Free The Scarlet Pepper by Dorothy St. James

tape and asked.
    “Did I say something?”
    “You said someone’s name.”
    “Did I? I was just—just muttering to myself.” My head felt icy cold despite the summer heat. Even as I shivered, a bead of sweat formed on my brow.
    Francesca wouldn’t have gone and done something…irreversible. Would she?
    As I stared in horror at the crime scene behind Detective Hernandez, I had to admit that I honestly didn’t know the answer to that question.
    “You may not believe this, but I—I’m not used to stumbling across dead people,” I told the detective.
    “You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble,” he grumbled.
    I’d met the hard-boiled detective three months ago after discovering a dead body in Lafayette Square. I think Hernandez was wearing the same off-the-rack gray suit and ice blue tie he’d worn the first time we met.
    Although he was well into his fifties, he had the trim physique of a much younger cop, if perhaps a bit more worn around the edges. His brown hair, the same rich color as his eyes, was streaked with gray and thinning on the top. To compensate, he sported a thick salt-and-pepper mustache that made him look as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a pulp fiction novel.
    Hernandez, with his keen eye for details and diplomatic style, often found himself in charge of the politically prickly, high-profile cases.
    He was good at his job.
Very
good.
    I had no doubt that in time he’d use those sharp senses of his to tease out the facts. When he did, would he end up following a trail of evidence back to Francesca?
    And me
?
    “You don’t look so good, Casey. You’re not going to be sick, are you?” he asked and backed away several steps.
    “You do look awfully pale,” Annie said. “It’s the heat. You need to sit down.”
    I swallowed hard and shook my head. It wasn’t the heat. I’d spent nearly my entire life tending to gardens in sweltering temperatures. “It’s walking into the scene of a murder that has me feeling…”
    Worried
.
    I glanced around, wondering why Alyssa hadn’t returned from parking the car. She would know what to say to Hernandez. Or what not to say.
    “I have no idea why anyone would want to kill Parker,” popped out of my mouth.
    “Off the top of my head, I can name at least two dozen reasons, but I don’t think that’s relevant here. So far there’sno sign of foul play. None at all. I don’t think Griffon Parker was murdered,” the detective said.
    “But he wouldn’t have—” I started to say, but stopped myself before spouting off anything that might trigger Hernandez’s sharp instincts. He’d learn soon enough that Parker wouldn’t have killed himself before publishing the damaging article that promised to destroy Francesca and Bruce Dearing.
    Hernandez stroked his thick mustache thoughtfully. “Now, Casey. Don’t go putting any crazy ideas into your head. That reporter’s death has the makings of a walk-in-the-park open-and-shut case. You know how rare those are? Very.”
    “The nice young officer on the other side of the park”—Annie gestured to the police tape that ran behind the park’s statue—“said Griffon Parker killed himself. Is that what you think happened?”
    “My officers shouldn’t be making conclusions like that. This is an ongoing investigation,” he said, giving the petite Annie a thorough inspection.
    I quickly introduced the two of them. Annie fluffed her bright red hair as she smiled at the detective. “Annie does volunteer work in the First Lady’s vegetable garden,” I added. “She also organized the group of ladies who were supposed to be planting these wave petunias around the statue today.”
    “Nice to meet you, Annie.” Detective Hernandez reached across the tape. His expression softened as he clasped her hand a moment longer than necessary. I also didn’t miss that he glanced down at her naked ring finger. “I’m Manny. Manny Hernandez.”
    Spots of color rose in Annie’s tanned cheeks.