Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) Read Online Free Page A

thing, questioning fate. I heard a loud gasp. My lifting gaze tracked Solo’s raised and pointing finger as he drew near in hurried steps. A hairy forearm hung out of the van. By the age spots, I knew it was a senior, almost certainly male. A round scar, silver dollar size and ugly, marred the back of his hand. It was familiar, yet no other thoughts gelled together.
    Zach rushed to the van. Solo froze, his finger still suspended. My head filled with a boatload of promises to God as Zach lifted the man’s limp wrist. I started praying big time, pondering and zeroing in on my worst habit. I mumbled bargaining words about not screwing up at work for a day, maybe two days if the G-man needed a bigger carrot. Please don’t let the guy be dead.
    “Alive?” I didn’t blink, couldn’t.
    Zach shook his head, pushed aside the trash bags, and leaned in. “He’s an old dude, small and bald. He has a mustache and white beard. And he’s very dead.”
    My mind clicked. A Nazi bullet had caused the scar. “It’s Otto Weiner, isn’t it?”
    “The Jewish guy from FoY?” Zach asked. “The one who wears the beanie?”
    “Kippah,” I said, and drew his puzzled gaze. “It’s called a kippah.”
    “He isn’t wearing one now, but it’s him. It looks like he suffocated. A plastic bag is taped over his head.”
    I stared blindly at the ground. I heard a squeak like a chew toy and cut my gaze to Solo. His eyes were bright like doppelganger comets.
    “I’ve heard baking soda helps with bee stings, or rubbing alcohol.” Not only could I not bring myself to believe Otto Weiner was dead in the van, but I was babbling like a stooge.
    Solo wagged his finger. “Rylie, this is bad, really bad. What if they think you did it because of that fight?”
    I sucked in air; it froze in my throat.
    “That’s ridiculous,” Zach told him. “What fight? Rylie never fights.”
    I inched my eyes his way. “I might have once.”
    “With who?” Zach wanted to know.
    My ears rang so loud they ached. “Otto Weiner.”

~Just when you think life’s a bitch, it has puppies~
    Typical for the Pacific Northwest, the rain rushed away as quickly as it came. Zach was on his cell, notifying police dispatch and calling my boss. Dazed and numb over Otto’s death, I shuffled like a zombie to the driver’s side mirror to check out my bare behind. My skirt had flamed up like a small weenie roast, yet only a bit of red marred my skin. And my pink thong looked okay, too, but no such luck with my butt, little firmness there. It looked like a deflated beach ball. Time to hit the gym.
    I readjusted Zach’s jacket around my waist, rummaged in the van for edibles to calm my nerves, and dug up some red licorice and a Thermos of coffee. I joined Solo a few yards away. His eyes shifted to mine, held. A muscle twitched under his right eye, but he never ceased to hold my gaze.
    “What the hell just happened?” He tugged nervously on the tip of his ponytail. “My God, Otto was murdered. But why?”
    We looked over at the van, at the arm still hanging out the back, and we knew that Otto Weiner was the only person the seniors at FoY collectively loathed. “Which senior do you think did it?” I asked.
    He turned my way with colorless cheeks, crushed eyes. “You can’t really think one of them did it.”
    “Hard to say,” I said, shrugging. “But someone killed him.”
    We both fell quiet, brooding. As I looked around, I remembered the Thermos and licorice in my hands. At this moment, I’d have paid a hundred dollars for a beer, but sweets and caffeine would have to do. “Want some Twizzlers?” I asked Solo.
    He frowned, then grabbed several sticks from the bag. After wolfing them down, he sighed and took another handful. Food is medicine. Medicine is food. More than ever at a murder scene.
    “Did you know that if you eat too many Twizzlers you’ll poop candles?” he asked, his voice slow as though halfhearted.
    My colon twitched over the bag of licorice