The Case of the Love Spell by Amorette Anderson

Author:Amorette Anderson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Amorette Anderson
Published: 2018-09-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Gunther’s eyes are open, staring into nowhere.

His face is blotchy and red.

Around his neck, I see a red imprint that looks like it’s from a chord or rope of some kind. His limbs are all crooked and splayed out, as if he was already unconscious when he fell... and I’m going to be sick to my stomach.

I begin retching, and run, bent over, towards the little trash can that is still packed with my belongings in the corner of the room.

I have never seen a dead body. Some PI I am! I dry heave for a few minutes, and then spring into action. First, I call Chris. He picks up right away.

“Chris! There’s a—eeeugh—” My dry heaves are back. “A dead body here. In my office. Gunther Larson.” I get the words out before my gut can rebel again.

“I’m just outside,” Chris says. “I’ll be right there.”

Just outside! Did he follow me here? I hang up the phone and press my fingers into Gunther’s neck. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that the man is dead, but some of my medical training from babysitter CPR is coming back to me and I’m realizing that I should check for a pulse.

Gunther is—was —a lean man, comprised of mostly muscle and very little fat. My fingers sink into his neck and it’s easy to tell that there’s no pulse there. The guy is stone-cold dead and gone.

But shouldn’t I listen for breathing? That was another thing we learned in CPR training. I lower my ear to his bluish lips and tilt my head so that I can look over his chest. A little plastic bag is poking out of his pocket.

Carefully, I pull it out and examine it. Inside of the bag, there’s a blue plastic glove. Wrapped in the glove, I spot something I recognize.

It’s a small, brown, glass vial.

I’ve seen vials like this before—in Buttercup’s vet bag. I tilt the bag so that the blue fingers of the glove fall away from the vial label.

I don’t recognize the word printed there, but I commit it to memory by repeating it several times to myself in a low whisper: “Phenobarbital, phenobarbital, phenobarbital.”

Then I stuff the bag, still closed, back into Gunther’s front chest pocket, just as Chris bursts into the room, his gun drawn.

“Police!” He shouts.

I look up from my squatting position at Gunther’s side. “It’s just me,” I say.

Chris is looking around the room, whipping his head right and then left.

He takes five steps, and then with a quick movement searches behind the door. Next he does a fast side-step shuffle towards my desk, and looks under it.

“There’s no one else in here,” I say.

Chris isn’t taking my word for it. He keeps shuffling around the perimeter of the little room until he’s checked every nook and cranny.

“All clear!” He shouts.

“That’s what I said.” I’m still hovering over the body as another officer, Ted McDougal, comes barreling in. He’s just taken the stairs, and he’s winded. “Wagner, how did you get here so fast?” McDougal asks.

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