01 - Playing with Poison Read Free Page A

eyebrow in my direction. “Be careful, Ms. Hewitt. They’re bound to be up here harassing you before long.”
    “What? You didn’t tell them about me?”
    “Absolutely not. But someone down there is bound to mention Ms. Poppe. I guarantee Jimmy Beak will be figuring out where Sweetzer died soon enough.
    “Which reminds me.” His tone changed. “When do you plan on putting a lock on that door downstairs? Anyone and his brother has access to this building. You realize that?”
    Yes, I did. It was kind of hard to forget, what with Rye’s constant reminders.
    “You should get a lock,” he continued lecturing. “You’ll see what I mean when Beak comes knocking at your door.”
    As if on cue, the news crew emerged from the bar. A very tall guy in a plaid suit ran into the street and started waving both arms at our building. Rye and I jumped away from the window as the man carrying the camera lifted it in our direction.
    “Is that him?” I asked. “The guy in plaid?”
    “Steer clear.”
    I folded my arms and thought about it. “Stanley must have been over there waiting for Candy last night.”
    Rye glanced down at me. “Before he came up here?”
    “Well, clearly it wasn’t after he came up here.”
    We stepped even further from the window, and Rye again noticed my desk. He touched nothing, but seemed to be taking a mental inventory of what was there—my laptop and a clutter of papers, pens, and sticky notes.
    Eventually his gaze landed on the nearby bookshelf, and again the mental inventory. The poor guy. To the uninitiated, my masterpieces must all look the same—inch thick paperbacks with lots of pastels and flowers decorating their spines.
    He pulled out one of the tomes and studied it. “What exactly do you do for a living?”
    I reached over and tapped the cover. “That’s me.”
    He lowered the book to look at me. “Say what?”
    I took a closer glance and understood why the man was so incredulous. I had pointed to a buxom—no, let’s be accurate—very buxom, youthful redhead wearing a pink petticoat and looking more than sufficiently ravished by the muscular hunk gently caressing her swooning and lithe body.
    I jabbed my finger at the name below the woman’s bodice. “I’m Adelé Nightingale.”
    “You mean, you actually read this stuff?” Rye was still perplexed.
    Again, I pointed to my name, clearly printed in metallic pink script. “No,” I said, “I write this stuff. Adelé Nightingale’s my pen name.”
    “Adelé Nightingale.” He took another look at the book and read out loud, “ A Deluge of Desire. ” He turned it over and read the back cover. “You mean, you actually write this stuff?”
    I crossed my arms and glared. “Yes, I actually do. Believe it or not, my steamy sex scenes are the stuff of legend in romance circles. I’m damn good.”
    A slow grin made its way across his face. “Oh, Ms. Hewitt, I’m sure you are.”
    I grabbed the book and jammed it back on the shelf. “What is it you want, Captain?”
    He lost the grin and pulled a tape player out of his suit pocket. “We need to talk,” he said and placed the machine on the two inches of clear space on my desk.
    Snowflake moved from her perch on the windowsill to the top of my computer, where she had better access to the new gadget. She tapped it with her paw while I stared at it, aghast.
    “Are you recording this?” I forced myself to ask.
    “No, but your conversation with the dispatcher last night got recorded. It’s standard procedure.”
    “Oh?”
    “And I’d like you to hear it.”
    Rye hit the play button, and we listened as the dispatcher answered my call of distress. She asked what type of emergency I had, and I said a murder. Then she asked me where, and I told her my couch.
    “The address, ma’am,” she said. “I need the address.”
    I gave her that, and after getting a few more details about Stanley, she told me to stay with the body until help arrived.
    “Great idea,” I had said