Foul Play

Chapter Four

Jake Elliott was a puzzle, Amy thought. He spent all that time exercising his beautiful body, and then he ate doughnuts for breakfast, skipped lunch, and ate TV dinners and fast food for supper. Amy suspected his life was in the same sort of disorder as his office, and the homemaker in her instinctively wanted to change it.

She couldn’t persuade Jake to stay for steaks last night, but he couldn’t escape her culinary efforts today. While he’d been busy with all that Nautilus business, she’d been busy in her kitchen.

She turned into the clinic parking lot at 8:45 and smiled at the basket on the seat next to her. Homemade biscuits and soup for lunch, heated in the office microwave.

Apple pie for dessert. But her motives weren’t entirely altruistic. She was taken with Jake, and the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, wasn’t it? Yessir, she had something better than cleavage. She had Fannie Farmer.

Amy slung the basket over her arm, locked the car, and took one last assessment of her khaki slacks, cream-colored silk shirt, strappy bone sandals, and large gold-knot earrings. What the well-dressed veterinary receptionist wears when she wants to impress the veterinarian, she thought, giving only a cursory glance to the two police cars parked outside as she approached the open clinic door.

Jake’s voice carried into the parking lot. “He’s gone? I can’t believe it! Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Amy peeked into the waiting room. “Who’s gone?”

Jake ran his hand through his hair. “Rhode Island Red. He’s disappeared. He’s been rooster-napped.”

“Oh my gosh. Are you sure?”

Jake made an exasperated gesture. “The bird is gone. I’ve gone over the whole office. He’s not here.”

Amy felt her skin crawl. What sort of monster would steal a sick rooster? It was hard to believe someone would do such a thing. Her attention was attracted by Spike, sitting complacently on the front desk, washing his face with his paw. “You don’t suppose…”

Jake followed her gaze to Spike. “That Spike picked the lock and ate the bird?”

“He does look a little plumper than usual.”

Jake shook his head. “No. Spike was in the parking lot when I drove up this morning. Whoever took the bird, accidentally let Spike out.”

Several local cameramen and reporters entered the small waiting room. Lens caps were removed, pads were snapped open. A man motioned to Jake. “Are you the guy that lost the TV bird?”

Two minicams appeared almost simultaneously. One was from the local news, the other from a small cable station. “Is it true you’ve received ransom notes?”

Jake looked around him in disbelief. “How’d you guys find out about this?”

“Police report.”

Suddenly all eyes were turned toward the curvaceous brunette in the doorway. “Excuse me,” she said softly. “Did you want to see me about something, Dr. Elliott?”

Jake grimaced as a battery of flashes went off. “I have some bad news for you. I’m afraid your rooster has been stolen.”

She blinked her thick lashes. “Stolen?”

“I can’t tell you how awful I feel about this,” Jake said. “As you can see, I’ve called the police…”

She looked shocked. “Police?”

A uniformed officer approached the brunette. “Has anyone contacted you about the bird? Is there anyone who might profit from his disappearance?”

Amy took a step backward and bumped into a young man with wire glasses and a narrow blade of a nose. Suddenly, astonishment registered on his face as a scarlet scald rose from his shirt collar. He stared openmouthed at Amy in silent accusation.

Jake saw the color drain from Amy’s face. Her lips compressed into a tight, thin line. He moved close to her, sliding his arm around her shoulder. “Something wrong?”

“This is Brian Turner,” Amy said. “The innovative station manager who purchases poultry.”

Turner adjusted his glasses and glowered at Jake. “What’s this woman doing here?”

Jake didn’t like Turner. He didn’t like the tone of his whiney voice, his shirt, or the part in his limp, dun-colored hair. Jake didn’t like him because he had fired Amy. And he sure didn’t like the way he had just referred to her as “this woman.” In fact, Jake disliked Turner so much, if there hadn’t been four police officers present, he’d have given him instant rhinoplasty.

“This woman works for me,” Jake said in a tone that implied a much longer sentence. The longer sentence would have gone something like: This woman works for me, you no-taste little twit, and if you say one more word I’m going to run you right out of here.

Turner stepped backward and wheeled toward the brunette. “You’re kidding! You left that rooster in the hands of Lulu the Clown!”

The brunette opened her eyes wide. “I didn’t know.”

Another volley of flashes went off, this time directed at Amy.

“Are you taking this down?” Turner asked the nearest cop. “Lulu the Clown had every reason to hate Rhode Island Red. She lost her job to him…”

The man with the minicam switched on his battery pack. The reporter from the news grinned at Amy. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You were replaced by a chicken?” He turned to Jake. “And you hired Lulu the Clown to take care of him?”

