Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart Read Online Free Page B

slip—and in Ted's case, flip—and it was all over.
    "Yeah," I said, as she refilled my cup. "Between weather problems and losing another customer to a thieving competitor, it's been a long day. God, I'll be glad to see the end of this summer."
    It was my usual lament, and in light of the fiasco with the widow Warren, the best I could do. She nodded and kindly didn't mention yesterday's front page with my picture on it, then moved on to the next customer. Reluctant to read the headlines, I unfolded The Modesto Bee to the back section and started with the funnies. When that chuckle was through, I turned the paper over to the front page and started at the bottom, vaguely wondering if the city council had ever solved the problem of Frances Quilmar's illegal outhouses.
    I did an audible gasp at the headline. Snowflake Man Found Dead by Woman He Harassed. The newspaper had obviously dubbed him Snowflake Man for the simple reason that paper snowflakes had recently garnished my Caddy and it looked good in print. Anything to take our minds off the August heat was a welcome change.
    I could feel eyes boring into my back. They'd all read the headlines, and my gasp only confirmed their suspicions, because nobody offered the punch line to "How long does it take for a girl crop duster to finish spraying a row of corn?" Why did I think I would have even a whole day without the entire town thinking I might yet be responsible for another murder? It hadn't stuck last year and I was going to make sure it didn't stick this time, either.
    A big dark hand with bright red nails set a plate in front of me. Roxanne, delivering good on her promise to fatten me up on Leon's pie because I didn't eat right during the summer season. Chocolate chip with dark chocolate cookie crust. Convinced that chocolate pie before noon would mean I'd have to join Overeaters Anonymous, I moved the plate out of reach and looked up at Roxanne. At her kind, sympathetic face, I covered my own with my hands, hoping the trouble my dad said I trailed along behind me hadn't followed me into her café.
    "Oh God, Roxy, how bad is it this time?"
    She glared at the occupants on the stools next to me, and though I heard a rustle and few muttered complaints, the counter was now clear of big ears. She patted my shoulder. "Eat your pie, sweetpea."
    I caved as she knew I would. I chewed on her husband's famous chocolate pie. I swallowed, urging the pie to go down where it belonged, but the silky texture and warm cocoa might as well have been sand in my throat.
    She lowered her voice and leaned in. "I called your house, didn't want to add to the ton of messages you must be getting by now. We heard some of it on dispatch, then some from Caleb when he came in. He looked about as tired as you do today. You get any sleep at all?"
    "I had to work today, and that didn't go so well either," I answered. "Caleb say anything?"
    "Just that he's been trying to reach you. Paper says you were questioned after finding the body, the police want to talk to anyone else who saw him that day, and right after this year's criminal and murder count, a brief rehash of your modeling career."
    "Okay, that's not so bad; though second billing below the state's murder count is now the least of my problems."
    "What do you mean?" she asked, her brows making twin furrows above her wide nose.
    I told her about my frightening experience with an intruder who left a threatening message on my dad's door.
    "When?"
    "It was after I came home from finding Billy Wayne in the alley."
    "I presume you're going to take that message as gospel." Gospel, according to my pragmatic friend, was whatever got one through the day, as long as it didn't get you arrested or shot.
    "I didn't ask for any of this. Before yesterday, I probably passed two, maybe three words with Billy Wayne. I was picking up Caleb for a lunch date at County, and Billy's down on his knees, those strange yellow rubber dish gloves on his hands while he's polishing