Page 65 of All You Want
George King identified the woman as Mooma Wolfe, his live-in maid. Wagging tongues suggested she was pregnant with George’s baby, and others say she was threatening to kill herself if George didn’t dump his wife and marry her.
The newspaper articles quoted George as saying the woman was a lunatic and was caught abusing his daughter, Tami. He fired her before Halloween and didn’t know she’d snuck back into the barn as a black widow spider at the tea party. They analyzed the tea and found poison in it, but without a body, they could not charge anyone with murder.
At best, the woman was violently sick. At worst, she was dead and buried somewhere out in these woods.
Maybe this has nothing to do with what Evan was alluding to, but he seems pretty sure of himself. Could there be truth in the rumor that a kid gave someone poisoned tea?
According to Linx, Tami hates tea and refuses to drink even iced tea. She’s a coffee snob through and through. But hating tea doesn’t mean she was the kid who served the poisoned tea, did it?
I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but maybe my sister Becca remembers more of the gossip. I’m about to call her when the phone rings.
“CCPD. How may I help you?”
“Shane? I mean, Officer Donnelly,” Tami’s voice says, sounding shaky.
I’m about to correct her when my blood freezes.
“Shuh-she’s duh-dead. Viola’s dead.”
“How? Did she have a heart attack?”
“Someone, someone, buh-buh-buh-bashed her head, baseball bub-bat. Tuh-tuh-Todd’s mask all bloody.”
“Stay there,” I bark. “I’m deputizing you. Don’t let anyone enter or leave the hotel. Keep away from the body, and don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
“Todd?” Tami screams. “I thought you were Shane. Where’s Shane?”
“He went to the fireworks. You didn’t see him?”
The line goes dead.
* * *
~ X ~
His pulse thickens as he skirts the hidden nooks and crannies of the Bee Sting basement.
Princess Poppyboob’s screams tick him off, stirring the rising anger in his loins.
Her screams piercing through blood and bone, drilling and ripping into his skull. She’s ruining his plans and giving him one hell of a headache.
Serves her right for having the witch tell stories.
She’s pacing back and forth, breathing hard. The hem of her satiny blue dress is stained with blood, and her old-fashioned boots are ruined. Her feathered hat is hanging askew, and the hatpin is falling out.
She’s a mess, but she’s never looked more alluring—especially with bloody hands. Oh yes. He wants so much to lick the pads of her palms, suck and twirl his tongue around each plump finger, and nestle his face between her pillowy thighs.
His nightstick grows, and the urge to fondle it, to pull it out and wield it takes control. He’s too hot, and his blood pumps fast. He throws off the sheet and creeps from behind the dumpster.
She’s there. Shivering and shaking, staring at the bloody mask, and she’s waiting for that cop who wore the mask.
They thought they had everyone fooled, sneaking around as if he wasn’t there watching her every move. Good thing, too. He’d seen her unmask the big idiot and send him packing.
How convenient this turned out to be. Instead of vengeance, he can put her under his control. She can’t turn to the sheriff whose mask she found. She’ll be so frightened, she’ll run straight into his arms.
He slams into her.
“I. Saw. What. You. Did,” he hisses in her ear. He grinds his cock against her butt cheeks with each word he says. “You. Killed. Her.”