A belligerent look came into Jake’s eyes. “No, she was replaced by a rooster.”

Brian Turner elbowed his way through the crowd. “I think this looks very suspicious. I’m not usually one to point fingers, but I want that rooster back, and I think Lulu the Clown knows where he is. I think she should be interrogated or searched, or something.”

Jake reached toward Turner, accidentally jostling Amy. The food basket slipped from her hand and landed with a loud thunk on the floor. Amy bent to retrieve it, removing the lid to make sure her pie plate hadn’t broken.

Everyone in the room stared at the clear plastic container of soup nestled next to a tray of biscuits.

Turner’s face turned white. “Wait a second… is that… That’s chicken soup!” he gasped. “I know chicken soup when I see it!”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “That’s right. It’s chicken soup. So what?”

“So, it could be rooster soup,” Turner said.

One of the reporters made a gagging sound. The police officers looked horrified.

Amy glared at Turner. “Rooster soup? That does it! You bullied me off the set without even letting me say good-bye to my viewers, and I couldn’t do anything about it, but you’re not going to bully me here.” She poked her finger into his chest for emphasis.

“Listen up, mister, I’m a decent human being, and I don’t cook chickens that don’t belong to me. And what’s more-”

Turner jumped away from her. “Look at this,” he shouted. “She’s out of control. She’s made soup out of my television star. She should be locked up. Arrested for… um-”

“Rustling?” someone offered with a snicker.

“How about beaking and entering?”

Jake made a great pretense of looking at his watch. “Time to do veterinary business, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now.” Reporters and photographers made no attempt to stifle their chuckles as they packed up their equipment. The police smiled and mumbled polite good-byes. The brunette and Brian Turner remained.

Amy’s eyes widened. “I got this chicken at the supermarket.” She turned to Jake. “You believe me, don’t you?”

Jake was having a hard time keeping his composure. His face had turned red with suppressed laughter. He nodded an assurance to Amy and stared at the toes of his shoes. He was distressed that someone had broken into his office and stolen a sick animal, but he couldn’t ever remember being involved in anything so ludicrous.

Amy caught Jake’s mood and felt the laughter bubbling in her own chest. They thought she’d made chicken soup of Rhode Island Red! It was an outrageous idea.

She turned to Turner and smiled brightly. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

Turner threw her a look of disgust, then strode from the office, almost knocking the brunette over. She teetered on three-inch heels and nervously chewed on a long, bright-red fingernail. “Gee,” she said, “this is awful.”

Jake immediately sobered himself and went to comfort the woman. “I’m really sorry Miss… um.” He couldn’t remember her name. Veronica something.

“Veronica Bottles,” she prompted.

Jake blushed and nodded. “Miss Bottles. I sincerely hope you get your rooster back.”

“This was my big chance to get into television. I don’t know if they’ll keep me without him.”

“Maybe you could get a substitute,” Amy suggested. “You could go back to the farmers’ market and pick out another Rhode Island Red.”

Veronica seemed cheered by that thought. “Yeah,” she said hopefully, “there are probably lots of dancing roosters around. And they all look alike. No one would even have to know it wasn’t the original Red.”

Amy and Jake exchanged glances as Veronica sashayed out the door. “She’s not without charm,” Jake said, grinning.

Amy punched him in the arm.

At five o’clock an embarrassed detective showed up at the clinic with a request to examine Amy’s garbage. “A formality,” he said. Someone had filed a complaint, and he was forced to follow through on all leads. He didn’t have a warrant, and Amy didn’t have to comply, he explained. He was sure the drumsticks in her garbage would be much too short to fit the description, and Amy would be exonerated.

Amy looked at Jake. Nothing was said, but the unspoken communication between them was clear. This was getting serious, he thought. This wasn’t funny anymore. They actually suspected Amy.

“It’s okay,” Amy said to the detective. “My garbage isn’t incriminating. You can paw through it to your heart’s content.”

Jake removed his blue veterinary smock. “Let’s get this over with, now. There are only a few appointments left, and Allen can handle them.”

Amy sent him a look of gratitude. She had nothing to hide, but she was frightened all the same. She’d never had anything to do with the police, never even received a traffic ticket. Now she was in the middle of a possible murder investigation.

Suddenly she realized she didn’t have complete faith in the system to protect the innocent. It hurt her to think that someone had accused her of harming an animal; and, what was more, she felt victimized and sullied by the police request that she display her garbage. It lent a certain amount of credibility to the ugly charge.

