Killer Sweet Tooth - By Gayle Trent Page 0,3

“Did you see anyone else when you arrived?”

“No,” I said. “Of course, we weren’t looking for anybody. We were just hurrying here to see the dentist about Myra’s tooth. We did call him ahead of time. We spoke to him less than an hour ago. There should be a record of our call.”

Darn! Should I have said that? Will he think the call was a ruse to lure Dr. Bainsworth here so we could bash him over the head and take . . . take what? Toothpaste samples? I was panicking. It was obvious Myra had lost a filling and that she was in pain.

I noticed he was holding his gun at his side, but he hadn’t holstered it yet. The other officer came into the hallway. His gun had been put away—at least, for now—and he was removing latex gloves while talking into a microphone on his right shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Get Crime Scene out here right away.” He turned to the three of us. “Let’s all step into the waiting area. We need to secure this location and wait for the crime scene techs.”

“Will Dr. Bainsworth be okay?” I asked.

“No. He’s dead.”

At that, Myra just flat-out started to cry.

“IT’S GONNA BE okay,” the younger officer—Officer Kendall—told Myra, trying to reassure her, as he eased us into the back of the patrol car. “I called the station and we have a doctor on call who happens to be there right now. We had a patient fall against his toilet and chip a tooth, so we called in the dentist.” He smiled at Myra. “So, you’re in luck. Since we need to take you to the station for questioning so Crime Scene can go over Dr. Bainsworth’s office, you get some free dental work on behalf of the Brea Ridge Police Department.”

“Yay,” Myra said sarcastically.

I glared at her.

“Wha?” she asked. “He’s had his hans in a prisoner’s mouf and maybe a toilet.”

“You’re talking like Scooby-Doo,” I said.

“You ought to know . . . Raphne.”

I sighed and rested my head against the back of the seat. I shuddered to think what might be on it—blood, spit, snot, vomit—and decided I’d scrub my scalp raw in a scalding shower as soon as I got home. I thought about whether or not this was the worst night of my life. Sadly, this night didn’t even make my top-ten list.

I suppose number one on the list would have to be the night my ex-husband shot at me. Fortunately, he missed . . . which is why he’s now serving time for attempted murder in a Tennessee prison and why I moved back to my hometown in Virginia to start life anew at the tender age of forty.

If you’re wondering why he shot at me, it was because the mileage on my car wasn’t where it should have been at the end of the day. On my way home from work, I’d gone four-tenths of a mile out of my way to a bookstore—which turned out to be eight-tenths of a mile after I got back on the route home, naturally—so I knew I was busted before I’d even gotten home. But I was so tired of having my every move controlled . . . tired of having to ask permission to stop at the grocery store or to schedule a hair appointment . . . tired of being told what to do and when to do it . . . tired of signing and turning over my paycheck to someone who wouldn’t even allow me to have a checking account or a credit card . . . tired of not being able to voice an opinion . . . I was just plain tired. So, I did it. I knew there’d be a price to pay, but I was at the point of being willing to pay it. And the title of the book I’d bought? Regaining Your Self-Respect: A Ten-Step Plan.

So, you see? This night was cake compared to that one.

Cake. I almost laughed at the irony of my thoughts. That’s my claim to fame here in Brea Ridge—Daphne’s Delectable Cakes. Well, that and seeing dead people. Not like the kid in that movie with Bruce Willis but rather literal dead people. Since I’d set up shop here, my first customer had been murdered, and a bagger from the town’s grocery store had been poisoned. Neither of those incidents had anything to do with me; they were just wrong-place-wrong-time situations. Like tonight.

Myra elbowed