Chapter Seven
“Didn’t we just get back from the police station?” Logan asked as we headed out to the big black truck. “If memory serves it didn’t go too well the last time.”
“We don’t have a choice.” I climbed into the backseat. “If we don’t reveal what we know to the police we could be charged with withholding evidence.” Besides, I wanted to see the look on their faces when they found out that we cracked their case. Professional respect goes a long way with law enforcement.
Luke put the truck into reverse, but then slammed on the breaks so hard we all rocked forward. “That was close.”
I rubbed my bruised sternum and craned my neck to see out the back. “What happened?”
“Mr. Murphy.” He pointed down at the neighboring drive. “That boat of his is blocking us in. I swear it wasn’t there a second ago.”
“Someone’s behind the wheel.” Logan pointed.
“Crap.” Mr. Murphy was the former postal worker who lived next door. Retirement wasn’t treating him too well and he’d taken to roaming the streets in his maroon Oldsmobile long after his daughter should have snagged his license. “He can’t handle city traffic.”
“He’s blocking us in,” Logan said.
“Honk the horn, make sure he’s awake.” And alive.
Luke honked. We waited and then, like some urban mating call, an answering honk pierced the quiet afternoon.
“Looks like a draw,” Luke said.
“Let me handle this.” I slithered down from the backseat, sashayed over to the burgundy beacon and tapped on the driver’s window. “Mr. Murphy?”
My neighbor jumped, obviously startled by my sudden approach. His thinning salt and pepper hair stuck up every which way and he wore striped pajamas and soft-soled moccasins on his feet.
He rolled down the window. “No thanks honey, I don’t have money for a lap dance.”
Masculine laughter erupted behind me. Crap, the Parker brothers would never let me hear the end of that. In my most conservative outfit, too. When a girl’s hoisting double Ds, she could wear sackcloth and still look ready to party.
Ignoring the slight I asked, “Are you all right? You’re not exactly dressed to go out.”
“No time for hanky-panky, I gotta pick Francine up at the station.” He tried to roll the window back up but I wedged my shoulder bag in there.
“Francine?” Luke asked.
“His late wife.” This wasn’t good. Mr. Murphy was clearly having some sort of senior moment and we couldn’t just leave him to terrorize the streets in search of his deceased wife. Florida’s driving reputation was bad enough already.
I looked at the guys but they were no help. My motto is when in doubt, pull it out of your ass. “Mr. Murphy, your daughter called me. She said she’d take care of everything and that you should wait at home.”
For a second I thought he’d call my bluff, ask why his daughter was calling me and not him, but eventually he nodded. “Okay then.”
I saw his intention a second before his foot slammed down on the accelerator “Wait!”
The Olds lurched forward and ripped my bag right out of my hands. Without my support, it flopped over in defeat and vomited up its contents in a trail as the car zipped forward. My wallet, tampons, breath mints, keys, Gertie’s sticky notes, several pens, and my cell phone plus about a thousand business cards scattered across the lawn.
Luke and Logan tried to stifle their laughter and failed.
“Fricking hell.” No good deed goes unpunished.
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