their houses down the street to see what was going on. The police talked to everyone. I waited until the investigation was well underway, and then made my way home.
I opened the door into my tiny galley kitchen. The nightlight over the stove was burning, meaning Buster had made himself a cup of tea. A mug sat on the kitchen counter with my favorite tea bag already in it. I turned on the now-cold electric teakettle. A grilled cheese sandwich was on a plate beside it. Leave it to Buster to use a plate. I swiped the plate with a paper towel and put it back in the cupboard. I took a bite of my sandwich and went to look for Buster. I called his name but there was no answer.
A quick glance in the bedroom showed me it was empty. My guitar was missing from the stand in the corner, though. My heart skipped a beat. I loved to hear him play. Mostly I liked watching his fingers manipulate the strings.
I didn't hear any playing, though. My stomach growled angrily. Standing over the sink, I shoved the sandwich into my mouth with two fingers. I poured my tea. Maybe Buster was waiting in the living room, ready to end our embargo. Anticipation swelled.
I tiptoed into the living room to maintain the mood. But there was no mood to break. I heard a gentle snore.
I'd stayed at the store for about forty minutes, which looked to be thirty-five minutes too long. Buster was laid out on the couch, half-empty cup of tea and guitar on the coffee table, sound asleep. His eyes fluttered when I shook his arm, but closed again. He was a heavy sleeper, I knew. He'd sleep here for a few hours, then go home to get ready for work.
I pulled the flannel rag quilt off the back of the couch and kissed his cheek. He reached up and grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. I tumbled onto his chest.
"You think you're going to get off that easy?" he said, nuzzling my hair.
"You're asleep"
"Wrong. I was asleep."
I laughed as he faded again, his long curly eyelashes fluttering. "You can't keep your eyes open. I can wait. At least until you're awake enough so we can both enjoy it."
He let go of my hand and was asleep in ten seconds. I sighed, the sigh of the sexually frustrated female.
SEVEN
"OVER MY DEAD BODY," Kym said with a hair toss that would snap the wrist of a lesser woman. Vangie, sitting next to her at the kitchen table that doubled as conference table, ducked to avoid being blinded.
I winced at Kym's words. I had yet to address the possibly murdered man in the alley at the staff meeting. I'd met Jenn's earlier questions about the story in the paper by promising to give everyone the full scoop at the end of the meeting. I had an agenda that we had to get through. I couldn't allow even a man dying in my alley to get in the way of this sale.
"I'm not wearing pajamas to work. That is tacky," Kym said.
I hadn't realized Kym objected to tacky. I didn't want to remind her that calling it The Butt Crack of Dawn sale had been her idea.
Vangie muttered, "I bet you have a pair of pink bunny slippers you're just dying to show off."
I was afraid that just the opposite was true. Kym's pajamas were probably all silk and lace. Red teddies. Black negligees. Since she was married to my brother, I struggled not to picture the possibilities.
At least the silly problem of what not to wear was enough to keep us off the subject of dead men.
I said, "Customers get a deeper discount if they show up in their pajamas. From six to seven, the discount is 30 percent to anyone wearing their pajamas, 25 percent until eight a.m. Then the discount goes to 20, and stays there the rest of the day. By eight o'clock, everyone will be in street clothes," I said. "I just thought it would be fun if we were dressed in our nightclothes, too. At the very least, wear your QP T-shirt."
Kym looked somewhat mollified. I knew she would bedazzle her store shirt and pair it with a fringed skirt. She liked to look fashionable. I didn't understand who she was dressing for at the quilt
I opened the door into my tiny galley kitchen. The nightlight over the stove was burning, meaning Buster had made himself a cup of tea. A mug sat on the kitchen counter with my favorite tea bag already in it. I turned on the now-cold electric teakettle. A grilled cheese sandwich was on a plate beside it. Leave it to Buster to use a plate. I swiped the plate with a paper towel and put it back in the cupboard. I took a bite of my sandwich and went to look for Buster. I called his name but there was no answer.
A quick glance in the bedroom showed me it was empty. My guitar was missing from the stand in the corner, though. My heart skipped a beat. I loved to hear him play. Mostly I liked watching his fingers manipulate the strings.
I didn't hear any playing, though. My stomach growled angrily. Standing over the sink, I shoved the sandwich into my mouth with two fingers. I poured my tea. Maybe Buster was waiting in the living room, ready to end our embargo. Anticipation swelled.
I tiptoed into the living room to maintain the mood. But there was no mood to break. I heard a gentle snore.
I'd stayed at the store for about forty minutes, which looked to be thirty-five minutes too long. Buster was laid out on the couch, half-empty cup of tea and guitar on the coffee table, sound asleep. His eyes fluttered when I shook his arm, but closed again. He was a heavy sleeper, I knew. He'd sleep here for a few hours, then go home to get ready for work.
I pulled the flannel rag quilt off the back of the couch and kissed his cheek. He reached up and grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. I tumbled onto his chest.
"You think you're going to get off that easy?" he said, nuzzling my hair.
"You're asleep"
"Wrong. I was asleep."
I laughed as he faded again, his long curly eyelashes fluttering. "You can't keep your eyes open. I can wait. At least until you're awake enough so we can both enjoy it."
He let go of my hand and was asleep in ten seconds. I sighed, the sigh of the sexually frustrated female.
SEVEN
"OVER MY DEAD BODY," Kym said with a hair toss that would snap the wrist of a lesser woman. Vangie, sitting next to her at the kitchen table that doubled as conference table, ducked to avoid being blinded.
I winced at Kym's words. I had yet to address the possibly murdered man in the alley at the staff meeting. I'd met Jenn's earlier questions about the story in the paper by promising to give everyone the full scoop at the end of the meeting. I had an agenda that we had to get through. I couldn't allow even a man dying in my alley to get in the way of this sale.
"I'm not wearing pajamas to work. That is tacky," Kym said.
I hadn't realized Kym objected to tacky. I didn't want to remind her that calling it The Butt Crack of Dawn sale had been her idea.
Vangie muttered, "I bet you have a pair of pink bunny slippers you're just dying to show off."
I was afraid that just the opposite was true. Kym's pajamas were probably all silk and lace. Red teddies. Black negligees. Since she was married to my brother, I struggled not to picture the possibilities.
At least the silly problem of what not to wear was enough to keep us off the subject of dead men.
I said, "Customers get a deeper discount if they show up in their pajamas. From six to seven, the discount is 30 percent to anyone wearing their pajamas, 25 percent until eight a.m. Then the discount goes to 20, and stays there the rest of the day. By eight o'clock, everyone will be in street clothes," I said. "I just thought it would be fun if we were dressed in our nightclothes, too. At the very least, wear your QP T-shirt."
Kym looked somewhat mollified. I knew she would bedazzle her store shirt and pair it with a fringed skirt. She liked to look fashionable. I didn't understand who she was dressing for at the quilt
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