Read Online Dead Eye (A Tiger's Eye Mystery Book 1) by Alyssa Day - Free Book Online
Authors: Alyssa Day
Tags: Military, Romantic Comedy, amateur detective, Murder, Paranormal Mystery, Comedy, shapeshifter
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myself, and then I drove to the shop, parked, and proceeded to bang my head against the steering wheel a few times. I had a feeling that I was going to be in constant danger from self-inflicted concussion if Jack kept hanging around Dead End and me.
I should look at the bright side. Maybe I could blame my lack of parking skills on head injury.
Chapter Seven
E leanor was with a customer when I walked into the shop. Jeremiah had always said that Eleanor was our secret weapon. She was in her early sixties, not very tall, and she looked like everybody’s favorite next-door neighbor. She was smart, one of the nicest people on the planet, and the best negotiator I’d ever seen. While I focused on profit margins and averages, and Jeremiah had focused on what he coveted with his collector’s eye, Eleanor saw it as a hugely exciting game to get the best possible deal on every single item that came into the pawnshop.
Not in a shady or dishonest way, just in a way that made every transaction into a high-stakes poker game for her. We made sure to treat our customers fairly, both because it was the right thing to do and because a pawnshop that cheated people would never survive. Eleanor’s customers, in fact, loved her so much that they came back over and over. She had a way of making the simple act of pawning the family guitar until after payday seem like a bit of fun and excitement in an otherwise humdrum day.
This morning, though, she was talking to a man I’d never seen before. He turned to look at me when the little bell over the door tinkled, and his eyes narrowed.
“You are the one who discovered the body?” His accent was definitely not from around here.
I took a quick inventory of the stranger, who was totally hot. Black hair, rich brown eyes, and deep caramel skin. Okay, that didn’t exactly help identify him.
Suit too expensive to wear to a pawnshop? Check. Shoes way too nice and shiny for any kind of local or state law enforcement? Check. Expression too open and honest for a journalist? Check. Or maybe that last one was just my own personal prejudice. I’d hated reporters ever since the incident with Annabel Yorgenson. Somehow, that story had made its way onto the CNN website, and I’d been a seven-day wonder. Everyone in town had gone into overdrive, trying to portray Dead End as a normal, sleepy, southern town to the press who’d bothered to come in person. We’d succeeded, mostly, but there were some who were still ticked off at me about the whole thing.
So who could he be? A fed? But why would the feds be investigating Chantal?
“I’m Tess Callahan,” I said, not exactly answering his question. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Alejandro Vasquez,” he said, with that liquid accent that would have made Molly melt into butter if she’d been here. He held out his hand, but I shook my head. No way was I taking the chance of seeing a federal agent’s death. He didn’t seem surprised though; maybe lots of people avoided shaking his hand in his line of work.
He showed me his badge, which looked real enough that I’d probably offer him cash if he’d been there to pawn it, but you could never really tell with badges or anything else. Run a pawnshop for long enough, and you’ll realize that everything that can be forged has been forged. Even the sheriff himself, an avid gun collector, had been fooled at gun shows a few times.
“Agent Vasquez is from Guatemala,” Eleanor said, smiling broadly and adding a little extra drawl to her voice. “Couldn’t you just listen to him talk all day long?”
“Fluttery southern woman” was one of Eleanor’s favorite personas with tourists. She claimed it got her an extra ten percent added to the top of every transaction.
“Originally from Guatemala. Currently from the FBI’s Paranormal Operations division,” he said, slanting an amused glance at Eleanor.
I had a feeling she didn’t fool him at all. Actually, I had a feeling that not much got by
I should look at the bright side. Maybe I could blame my lack of parking skills on head injury.
Chapter Seven
E leanor was with a customer when I walked into the shop. Jeremiah had always said that Eleanor was our secret weapon. She was in her early sixties, not very tall, and she looked like everybody’s favorite next-door neighbor. She was smart, one of the nicest people on the planet, and the best negotiator I’d ever seen. While I focused on profit margins and averages, and Jeremiah had focused on what he coveted with his collector’s eye, Eleanor saw it as a hugely exciting game to get the best possible deal on every single item that came into the pawnshop.
Not in a shady or dishonest way, just in a way that made every transaction into a high-stakes poker game for her. We made sure to treat our customers fairly, both because it was the right thing to do and because a pawnshop that cheated people would never survive. Eleanor’s customers, in fact, loved her so much that they came back over and over. She had a way of making the simple act of pawning the family guitar until after payday seem like a bit of fun and excitement in an otherwise humdrum day.
This morning, though, she was talking to a man I’d never seen before. He turned to look at me when the little bell over the door tinkled, and his eyes narrowed.
“You are the one who discovered the body?” His accent was definitely not from around here.
I took a quick inventory of the stranger, who was totally hot. Black hair, rich brown eyes, and deep caramel skin. Okay, that didn’t exactly help identify him.
Suit too expensive to wear to a pawnshop? Check. Shoes way too nice and shiny for any kind of local or state law enforcement? Check. Expression too open and honest for a journalist? Check. Or maybe that last one was just my own personal prejudice. I’d hated reporters ever since the incident with Annabel Yorgenson. Somehow, that story had made its way onto the CNN website, and I’d been a seven-day wonder. Everyone in town had gone into overdrive, trying to portray Dead End as a normal, sleepy, southern town to the press who’d bothered to come in person. We’d succeeded, mostly, but there were some who were still ticked off at me about the whole thing.
So who could he be? A fed? But why would the feds be investigating Chantal?
“I’m Tess Callahan,” I said, not exactly answering his question. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Alejandro Vasquez,” he said, with that liquid accent that would have made Molly melt into butter if she’d been here. He held out his hand, but I shook my head. No way was I taking the chance of seeing a federal agent’s death. He didn’t seem surprised though; maybe lots of people avoided shaking his hand in his line of work.
He showed me his badge, which looked real enough that I’d probably offer him cash if he’d been there to pawn it, but you could never really tell with badges or anything else. Run a pawnshop for long enough, and you’ll realize that everything that can be forged has been forged. Even the sheriff himself, an avid gun collector, had been fooled at gun shows a few times.
“Agent Vasquez is from Guatemala,” Eleanor said, smiling broadly and adding a little extra drawl to her voice. “Couldn’t you just listen to him talk all day long?”
“Fluttery southern woman” was one of Eleanor’s favorite personas with tourists. She claimed it got her an extra ten percent added to the top of every transaction.
“Originally from Guatemala. Currently from the FBI’s Paranormal Operations division,” he said, slanting an amused glance at Eleanor.
I had a feeling she didn’t fool him at all. Actually, I had a feeling that not much got by
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