Half an hour later, Amy sat at the kitchen table with her chin propped up by her hand. Jake sat in a similar position, and the detective kneeled on the floor. Two days’ worth of trash had systematically been strewn onto clean newspapers. Just as they’d all known ahead of time, there had been no feathers, no sign of a butchered bird, no large rooster thighbones, only supermarket packaging.

“I’m really sorry about this,” the detective said. “It was a matter of routine.”

Amy helped scoop up the garbage and stuff it into a large plastic bag. “No problem. Would you like some iced tea?”

The detective declined; he washed his hands and left. The house seemed depressingly quiet. A cherrywood mantel clock ticked somberly in the living room. A bowl of fruit had been placed in the middle of the little table, and Jake stared at it as if mesmerized. Finally, he spoke. “Who do you suppose took that damn bird?”

Amy stood against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. “You think it could have been a prank? Vandalism? Someone broke into the office and thought a rooster would be a fun thing to steal?”

“That’s one possibility.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “Another possibility?”

“Who knew the bird was there?”

“A lot of people,” Amy said. “Everyone who works at the clinic, everyone in the waiting room when the bird was brought in, everyone they talked to…”

“Okay, who knew the bird was there, and might have had a motive for taking it?”

“You aren’t thinking of playing detective, are you?”

Jake looked offended. “It isn’t as if I haven’t any experience. I watch a lot of television. I saw Beverly Hills Cop three times.”

She studied him for a moment. “You have any ideas?”

“I don’t like Turner. Besides, he was too fast to point an accusing finger at you.”

Amy agreed. “But why would he want the rooster?”

“Could be a publicity stunt. Could be the change in format isn’t going as well as he’d like.”

“Gee, you’re pretty good at this,” Amy said.

“Yeah, and I don’t even have a script.”

“I’m afraid to ask what comes next.”

Jake looked at his watch. “Dinner comes next. We’ll wait until it gets dark to do our detecting.”

Amy took two potatoes and two rib steaks from the refrigerator. “We? As in you and me?”

“You know where Turner lives?”

“Oh no! Forget it. I’m not going skulking around his house. I’m in enough trouble.”

She scrubbed the potatoes, punctured them, and put them in the microwave. “Besides, I don’t know where he lives. And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Hmmm,” Jake said, stalking her around the kitchen table, pinning her to the counter. “There are ways of making a woman talk.”

He nudged her with his knee and stared into her wary blue eyes with his laughing brown ones. “I could torture it out of you.”

Amy’s gaze dropped to Jake’s mouth. It was smiling and very close. Close enough to kiss, if she wanted. Her hands were splayed across his chest, originally put there to push him away, but now they felt more inclined to caress than rebuke.

She moved her hands over the material of his button-down shirt, straightening his collar, touching her fingertips to the heated skin of his neck. He was nice to touch. Warm and firm. She watched his mouth soften, his lips part ever so slightly. She felt him lean into her just a bit, fitting himself into her curves.

“You don’t seem like the torturing type,” she said, lacing her voice with false bravado.

“Oh? What type am I?”

The loving type, she thought. She didn’t mean it in the physical, sexual sense. She simply thought that he was a lovable person, and she understood why the checkout ladies had given him such an enthusiastic recommendation. His positive good humor inspired good feelings in others. She was sure his success as a veterinarian was partially due to this. With the possible exception of Mr. Billings’s cat, animals immediately responded to him.

She heard his breath hitch and realized she’d drawn a line across his lower lip with the tip of her finger.

“Criminy,” she said, pulling her hand away as if it had been burned. “I didn’t mean to do that! Gee, I’m really sorry. I mean, you don’t go around fondling your employer. It was just one of those unconscious nervous gestures… like cracking your knuckles or drumming your fingers.”

She was going to be struck down dead for lying. It had been seduction, plain and simple, and they both knew it. And if that weren’t bad enough, she’d panicked like some preteen dimwit.

Jake frowned. “Why do I still make you nervous? I thought you only got nervous on the first kiss.”

“Sometimes on the second kiss,” she said breathlessly, surprised at how badly she wanted that second kiss.

“I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any unnecessary stress,” Jake said, moving his lips lightly across hers, more of a caress than a kiss, more tantalizing than satisfying. “How about the third and fourth?”

Amy felt intoxicated by his nearness, by the prospect of more kisses. He ran his finger across her lip, just as she had done to him, and the gesture was almost unbearable in its tenderness. “Not many men get to the third or fourth,” she answered honestly, watching his mouth slowly descend to hers. It was a gentle kiss, velvety soft and languorous. The kiss deepened, almost enveloping her in its dreamy intimacy

He pulled away and watched her for a moment, enjoying the desire he found in her eyes. There was something special going on between them. They both knew it, though she was more reluctant to act on it. He suspected her personality was more cautious, tidier and more analytical than his.

