Maid of Murder

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Relax,” A voice broke through my hysteria. “India?”

I gulped down the last cry on my lips. Psycho killers don’t usually know your name. Unless they’re stalkers, my brain added. I took a breath to scream again.

“It’s Rick.”

Rick? Rick who? Mains. Oh. Does he want me to call him Rick? I’m not calling him Rick, I thought.

I peered through the open window. Mains’s face loomed white as Santa’s beard. Served him right.

I braced my hands on my chest and thrust my heart back behind my sternum. He backed up from the car door.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack. I could sue the city for this. Terrorizing law-abiding citizens,” I said.

“Whoa there,” he said as if I were a testy gelding. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you overreacted.”

“Overreacted? Overreacted.” I struggled out of my car and the heavy door pinched my left calf on the way out. After freeing myself from the metal beast, I slammed the door shut. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m a little on edge.”

Mains threw his hands up like one of his perps. “I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” I couldn’t think of anything to end the sentence. I leaned on the hood of the car to mask my confusion.

I noticed how the sunshine reflected off Mains’s dark hair. Carmen had been right: he did have great hair. No, no, no, no. I will not do this. He’s not cute, I told myself. I can’t think that. I tried to focus on Mark freezing to death in the Justice Center jail cell. Leave, my brain begged. Leave now.

Mains interrupted my inner debate. “Who was that guy you were chatting up at the funeral?”

“You were at the funeral? I never saw you.”

“I sat directly behind you. You never looked back.”

He must mean Bobby, I thought. I took a breath. “Why do you care who that guy was? Is he wanted for something?”

He scowled and wiped his damp forehead with a gray handkerchief that matched his tie. “We need to talk.”

The metal hood burned the back of my thighs, but I didn’t move. The temperature camped in the high eighties and the humidity was as stubborn. I removed my jacket and tossed it through the open window onto the seat. “Why, Detective?”

“Your brother was arraigned this morning. To my surprise, Lewis Clive stated that bond would not be posted on Mark’s behalf.”

I ignored the implied questions. “How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“A hundred thousand dollars,” I whispered. “Why?”

“The judge believes Mark is a flight risk.”

I had a sinking feeling. “Who was the judge?”

“The Honorable Martha Luckas.”

As I feared. Back when the Honorable Martha Luckas was only a public defender, she was my family’s next door neighbor on Kilbourne Street. Many times, my daydreamy brother would ride his mountain bike through her impeccable front lawn and flower beds in his haste to return home to his beloved calculus problems.

“Of course, it would be her.” I laughed mirthlessly. “A flight risk? Mark doesn’t know a soul outside of Stripling.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and willed myself to breathe normally.

“By the way the judge was staring down your brother, Mark’s lucky she set bond at all.”

I removed my hands. “Is Stripling really this corrupt?”

“Not corrupt.” Mains said, nonplused. “Small.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why isn’t your family posting bail?”

Before I could answer or avoid an answer, heavy footsteps approached from behind. Unwilling to be caught unaware again, I spun around. Kirk jogged across the parking lot. He waved a hand over his head. “Detective!”

Mains stepped away from me and approached Kirk.

Despite the humidity, Kirk wasn’t winded from his jaunt across the square, a fringe benefit of his peak physical condition. Another benefit would be the ability to crack Brazil nuts with his biceps.

Mains greeted Kirk in muted tones, but Kirk spoke normally. “How’s the case going? Are you going to get him? I would’ve been at the courthouse today, if it hadn’t been . . .”

Mains made uninformative and generic statements about the case against my brother, obviously aware of my proximity.

“I can testify,” Kirk declared. “Anything to put that bastard away.”

My best recourse was to slip into my car and drive away. The ancient door hinges wailed under the simple movement. With the speed of a greyhound, Kirk was beside me. He smacked the hood of the car. I wondered if the automobile would require body work after all its post-funeral love taps. Not that the pounding could make it look much worse.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t have been at her funeral. You weren’t invited.” His face was the color of an overripe raspberry.

“Last time I checked, Kirk, funerals didn’t require RSVPs. Furthermore, I’ve known Olivia my entire life and have every right to attend her funeral.”

Kirk stood inches from me, pressing me back into the car. I straightened to my full height and looked down at him. “You and that brother of yours orchestrated Olivia’s death,” he growled.

“What kind of crock conspiracy theory is that? And is orchestrated your word for the day?”

“India,” Mains warned, edging closer.

“Mark had nothing to do with Olivia’s death, and neither did I.”

Kirk pressed against my body and lifted his hand as if to strike. Mains was there in an instant.

He grabbed Kirk’s wrist in a viselike grip. “If you hit her, Mr. Row, you will spend the rest of the day in jail, no matter who Regina Blocken calls.” He released Kirk’s wrist.

Kirk lowered his hand. “Tell that brother of yours it’s prison or the funeral home.”

Mains yanked Kirk away from me. Kirk stalked off across the parking lot.

Mains watched him cross the street, then turned to me. “Are you all right?” His expression was one of true concern.

“Fine,” I whispered.

Maybe Mark was better off in jail. Even with that in mind, I would do my best to get him out.