Getting Off On Frank Sinatra. Megan Edwards
place for a night or two.”
“Are you sure you really want to move into that creepy house?”
“It’s not that bad,” Michael said. “Curtis says it’s ‘architecturally significant.’”
Sierra shrugged. “It’s significant, all right, but it has nothing to do with architecture.”
Once again, I wondered what I was getting myself into, but the thought shrank to nothing when I compared it to all the other things I could allow inside my brain. Speculating about the Nash house was a whole lot more enjoyable than letting my thoughts drift to a dead body at the end of a tasseled drapery cord.
“I’m excited about it,” I said, “I think it’s going to be fun.”
Which was more than I could say about the prospect of going to work. Had my coworkers learned that it was one of their own who had found Marilyn’s body? All the news I had heard and read suggested they wouldn’t have, but there was only one way to find out for sure. I thanked Sierra, promised Nicky I’d be back soon to play pirates, and headed back upstairs to prepare myself for the gauntlet that might await me at The Light. If I hurried, I would have time to pack some basics to take with me to the Nash house.
Figuring I could cram all my toiletries into my gym bag, I unzipped it and pulled out my beach towel. As it unfurled, a hairbrush clattered to the floor.
But that wasn’t all.
Bending down, I picked up a tiny bottle of Shalimar perfume. Next to it lay a small tube of something called Next Generation Wrinkle Eraser.
Damn!
They had to be Marilyn’s. I must have grabbed them by accident when I cleared my stuff off her countertop. And I’d inadvertently carried off three more objects, too, I realized as I dumped out the rest of my gym bag’s contents.
A lipstick, a packet of tissues, and a slim black case.
I picked the case up and snapped it open. A pair of expensive-looking aviator sunglasses lay folded inside. I snapped the case shut, and that’s when I noticed the initials “CW” engraved into a small gold oval stuck to the top.
Holy crap.
In addition to everything else, I’d managed to steal Curtis’s sunglasses. I thought back to those surreal moments right after I found Marilyn’s body. I must have been in shock, and I’d definitely been in a hurry.
And now—double crap!—I should probably call Detective Booth. I’d sworn to him that I hadn’t touched or moved anything, and I hadn’t changed my story when Booth told me a cop needed to check my car. That was when I realized I should have mentioned that I’d had my bags with me when I was in Marilyn’s bathroom, but the last thing I wanted to do was to give Booth reason to think I was less than truthful. He might have kept me stuck to that sofa all night, and the only important thing was that I was innocent. That’s all the cops needed to know.
But now …
I looked at the small pile of objects I’d unintentionally lifted from the crime scene. What if they held clues to the killer’s identity? I didn’t see how a bottle of Shalimar could help, and Curtis’s sunglasses were hardly a smoking gun. It was his bathroom, too, after all.
Opening the case again, I removed the glasses and unfolded the temples. Super-strong prescription, I noticed as I peered through the lenses. Especially the right lens. With a sigh, I put them back in the case and closed it. Curtis will definitely wonder what happened to them, I thought. Maybe I could find a way to return them.
But not right now, I told myself. I’ve got too many other things to think about.
Oh, my God, like getting to work before it got any later.
Grabbing only my backpack, I left everything else in a pile on the floor and motored off to The Light.
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