Love Can Be Murder

thinks this is the girl who tried to pass him a fake ID a couple of weeks ago, but he wasn't sure. Truthfully, she could be anywhere."
    "Or dead?"
    "Yeah," he said in a voice that told her that if he were a betting man (and he probably was), he'd bet that the girl was never coming home.
    The campers were more subdued when she and B.J. walked back through the square, with a few diehards kicking around a hackey sack. The fire in the peristil had petered out. Penny averted her gaze from the empty chicken cages.
    "This festival seems to bring out an interesting crowd," B.J. observed.
    "Interesting? I had a woman come in my store and ask for bat brains."
    He laughed, a warm, throaty sound. "It takes all kinds."
    When they reached the outside door leading to her apartment, her dread at seeing what the police had done to her place mounted. "Wonder how they got in," she murmured.
    "Some guy let them in—short, stocky, smelly."
    "Elton," she said. "My landlord. I hope he installed some lightbulbs while he was here." She opened the door and flipped the light switch—nothing. "Guess not."
    "I take it your apartment is at the top of these stairs?"
    "Right."
    "I'll follow you up."
    She didn't argue, glad to have company as she felt her way up. And she got felt up once when he reached forward and found her rear end.
    "Sorry," he muttered.
    She was sorry too—that such an accidental graze could leave her tingling all over. The sleep deprivation had left her vulnerable, she rationalized. Oh, and the looming murder rap.
    At the top of the stairs, B.J. pulled out a penlight to help her find the keyhole. She pushed open the door, turned on the light over the dining table, and gasped. Everything was upturned, on end, or inside out. The gag gifts were strewn across the dining room table—the toilet paper unfurled, the condoms strung out accordion-style, the vibrator dismantled, batteries and springs hanging out.
    She fisted her hands, on the verge of laughing maniacally...and gobbling down the Happy Divorce chocolate bars.
    B.J.'s intent gaze didn't miss a thing, lingering on the erotic items a little longer than necessary. Then he walked over to remove a piece of paper taped to her refrigerator.
    "What's that?" she asked, hugging herself.
    "A list of what was removed during the search." He scanned the paper. "The voodoo doll you mentioned...a photograph album...an inflatable life-size male doll..." He looked up, eyebrows raised.
    She squirmed. "Another gag gift."
    His expression was dubious. "Whatever you say." He glanced back to the paper. "And a handgun."
    Penny's eyes went wide. "What? That's impossible. I don't own a gun."
    "It says here that you had a .45." He gave her a piercing look. "That's a pretty big handgun to forget about owning."
    She frowned. "I'm telling you, I don't own a gun! There must be some mistake."
    He pursed his mouth. "I suppose the police could have planted it, but that doesn't compute, since your ex-husband was stabbed."
    "It's a mistake, that's all," she said, taking the paper. "Everyone who knows me knows how I feel about guns."
    He gave her a little half smile. "Then you'd better stay out of my pants."
    Surprise and arousal blazed across her skin. "Excuse me?"
    He patted a bulge at his waistband, and her discomfort level ratcheted higher. Could she trust this man? Could she trust her own instincts anymore?
    "Anyway," he said, drawing the word out into fourteen syllables, "you should have your attorney check out the gun report first thing in the morning."
    She nodded and hid a yawn behind her hand.
    "Is there someone you can stay with for a while? I'll drive you."
    Faces of friends and acquaintances filed through her head—Marie, Guy, Hazel, Liz—but she discarded them one by one. She didn't want to get them involved, to implicate them in the ugly gossip that was already making the rounds. "Not really."
    "Boyfriend?" he asked lightly.
    Heat rushed her neck. "No."
    He nodded curtly, as if filing that tidbit of information. "How about getting a hotel room?"
    "The few places in town are probably full from the festival."
    "There's my room—"
    "I'd feel better here," she cut in. "Especially since the night is almost over."
    He worked his mouth from side to side. "I could sleep on the couch."
    She swallowed. "Th-that's not necessary."
    He nodded. "Okay, then I'll take off so you can get some rest." He glanced around. "Is this door the only way in and out?" He opened the door they had just entered and