Actually, he figured, he probably should take her out somewhere. It was Friday night. He didn’t want to share her, though. He wanted to spend the evening in her house, surrounded by her things, listening to her talk.
He bonked his head against the door to his office. That was so corny. He was in bad shape. Maybe he should just ask her to marry him and get it over with. Ridiculous, he thought. He’d only known her for forty-eight hours. It was too soon. He’d wait until tomorrow.
He found Ida Bird and put her in her cage for the night, opened a can of cat food for Spike, and checked all the doors to make sure they were locked. Closing the front door behind him, he jogged across the parking lot to his car, anticipating a longer run, visualizing Amy trotting beside him, panting from exhaustion and adoration while he slowed his pace to accommodate her.
Nice fantasy, he warned himself. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her, and she was wearing serious running shoes. For all he knew, she could qualify for the Boston Marathon. He slouched behind the wheel of his car and wondered if he was in trouble.
Nah, he decided, he was much bigger than her, and his legs were at least an inch longer. Of course, those glory days of high school track were more than ten years ago, a voice whispered in his head. You had a doughnut for breakfast, you eat TV dinners, and you drink beer. Then again, you live in a second-floor apartment and stairs have to count for something—don’t they?
One hour later, Jake knew those stairs didn’t count for anything. Amy and he had started out at a moderate pace, chatting companionably, enjoying the slight breeze that rustled in the trees. After about ten minutes of street running, Amy led them to a good-sized pond and turned onto a dirt path.
“This is my favorite part,” she called over to him. “I think if we run a little faster we’ll have time to do two laps before it gets dark.”
Two laps? Was she kidding? He was lucky he’d made it this far; he was a dead man. His calves burned, his feet felt like lead, his T-shirt was soaked through, and he couldn’t breathe. Don’t think about it! he ordered himself. Just concentrate on the woman beside—wait, passing—you, running with long easy strides.
She wore silky black shorts that flapped intriguingly at the side vent, displaying a tantalizing sliver of upper thigh when the breeze was just right. It was enough to keep him going. Wait for the wind, he told himself. Keep putting one foot in front of the other and wait for the wind.
He was relieved when they hit a long downhill grade, then almost groaned out loud when they turned a corner and began climbing. The path stretched endlessly in front of him, leading to what he thought looked like the Matterhorn.
Please, let the Fates allow him to get around just once, and he’d never eat another doughnut. More orange juice, less coffee. No beer. For the rest of his life he’d never have another beer.
Things certainly were looking up, Amy thought. She’d always enjoyed running, but this outing was special. Jake was behind her, seeing her favorite lake for the first time, and Amy imagined it through his eyes.
The setting sun flickered through holes in the tree roof, not quite strong enough to pattern the shaded path. It cast the lake in deep-hued pastels of mauve and teal, encouraging birds to roost and tree toads to commence their evening song. The ground smelled damp and fresh, sometimes surprisingly sweet with honeysuckle, sometimes pungent with fallen leaves and felled trees.
Amy ran effortlessly, relishing Jake’s company, realizing that she’d never enjoyed male companionship like this. Jake was real. She could hear him breathing, hear the steady thud of his footsteps. There was none of the artificiality of her other dates.
Even with Jeff and their brief engagement, there had always been a distance, a formality she never could break through. That relationship had burned so bright and so fast, it seemed a lifetime ago. Maybe it had been; she felt almost untouched by it. Jeff had proven himself a hollow shell.
But, Jake. Jake was the sort of man who belonged in your kitchen. She could imagine him stealing swipes of frosting from a freshly baked cake, or with his nose buried in the newspaper on a Sunday morning. The sexual attraction between them made Amy nervous, but it was exciting, too. And, somehow, Jake eventually always managed to make her relax.
She turned her head to look at him in his faded navy running shorts and gray T-shirt with cutoff sleeves. She didn’t even notice the renegade root snaking across the dirt path until she tripped over it, snagging her toe.
