“I’m not. Every time you get mixed up in a murder, you end up nearly dead yourself!” It came out as a wail.
“You’ve gotten mixed up in a homicide before?” Detective Battersea’s eyebrow went way up.
I shifted uncomfortably. “In Florida. It was no big deal. I happened to be at a conference where someone got killed. That’s all.”
“No big deal!” Cheryl squawked. “Two people got murdered. Not one. Two. And someone tried to push you down the stairs. And then the killer—”
Son of a biscuit, that woman had a big mouth. “Yeah, yeah. But it was fine. We all survived.” Except those who didn’t.
Bat cleared his throat. “I’ll put a BOLO out on the SUV, but without a plate, it’s going to be difficult.”
Because there were probably a thousand identical SUVs in the area.
“And if you do find it?” I asked.
“Let me worry about that. You need to keep your nose out of this investigation before someone cuts it off.”
Before I could blast him with my opinion, Bat turned and walked off, shouting orders left and right. You had to admire a man who knew how to take charge of a situation. Even if I did want to strangle him.
“Lucas Salvatore,” Cheryl said in a sing-song voice.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re dating Lucas Salvatore, remember? Stop drooling.”
“I’m not drooling,” I snapped. “I’m merely admiring. It’s not like I’m dead.”
Yet.
Chapter 20The Bookend of Death
CHERYL THOUGHT I SHOULD go home right away and get some rest. Personally, I needed something a little stronger than rest, so I convinced the police officer who was driving us home to drop us off at Sip instead. He was reluctant, but in the end I triumphed.
“Good grief, what happened to you two?” Nina asked as we straggled in. She was in her usual spot behind the bar, wearing a black and white geometric dress that hugged every luscious curve. She had her hair up in a messy bun and wore dangly sapphire earrings to match her necklace and cuff bracelet.
“Which time?” Cheryl asked morosely. “The time someone bashed Viola over the head? Or the time we got run off the road and nearly killed?”
“We did not nearly get killed,” I snapped. “We just ran into the ‘Welcome to Astoria’ sign.”
“What?” Nina sounded horrified. “The one in the roundabout?”
“The very same,” I said. “We’ve had quite the exciting afternoon.” I managed to haul myself up onto a barstool, although it was dodgy-going for a moment there. My head still throbbed to the beat of an invisible drummer, whose butt I was going to kick as soon as I could think straight. “I need something stronger than the usual.”
“I’ve got port.”
“That’ll do.” What I could really use was a blackberry bourbon on the rocks, but I’d have to go elsewhere for that, and there was something so comfortable and homey about Sip.
While Nina poured, we gave her the rundown. Midway through the tale my phone rang. It was Detective Battersea.
“What have you got for me?” I answered without preamble.
“Seriously?”
“Time’s a wasting. Well?”
He sighed. “I got results back from the note you gave me. No fingerprints.”
“I figured,” I said with a sigh. “Anything else?”
“Unfortunately not. Standard paper. Standard ink. And block letters are impossible to match.”
I sighed, rubbing my throbbing temple. “Who would do such a thing?”
“How about someone tired of you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” he said dryly.
“So you sent the note then?”
“Very funny.” He did not sound amused. “We also found out who the WTF from the journal is. Or, rather, what.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Company out of Dallas that acquires items for museums and collectors. Totally aboveboard. They had no idea the items they purchased from Nixon were stolen. They contacted me as soon as they heard about the murder. I had them checked out. They’re in the clear. Do you remember anything else about the journal?”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Well, it was worth a try.” He paused for a moment. “You have to stop this nonsense, Viola. That’s two attempts on your life so far. Next time they might succeed.”
They could try, but I wasn’t giving up. Not even a little. I hung up the phone, more determined than ever.
“What note?” Cheryl glared at me as she clutched her glass of merlot like a life preserver.
I told her about the note that had been left on my car and the results, or lack thereof, from the crime lab. “Obviously the killer left it,” I said. “And he, or she, thinks we’re getting close.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this,” Cheryl said, her brown eyes narrowing. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
She literally growled at me.
“Sorry,” I said lamely, “but I didn’t take it that seriously at the time.”
“Well, I hope you’re taking it seriously now.”
“Believe me, I am.”
“I don’t understand why someone would try to run me off the road, though,” she said in a sad tone. “It’s not like I’m the one investigating anything.”
“True,” I admitted. “But you’re helping me.”
“But how did they know we were at Annabelle’s?”
“I’m betting they followed us from the docks. The killer had to have been there, seen us together, and realized we were in your car. Then they followed us to Annabelle’s.”
“But who?” Nina asked. “Were any of the suspects there at the docks?”
My brow furrowed as I thought it over. There’d been a small group of people gathered to watch the police do their thing. Most of them had disappeared when the rain started, but a few die-hard souls had stuck around. One familiar face stuck out from the crowd.
“Blaine!”
Cheryl looked up from her glass. “Who?”
“Blaine Nixon. August’s son. He was there. I saw him. I’ll bet he saw us, too. He had to be the one who ran us off the road.”
“Then you should call Bat,” Cheryl said firmly.
“I will,” I assured her. “But not until I confront Blaine. I want to
