Muffin Murder by T. Thorn Coyle

Author:T. Thorn Coyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: T. Thorn Coyle

CHAPTER 19

Garrett

It was early the next day, but John was already in his office, tapping away, so I headed out with the dogs for our daily constitutional. A second cup of coffee probably wouldn’t hurt, either.

After last night’s wine, I’d had weird dreams of being chased by Tarot cards and sunflowers. And a big red car.

Both Klaus and Marsha seemed pretty quiet today, as they trotted ahead, sniffing for gossip, tails held high. Neither of them had even bothered lunging at the squirrel I could still hear taunting us, half a block back.

It was one of those perfect summer mornings, the air still cool, the shade dense beneath the trees that dotted the sidewalks and people’s front yards. The part of Oregon I was raised in was pretty arid, almost desert-like, so living in Portland was still a treat. The city was carved from varied, lush terrain, and defined by two large rivers that the local Chinook, Klamath, and Multnomah tribes still blessed every equinox.

I was grateful for the rivers, too. And the wide variety of trees providing homes to finches, flickers, chickadees, waxwings, jays, and crows. I’d never been much interested in birds as a kid, but since moving here, had made an effort to learn some of their names.

Patch, his sunflower, and those notes reading “I’m sorry,” stuck with me. I could feel my mind working on the problem as we walked. Noticing trees and birds was my way of letting my subconscious do its thing. And let me tell you, it was preferable to those weird dreams.

“What did you feel guilty about, Patch?” I murmured, giving a small wave to a woman walking a standard poodle across the street.

Marsha looked back at me and barked.

“Not talking to you, baby girl.”

She turned away and started sniffing at a lamp post.

And that’s when I saw him. He was stocky, and somewhere between John and I in height. A white guy in baggy jeans, a white T-shirt, and pristine sneakers. A blue baseball cap was turned backward on his head. I didn’t know people still wore them that way.

He leaned against the brick wall surrounding another old Craftsman house, smoking.

Then, as if he heard me thinking about him, he stared right at me with amber eyes. Those eyes showed no warmth, despite their color.

I spooled the leashes back, tightening them both with a small jerk. Both dogs whuffed in surprise, Klaus shooting me an accusing look.

“Sorry, buddy. We need to slow it down.”

I didn’t want the dogs rushing the man, who stared openly, as if he knew me.

Something about him looked vaguely familiar, but I would swear I’d never actually seen him before.

Glancing up and down the street, I cursed myself. I should’ve just let the dogs out back and taken them for a walk later, when the streets would be more full.

But no, I was trying to get more exercise. And now here I was, facing down someone on a mostly deserted street.

The man, never taking his eyes from me, snapped his cigarette butt into the street between two parked cars.

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