Read Online Stuck on Murder by Lucy Lawrence - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Lawrence
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piece of toast to each. She slid one plate in front of Nate and kept the other for herself.
“Don’t tell Hank you’re eating his breakfast,” she said.
“I’ll save him a piece of bacon,” he offered.
She poured them each a cup of coffee and they both took a seat at the breakfast bar in her tiny kitchen. Nate tucked into his food as heartily as Hank but with better table manners. As for Brenna, she ate but not with any enthusiasm.
While waking up with Hank had been amusing, it had also reinforced what had happened the night before. There was no pretending that it was just a bad dream. Mayor Ripley was dead.
Three sharp knocks sounded on the doorframe of her front door and Brenna started. Nate glanced at her.
“Are you expecting company?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She wondered if the news about the mayor had spread through town yet. The roosters on the Milsteads’ neighboring farm weren’t even up yet; surely, the gossip hadn’t traveled that fast. “Maybe it’s Twyla or the others?”
“I’ll go see,” he said. He was off his stool and striding toward the door before she could stop him.
Nate opened the door and there stood Ed Johnson, editor-in-chief of the local paper. At the sight of Nate Williams answering Brenna’s door, he went rigid as a pointer dog spotting a fallen pheasant.
Brenna resisted the urge to groan. This was all she needed after a night of no sleep.
“Hi, Ed,” Nate said. His voice betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “What can we do for you?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Ed stammered and stuttered. Obviously, he’d been caught off guard by finding them together and by Nate’s show of cooperation. It was as if his head was so full of questions that he couldn’t pick one to ask.
“Yes?” Nate said.
Ed stared stupidly at the pad in his hand. “About last night,” he began, “I have some questions.”
“Don’t we all?” Nate asked.
“Huh?” Ed looked confused. He glanced over Nate’s shoulder at Brenna. “Ms. Miller, is it true that you found the body?”
Brenna felt all the blood rush out of her face. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to be known as the poor schnook who’d dragged the trunk out of the lake and discovered the mayor’s body.
She especially did not want her name in the paper inviting anything from her past back into her life. She’d left everything in Boston behind her, and she had no intention of letting Ed Johnson write a story about her that would lead a trail to her new life.
From across the room, she could feel Nate’s scrutinizing glance. She didn’t want to put him in the position of chasing Ed away, but according to the rule of closeness, he was closer than she was so it fell to him. It was a convenient rule.
“Sorry, Ed, Brenna’s not up for an interview at this time,” Nate said, correctly reading her expression. “You’ll have to come back later. And perhaps, you’d better call first.”
He went to close the door but Ed shoved the toe of his scuffed leather loafer into the opening.
“You can’t refuse me an interview,” he said. “This is the biggest story to ever hit Morse Point.”
“You’re a good writer, Ed, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Nate said.
“No!” Ed snapped. He pushed against the door with all of his weight, and Nate was forced to brace it with his shoulder to keep him out. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this? Do you have any idea of how hard I’ve worked, of what I’ve done to get here?”
Brenna rose off her stool and moved to stand behind the counter. The desperation in Ed’s voice made her nervous, and she was afraid he would force his way into her house if need be.
Abruptly, Nate relaxed his hold on the door and Ed fell into the room, sprawling across the IKEA area rug in an untidy heap. Before he could scramble back to his feet, Nate scooped him up by the collar and the
“Don’t tell Hank you’re eating his breakfast,” she said.
“I’ll save him a piece of bacon,” he offered.
She poured them each a cup of coffee and they both took a seat at the breakfast bar in her tiny kitchen. Nate tucked into his food as heartily as Hank but with better table manners. As for Brenna, she ate but not with any enthusiasm.
While waking up with Hank had been amusing, it had also reinforced what had happened the night before. There was no pretending that it was just a bad dream. Mayor Ripley was dead.
Three sharp knocks sounded on the doorframe of her front door and Brenna started. Nate glanced at her.
“Are you expecting company?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She wondered if the news about the mayor had spread through town yet. The roosters on the Milsteads’ neighboring farm weren’t even up yet; surely, the gossip hadn’t traveled that fast. “Maybe it’s Twyla or the others?”
“I’ll go see,” he said. He was off his stool and striding toward the door before she could stop him.
Nate opened the door and there stood Ed Johnson, editor-in-chief of the local paper. At the sight of Nate Williams answering Brenna’s door, he went rigid as a pointer dog spotting a fallen pheasant.
Brenna resisted the urge to groan. This was all she needed after a night of no sleep.
“Hi, Ed,” Nate said. His voice betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “What can we do for you?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Ed stammered and stuttered. Obviously, he’d been caught off guard by finding them together and by Nate’s show of cooperation. It was as if his head was so full of questions that he couldn’t pick one to ask.
“Yes?” Nate said.
Ed stared stupidly at the pad in his hand. “About last night,” he began, “I have some questions.”
“Don’t we all?” Nate asked.
“Huh?” Ed looked confused. He glanced over Nate’s shoulder at Brenna. “Ms. Miller, is it true that you found the body?”
Brenna felt all the blood rush out of her face. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to be known as the poor schnook who’d dragged the trunk out of the lake and discovered the mayor’s body.
She especially did not want her name in the paper inviting anything from her past back into her life. She’d left everything in Boston behind her, and she had no intention of letting Ed Johnson write a story about her that would lead a trail to her new life.
From across the room, she could feel Nate’s scrutinizing glance. She didn’t want to put him in the position of chasing Ed away, but according to the rule of closeness, he was closer than she was so it fell to him. It was a convenient rule.
“Sorry, Ed, Brenna’s not up for an interview at this time,” Nate said, correctly reading her expression. “You’ll have to come back later. And perhaps, you’d better call first.”
He went to close the door but Ed shoved the toe of his scuffed leather loafer into the opening.
“You can’t refuse me an interview,” he said. “This is the biggest story to ever hit Morse Point.”
“You’re a good writer, Ed, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Nate said.
“No!” Ed snapped. He pushed against the door with all of his weight, and Nate was forced to brace it with his shoulder to keep him out. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this? Do you have any idea of how hard I’ve worked, of what I’ve done to get here?”
Brenna rose off her stool and moved to stand behind the counter. The desperation in Ed’s voice made her nervous, and she was afraid he would force his way into her house if need be.
Abruptly, Nate relaxed his hold on the door and Ed fell into the room, sprawling across the IKEA area rug in an untidy heap. Before he could scramble back to his feet, Nate scooped him up by the collar and the