Page 92 of Honey Drop Dead

What’s wrong? Theodosia asked herself. What’s got me so jumpy?

Every fiber in Theodosia’s being strummed with apprehension. She could hear Earl Grey grumbling in the kitchen while the atmosphere in her back yard felt dangerous—as if the whole area had been charged with electricity.

A few more steps in and Theodosia saw what had caused her spider sense to kick in.

The goldfish from her little pond—almost a dozen of them—lay dead on the lawn. Lined up as if someone had done his killing in a deliberately cold and calculating manner.

As her stomach dropped so did her takeout. Chicken and sauce splattered against the flagstone patio, corn cakes bounced onto the grass.

“Who would do this?” Theodosia’s words rose in a mournful cry as she fell to her knees and gazed at the sad, lifeless fish that had been swimming around an hour earlier. She touched a finger to one, hoping it was still alive, hoping she could slide it gently back into the pond. But the little fish was stiff as a board. So were all the others.

Please, not every one of them!

But they were dead, their eyes and mouths wide open as if they’d watched their killer even as they gasped a final breath.

“Who would...?” She started to cry again. Then the answer floated back to her, slamming into her heart like a sledgehammer.

The killer.

Whoever had murdered Osgood Claxton, and probably shot Booker, was sending her a direct warning. A warning that said, Back off or the same thing will happen to you.

Dismay turned to white-hot anger as Theodosia sprang to her feet and looked around. Turned 360 degrees, arms out, hands pulled into claws as if she was ready to attack whoever—or whatever—might still be lurking in her backyard.

But there was nothing. Except a lingering sense of danger.

Had the killer been right here in her backyard? Of course he had. Just steps from the cottage she called home, steps from where her precious Earl Grey had been sleeping. Theodosia felt a frisson of fear trickle down her spine.

Yes, the killer had been here. Maybe an hour ago, or maybe a few minutes ago. The idea rattled the hell out of her.

***

Theodosia flew inside, locked the back door behind her, then double-checked it.

Earl Grey was standing in the kitchen next to his bed, mouth open, panting, confusion in his eyes. He’d been barking out his warning to anybody who would listen. But no one had come to help. He saw Theodosia, bounded over to her, and thrust his muzzle into her hands. He let loose a mournful sound, almost like a cry of regret.

“I know,” Theodosia said. “And I’m so sorry.” She knelt down, gathered her dog in her arms, and hugged him tight. “But you did the best job you could under the circumstances and I’m here now. The important thing is—are you okay?”

Earl Grey snuggled closer to Theodosia as she kissed the top of his head, then gently kneaded his muzzle. This was where dogs held most of their tension, and she figured Earl Grey must have been plenty tense if he’d known a stranger was creeping around outside and destroying her goldfish.

Now the question was—what to do about the rest of the evening? Stay here? Call the police? Call Riley? But as Theodosia pulled her phone out of her bag, she knew in her heart who she would call.

“Is your guest room made up?” she asked when Drayton answered.

“Always,” Drayton said. “My cleaning lady, Mrs. Drew, was just here yesterday and, if she’s up to her usual standards, has rendered it spotless, poufed up the coverlets, and put out fresh towels. What’s the problem? What poor unfortunate in need of a bed are you sending my way?”

“Me.”

“Excuse me?”

“And Earl Grey if you’ll have him.”

“You’re both welcome, absolutely. But why? Has something happened?”

So Theodosia told him about the dead goldfish and her theory that the killer had snuck into her backyard, possibly looking to harm her. And then, not finding her, had taken out his anger and frustration on her poor goldfish.

“You’re quite sure all the fish are dead?”

“There’s no doubt. If you could have seen those poor little things...”

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