Give Me Chills Page 3

  "What?" Zander said.

  I looked up, alarmed. Should I tell him about what I'd overheard? What had I heard, anyway? I licked my lips. What if I'd misinterpreted? What if they hadn't said cyanide? What rhymes with cyanide? I mentally went through the options. If I told Zander, he'd understandably call the police, and poor Aunt Linda's wake would be ruined. All because my mind was going bananas. Nope. I'd listened to one too many true crime podcasts, and I was exhausted from not sleeping much last night.

  "Hadley?" Zander prompted.

  "N-nothing. I realized that I need to be at the park with the van today. I… I have someone from the city coming. Something about licensing. I totally forgot. Really have to go now." I was a terrible liar.

  "Oh! Of course, you have to get going. Makes sense." He ran a hand through his hair. "Thanks for making the cake, Hadley. I appreciate it more than you know. I realized on the way over here that I didn't have cash with me. Can I bring some by later?"

  "You don't have to pay me at all." I waved him off and stepped toward the French door.

  "How about I take you to dinner Friday?"

  "Dinner? Friday? That's tomorrow." My breathing, which was already shallow, stopped for a second.

  Zander grinned. "Dinner, as in a date." He looked at me through those long lashes and smiled sweetly. Dear God, he was gorgeous. And he seemed so unlike my ex. Kind. Polite. Employed. Talk about low standards. My mind reeled.

  Say no! You've sworn off men. And what about that murder confession? Blergh. But maybe if I went out with him, I could find out more about Linda and figure out why someone would want her dead…

  "Okay," I said.

  He opened the French door. "After you," he said.

  "Thanks." I paused in the kitchen, which was still empty. What was I supposed to say now? Have fun at the wake? I'd never been in this situation before.

  "No, I owe you a huge thank you." He shoved his hands into his pockets and cast his eyes downward.

  I was about to squeeze his arm, give him a hug, something for comfort, when the man who'd answered the door — the mortician — stepped into the kitchen. "Mr. Caldwell?"

  Zander looked up. "Yes?"

  "We have a situation. May I speak with you in private?"

  I extended my hand, and Zander took it. We awkwardly clasped each other's fingers in a half-handshake.

  "I'll let you go," I murmured, and he nodded. Although I was dying to know what the mortician meant by "situation."

  "See you later, Hadley."

  I hurried through the house, past the tall windows and the beautifully decorated rooms. Once outside, I ran to my van, replaying in my mind everything that I'd just seen and heard. A gorgeous man asked me on a date. At a wake. While delivering a cake. Stuff like this never happened back home.

  Giggling from sheer nervousness, I sped off, the horn bleating desperately all the way down the block.

  Five

  For the rest of the afternoon and through the early evening, I couldn't concentrate. Usually the sunset on Devil’s Beach left me breathless and I’d take a moment to savor the beauty. Instead, I scooped ice cream like a zombie and once accidentally gave someone a curry instead of a vanilla.

  Let me tell you, vanilla ice cream lovers are not thrilled when they take that first lick of curry.

  At the end of the shift, after I'd shut the van's window and rolled down the canopy, I scanned the food truck parking lot and sighed. Devon and Amelia weren't working tonight because they were catering a neighborhood festival on the other side of the island. Tonight, it was just me and a newer truck called Nacho Daddy.

  It was run by an older hipster-looking guy with a handlebar mustache. I'd already forgotten his name. He'd flirted with me all night, bringing me little plates of spicy nachos. They were tasty, but he was too persistent and way too old — probably in his late forties — so I gave him a quick wave.

  "Night!" I called out, my hand on the driver's side door.

  "Want to grab a drink? We could hit the Dirty Dolphin." He started sauntering toward me, his camel-colored corduroys a little too skinny. Ugh. I’d heard of that bar, mostly because it appeared with alarming regularity in crime briefs in the local paper.

