Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [61]
He grabbed the door from my hand and slammed it closed. His swift and unexpected action caused me to jump.
“I don’t think so,” he said. Then added, “Ma’am.”
I tightened my lips and told myself to breathe deeply. “Fine,” I said and in a terse voice told him everything that had happened since JJ first came into my office this morning.
“Add that note with the conversation you accidentally overheard at the party, and it sounds an awful lot like blackmail,” he said.
“So it appears,” I replied, ignoring his gibe.
“Do you think Susa Girard knows what it is Giles Norton had on Cappy?”
“I have no idea.”
“Looks like Officer Girard, Miss Girard, and their delightful mother and I need to chat again. And I’d like to take a look at that note and grave rubbing myself. What kind of flower did you say it was?”
“Lily of the valley.” A cold breeze . . . or the thought of the grave rubbing . . . caused me to shiver. Goosebumps covered my bare arms. I slipped my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and touched the copies of the note and grave rubbing. I knew I should show them to him right now, but he’d irritated me so much, I decided to keep quiet. Let him get his own copies. “Maybe you should talk to Gabe before you talk to Bliss.”
“I don’t have to clear anything with Chief Ortiz. He’s not my boss.”
I frowned at him.
“Have you told him any of this?” he pressed.
“I’m on my way home to tell him now. We haven’t crossed paths long enough to talk today. He’s . . . we’ve both been busy.”
He nodded, his eyes solemn. “Ex-wives have a way of taking up a man’s time, that’s for sure.”
“Is there anything else, Detective Hudson?” I said coolly, not about to discuss Gabe or his ex-wife with him.
“Not right now, but I’ll be in touch. You’re doin’ a bang-up job, Mrs. Ortiz.”
“My last name is Harper,” I snapped.
His thick eyebrows went up. “You don’t say? You’re one of them liberated women? Gotta maintain your own identity and all? I’m impressed.”
“It’s not because . . .” I started, then stopped, annoyed at myself for even bringing it up. “Oh, forget it.” I started to climb in the truck, then turned and said, “When you talk to Bliss, please be careful. She’s . . . well, she’s not feeling too good and this . . .”
“Benni,” he said softly. “I’m not going to browbeat a pregnant woman. Give this Texas bubba credit for having some class even if I do wear white-trash boots.”
Again I felt my face go hot. It was disconcerting at times how well he read my mind.
He reached over and touched a finger to my cheek. I jerked back, surprised by the tiny jolt of electricity I felt. His knowing chuckle made me want to slap him. He mimed tipping his hat and said smoothly, “Thanks for the dance, darlin’. Most fun I’ve had since I landed here on the Central Coast.”
I watched him walk away, my hand still itching to do something, like throw a rock at the back of his head or slap my own husband upside the head because his preoccupation with his ex-wife was putting me in this awkward position.
Gabe’s Corvette was parked in front when I got home, but he wasn’t inside the house. They were obviously still cruising around in Lydia’s car. I took a quick shower and pulled on a cotton T-shirt and boxer-style shorts and was making myself a vanilla Coke when Lydia’s Jag pulled up in front of our house. The clock above the stove read eight o’clock. Through the kitchen window I watched him get out of the driver’s seat and walk across the yard, whistling softly.
“Hi,” I said, sipping on my drink at the kitchen table. “Guess we missed each other tonight.”
“Guess so. I was talking to Larry, that deputy district attorney who’s running for DA and Lydia and he discovered they had some people in common. After tasting a couple of wines, we went over to the Thai restaurant for a quick bite. Lydia doesn’t care for Cajun food.”
“Oh.” The ice in my drink cracked, sounding loud in the silence.
He pulled his dark green polo shirt over his head in one swift motion. “It’s warm tonight, don’t you think?”
“Anything new with Sam?”
He shook his