How to Solve a Murder with a Grump: The Anniversary (EBOOK)

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Miles

Yes, I’m a former grump.

But honestly, all crankiness doesn’t automatically vanish because you fall in love or get married. Some of those tendencies remain hidden, waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out of the shadows.

Take, for instance, the current state of our bed.

I’m looking at what can only be described as The Great Pillow Invasion. Barrie fell in love with them. She had to have them. They are, without question, the most ridiculous invention known to mankind.

But seriously, decorative pillows?
Maybe one of them—just one!—resting on our bed could add some color. I get that. My eyes narrow as I count them again. But ten?

Yeah, I know, right?
I bet you’re shuddering along with me.

They have no function. No real purpose except to mock me every morning and night.

Let’s see: four grey tasseled pillows that tickle my nose, two darker blue ones matching our lakeside décor, and several patterned ones because heaven forbid they match.
They come in all shapes and sizes—oblong, square, big, small—multiplying on our bed like rabbits.

Want to flop down after a long day? First remove the army of pillows claiming most of the bed space.
The mere thought exhausts me.
And don’t get me started on the daily ritual of arranging and removing them. You can’t simply climb under the covers—that would be asking too much.

But if I’m being honest—and this is what love does to a man—if she wanted ten more, if that made her happy, if it brought that sunshine smile to her face I love so much, I’d be the first to say, Let’s go pillow shopping. And I’d stuff and pack and shove the grinchy, grumpy tendencies far, far away.

I hear Barrie in the kitchen, humming that song from the radio she’s been obsessed with lately. Any minute she’ll come in and pack for our big trip. I’m ready for her. Of course, I’m already packed, my one slim and trim suitcase by the door. My toothbrush can be added in the morning, because I’m practical like that.

I’m hoping for just one large suitcase. I know, a man can dream, but I’ve seen the shopping bags she’s been hiding in the guest room.

The first thing she does on entering is burst out laughing, which is exactly the reaction I hoped for when I piled all the many pillows on top of me. Her laughter, musical and bright, echoes off the walls of our bedroom.

I can’t see her, because of the pillows practically suffocating me, but I can picture her perfectly: the dark chestnut hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, the heart-shaped mouth that demands kissing, and the shape of her body, which I know inside and out. I imagine her leaning against the doorframe, one hand on her hip, surveying the room.

But now’s not the time for such thoughts.

“What?” I say loudly, faking surprise, acting like all is normal and I always lie on the bed like this, practically drowning in a sea of decorative torture devices.

Through the fabric fortress, I hear the soft padding of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. She plays it off with practiced innocence. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking of something Mandy said the other day.”

I’m not letting her off that easy. “Oh, what was that?” I try to sound casual, but it’s hard when you’re being smothered by tassels.

“You know, the usual. Something about her latest painting. You had to be there.” The closet door creaks open, and I hear her digging for her suitcase, hangers scraping against the rod.

I expect to hear drawers opening and clothes flying as she packs. Instead, the bed dips slightly as she sits down. I realize the error of my ways. She’s not acknowledging the mountain of pillows on top of me, and now, I can’t reach out and touch her or pull her on top of me. Well played, Mrs. Barton, well played.

Well, I won’t be the one to give in first. This is a battle of wills, and I’ve got stubbornness on my side.

There’s a pause, and I feel the weight lifting off the bed when she stands. I hear the closet door open wider and the rustling of clothes. The soft whoosh of fabric tells me she’s sorting through her dresses.

She sighs, and I can picture her biting her lower lip, the way she does when she’s deep in thought.
“I’m not sure about some of the sundresses I want to pack. You’ll have to tell me which one looks best.” 

Now, I can’t argue against the fashion shows where I tell her what looks good and what doesn’t. I get to sit back and watch her dress and undress. Under normal circumstances, this would be heaven. But right now, this is pure torture, because my view is of the popcorn ceiling and various shades of grey and blue fabric.

“How about this one?” she asks, her voice dripping with honey-sweet innocence.

“Gorgeous,” I say, wanting to groan in frustration. The rustling of fabric tells me she’s changing, and I’m missing every second of it.

A minute passes, punctuated by the soft sounds of her bare feet on the floor. “How about this one?”

This is killing me. I know she did some shopping for our first anniversary trip, and I’m dying to see her. The tags are probably still on the dresses, price tags that would make me wince if I wasn’t so completely, irrationally in love with her. “It’s perfect.”

“You don’t think it’s too tight around the back?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. She’s enjoying this far too much.

Any dress that is snug around her backside is fine with me. More than fine. “Definitely not.” If you want to talk about death by torture, this is it. Sadly, my teasing has backfired spectacularly, and I’m paying the price.

She tries on a few more outfits, each rustle of fabric another nail in my coffin. “Too long? Too short? Too tight? Too loose?”

I’ve missed it all, every tantalizing moment. The birds chirping outside our cabin window seem to be laughing at my predicament.

“Just one more,” she singsongs, with way too much sunshine in her voice. The way she stretches out the word ‘more’ tells me everything I need to know.

She knows exactly what I’m doing and she’s seeing how far I’ll go. I play along, because this is a battle to the bitter end. “I think you should try on the first one again. Just to make sure it’s not too snug.”

“You think?” Her voice is pure innocence, but I know better.
“Definitely.” I try to keep my voice steady, professional, like I’m actually providing useful fashion advice instead of slowly losing my mind under a mountain of pillows.

“Okay. Be truthful, now.”

“Always,” I mumble, wondering if it’s possible to suffocate from decorative pillows.

“How about this one. This is my favorite. It makes me feel sexy, like some kind of movie star. But I have some concerns.” Her voice drops lower, more seductive. “What about the cleavage? Is it too much?”

I gulp, my throat suddenly dry. “Nope.” It comes out as a croak.

“How about when l lean over? Don’t want to give our waiter a peep show when I go in for my glass of wine.” The playful lilt in her voice is going to be my undoing.

She’s killing me. Absolutely killing me. My hands clench into fists at my sides, and I fight the urge to explode from my pillow prison.

“How about when I bend all the way over? I don’t want to flash the entire restaurant if my napkin falls on the floor.” Each word is carefully chosen, designed to drive me crazy.

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t even find my voice. Just a hoarse gasp escapes.

“Miles?” She pauses dramatically, and I can hear her changing. “I can return the dress. It’s not a big deal. I have others I can bring. You know, this one might have been past our budget anyway.” Another calculated pause. “It’s decided. I’ll return it. Thanks for your help.”

Heaven help me, I’m at my breaking point. My whole body tenses like a coiled spring. She wins. I lose, but this is one battle I don’t mind losing.

Dramatically, with a roar, I toss the pillows in every direction. They fly across the room like colorful projectiles, tassels trailing through the air.

I burst from the bed like a phoenix rising from the ashes of my own stubbornness.

She squeals and runs from the room, her laughter trailing behind her like music. The sound of her bare feet pattering across the hardwood floors mingles with her giggles. One of the blue pillows catches on my foot as I try to follow, and I nearly faceplant into the doorframe.

I’m right behind her if I can untangle myself. Through the chaos of flying decorative pillows and my own desperate scramble, I catch a glimpse of her disappearing around the corner.

As I finally free myself from the last clingy tassel, I make a mental note to buy her more pillows for Christmas. Maybe fifteen this time. Because that’s what love does to a former grump – it makes you embrace the chaos, even if that chaos comes with tassels and takes up half the bed.

But first, I have a wife to catch and a dress to properly evaluate.