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He gives my waist a little squeeze, and I lose my breath from the force of the desire for his words to be true.
“She’s your Lois Lane, eh, Superman?” Anderson teases, which is no surprise. Anderson loves superheroes. Pretty sure every superhero movie I’ve ever seen has been in his company. Hence the Spider-Man kiss that he and Mel shared. She told me all about it.
“I don’t know,” Montgomery says thoughtfully, “Sometimes I wonder if, in the end, Lois Lane ended up saving Superman.”
There’s a beat of silence as they all seem to consider this.
“Okay, things are getting way too philosophical for my liking,” Stafford declares. “If only I had a glass and a fork, then we could get this wedding party started.”
As previously stated, I am no fan of PDA, but if I had a glass and fork right now I’d be passing it over to Stafford to do with it what he would.
I’d love to blame the fact that we just got shot at for my nearly irrepressible desire to kiss my husband, but it’s been a near-constant lip-pulsing ache since the last kiss we shared.
“Yes, why do we always forget to bring silverware to crime scenes?” Anderson deadpans.
“Speaking of crime scenes,” Montgomery says as he takes a step toward Cleo’s lifeless form, “should we get this investigation started? Seems like the employees of Fraser Pharmaceutical are dropping like flies. I’m not saying the same person committed both murders, but if they did, it would be nice to stop them before they strike again.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Stafford agrees, stepping over to join him. I shiver as I look Cleo’s way again, the memory of Ian collapsing on top of me, dead, rushing back to me. The vacant expression on his face right before he breathed his last will probably haunt me for years, if not a lifetime.
“So Cleo claimed she had nothing to do with giving Ian that Minoxidil sample the coroner found in his pockets?” Anderson asks us.
Jack nods. “Said someone was trying to use photos to make it look like she did, though.”
Photos! The envelope! I glance down at Jack’s hands, but they’re empty. What did he do with the photo of Cleo and Ian? And, more importantly, what about the photo of him driving Ian’s car? It’s just sitting on Jack’s front seat for anyone meandering by to see. Why didn’t we hide it under a seat or something?
Anxiety churns around in my stomach. What if one of them decides to take a walk around the parking lot to look for clues and spots it? Jack appears unconcerned about this, but perhaps he hasn’t thought of it. No, Jack almost always thinks of everything. The more likely scenario is that he’s got his poker face in place so as not to arouse suspicion.
He has an excellent poker face.
Really messes with anyone who may be trying to figure if he’s really in love with them.
Just saying.
“Well the drug stuff really isn’t in our jurisdiction anyway,” Anderson comments, “unless it turns out to be related to his murder.” He looks at me. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the drug itself, Nora? Anything that might give us a clue as to why Ian Wharfman was finding a way to get it illegally?”
“Oh.” I think. “I mean, it really doesn’t make sense. It’s an affordable drug that’s fairly easy to get a prescription for. It’s used to treat both hair loss and high blood pressure. It should always be taken under a doctor’s supervision because of the risk of fluid retention. They typically pair it with a diuretic to combat this. Honestly, the only real reason I can think that he wouldn’t have gotten a prescription was pure vanity. He was kind of obsessed with his hair and his ego was big enough that he wouldn’t have wanted anyone, even a doctor, to know he needed a drug to grow hair.”
“Wait,” Anderson steps toward me, his expression giving away his intrigue, “what did you just say?”
“Um,” I backtrack, “that he was obsessed with his hair?”
“No, before that.” Anderson shakes his head. “The thing about fluid retention.”
“Oh. I said that Minoxidil is often associated with fluid retention. So prescribing doctors almost always pair it with a diuretic.”
“Right, and fluid retention is a problem because?” he asks expectantly.
“Well because it can lead to congestive heart failure.”
“Is that so?” Anderson looks as if I’ve just told him he’s won the lottery.
“Um, yes,” I say. I take a peek at Jack to see if he knows what Anderson is so excited about. He looks as confused as I feel.
“And you didn’t give Ian the Minoxidil, right?” Anderson asks.
“No, of course not. I would never do that.” In my book no promotion or monetary gain is worth going to prison. And I know that’s a little ironic for me to say given the fact that I murdered someone last night, but whatever, not like I ever expected my life to take a murderous turn.
“Well that’s it then!” Anderson crows, striding over and slapping Jack on the back. “Reynolds, can I borrow you for a quick second. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Don’t worry,” he adds when Jack opens his mouth as if to protest, “Stafford and Montgomery will watch Nora, while we’re gone. They won’t let anything happen to her.”
