucy and Cormac had discovered a counterfeiting operation right in the heart of Stirling. Cormac had caught Ethel, the ringleader, but he’d had to make a decision: bring the old woman in to the police, or find out where Ethel’s son had taken Lucy. He’d chosen Lucy, and Ethel had gotten away. Again. The town was awash with gossip; Ethel’s gang provided endless fodder for the townspeople to dissect over the weeks that followed.
That had been a little over a year earlier. Despite the police’s efforts, the vicious elderly woman hadn’t been found, and they hadn’t been able to figure out who was buying all the fake cash Ethel had been manufacturing. Scarlett knew the town was still awash with counterfeit bills; she’d had to refuse several of them in her own store.
Now the shadow of Ethel Brown darkened Stirling even in death. It was too much. Scarlett’s head swam. She’d moved to this picturesque town because it was famous for weddings, not crime. How much more rot would they expose? How long would it take to cut it all out and finally heal?
And more importantly—why had Ethel Brown been inside Scarlett’s shop?
She watched the county crime scene techs don their suits, booties, and gloves before they entered Pushing Daisies, Archer’s arm tight around her shoulders. It seemed surreal. It would be a long night.
On the other side of the tape, the local lead detective, Rick Holden, conferred with the county workers. He glanced over at Scarlett and Archer, and the look in his eyes didn’t settle Scarlett’s nerves one bit. A minute later, they were led to opposite sides of the street so they could be questioned.
Scarlett did her best to give off an air of innocence, but she was tired, and it had been a long day. She looked into the incisive eyes of Detective Holden, who rubbed his mustache as he studied her.
“And you were at the Barlows’ place all day?”
“From about noon onward,” she confirmed. “We both were.”
“How did the wrench end up inside the shop?”
“I don’t know,” she said for the third or fourth time. Why did he keep asking her the same questions? Did he think she was lying? “We walked over to Archer’s truck after we called 9-1-1 and found the toolbox in the bed unlocked and open. Archer said he might have forgotten to lock it, but he couldn’t remember. I was already at the Barlows’ place when he parked here earlier today.”
The detective hummed and stroked his mustache some more. Scarlett tried her best not to fidget. She glanced over at Archer, who was talking to a different police officer, running his hands through his hair over and over and over again. He looked stressed. She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t like the look in the detective’s eyes, or the way he kept asking the same questions in slightly different ways, like he was trying to trip her up.
“Walk me through what happened when you arrived here,” he said. Rick Holden was a tall, spare man who’d only been the lead detective in Stirling for a little over a year. His hair was streaked with a few strands of gray, and his eyes were shrewd. Scarlett wished he’d stop looking at her like he could read her thoughts.
The detective nodded as she answered his question, jotting down notes in his tiny notepad. “And what time did you say you went to the Barlows’?”
Scarlett huffed. “Around noon. I’ve told you this.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
“There was a car,” she said suddenly.
The detective waited.
“When we were heading to pick up the flowers for Archer’s mom. About three blocks back, I looked up and saw a silver car speeding through this intersection right here, going that way.” She pointed down the street, which ran east toward the freeway that led out of town.
Detective Holden made a note. “Silver, you said? Make and model?”
“It was too far to tell. I just heard the squeal of tires and then saw it speeding across. A sedan, I think. I noticed it because otherwise everything was quiet.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
“No.” Scarlett studied the broken glass door that was propped open to allow the coroner and officers and detectives to access the scene. “She was…” She shifted her gaze to the detective who continued to watch her with narrowed eyes. “She was…murdered?” The last word came out as a whisper.
Detective Holden’s shoulders dropped. Something like sympathy entered his gaze, and some of the tightness in Scarlett’s stomach eased. He nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was softer. “It looks that way. We’ll need a formal statement from you, Scarlett. Can you come by the station tomorrow morning?”
“Okay,” she said, then she watched him walk away.
Not long after, Archer approached. His mouth was bracketed with deep lines, and his gaze was troubled. Without preamble, he told her, “They think I did it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scarlett answered briskly. “You were at the wedding all day. There are about fifty people who can confirm that.”
“But how do I explain the wrench? And they estimate the time of death to be right around the time we were walking here. I heard the coroner through the door.”
Scarlett’s breaths sped up. If they thought he did it, they must think Scarlett was involved too. She shook her head. “They can’t think that. It’s crazy.”
“If it wasn’t us, someone was in your shop only minutes before we got there.”
