Free Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) by Marianne Harden Page B

money.”
    Grrrr. “Thank you, Mrs. Bebitch. Don’t let me keep you from your post.” I nodded to her hillside home. “It’s a terrific thing you do, keeping your private street free of trespassers.”
    My sarcasm was not lost on her, a plump gray-haired woman with trifecta chins. “Afraid I’ll see what you’re up to, are you?”
    “Up to?” I said. “How interesting.”
    “What I saw from you last night wasn’t interesting, but—well, I suppose it isn’t my place to say, but a man’s apartment. Really, Rylie. And you.” She waved her trowel at Zach. “I expect you’re encouraging her. Don’t all men. Sex. Sex. Sex, that’s all you think about.”
    I made a wild guess since I knew she could see Zach’s street-side apartment from her house. “Do you mean when I knocked on Zach’s door?”
    She shot me a pitying look, sniffed, and strode off, her trusty towel swaying at her side.
    Explaining quickly, I gave Zach a brief account of how I had stopped by to ask him to the fundraiser, only to find his car parked outside but him not at home.
    He eased out a long breath. “I was…was sleeping. I picked up some extra hours last night, starting at nine. I got some shut-eye before.”
    It occurred to me that he looked oddly annoyed. “God, I hope I didn’t wake you.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
    The edge to his voice proved my suspicion. “I did wake you. I’m sorry.”
    He turned to stare at me. “Rylie, I said it was okay. Just drop it, all right?”
    Solo’s gaze flicked over then quickly away.
    “Sure,” I said, realizing the root of his anger. He hadn’t been alone and wasn’t comfortable with me knowing.

    After a quick detour due to today’s Bellevue Marathon, we pulled into the police station with me feeling like a condemned woman. Not that I was dressed like one. I had done my best to look confident and professional by power dressing in an outfit I reserved for job interviews: off-the-rack suit, black and old school, everyday pumps, simple white blouse. And just in case I needed to flash a provocative ankle, I added back-seamed stockings.
    Oh yeah, avoiding jail was not a spectator sport.
    Zach parked and looked over the seatback. “Lipschitz is gonna give you a hard time just for kicks. Maybe you should get a lawyer.”
    “That makes me look guilty,” I said.
    “And you look so innocent now,” he said.
    “I resent that.”
    “I’m with ya, girlfriend.” Solo reached over to pound fists. “Stay tough.”
    A shallow victory, but I wasn’t greedy.
    “Look on the bright side,” Solo said. “You might’ve saved them old folks from a stroke or cancer. And don’t get me started on the horrors of Alzheimer’s.”
    “I didn’t kill anyone.”
    “I dunno,” he said. “With those last two, you might have been a factor.”
    Solo said it with a laugh, which told me he had meant it as a joke. Problem is it was the truth, the sad truth, the unvarnished truth. I was partially responsible for two deaths. And for the first time—delayed by shock or disbelief, perhaps—I was flooded with what I suspected was the same gut-wrenching guilt Zach had been experiencing these past months. I almost fainted under the emotional onslaught. I closed my eyes.
    “Rylie?”
    Though Solo’s worried tone made my stomach tighten, I couldn’t lift my eyelids, couldn’t risk what it would do to me to see the blame on his face.
    “Rylie,” he said again. “I just meant—”
    Zach cut off his clarification. “Listen to me, Rylie.” His voice was low and tender, the voice he had used for over twenty years to soothe me. “You are not to blame. Three coincidental deaths? Something here isn’t right.”
    “Not to mention how they tried to kill you,” Solo put in.
    “Pure speculation,” Zach said.
    “Credible theory,” Solo countered.
    “Maybe,” Zach said. “But you didn’t hear that from me, got it?”
    “Would it have killed you to say please?” Solo asked.
    “Say please