  "Nope, sorry, lots of work to do." I hopped in the seat, slammed the door, and roared off. Well, roared is a bit of a stretch in a vintage VW van. More like purred, with a soft honk. Yeah, the horn was still a problem. By now I'd gotten used to it and just turned the pop music station up a little louder. I'd even successfully ignored all the chuckles, smirks, and suggestive comments from other motorists, and it was a personal victory that I didn't flip anyone off while driving home.

  Back in my apartment, I paced the wood floor of my small studio. I replayed the weird, overheard conversation about the poisoning in my mind. A quick Google search revealed that not only did cyanide taste and smell like almonds, but the poison was naturally occurring in bitter almonds. Those weren't the kind normally used in cooking, and I became absorbed in my reading.

  "Holy crap," I whispered as I read aloud about the lethal almond variety.

  Roughly a dozen to 70 nuts can kill a 150-pound adult. The exact number depends on the size of the nuts. Bitter almonds lose their toxicity when cooked. The sale of the unrefined nuts is prohibited in the U.S. Bitter almonds are still used in areas of Europe and are sold in pharmacies in Germany and are an ingredient in Christmas fruitcake. Bitter almonds are used to make marzipan and cookies in Europe and are used in a sweet syrup in Greece.

  Yikes. Who knew?

  The kind of almonds I used in my ice cream were the regular, non-toxic sweet variety. After I'd read more about almonds than I ever wanted to know, I gulped down a glass of ice water and glanced at the clock. It was nine at night. Was Zander home from the wake?

  A zing of panic shot through my stomach. What if those two people wanted to hurt Zander? If they killed Linda — and that was obviously a big assumption on my part, but still — why wouldn't they hurt someone else?

  Nope, I couldn't wait until tomorrow night to tell him. I reached in my back pocket where I'd stashed his card. With shaking hands, I tapped his phone number into my cell. He answered on the third ring.

  "Hello?"

  My shoulders relaxed a little when I heard his warm voice. "Zander? It's Hadley."

  "Hey, how are you? Your cake was a hit."

  "Oh! Well, awesome. I mean, I'm glad it was a comfort. I'm… okay. How are you? Did everything go okay?" What a stupid question. I winced.

  There was a lull, and I paced the length of my apartment, waiting for him to respond.

  "As well as can be expected from a wake." He let out a breath.

  "Well, about that. I think there's something you should know. Something potentially important. Ah, I think I should tell you in person and it shouldn't wait until tomorrow. I know you're probably busy or exhausted, and I'm really sorry, but could we meet? If it's too much of a hassle, I guess I could tell you on the phone."

  "You sound distraught. Of course we can talk tonight. Where are you? In your van at the park?" Concern dripped from every word.

  "No. I'm home. I can meet you somewhere. I don't want you to go out of your way." I also didn't want him to see my crappy apartment building on the sketchy side of the island.

  "I'm still at my aunt's, but I’m headed back to my condo and need to let my dog out to do his business. There's a little coffee shop that's open late about two blocks from me. It’s called Perkatory. You can meet Ziggy."

  "Aww, Zander and Ziggy." I smiled for the first time in hours.

  He let out a soft laugh. "My little sister named him. Anyway, meet me at Perkatory. I'll text you the address. Unless you want me to come to you."

  "No, that's perfect! I want to see Ziggy. And I think I know where the coffee shop is, but text me anyway." Since I was trying to save money, I hadn’t eaten out at all since coming to Florida.

  After we hung up, I quickly changed out of my all-black ensemble into a pair of jeans
and a white hoodie. I paused before I opened the door. Should I wear something more feminine? It's not like this was a date.

  We'd be discussing murder. A chill flowed down my spine.

  Still. I slapped on some pink lipstick, squirted jasmine-scented perfume on my wrists and neck, then ran out the door, down the exterior stairs, and pulled on my helmet before hopping on my white Vespa. As I sped past palm trees and tourists strolling toward downtown, my heart pounded from nerves. Something about the humidity hitting the backs of my hands and the dark, starless sky felt ominous. Gah. I needed to stop with the true crime podcasts. Questions raced through my mind.

  Who were those two people at the wake who mentioned the cyanide? Did Zander know them? Were they his relatives?