Scarlett thought of the silver car. Had that been the murderer speeding away?
“So that’s what must have happened,” she insisted. “Someone stole the wrench out of your truck, Archer. That’s the truth. Right?”
He pinched his lips and nodded. “I had to stop at a job on my way to the wedding. A last-minute snag I had to fix. I was in a rush, and I could have easily forgotten to lock it. No one steals anything in this town.”
“Usually,” Scarlett added.
Grim-faced, Archer nodded. They both turned to watch the police work around the crime scene. Lights blazed inside and out, and a number of curious onlookers were gathering. The gossip was probably all over town already. Scarlett’s business would bear a black mark forever.
This was the worst day of Scarlett’s life. She would gladly listen to werewolf sex in front of an auditorium full of people wearing nothing but her underwear if it meant the old lady was found dead somewhere else.
“How did Ethel Brown end up in my shop?” Scarlett said, shaking her head. “It makes no sense.”
“She must have broken in for some reason.”
“But why? I don’t even keep a lot of cash in the store. If she was trying to rob me, she wouldn’t have gotten much.”
“Maybe she wanted a bunch of flowers,” Archer said, wry.
Scarlett snorted. “Right.”
“What’s going on here?” a new voice asked. Scarlett and Archer turned to see Mr. Petrovski shuffling toward the police tape. The old man was slightly hunched, leaning on a carved wooden cane. The top of his head was entirely bald, with a ring of snow-white hair clinging to the sides. He squinted at the broken glass and the officers in white hazmat suits coming in and out of the shop.
“Hi, Mr. Petrovski,” Scarlett said, joining him at the tape. She sighed. She might as well tell him what was going on; he’d find out anyway. “They found Ethel Brown inside. Or you might know her as Mrs. Gordon, your old neighbor.”
“That hag?” He turned, surprised. “What’s she doing in there?”
“Well,” Scarlett said, grimacing, “she’s dead.”
The old man reared back slightly, then swung his gaze back to study the front of Pushing Daisies. Then he nodded and simply said, “Good riddance,” and turned to shuffle off toward his home.
“Dead, you said?” a woman murmured on Scarlett’s other side. It was Martha, one of the checkout ladies at the grocery store. Was everyone in town out for an evening walk tonight? Was there some kind of bat signal flashing in the sky to tell them all there was something of interest happening downtown?
Stupid question. Of course there was.
“Dead,” Scarlett confirmed.
“Martha, darling, would you like some tea?” one of the ladies on the opposite side of the taped-off area called out.
“I’ve got ginger crinkle cookies!” her friend added.
Martha squeezed Scarlett’s forearm and toddled over toward them.
“What was she doing in there?” a third person said, hopping up the curb to join the onlookers at the police tape. It was Chet, the sadistic personal trainer who ran a thrice weekly bootcamp Scarlett and her friends attended. Despite the cold, he was wearing one of those tank tops that dipped down nearly to his hips to show off all the muscles on his ribs (which…existed, apparently. Scarlett certainly didn’t have any muscles there). “Did she break your window?”
Scarlett shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. We just turned the corner and saw it.”
There was a photographer jogging toward her shop now, with one of the local news anchors close behind. Scarlett flipped her jacket’s collar up and sank her chin into her chest. If there was ever a time for an invisibility cloak, now would be a good one.
Behind her, a car turned onto the street. It was sleek, black, and expensive. A thin white pinstripe lined the curving side of the car, streetlights glinting on its dark windows. It slowed as it passed behind Scarlett, the people behind its tinted windows no doubt having a good look at the action, and then sped off. Scarlett watched it go, heart sinking a little bit more.
There was no hiding this drama. The good people of Stirling could smell blood in the water—or, rather, in the flower shop—and they were coming out to investigate. Her fresh start was wilting before her eyes. It was just like her speech: more evidence that she didn’t belong here. She wondered if anyone would want to buy flowers from her again.
With the wedding season winding down and winter blowing on the chill wind, Scarlett knew there were lean months ahead. Would her business survive until spring? Would she even make it to Valentine’s Day?
A hand slid over her lower back. Archer’s. He curled his arm around her waist and murmured, “Let me take you home, Scarlett. You’re shivering.”
Suddenly, exhaustion hit Scarlett like a punch. She nodded and allowed Archer to lead her away from the growing crowd. Just before they turned the corner, Scarlett glanced back in time to see a black body bag being carried out the shop’s door. The photographer’s camera flashed continuously, and the news anchor clamored to get the detective’s attention. A moment later, the black bag that contained Ethel Brown had disappeared in the coroner’s van. The vehicle’s back doors slammed, and the noise echoed in the street.