He tentatively explored the curve of her spine and the angle of her hipbone with a gentle hand. The silk shirt was slick under his touch, the woman warm beneath it. He kissed her again, moving his hands along her rib cage until his thumbs rested on the underside of her breasts.

Now what? He wanted to go on. He wanted to sweep her off her feet and make passionate love to her, over and over again, until they were too exhausted to continue.

“Oh hell,” he muttered.

Amy blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Don’t you have some steak to cook?”

Amy stiffened in his arms. One minute he was all lovey-dovey and then he was grumpy. “Boy, you sure are moody.”

“It’s my stomach. It’s hungry. And I’ve got this chicken thing on my mind.” And I’m in love, he thought. I’m trying to do the right thing, here, but it’s damn frustrating.

Amy took the steaks from the counter and carried them to the grill on the back deck.

“Yeah. I guess I can understand that. I’m upset about the rooster, too. Poor thing. I hope it’s okay.”

It was twilight when they finally rose from the picnic table and carried their dinner remains into the kitchen. Amy made coffee and handed Jake the cookie jar. “Did the police ever figure out how the thief got into the building?”

Jake nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie. “It looked like he just came in through the front door. The police said our locks aren’t especially secure. In fact, they showed me how to open them with a credit card. First thing Monday, I’m having a locksmith change all the locks. And I’ve hired a night attendant. This isn’t going to happen again.”

“Do you suppose it could have been an inside job? Someone with a key?”

Jake shook his head no. “Allen and I are the only ones with keys.”

“I don’t like Brian Turner, either,” Amy said, “but I can’t see him stealing a rooster. I can’t see him getting his hands dirty with something like that.”

“Maybe he didn’t actually do the taking. Maybe there was someone else involved.”

Amy served the coffee and took a cookie from the jar. “Who’d you have in mind? Henry Chickenhawk?”

“How about Veronica Bottles?”

“Why would she want to steal her own rooster?”

Jake shrugged. “She’s dumb enough to do anything. I’m open to ideas.”

“Good. Here’s my idea. How about we forget this whole thing and go for a nice, relaxing five-mile run.”

Jake choked on his coffee. “No! I mean, that’d be great, but what about justice? Your honor is at stake. And besides, I have an obligation here. I lost the bird, so I should find the bird. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.” Not to mention excruciating cramps in my legs. “And I don’t have any shorts with me,” he added lamely.

Amy worried her lower lip. She really wasn’t the dashing, daring detective type. She was early-to-bed, early-to-rise, dependable Amy who liked children and small dogs. She had no aspirations to be Wonder Woman, and she didn’t think her honor was in imminent danger, but she did care about Jake’s reputation as a veterinarian. Darn that chicken. He was nothing but trouble.

With a resigned sigh, Amy presented Jake with the phone book. “I suppose you’re determined to do this.”

Jake sent her a sheepish smile and thumbed through the alphabet. “Turner, Brian. He’s on Ridge Road. Bet he lives in a condo with a Jacuzzi. Bet we find feathers on his driveway.”

His eyes traveled the length of Amy. “I think it would be best if you changed your clothes. Wear something dark. Jeans and sneakers, in case we have to run.”

Amy grimaced. This was going to be a disaster. They were going to get caught and arrested and sent to prison. What would she tell her mother? Who would feed her cat?

Ten minutes later they were seated in Jake’s car. The engine churned, the car backfired twice. Amy suggested, for the sake of a fast and silent getaway, that they use her car.

Jake looked over at the sleek, low-slung red sports car and smiled wide. “Can I drive?”

Amy hesitated. There was something in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he leaned forward when he looked at her car. It was the way she looked at cheesecake.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you? It isn’t paid for.”

He ran his hand over the front fender. “Bet this baby can really move.”

“I don’t know, actually. I don’t drive very fast. I bought it because it was pretty.”

“Oh man! Teakwood steering wheel!”

Amy held the keys tight in her fist. “Except for the steering wheel, the whole car’s fiberglass. They tell me it’ll tear easily. Just crumple at the smallest bump.”

Jake slid behind the wheel and worked the gearshift. “Vroom, vroom, vroom,” he said.

Amy rolled her eyes and dropped the keys in his lap. She marched around to the passenger side and strapped herself in.

Jake was her employer, her friend, her partner in crime. He was something else. Boyfriend? No, boyfriend implied dating. Lover? Not yet. She didn’t know what to call it, but they were definitely in deep like. There was some sort of special relationship growing between them. Relationships required trust, right?

