Ophelia and Abby - 01 - Witch Way to Murder: An Ophelia and Abby Mystery by Shirley Damsgaard

Author:Shirley Damsgaard
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780060793487
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2005-08-11T05:38:02+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

This was it—Rick had removed these from the dead man's pocket. This was the reason he had been asking Ned all the questions about the Korn Karnival and wanted to see pictures. Did these matches somehow connect the dead man to the vandalism at the newspaper? Should I tell Darci about them? If I did, would she want to break into the newspaper office? Somehow, the Korn Karnival was tied in to all of this, but how?

First things first, time was almost up. I needed to get out before Rick came back. Placing the bag on the dresser, I put the boxers in reverse order back in the drawer. When I picked up the last pair, I heard the sound—creak.

Oh God, what now? Rick would walk in the door any second and I'd be standing there with a pair of his boxers in my hand and the Ziploc bag lying on the dresser. How guilty would that look? I shoved the boxers in the drawer and quickly shut it. But I forgot the Ziploc bag—it was still lying on top of the dresser.

Muffled steps were coming down the hallway. I had to hide. But what about the bag? Should I waste precious seconds burying it under the boxers? When a key rattled in the lock, I panicked. Snatching the bag and cramming it in my pocket, I ran for the closet. Trite, but isn't that what all good burglars did, hide in closets? I prayed, when I shut the door, that Rick wasn't the type to immediately hang up his coat. If he were, it would be all over for me. I saw the light come on from the crack underneath the door and heard footsteps cross the room.

My palms were clammy in the rubber gloves, so I peeled them off and wiped my palms on my jeans. The nervous perspiration wasn't limited to my palms. My shirt grew wet under my arms and I could smell my own fear. Thoughts of Rick's possible involvement with the dead man bounced through my head. What if he was involved in the man's murder? What if he opened the door and saw me? Would mine be the next body on the riverbank? The sound of my own heart pounded in my ears in the silence of the closet.

Where in the hell was Darci? Some watchdog. Didn't she know Rick was back, or was she too busy with Georgia to notice? If I survived this—if Rick wasn't a murderer, if I didn't die from a heart attack brought on by fear—I was going to kill Darci for getting me in this predicament. Maybe not kill, but there are things worse than dying.

A knock at the door to the room made me jump. I grabbed the stacked suitcases before they toppled. Footsteps again crossed the room to the door.

"Darci, I didn't know you were here," Rick said.

"I stopped by to pick up some of Georgia's pickles. I saw your car outside and thought I'd come up and say hi.

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