Foul Play on Words by Becky Clark

Author:Becky Clark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: CVR05152018;fiction can be murder;mystery writer mystery;mystery writers mystery series;becky clark;mystery;mystery novel;mystery series;mystery book;charlee russo;foul play;play on words;foul play on word;CVR10222018
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2019-02-14T17:39:36+00:00

saRAH and Jack exchanged a kiss in the dark hallway outside the storage room after the fluorescents had been turned off. She went one way and I followed Jack the other. The trip back to the lobby seemed to take a fraction of the time it had taken to get down there. Fear and an unknown destination play tricks on your senses, I guess.

Jack went back to work. I plopped into an overstuffed chair in the lobby with a good view of the revolving door and dialed the Watanabe Yatai takeout number. While I waited for Hanna’s boyfriend to deliver my order—and maybe some answers—I watched dogs and their handlers run through a small agility course they’d set up with props from the lobby. The hassocks were still there from before, joined by sets of throw pillows leaning together in inverted Vs.

I watched the dogs leap over the different types of hurdles. I laughed out loud when the smaller dogs jumped onto the hassocks and struck a pose worthy of a Milan runway. I craned my neck when I realized part of the course had been out of my view. Chairs from the restaurant were set up with jackets draped over them to create a tunnel for the dogs to crawl through. I watched a brindle greyhound start through the tunnel but worried when it didn’t come out the other end in the amount of time I thought it should. Apparently the handler was worried too and dropped to his knees at the end of the tunnel. He called out, “C’mon, Shasta. This way!”

Shasta seemed to get spooked by the tunnel and in her haste to get out, knocked over two of the chairs and got tangled up in the jackets that fell.

With a start I realized that Jack and saRAH really could have whacked me down in the basement. I would have been hidden like Shasta but nobody would have known to look for me. I’d been scared of them, then I wasn’t, and now I was again. Were they toying with me? They didn’t seem to think it was weird that I kept asking about Hanna. Or did they? Were they just hiding it? Were they hiding her? Were they trying to lull me into some false sense of security so they could whack me later?

So confused. So paranoid.

My paranoia only intensified when Michael Watanabe arrived with the food I’d ordered. Even though I was fairly certain he didn’t remember me from earlier, I stammered nervously, “You got me hooked!”

As soon as I said it, I wanted those words stuffed back into my mouth. Probably not appropriate to say to a convicted drug dealer. Even though I was talking about the yakisoba and those delicious octopus doughnut holes.

He ignored me, instead holding out two plastic bags with Watanabe’s logo stamped on them. “This one’s the—”

“When was the last time you saw Hanna? Or heard from her?” I blurted, without taking the bags.

He froze.

“Do you guys live together?”

No answer.

“Does she work for you?”

He hadn’t moved.

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