Dating Can Be Deadly. Wendy Roberts, LCSW

guess I’m pretty lucky. If word got around the firm that I was dishing up popcorn at night I’d be a laughingstock and I’d never be considered worthy of anything above receptionist.”

      The day trudged on as it usually did. I answered calls, transferred most, lost some and muscled the word processor into producing a couple of interoffice memos. Jenny and I went to the deli next door for lunch where she interrogated me further on Lara’s Dumpster diving and I filled her in on the details of my nightmares.

      The day picked up speed after lunch and the staff made their usual dash for the elevator at five.

      Jenny paused while she slipped her arms inside her coat. “How come you didn’t sneak out with the FedEx guy?”

      I shook my head. “Can’t today. I don’t have enough time to go home before I need to be at the Megaplex. I might as well hang around here for a half hour. Maybe I’ll get caught up on my typing.”

      Jenny blinked at me and frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

      I assured her I was, even though bobbing aimlessly inside my head were bleary images of a bloodstained Dumpster and a woman’s mutilated remains. If I had my way those images would be forcibly tucked away into the furthest reaches of my gray matter.

      “Okay,” she said, eyeing me skeptically. “But if you need to talk just call me on my cell. I’m having dinner with Jed.”

      “Jed? Is he the guy from last week, the one from the meat packing plant?”

      “No that was Ed. Jed’s the guy from that doughnut shop in North Queen Anne.”

      “I thought that was Fred.”

      She shook her head. “Fred was the guy I faked orgasms with. The one who was into scented candles.”

      “Oh.” Between the butcher, the baker and the candle-sex-faker it was getting harder and harder to distinguish Jenny’s dates from one another.

      After Jenny left, the partners began filing out of their offices. Clay Sanderson was the last to appear. He pushed the call button for the elevator then sauntered casually back to my desk and stood smiling rakishly.

      Feeling as though I should say something, I blurted, “Thanks for last night.” I nibbled my lower lip. “I mean, thanks for not saying anything about seeing me last night, working at the Megaplex.”

      His eyes sparked and he leaned a hip against my desk then reached over and playfully tugged at a strand of my hair. “Lucky for you I have a weakness for a woman who smells of melted butter.”

      Oh, boy.

      Clay picked up his briefcase and strode back toward the elevator, which was taking an eternity to arrive. Suddenly, the doors did open and out stepped a stocky middle-aged man with skin the color of espresso. He wore a rumpled overcoat, a worn tweed suit and a dour expression.

      The sight of him triggered another premonition, and fear tripped up my spine like a lover’s knowing touch.

      Chapter Two

      “T abitha Emery?” the man asked, his feet eating up the floor between the elevator and my desk.

      “Yes?” I gulped.

      Reaching into a pocket he pulled out his identification. “Detective Jackson.” He tilted his head. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

      “No.” I tried to control the flutter of my eyelids that came with a premonition, stress or after eating bad clams. My fluttering eyes noted that Clay Sanderson’s hand was holding the elevator door open, but he had yet to step inside.

      “I’d like to talk to you about last night,” Detective Jackson announced.

      “Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy right now.”

      He frowned at his Timex. “You only work until five and it’s presently five-o-three. I think you can spare me a few minutes.”

      Clay gave up on the elevator and let it leave without him. He walked directly toward me.

      “Is there something that I can help you with, officer?”

      Detective Jackson flicked a gaze in Clay’s direction. “And you are…?”

      “Miss Emery’s attorney, if she needs one.”

      My eyelids popped wide open. Aw geez! I did not need Clay Sanderson wading right into the cesspool section of my life.

      “It’s okay!” I announced to Clay with a smile before turning to the detective. “I’ll answer your questions, but I don’t have lots of time because I have to get to my other job.”

      Clay put his briefcase down and his eyes leveled with mine. “Tabitha, if you’re having a discussion with the police, don’t you think it would be helpful to have an attorney present?”

      “I don’t need a lawyer. This is nothing.”

      The detective merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call murder nothing.”

      “Murder?” Clay and I chorused.

      Clay’s voice was hard and clipped. “My office. Now.”

      Clay Sanderson’s office had a large rectangular desk in golden oak and I’d often visualized him tossing files to the floor and taking me next to his inbox. There was also a large window that had a stunning view of Elliot Bay. A row of pigeons sat glaring at me from the ledge like feathered jurors. In the corner of the office there was a small round glass table circled by four chairs where Clay headed and parked his rather fine ass. The detective, who definitely did not have a fine ass, followed and sat across from Clay, and I took the chair between the two.

      “What’s this about? From the beginning,” Clay barked.

      “Well, after we finished work at the movie theater,” I began.

      “I want to hear it from him,” Clay snapped.

      I rolled my eyes.

      “And don’t roll your eyes,” he added.

      Sheesh!

      “Well, sir—” Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair and pulled a small notebook from his pocket “—shortly after midnight Miss Emery called in a situation and—”

      “I did not call it in, Lara did,” I corrected and received an icy glare from Clay.

      “Fine. I just won’t say anything,” I sulked.

      “That would be best,” Clay said, sounding too professional for my liking. It was getting so that I was having a hard time maintaining visuals of sex in his office.

      “What situation was called in?” Clay asked.

      “There’s an old boarded-up building at the corner of 156th Avenue and Eighth Street,” Jackson began.

      “Across from the Movie Megaplex,” Clay added.

      “That’s right. Last night Miss Emery and—” he glanced down at his notes then up again “—her friend, Lara Caruth, had a sudden desire to go Dumpster diving and—”

      “We did not Dumpster dive!” I shouted.

      The detective smothered a chuckle and cleared his throat. “Apparently the ladies felt a sudden calling—” he sneered “—to investigate the Dumpster behind the building. Then they called in the fact that there appeared to be blood inside said Dumpster.”

      “Blood?” Clay questioned. “I thought you said this was about murder. Was there a body found?”

      “No, sir, there was not. That is what brings me here to discuss the matter with Miss Emery.” The detective swiveled his chair to focus granite black eyes on mine. “Somebody spray-painted a pentagram on the Dumpster and the crime lab confirmed today that it was human blood found.