Coffee, Tea or Murder Me (Persephone Pringle Cozy Mysteries Book 3) by Patti Larsen

Author:Patti Larsen [Larsen, Patti]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Whiskered Mysteries
Published: 2021-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

13

Billy was waiting in my driveway when I got home, standing outside his car, leaning against the door, chewing his fingernails and visibly agitated as I parked my SUV next to him. From the moment I greeted him, shaking his hand, he didn’t meet my eyes, his own hazel ones downcast, looking around like some threat loomed, even after I escorted him through the side door and into my private office space, cut off from the rest of the house by a doorway to maintain some distance from my personal life.

Belladonna instantly scratched to be let in which I allowed, though I carefully observed Billy as he took a seat on the edge of the sofa I supplied for clients, hands clasped, elbows on his knees which bounced up and down violently enough even my cat kept her distance. When she chose to perch on my chair and observe him instead of leaping up beside him, her green eyes slits of watchful feline judgment, I took her reticence to offer him comfort as her way of saying he was beyond even her powers to calm or soothe.

It wasn’t often Belladonna avoided a client, but I hardly blamed her, especially when I’d barely taken a seat next to her when he surged to his feet and began to pace.

“The sheriff is talking to Checks Johnson,” Billy blurted. “Does he think he killed my father?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, spinning and crossing the room in a couple of strides before stopping and hugging himself. “She won’t tell me anything. I just want to know what happened.” His pacing fired up again, face red, voice stuttering and cracking with barely contained emotion. The faint scent of body odor wafted from him, his messy hair and the clothes he wore bearing the marks of someone who hadn’t taken care of themselves, wrinkled and stained sweatshirt under his denim jacket, bedhead all indicators he’d likely not slept and even more so not showered since his father’s death telling me he probably hadn’t eaten either.

“Billy,” I said. Started to say, searching for the right inroad, but was cut off when he spun on me, anger flashing over his young face.

“I saw you go into the sheriff’s office,” he said, nearly an accusation, definitely aggressive. “What did she tell you? She must have told you something.”

Rarely did I feel uncomfortable with clients. Only on occasions of extreme stress or grief had I ever been in a position where the person I counseled made me feel unsafe. This was one of those moments, Billy’s simmering agitation rising to the surface as a level of rage I could see growing on him like a gaping tumor.

“You’re not here to talk,” I said, standing, Belladonna hopping down and scooting to a corner where she wrapped her tail around her paws and glared while I did my best to keep my own calm, hands spread out in front of me even as I slowly circled toward the office door.

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