Carrot Cake and Cryptic Clues Page 9

  Fred said, “I’ll drive.”

  Beth reached into her purse and fumbled for a bit.

  “Hurry up,” said Fred hoarsely. “We don’t have all day.”

  Beth found the keys finally and pulled them out. She reached her hand out to give them to Fred. Her fingers were trembling, and Fred reached his left arm forward to grab the keys.

  At that moment, I leaned forward and grabbed his right arm, forcing it upwards.

  “Hey,” said Fred, dropping the keys. “Stop it.”

  Beth realized what I was doing, and she took the opportunity to raise her leg up into a high Rockette kick. Her foot made contact with Fred’s crown jewels, and he groaned, doubling over from the waist.

  Beth managed to pull the leather jacket off Fred’s hand, and in the melee, he fired the gun. I’d angled his hand away from us, and the bullets whizzed away, over my head.

  I kept hold of his hand, making sure the gun was angled away, and Beth grabbed his other arm, twisting it and preventing him from getting away. Everything happened in slow motion. Fred fired, again and again, until there were no more shots, and we knew he was out of bullets. That’s when I let go of his arm, and Beth gave him a sharp kick on the shin. When he bent over, I rammed my forearm against the back of his neck, forcing him to fall down.

  “Stay on the ground,” said Beth, pulling her phone out of her bag and placing one foot on his back, making sure he couldn’t get up. “I’m calling 911.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You go home,” I said to Beth. “I, uh, left something behind in the room.”

  We’d just spent all afternoon at the Santa Verona Police Department, giving our statements and filling out forms. Fred had given a full written confession, and Beth no longer needed to worry about trials and lawyers.

  Detective Buchanan had given us dirty looks and muttered something about “meddling women,” but in the end, no one really seemed too distressed about our meddling.

  It was high time the two of us went home, had some more cake, and then maybe had some dinner and a good night’s sleep.

  Beth followed my glance.

  “Right,” she said. “You’ve clearly left something behind.”

  She smiled, and I tried not to blush. Once she’d left the building, I headed over to the bullpen, where Ethan was sitting, working on something on his computer.

  “I see you’re done giving your statement,” he said, closing down whatever he was working on and focusing on me.

  I sat down on the other side of his desk and smiled. “I am.”

  “Interfering with police business,” Ethan said, his eyes smiling at me. “You know Buchanan’s not thrilled.”

  I shrugged. “I’m thrilled. Beth is thrilled.”

  Ethan’s eyes softened, and he lowered his voice a notch. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  I tried to fight the heat that was rising up my chest, threatening to turn my cheeks red. “Aww,” I said, trying to sound flippant. “You sound like you care about me.”

  “I care about paperwork,” said Ethan gruffly. “Dead bodies mean more paperwork.”

  I smiled, and Ethan stared at a pen lying on his desk.

  “Well, I’ve saved you some paperwork, then.”

  “And I saved you a conversation with Neve.” Ethan looked into my eyes and smiled. “She came around the station again, and Buchanan told her off for annoying possible witnesses. He told her she had no right to visit them at their home, let alone try to interview them.”

  I grinned broadly. “Wish I could’ve seen that.”

  “It was worth it.”

  “Well,” I said, “now she’s got even more reason to be mad at me.”

  “So do I,” said Ethan. “How come I don’t get some sympathy?”

  I smiled at him. “Okay. You’ve got my sympathy. Why exactly am I feeling sorry for you?”

  “Because I have to deal with you all the time. I’m supposed to be a detective. I’m not supposed to worry about some nosy girls running around.”

  “Worrywart,” I said. “I’m sorry you worry about me.”

  “Like I said,” Ethan replied, “I’m just concerned about the paperwork.”

  I smiled. “Does this mean we need to go out for another apology dinner?”

  Ethan frowned and looked off into the distance, pretending to think about it. “Okay,” he said finally. “If you insist.”

  I laughed and stood up. “Text me,” I said. “No winky smilies this time.”

  “Only if you promise to stop trying to solve mysteries.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I promise to stop trying to solve mysteries, as long as there’s no more mysteries to be solved. Dinner soon. See you.”

  I walked out of the station, unable to stop smiling.

  Dinner soon. No more mysteries.

  Or more likely, dinner soon. And another mystery, soon.

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