  I rounded the corner to Perkatory, the coffee shop, and rode past, searching for a parking space. I circled the island’s downtown a couple of times, mostly to calm my buzzing mind. Downtown Devil’s Beach had a Key West vibe, with historic, four-story brick buildings housing the many businesses and boutiques. Those were interspersed with grand old wooden homes turned into bed and breakfasts. The downtown was a block from the beach, and the streets in back of the main drag — in the direction away from the beach — were filled with small, brightly colored wooden bungalows.

  Someday, I hoped to buy one of those little homes.

  Perkatory was on the bottom floor of one of the sprawling, four-story brick buildings. I spotted Zander immediately, sitting at an outdoor table, a large white dog at his feet. They looked like an espresso ad, or an expensive dog food ad. He was on the phone, laughing, and didn't notice me because of the white helmet covering my face and head.

  I slowed to a stop at the light and stared at Zander in my side mirror. Whoever he was chatting with must have been a comedian. He seemed way too merry for someone fresh from a wake. The light switched to green, and I scooted off, finding a parking space on the next block.

  After I killed the engine, but before I pulled my helmet off, I paused. What did I truly know about Zander, anyway? Very little, other than his profession. And the fact he was startlingly handsome. He could be anyone.

  Even a killer.

  Six

  As soon as Zander spotted me on the sidewalk, he jumped to his feet. Maybe it was wishful thinking after my moment of paranoia, but he seemed relieved to see me. Happy, even.

  "I worried that somehow I'd missed you. My sense of time's messed up." He gestured to an empty chair. It was faded white wicker, with a plump blue cushion in the seat.

  "I'm the late one. Traffic was terrible near the beach." My gaze went to the white dog. It was shaggy but not unkempt, and utterly adorable.

  "That's the infamous Ziggy." He was still standing, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Probably he was the only person alive who could make a V-neck gray T-shirt look sexy.

  I held my hand out so the dog could sniff. He looked up at Zander with deep brown eyes, then at me.

  "He needs a few minutes to get used to new people. He'll warm up in no time. Hey, would you like something to drink?" He pointed to the café's front door. "Let me buy you something. It's the least I can do after your ice cream."

  I visibly cringed. It was still difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that my ice cream was the instrument for poison. "Um, sure. How about a mocha?"

  "Got it. Ziggy's leash is attached to the chair leg. He shouldn't give you any problem."

  As Zander strode off, the dog and I eyed each other. He butted my knuckles with his snout.

  "Oh, you want a scratch?" I stroked the long fur that nearly obscured his eyes. He panted in response. "What a good boy."

  We sat like this for several long minutes, me patting the dog, him inching closer. My mind wandered to Zander and the earlier thoughts about him being involved in his aunt's death.

  He obviously wasn't one of the two people I'd overheard talking about cyanide in the garage. Still, that didn't mean much. If true crime podcasts had taught me anything, it was that human beings were extremely creative when it came to murder. And they often collaborated for nefarious reasons: greed, lust, revenge. And by the looks of her house, Zander’s aunt had been loaded.

  "Here we go." Zander appeared, carrying a blue mug. The mocha was topped with a small mountain of whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce. He set it down in front of me on the wicker-and-glass table along with a spoon and a napkin.

  "Thanks," I murmured, and he beamed. Oh, dear. He was such a sweetheart. If only this were a date. Everything about it was perfect, except for the murder part. My mouth watered at the sight of the whipped cream. As much as I wanted to dig in, I couldn't. My stomach twitched at the thought of what I was about to tell him.

  When Zander sat, he tilted his head. "Why was it so urgent that we meet tonight?"

  Bless him for not making fun of me or cracking a crass joke about a booty call. That's what my ex would have done. I stared into Zander's eyes and told him everything.

  After I spoke non-stop for a solid fifteen minutes, recounting every detail, Zander leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

  "Whoa. Whoa. This was why you were so freaked out when I saw you at my aunt's house."

  "Exactly." I dipped into the mocha with my spoon and took a mouthful. It was heavenly. "What do you think we should do? Go to the police?"