Scarlett glanced at Archer, whose face was grim.
“Let’s go,” he said, and he guided her around the corner and out of sight of the curious crowd.
When her home came into view a short while later, Scarlett nearly wept with joy. She lived in a small, single story, three-bed, one-bath home that had been built in the post-war era. It was a Cape Cod-style cottage, with a steeply pitched roof and a chimney that was just off-center. The house was clad in timber shingles that had silvered over the years, with wine-red shutters framing the symmetrical windows on either side of the front door.
There was no front porch, just a path of stone pavers leading from the sidewalk to the front door. Scarlett sighed as her key slid into the lock, her shoulders dropping an inch in relief. Home at last.
Glancing at the man waiting patiently behind her, Scarlett had a wobble. It was just a moment—and instant, really—when all the reasons she shouldn’t invite Archer in seemed silly and inconsequential. He stood there, golden-brown hair touched with silver in the moonlight, his gray eyes full of care and concern, and Scarlett wanted him.
She wanted him in a dangerous way. Dangerous to herself, to her health, to her heart. She wanted to lose herself in his arms the way she had after Camilla’s wedding. She wanted to have those coarse, calloused hands on her thighs, on her breasts, wanted his teeth sinking into her shoulder. She wanted to see just how good his body looked under those clothes he wore so well.
She wanted him inside her.
Archer was the last man who had touched her. She hadn’t told anyone that little tidbit—certainly not him. All her friends thought she was a sexually liberated woman who wasn’t afraid of casual encounters that scratched the inevitable itch. And for a long time, it was true. After her ex had left without a word over five years ago, Scarlett had fallen into the arms of many men, trying to find the missing piece of herself.
And a year and a half ago, she’d done the same with Archer.
He was a good kisser. She remembered the electric feeling that coursed through her when his tongue stroked against hers. She remembered the pulsing need that had made her feel like she was flying—or falling.
He’d kissed her like he was desperate for her, but when he’d slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, Scarlett had realized what a monumental mistake they’d been about to make.
Because his hand felt good on her inner thigh. It would have felt even better if he’d pushed her panties aside and took what he wanted. What they both wanted.
That would have eased the ache inside her—temporarily.
In the years that had passed since her previous relationship fell apart, Scarlett had become well acquainted with the pleasures of the flesh. It would have been easy to reach that peak with Archer…but then what?
The men she’d slept with hadn’t stuck around. She hadn’t wanted them to. And in the few instances where there might have been a thread of connection beyond the physical, it snapped as soon as Scarlett asked for something more than just sex.
In those panting, needy moments at the back of Camilla’s wedding, Scarlett had seen the future. She’d seen herself sleep with Archer, enjoy it, then feel emptier than she had before. But it would be worse than sleeping with someone like Jimmy from the gas station or one of the men she’d met on the various dating apps, because she’d see Archer every week. Sometimes multiple times a week.
He’d be a constant reminder that Scarlett couldn’t have anything deeper than sex when it came to men. And before he even touched her where she needed it most, Scarlett realized no orgasm was worth that kind of torture.
So she’d pushed him away. Archer had blinked and evidently come to the same conclusion. They’d left on good terms.
And now, standing on her own doorstep, Scarlett still believed that she’d been right to throw a wall up between them. His friendship—and the friendship of the entire group—was worth more than a measly orgasm or two.
But it had been a long day. She’d felt bone-deep embarrassment and had to play it off. She’d seen a dead body. Her business had been desecrated.
She wanted comfort. She wanted someone to care .
A hot night with an attractive man wouldn’t be the worst thing…would it?
Archer watched her like he could read every thought. Leaves rustled in the cool breeze, a few of them falling down as autumn rain. The air smelled of woodsmoke; someone had lit a fire in their fireplace.
Two words. That’s all that would be required. Come in , she could say, and he would.
Slowly, Archer reached for her. He took her hand where it dangled at her side, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. His touch was achingly gentle, causing heat to bloom all over her body.
She closed her eyes, the feel of his rough skin against her hand blanking out every other sensation. Her lips parted and her knees went soft.
But as she opened her eyes again, Archer dropped her palm and took a step back. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Get some sleep, Scarlett. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She nodded, throat tight—grateful, angry, confused—then locked herself inside her house and let out a shuddering breath.