Jake put the car in gear and slowly backed out of the driveway. Okay, nothing to worry about. She trusted him. He put his foot to the accelerator, the result snapping her head back, pressing her into the back of her seat.

“What pickup,” Jake shouted, rocketing down Wheatstone Drive.

Amy clutched the dashboard. “What are you doing? This isn’t a racecourse. This is a family neighborhood. There are dogs and cats and kids scurrying across this road.”

A hint of scarlet spotted his cheekbones. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

“Men.”

Jake looked at her sideways. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Men are always getting carried away. It must be in their DNA. Too much adrenaline. Not enough vitamin B. Too much testosterone.”

“Ah hah! Now we’re getting somewhere. I assume you’re speaking from personal experience? You know someone with too much testosterone?” Give me his name and address, Jake silently raged. I’ll neuter him.

Amy thought about it for a minute. She’d always accused Jeff of being obsessed with sex. In her mind, it had all been vastly overrated, anyway. She’d never been all that tempted to go the distance. Until Jake.

Jake had an invigorating effect on her hormones. Maybe she should reconsider her ideas about getting carried away. Now that she thought about it, she’d gotten sort of carried away when he kissed her for the first time, and she’d definitely been carried away when she was drunk. And tonight… she’d melted in his arms. “Son of a gun.”

“Would you like to elaborate on that statement?” Jake asked.

“Nope. I don’t want to touch it.”

Lord, how do you tell a man he turns you into farina? Especially a man who gets hungry for steak in the middle of a clinch. No sir, you could never accuse Jake of getting carried away. He was the epitome of self-control. He was a brick. And it was really beginning to annoy her.

Amy squinted into the darkness. “Is this the way to Ridge Road?”

“This is the way to my apartment,” Jake said, pulling into a parking lot. “I need some detective equipment.”

Amy studied the red-brick garden apartments. Boring, she thought. Sterile. Two large brick boxes with mean little windows evenly spaced, and flat, uninviting doorways at regular intervals. Most of the grass lawn had been trampled into rock-hard dirt. She inwardly cringed at the thought of Jake living there.

Jake opened his front door and motioned Amy into a small foyer leading to a narrow flight of stairs. Spot bounded down to greet them.

“Spot is the reason I took this apartment,” Jake explained. “It’s only five minutes from the clinic, it’s the only apartment building within five hundred miles that allows pets, and it backs up to a patch of woods and a pond.”

He vigorously scratched the dog’s ears. “Spot likes to swim.” He pushed Spot up the stairs. “I’ve thought about getting a house of my own, but I can’t seem to find the time.”

Amy stood at the top of the stairs and searched for a polite word. She couldn’t find any. The apartment was small and impossibly cluttered. The furniture looked comfortable but threadbare. An expensive ten-speed bike leaned against one wall. A microwave sat on an end table near the couch. Veterinary journals were stacked on the floor by the microwave. A vacuum cleaner sat in the middle of the living room rug, and a well-worn swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated with a coffee-cup ring on the cover occupied a prominent place on the coffee table.

“It’s a placemat,” Jake said.

Amy believed him… almost.

Jake searched through a mound of clean, unfolded laundry, which had been dumped in an overstuffed easy chair.

“I really need more room. I need some place I can use as an office. And I could use a garage or a basement. I grew up in a small town, in a big old farmhouse. It wasn’t used as a farm anymore, but we had lots of elbow room and a bunch of outbuildings.”

He found a wool sweater that had shrunk to the size of doll clothes. “Guess I shouldn’t have put this in the dryer,” he said, throwing the garment across the room for Spot. “Go fetch,” he shouted.

“I like Fairfax. The people are nice, and I like the activity, but I miss the sense of space and order I had as a kid.”

Jake grinned while he pulled on a black T-shirt. “I guess this apartment is like your yard. Out of control. I’d like to fix it up, but I don’t know where to begin. Your house is nice. It feels like home. It’s peaceful.”

Amy folded a towel. “I like it, too. I have a year’s lease with an option to buy. Now that I’ve lost my job at the TV station, I don’t know whether I’ll be able to secure the mortgage.”

She had a small savings account from a trust fund. She’d intended to use it as a down payment, but if she didn’t get a better-paying job soon, she’d have to start dipping into the account to pay bills. She thought of the expensive red car sitting in the parking lot and pressed her lips together. Hindsight.

Jake took a pair of binoculars and a camera from the hall closet. “The professionals always take these on a stakeout. You don’t always see them, because sometimes they leave them in their cars.”

“Don’t you need a trench coat, too?”

“It’s at the cleaners.”