  He leaned forward and sighed. "Before we do that, I want to make a list of the people at her dinner party that night."

  "You were there and don't know their names?" I squinted. Odd.

  "I know most of their names, and all their first names. There were nine people total, and I don't know everyone's last name. I'll look at the email invite she sent and try to cobble together a list. Police are going to want that."

  I couldn't argue with that. "Were all the guests at her funeral and wake?"

  He nodded. "They were. I'm wondering if there's other evidence we could give police."

  I took a sip of the coffee and dabbed whipped cream from my upper lip with a napkin. "The ice cream cartons in the recycling bins in the garage. Those could have traces of cyanide. Do you think those are still there?"

  He snapped his fingers. "I'm sure they are. Recycling in her neighborhood isn't until tomorrow."

  My eyes widened. "So we could grab those and maybe give them to the cops for evidence."

  He stared at me as if I’d suggested something brilliant. "Would you go with me to get them? I don't recall seeing them in that junk-filled garage."

  I hesitated. Was this a good idea?

  "Please?" he asked, then bit his full bottom lip. “I think it could be helpful.”

  "I guess I could go with you. Do you have a key to her house?"

  He smiled. "I know where she left her spare."

  "Let's do it." I took another gulp of the mocha, savoring the balance of coffee and chocolate. I wasn't getting a killer vibe from him. He seemed curious and anguished. He needed my help, or maybe my presence. I could almost feel the loneliness coming off him in waves.

  "I'm thinking you should drive, Hadley. My car's in the shop. I don't use it much anyway because I live so close to work. I've been getting around with Uber."

  "All I have is a scooter, but okay." My brows drew together. I'd owned a scooter in high school and took my best friend on rides, but I hadn't had a passenger since I'd bought the Vespa when I first moved to Devil’s Beach.

  We decided that he'd take Ziggy back home, then I'd meet him at his condo building a couple blocks away.

  He and the dog set off, and I finished the coffee. I'd definitely need caffeine for this mission.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled my Vespa in front of his building. I paused to admire the rich brick façade. I longed to explore the old cigar factory because it seemed like it had the potential to be both beautiful and deliciously spooky. Probably not the night to ask Zander if the place was haunted, though.

  He emerged from the front door.

  I flipped up my visor. "I just realized
, I don't have a second helmet. Are you sure you want to do this? We could walk. Or you could wear the helmet."

  "No. Keep it on. I don’t mind not wearing one. It's not far. Only about five blocks. A straight shot that way for four blocks, then turn left for two. You know the way, right? It’s a pretty small island." I nodded as he pointed down the dark street. "I trust your scooter skills."

  He slid on the back, his inner thighs hugging my butt. A wave of tingles flowed through my body.

  I turned my head. "You should hold on."

  His hands went around my waist, and I flipped the visor down. Accelerating gently, I eased the scooter into the street.

  It didn't take long to reach his aunt's house, and I parked in the driveway. He gracefully dismounted from the scooter. For some reason, there were no streetlights on this part of the island, and when I killed the engine, near-darkness descended on us. There was a weak light from a nearby porch light, and I could barely make out his face. I tugged the helmet over my head. Even though the night air was warm and still, my fingers felt like icicles.

  "This way," he whispered.

  I followed him around the side of the house, to the garage, a tickling ache in the back of my throat. We passed rows of fragrant tropical plants, and I sneezed. I glanced to the left to see a wall of jasmine. I sneezed again. Ugh. Was I allergic?

  We came to a side door, and Zander knelt. A garden ornament in the shape of a turtle sat on the ground, and he twisted the shell. It opened to reveal a compartment containing a key. He rose and slid the key into the lock, then eased the door open a few inches while digging in his front pocket. "I'll use my cell as a flashlight."

  Aiming the beam inside, we stepped in. My heart pounded so hard that I wondered if he could hear it rattle against my chest.

  "Where was the bin?" he murmured.

  We'd stopped next to a wall of boxes, and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I licked my lips, then tried to swallow. But couldn't. "Over there, near the kitchen door."