“Yeow,” she gasped, sprawling face first into a rhododendron.
Jake staggered to a halt and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“Are you okay? You have a thing for leaping into bushes?”
“I skinned my knee.”
Wow. He didn’t want her to be hurt, but he wouldn’t mind if she couldn’t run anymore. Skinned knee, stubbed toe, minor muscle cramp.
He collapsed into the bush next to her. “Looks pretty bad.”
Amy wrinkled her nose and stood. “It’s just a scratch.” She dusted off her legs and shorts and turned to go.
Jake grabbed her by the ankle. “Wait! You shouldn’t run with your knee like that. It’s bleeding. It’ll swell. It’ll get infected.”
“Thanks, Jake, but it’ll be fine, really.”
He held his hand up. “I know about these things. I’m a veterinarian. There are germs in the dirt that are just waiting to jump into that cut. You need a disinfectant.”
He struggled to his feet. “You need to rest, elevate your leg. I’ll cut through these yards and call us a cab…”
Amy rolled her eyes and trotted away. One of Jake’s most endearing traits was his sense of humor. Picking up the pace a little so he wouldn’t get bored, Amy flushed with pleasure at the obvious concern she’d seen on Jake’s face. She had the feeling she had already taken a much bigger fall—for him.
Jake was glad for the encroaching darkness as he doggedly plodded beside Amy, down Gainsborough Drive to Wheatstone, thinking his appendectomy had been less painful than this run. There was little satisfaction in Amy’s declaration that she was tiring. He’d passed “tired” five miles back and was working on “near death.”
He forced himself to walk up her front steps in a normal fashion, dragged himself into the foyer, and sprawled onto the living room rug. “I have a cramp,” he mumbled.
Amy bent to help. “In your leg? Want me to massage it?”
Jake closed his eyes. “Mmmm.”
“Which leg? Right? Left?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a cramp in both legs?”
Jake flopped over onto his back. “I have a cramp in my body.”
“Um, could you be more specific?”
He opened one eye. Tell me this isn’t happening, he said to himself. She’s asking me where I want to be massaged, and I’m too tired to tell her. “It sort of moves around.”
“You need a nice hot shower.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go home and take one.”
Amy tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. She didn’t want the evening to end so quickly. She didn’t want Jake to leave.
“You could stay for supper. I could put a couple steaks on the grill.”
Jake thought it sounded great, but he didn’t have the energy to chew steak. His only chance of avoiding total humiliation was to get home before rigor mortis set in.
“I’d like to stay for supper, Amy, but I have things to do. This is the night I work out at the gym. You know, Nautilus, and stuff. Then I go for a swim…”
He got up carefully and slowly walked to the door, thinking that his hamstring must have shrunk two inches in the past hour. If she had this kind of stamina on the jogging path, what would she be like in bed?
Maybe he didn’t want to know. He wasn’t sure he could keep up with her. And he definitely wouldn’t want her to find that out…
Chapter 4
Jake Elliott was a puzzle, Amy thought. He spent all that time exercising his beautiful body, and then he ate do
ughnuts for breakfast, skipped lunch, and ate TV dinners and fast food for supper. Amy suspected his life was in the same sort of disorder as his office, and the homemaker in her instinctively wanted to change it.
She couldn’t persuade Jake to stay for steaks last night, but he couldn’t escape her culinary efforts today. While he’d been busy with all that Nautilus business, she’d been busy in her kitchen.
She turned into the clinic parking lot at 8:45 and smiled at the basket on the seat next to her. Homemade biscuits and soup for lunch, heated in the office microwave. Apple pie for dessert. But her motives weren’t entirely altruistic. She was taken with Jake, and the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, wasn’t it? Yessir, she had something better than cleavage. She had Fannie Farmer.
Amy slung the basket over her arm, locked the car, and took one last assessment of her khaki slacks, cream-colored silk shirt, strappy bone sandals, and large gold-knot earrings. What the well-dressed veterinary receptionist wears when she wants to impress the veterinarian, she thought, giving only a cursory glance to the two police cars parked outside as she approached the open clinic door.
