Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) by Claire Robyns

“The next available appointment is Tuesday, four-thirty?”
    “Excellent, I’ll be there.” I hung up, belatedly aware she might have needed more details from me.
    But I couldn’t think about Joe and the divorce now.
    My phone beeped as I climbed the steps to the porch. I checked it and saw a text message from the law firm confirming my appointment for next week Tuesday.
    Wonderful.
    I was getting divorced next Tuesday.
    Absolutely freaking wonderful.
    The front door stood open and I walked in to find Burns behind the reception desk. On his feet and wide awake. He clutched the lapels of his jacket, his cheeks puffed up like indignant balloons, the confounded look on his face slightly stirred and thoroughly shaken.
    That just made me madder.
    “Where is he?” I said. “Where’s Detective Bishop?”
    “Ms Daggon’s room, last I saw,” Burns murmured. “They could be crawling all over the house by now. I didn’t know if I should stop them, Ms Storm. They have a search warrant.”
    A search warrant? “Where’s Mr Hollow?”
    “He went out this morning,” Burns said in a new extreme to that muted tone of his, swallowing more words than he spoke. “I’m not expecting him home until this evening.”
    From the look of him, I’d assumed Burns understood the severity of the situation. But maybe not. “You need to call Mr Hollow at once.”
    Burns shook his head. “He doesn’t believe in cell phones.”
    “They’re not an urban myth, Burns.” I still had my phone in my hand and I held it up to show him.
    “It’s the brain tumors he has a problem with, Ms Storm.”
    “Of course it is,” I muttered in exasperation.
    I didn’t want to deal with all this swat team search warrant crap. All I wanted was to set Detective Bishop straight on what I might or might not have said and get his grubby hands off innocent folk.
    Burns just looked at me, white-knuckling his poor jacket lapels.
    I threw my hands up. “Fine, I’ll just take care of everything while Mr Hollow enjoys his tumor-free day, shall I?”
    “Would you?” Burns exhaled a sigh that pricked the balloons he’d been hiding in his cheeks. He sank into the chair behind the desk and released the death grip on his jacket to fold his arms and assume the napping position.
    Apparently the man didn’t understand sarcasm.
    I marched across the foyer and down the narrow hallway in a huff, my ears pricked for sounds that might filter from the stairs above. I swear, if I found strangers had crawled anywhere near my bedroom, my head would literally explode.
    The kitchen swing doors had been propped open, the threshold crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. This was surreal. This kind of thing didn’t happen to normal people living normal lives in normal homes.
    I pressed a finger to the tape and watched the action behind with a sense of ever-dwindling realism. Two men worked the room. One picked away at the charred remains inside the oven. The other appeared to be shopping in our pantry, packing all our groceries into olive green crates.
    Plastic slippers wrapped their shoes.
    White surgical masks and gloves covered their mouths and hands.
    What were they afraid to contaminate? There was nothing left after the emergency sprinkler flood and Burns’ efficient mop.
    “Ms Storm?”
    I whirled about, slap bang against a granite slab of chest. With a small cry, I jumped back and my gaze shot up into Detective Bishop’s smoke-gray eyes.
    “What’s going on?” I demanded. “And why are you taking all our food?”
    “Everything’s being sent off for analysis. I’m afraid it’s not safe, anyway, not until we’ve identified the source.” He brought out that slow, warm smile of his, the one that invited you to come on in and trust him with your first born child. “I’ve been waiting for you or Mr Hollow to return before we start upstairs. We have a search warrant, but I prefer to keep things amiable where possible.”
    No doubt he did. How else could he