Murder with a Twist by Allyson K Abbott Page A

walked around the small apartment. He handed me a notebook and a pencil at the start, and I jotted down some notes as we went along. I experienced several episodes of strong reactions to things, some of which I understood, and some of which I didn’t.
    When we were done, he said, “When we get back to the bar, I want to sort through any experiences you’ve had here and try to figure out what they might mean while they’re still fresh in your mind. We can search Cora’s database to see if we can figure out any of the ones you don’t understand.”
    We headed back out into the hallway. It smelled wonderful, a rich aroma of tomatoes and Italian spices that made my stomach rumble and triggered a sound like the hum of a well-tuned engine. The food had done much to ameliorate the frustration of the evidence techs and the on-duty officer. They all looked sated, happy, and like they would be content to sit in the hallway for another hour or so.
    Jimmy arrived—I hadn’t realized he was gone until he came back—and took Duncan off into a far corner where they shared a whispered conversation. I could tell from the looks I was getting that it somehow involved me. After five minutes or so of this heated but whispered give-and-take, Jimmy left looking frustrated. Duncan came back over to me and said, “Jimmy is going to round up some of the people Dan Thornton worked and socialized with and bring them down to the station for questioning. Would you be willing to come along and observe?”
    â€œJust observe?” I asked, suspicious that he wanted more.
    â€œBusted,” Duncan said with a guilty grin. “I want to see what kind of sensations you get from them.”
    â€œI want to help, but I need to get back to the bar,” I said, glancing at my watch.
    â€œBilly, Debra, and that new cook, Jon, you hired can handle it. Plus I happen to know that you gave keys to Billy, Debra, and your day bartender, Pete, even though I advised you not to. They not only manage fine when things are open, they come in early to do prep work. Nice try, but face it, you’ve set things up so that the bar functions just fine without you. You aren’t going to wiggle out of this that easily.”
    He had me there. With a reluctant smile, I said, “Fine.”
    â€œI am willing to compromise, however. Since I have to wait for Jimmy to track down the people we need to talk to, we have a little time to kill. Are you hungry?”
    â€œSure. I haven’t eaten anything since the coffee and muffin I grabbed just before we left this morning.”
    â€œWhy don’t we head back to your bar for lunch and fix a couple of those outstanding BLTs of yours.”
    I do make a mean BLT with sourdough bread, Nueske’s bacon, heirloom tomatoes, and herbed mayonnaise with a pinch of basil and garlic in it. They are the most popular item on my bar menu.
    As we drove back to the bar, Duncan took several calls, leaving us little time to talk about anything else. Jimmy was one of those callers, and he let Duncan know that he had arranged for three of Dan Thornton’s coworkers to come down to the station an hour from now. Apparently his job was made easy because all three of them were having lunch at a competing bar in town, and they agreed to come down to the station as a group.
    When we got to the bar, I did a quick check-in with my staff and then headed toward the kitchen to make the sandwiches. But Duncan steered me down the back hallway instead, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up against his chest, making my body explode with both real and synesthetic reactions.
    â€œI need to make our sandwiches,” I said, breathless. I have a talent for uttering inane things at the most inopportune moments.
    â€œI think we need an appetizer first,” he said, his voice hoarse and bittersweet. Then he took me by the hand and led me upstairs to my apartment.

Chapter 6
    W hen we arrived at the