Jake’s voice carried into the parking lot. “He’s gone? I can’t believe it! Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
Amy peeked into the waiting room. “Who’s gone?”
Jake ran his hand through his hair. “Rhode Island Red. He’s disappeared. He’s been rooster-napped.”
“Oh my gosh. Are you sure?”
Jake made an exasperated gesture. “The bird is gone. I’ve gone over the whole office. He’s not here.”
Amy felt her skin crawl. What sort of monster would steal a sick rooster? It was hard to believe someone would do such a thing. Her attention was attracted by Spike, sitting complacently on the front desk, washing his face with his paw. “You don’t suppose…”
Jake followed her gaze to Spike. “That Spike picked the lock and ate the bird?”
“He does look a little plumper than usual.”
Jake shook his head. “No. Spike was in the parking lot when I drove up this morning. Whoever took the bird, accidentally let Spike out.”
Several local cameramen and reporters entered the small waiting room. Lens caps were removed, pads were snapped open. A man motioned to Jake. “Are you the guy that lost the TV bird?”
Two minicams appeared almost simultaneously. One was from the local news, the other from a small cable station. “Is it true you’ve received ransom notes?”
Jake looked around him in disbelief. “How’d you guys find out about this?”
“Police report.”
Suddenly all eyes were turned toward the curvaceous brunette in the doorway. “Excuse me,” she said softly. “Did you want to see me about something, Dr. Elliott?”
Jake grimaced as a battery of flashes went off. “I have some bad news for you. I’m afraid your rooster has been stolen.”
She blinked her thick lashes. “Stolen?”
“I can’t tell you how awful I feel about this,” Jake said. “As you can see, I’ve called the police…”
She looked shocked. “Police?”
A uniformed officer approached the brunette. “Has anyone contacted you about the bird? Is there anyone who might profit from his disappearance?”
Amy took a step backward and bumped into a young man with wire glasses and a narrow blade of a nose. Suddenly, astonishment registered on his face as a scarlet scald rose from his shirt collar. He stared openmouthed at Amy in silent accusation.
Jake saw the color drain from Amy’s face. Her lips compressed into a tight, thin line. He moved close to her, sliding his arm around her shoulder. “Something wrong?”
“This is Brian Turner,” Amy said. “The innovative station manager who purchases poultry.”
Turner adjusted his glasses and glowered at Jake. “What’s this woman doing here?”
Jake didn’t like Turner. He didn’t like the tone of his whiney voice, his shirt, or the part in his limp, dun-colored hair. Jake didn’t like him because he had fired Amy. And he sure didn’t like the way he had just referred to her as “this woman.” In fact, Jake disliked Turner so much, if there hadn’t been four police officers present, he’d have given him instant rhinoplasty.
“This woman works for me,” Jake said in a tone that implied a much longer sentence. The longer sentence would have gone something like: This woman works for me, you no-taste little twit, and if you say one more word I’m going to run you right out of here.
Turner stepped backward and wheeled toward the brunette. “You’re kidding! You left that rooster in the hands of Lulu the Clown!”
The brunette opened her eyes wide. “I didn’t know.”
Another volley of flashes went off, this time directed at Amy.
“Are you taking this down?” Turner asked the nearest cop. “Lulu the Clown had every reason to hate Rhode Island Red. She lost her job to him…”
The man with the minicam switched on his battery pack. The reporter from the news grinned at Amy. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You were replaced by a chicken?” He turned to Jake. “And you hired Lulu the Clown to take care of him?”
A belligerent look came into Jake’s eyes. “No, she was replaced by a rooster.”
Brian Turner elbowed his way through the crowd. “I think this looks very suspicious. I’m not usually one to point fingers, but I want that rooster back, and I think Lulu the Clown knows where he is. I think she should be interrogated or searched, or something.”
