Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) by Katie Graykowski
Authors: Katie Graykowski
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here.” Astrid’s head whipped back and forth like Sebastian was watching a tennis match. “He’s not here.”
Astrid fell forward and face-planted in a low bowl filled with gummy cherries. After a few seconds, she sat up and looked around. A clump of gummy cherries stuck to her left cheek. “What happened? Was Sebastian here?”
Donnalee opened her eyes. “He told us that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”
“That’s my job, Donnalee.” Vesta looked like a kindergartener who was supposed to lead the line but had been usurped by the teacher’s pet. She turned to Astrid. “Sebastian says that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”
“What does that mean?” Haley watched patiently. Bless her heart, she wanted to believe in everything—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, that The Bachelor wasn’t staged.
“It means that he’s not dead.” Astrid was always there to interpret the crazy.
“I’m one hundred percent sure that he’s dead.” People don’t usually blow up practically in front of my eyes. It tends to make an impression. Big Tommy was there one minute and blown to pieces the next.
Astrid hunched her shoulders. “Sebastian is never wrong.”
What the hell? Sebastian was wrong one hundred percent of the time. I wasn’t sure why I had been expecting anything helpful from this little foray into the strange. What can I say—hope springs eternal.
We were back to square one in finding Big Tommy’s killer. Then again, we’d never really left it, so we hadn’t lost any ground.
----
Chapter 6
----
The next day my office was starting to smell like a funeral home. Usually, floral delivery was a time for celebration, and this morning it had been. By lunchtime, the flowers being delivered every fifteen minutes had become disruptive, and the cloying scent of roses was starting to give me a headache.
Based on the cards, balloons, stuffed animals, and chocolate-covered strawberries that had all been attached to the flowers, Daman Rodriquez was sorry for having me followed. I moved an oddly designed pyramid of yellow roses to the floor, parted two thin, dusty-white strips of mini blinds, and peered out at the parking lot.
Bautista sat behind the wheel of a dark-green Tesla sedan. He waved up and saluted me with a bottle of Mexican Coke.
There weren’t words strong enough to describe the depth of my hatred for that man. On my way to my car, I was stopping by his and disabling it. I sat behind my desk and googled how to disable a Tesla. All that came up was the owner’s manual. Okay, I don’t hate Bautista enough to read the owner’s manual of any car or appliance or pretty much anything with an owner’s manual. That level of commitment better involve cupcakes, or at least caffeine.
So Daman was sorry that he was having me followed, but not sorry enough to stop having me followed? Probably made sense to a man.
I checked my watch. Ten minutes until go-home time. I’d spent most of the day going over Big Tommy’s medical records and pretending to be busy, so I shoved the records in my leather work tote, turned off Bertha, and went to make my last cup of coffee for the day—unless I stopped by Starbucks on the way home, but that was doubtful, since no more money had magically appeared in my checking account. Not that money ever had, but again, I’m an optimist—well, I would be if optimism paid money or burned calories or produced cupcakes out of thin air.
I plugged a Chocolate Glazed into the Keurig and closed the lid.
“Some damn fool bought out the whole flower shop, and this was all that was left,” a male voice said over my left shoulder.
I knew that voice, and it didn’t belong to Daman.
None of the I’m-sorries had been signed.
Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed that Daman was behind the flowers. I really should have taken stock of exactly who all owed me an apology.
I turned around.
Ben Jamison stood not two yards away from me, decked out in pressed khakis and a light-green button-down
Astrid fell forward and face-planted in a low bowl filled with gummy cherries. After a few seconds, she sat up and looked around. A clump of gummy cherries stuck to her left cheek. “What happened? Was Sebastian here?”
Donnalee opened her eyes. “He told us that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”
“That’s my job, Donnalee.” Vesta looked like a kindergartener who was supposed to lead the line but had been usurped by the teacher’s pet. She turned to Astrid. “Sebastian says that Big Tommy wasn’t there.”
“What does that mean?” Haley watched patiently. Bless her heart, she wanted to believe in everything—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, that The Bachelor wasn’t staged.
“It means that he’s not dead.” Astrid was always there to interpret the crazy.
“I’m one hundred percent sure that he’s dead.” People don’t usually blow up practically in front of my eyes. It tends to make an impression. Big Tommy was there one minute and blown to pieces the next.
Astrid hunched her shoulders. “Sebastian is never wrong.”
What the hell? Sebastian was wrong one hundred percent of the time. I wasn’t sure why I had been expecting anything helpful from this little foray into the strange. What can I say—hope springs eternal.
We were back to square one in finding Big Tommy’s killer. Then again, we’d never really left it, so we hadn’t lost any ground.
----
Chapter 6
----
The next day my office was starting to smell like a funeral home. Usually, floral delivery was a time for celebration, and this morning it had been. By lunchtime, the flowers being delivered every fifteen minutes had become disruptive, and the cloying scent of roses was starting to give me a headache.
Based on the cards, balloons, stuffed animals, and chocolate-covered strawberries that had all been attached to the flowers, Daman Rodriquez was sorry for having me followed. I moved an oddly designed pyramid of yellow roses to the floor, parted two thin, dusty-white strips of mini blinds, and peered out at the parking lot.
Bautista sat behind the wheel of a dark-green Tesla sedan. He waved up and saluted me with a bottle of Mexican Coke.
There weren’t words strong enough to describe the depth of my hatred for that man. On my way to my car, I was stopping by his and disabling it. I sat behind my desk and googled how to disable a Tesla. All that came up was the owner’s manual. Okay, I don’t hate Bautista enough to read the owner’s manual of any car or appliance or pretty much anything with an owner’s manual. That level of commitment better involve cupcakes, or at least caffeine.
So Daman was sorry that he was having me followed, but not sorry enough to stop having me followed? Probably made sense to a man.
I checked my watch. Ten minutes until go-home time. I’d spent most of the day going over Big Tommy’s medical records and pretending to be busy, so I shoved the records in my leather work tote, turned off Bertha, and went to make my last cup of coffee for the day—unless I stopped by Starbucks on the way home, but that was doubtful, since no more money had magically appeared in my checking account. Not that money ever had, but again, I’m an optimist—well, I would be if optimism paid money or burned calories or produced cupcakes out of thin air.
I plugged a Chocolate Glazed into the Keurig and closed the lid.
“Some damn fool bought out the whole flower shop, and this was all that was left,” a male voice said over my left shoulder.
I knew that voice, and it didn’t belong to Daman.
None of the I’m-sorries had been signed.
Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed that Daman was behind the flowers. I really should have taken stock of exactly who all owed me an apology.
I turned around.
Ben Jamison stood not two yards away from me, decked out in pressed khakis and a light-green button-down
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