Plateful of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

detention, or suspended so many times, they didn’t graduate until they turned twenty.
    My mantra, I can handle it. I am woman, hear me roar, didn’t help since to my mind, it sounded more like mewing, I had to repeat the phrase about twenty times before falling asleep.
    The next morning, I grabbed three chocolate-covered caramel-and-nut squares and threw them in a plastic bag. They’d be my reward for getting through the day.
    First up, a call to Michael while I sat in traffic. I was hoping he hadn’t done something dumb like talk to Detective Corrigan. According to Gino, too much honesty is never a good thing. His code was “truth in moderation.” In this case, Michael needed to heed that bit of wisdom.
    He didn’t answer, so I left a message for him to call me back as soon as possible.
    Ed was next on my list. I pulled into Triton’s parking lot and scanned the area without luck. Once inside, Triton’s receptionist informed me Ed came on at two in the afternoon. Rather than return to my office to catch up on another client, I decided to visit Michael at the hotel, only to discover he’d checked out.
    My fingers tapped a worried beat on my steering wheel as I debated going to the police station. But if Michael had gone there to confess he’d written those letters, he’d need a lawyer, not a private investigator. I could have kicked myself for not telling him that last night, but I had been too rattled. The thought of him in handcuffs stole my breath. He might be in big trouble, all because I hadn’t thought fast enough.
    The sunny side of my brain offered a better scenario. Maybe, just maybe, he went back home. I gunned the motor, whispering, “Please, please, please be there.” As if my after-the-fact pleading would make a difference.
    I rapped on Michael’s door, my heart pounding. When he cracked it open, the scent of pumpkin mixed with cinnamon danced into my nostrils. My stomach immediately yearned to be close to the smell’s origin.
    Michael opened the door wider. “Sorry I didn’t return your call. Just needed time to think.” His voice was Prozac calm. Maybe he’d come up with a plan.
    “I was worried sick.” Oh, God. That sounded more like my aunt than like a PI. “I thought you might’ve gone to the police.”
    He took his glasses off and cleaned them on his shirttail. “I wouldn’t do that without talking to you.”
    “That’s good.” I waited to see what he’d say next, but he didn’t respond. “What’re you going to do?”
    He cleared his throat. “Right now, have breakfast. If you’re hungry, why don’t you join me?”
    My stomach growled a mating call to whatever he was cooking. “I am, a little.” Gino probably had a rule about never eating something a client made. In case Gino did, I added, “I’d like to watch you cook. Then we can discuss how to handle that letter issue while we eat.”
    He ushered me into his kitchen, past the still-tumbled rooms. “Too late. Breakfast is ready. Pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon whipped cream sound good?”
    I nodded my head and smiled. “Very good.”
    Michael plated two pancakes, doused them with real whipped cream and placed them before me with a dazzling flourish. He watched as I cut into the fluffy masterpieces. My tastebuds purred. “These are delicious.”
    He puffed out his chest and grinned. He looked younger and appealing, in that kid- with-a-great-science-project sort of way.
    To mask my staring at him, I shoveled in a piece of pancake too big for my mouth and probably resembled a dog carrying a chew toy. As delicately as possible, I used my pinkie to guide the ends into my mouth, swallowing hard and praying the food would go down without a fight. Tears sprang to my eyes with the effort. He rushed to get me some water, which I gulped anxiously. “Thanks” came out as a croak.
    My near-fatal pancake episode brought me back to reality. No more checking Michael out as if we’d met through an online dating service. This