Jake reached toward Turner, accidentally jostling Amy. The food basket slipped from her hand and landed with a loud thunk on the floor. Amy bent to retrieve it, removing the lid to make sure her pie plate hadn’t broken.
Everyone in the room stared at the clear plastic container of soup nestled next to a tray of biscuits.
Turner’s face turned white. “Wait a second…is that…That’s chicken soup!” he gasped. “I know chicken soup when I see it!”
Amy narrowed her eyes. “That’s right. It’s chicken soup. So what?”
“So, it could be rooster soup,” Turner said.
One of the reporters made a gagging sound. The police officers looked horrified.
Amy glared at Turner. “Rooster soup? That does it! You bullied me off the set without even letting me say good-bye to my viewers, and I couldn’t do anything about it, but you’re not going to bully me here.” She poked her finger into his chest for emphasis.
“Listen up, mister, I’m a decent human being, and I don’t cook chickens that don’t belong to me. And what’s more—”
Turner jumped away from her. “Look at this,” he shouted. “She’s out of control. She’s made soup out of my television star. She should be locked up. Arrested for…um—”
“Rustling?” someone offered with a snicker.
“How about beaking and entering?”
Jake made a great pretense of looking at his watch. “Time to do veterinary business, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now.” Reporters and photographers made no attempt to stifle their chuckles as they packed up their equipment. The police smiled and mumbled polite good-byes. The brunette and Brian Turner remained.
Amy’s eyes widened. “I got this chicken at the supermarket.” She turned to Jake. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Jake was having a hard time keeping his composure. His face had turned red with suppressed laughter. He nodded an assurance to Amy and stared at the toes of his shoes. He was distressed that someone had broken into his office and stolen a sick animal, but he couldn’t ever remember being involved in anything so ludicrous.
Amy caught Jake’s mood and felt the laughter bubbling in her own chest. They thought she’d made chicken soup of Rhode Island Red! It was an outrageous idea.
She turned to Turner and smiled brightly. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”
Turner threw her a look of disgust, then strode from the office, almost knocking the
brunette over. She teetered on three-inch heels and nervously chewed on a long, bright-red fingernail. “Gee,” she said, “this is awful.”
Jake immediately sobered himself and went to comfort the woman. “I’m really sorry Miss…um.” He couldn’t remember her name. Veronica something.
“Veronica Bottles,” she prompted.
Jake blushed and nodded. “Miss Bottles. I sincerely hope you get your rooster back.”
“This was my big chance to get into television. I don’t know if they’ll keep me without him.”
“Maybe you could get a substitute,” Amy suggested. “You could go back to the farmers’ market and pick out another Rhode Island Red.”
Veronica seemed cheered by that thought. “Yeah,” she said hopefully, “there are probably lots of dancing roosters around. And they all look alike. No one would even have to know it wasn’t the original Red.”
Amy and Jake exchanged glances as Veronica sashayed out the door. “She’s not without charm,” Jake said, grinning.
Amy punched him in the arm.
At five o’clock an embarrassed detective showed up at the clinic with a request to examine Amy’s garbage. “A formality,” he said. Someone had filed a complaint, and he was forced to follow through on all leads. He didn’t have a warrant, and Amy didn’t have to comply, he explained. He was sure the drumsticks in her garbage would be much too short to fit the description, and Amy would be exonerated.
Amy looked at Jake. Nothing was said, but the unspoken communication between them was clear. This was getting serious, he thought. This wasn’t funny anymore. They actually suspected Amy.
“It’s okay,” Amy said to the detective. “My garbage isn’t incriminating. You can paw through it to your heart’s content.”
Jake removed his blue veterinary smock. “Let’s get this over with, now. There are only a few appointments left, and Allen can handle them.”
Amy sent him a look of gratitude. She had nothing to hide, but she was frightened all the same. She’d never had anything to do with the police, never even received a traffic ticket. Now she was in the middle of a possible murder investigation.