Live and Lime Die: A Key West Culinary Cozy - Book 8 by Summer Prescott Read Free Book Online Page A

it up close and personal on a
daily basis.
    “Oh.
Him,” he said, unaffected.
    “Yes,
him,” the detective repeated, with just a tinge of disgust. “Now tell me what
encounters you’ve had with this individual,” he demanded.
    “I
don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more vague line of questioning,” Tim mused,
tilting his head to the side. “Are we just passing the time, or are you looking
for something specific?”
    Color
flushed from Ferguson’s neck to the tips of his ears as the mild-mannered
psycho got under his skin.
    “When
did you first see Samuel Freed? Is that specific enough for you?” the detective
sneered, his face so close to Tim’s that small bits of spittle sprayed the
fussy man’s face.
    Calmly
taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, the former mortician dabbed
distastefully at the spots of spittle, then tucked the handkerchief back into
its spot before replying.
    “A
few days ago,” he answered simply.
    “A
few days ago? Where did you see Mr. Freed a few days ago?” the detective asked,
clearly surprised.
    “Hiding
in the tree line between my house and the neighbor’s,” Tim blinked, enjoying the
man’s discomfort at not having anticipated his response.
    “What
did you do when you saw him allegedly hiding in the trees?”
    A
slow half-smile spread across the mortician’s face. “I had a little chat with
him about the inappropriate nature of trespassing, and the inherent danger in
such a practice.”
    “Are
you saying that you threatened Mr. Freed at that time?” Ferguson pounced.
    “I
didn’t say any such thing. Those are your words.”
    The
detective clenched his teeth in irritation. “Did you threaten Mr. Freed at that
time?” he clarified, speaking through his teeth.
    “No,
I most certainly did not,” Tim replied calmly.
    “When
did you next see the victim?” the frustrated man rubbed a hand across his
forehead, looking as though he had the makings of a headache coming on.
    “Last
night.”
    “Around
what time?” the detective relaxed a bit, thinking that he might finally be
getting somewhere with this difficult perp.
    “8:07
precisely,” Tim gazed at him owlishly from behind his glasses.
    “And
how do you know that it was 8:07 precisely?” he looked skeptical, but was
intrigued.
    “Because
I’ve learned that whenever I see something that might be of interest to the
authorities, it’s often pertinent to check the time. That sort of information
seems to be helpful,” he shrugged, nonchalant.
    Ferguson
asked his next question with a gleam in his eye, thinking he’d finally trapped
his prey into saying something conclusive. “And what made you think that the
encounter might be of interest to the police?” he smirked.
    Tim
Eckels regarded the portly little man in front of him with utter contempt for
his ignorance. “Because when one sees a young man hiding in the bushes spying
on a young woman, and then a few days later sees that same young man sitting on
her back patio dumping a packet of powder into her wine glass when she goes
into the house, it gives one cause to think that something worthy of police
attention might be happening,” he explained, as though speaking to a child.
    “If
you saw a crime being committed, why didn’t you attempt to intervene, or call
the police?” the detective clearly resented the patronizing tone.
    “I
did intervene. I escorted the young man from the premises while the young lady
was inside. The lad was so nervous at being found out, that he accidentally
drank the drugged glass of wine instead of his own unaltered glass,” Tim
snickered, remembering.
    “Samuel
Freed’s body was found floating in the marina last night. Any idea how it got
there?” Ferguson asked.
    “No
idea.”
    “Did
you kill Samuel Freed?”
    “No,
I most certainly did not,” he said matter-of-factly.
    “There
were things done to his body that only a mortician would know how to do, Mr.
Eckels,” the detective growled.
    “Are
you