Deadhead: Bedhead Book 3

I’d guess close to five-two or five-three. Her hair is dark, and from what I can gather from the size of the bun on top of her head, I’d say it’s pretty long. She’s wearing glasses now, which look too big for her smallish face. I suppose it helps to see the big eyes behind them. From here, I can’t tell exactly what color her eyes are, but my best guess would be blue or perhaps gray. No matter the color, I feel a little taken aback by the size of them now that I can see two at once. Doe-eyed. That’s a good word for her.
I quickly scan down her body and note her attire. An oversized Iowa State sweatshirt hides her body and covers her down to her knees, where tights or leggings take over. Below that, I catch a flash of pink toenail polish on her bare feet.
“Officer Golden?”
“Oh, uh, yes.” I clear my throat. “Miss Buchanan, would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”
Her long lashes flutter behind her giant lenses. “More questions?” She sounds nervous.
“Yes. A few more.”
Pushing the door open wider, she steps aside and gestures for me to enter. Which is weird because this morning, she wouldn’t budge from her front door.
“Thanks,” I say as I pass through her doorway to stand in what is a mirror image of Kara Becker’s place. Daisy’s kitchen is on my left, meaning her bedroom would be to the right after the small dining nook. “Nice place.” I say it just to make small talk. Because it’s not nice. I’d go so far as to call it a hoarder’s paradise. She’s got stuff everywhere. In the living area is a two-seater couch, but on either side of that are stacks of boxes and plastic containers that hold—I lean closer—magazines, maybe? Newspapers?
Not only that, there are boxes stacked up along the wall that should lead to a small deck space, but hers is completely blocked by brown cardboard. A small television, maybe a twenty-two-inch, rests on top of old milk crates that are filled with things. I can’t tell what they are from here, but they look to be collectible items—tchotchkes is what my mom calls them.
“Yeah, well….” Clearing her throat, she points to the sofa. “Have a seat.” She pulls up a tall stool that she takes from a spot near the kitchen. It’s hard to tell for sure, because there’s a rack that holds clothing that blocks that part of the apartment from this area.
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything?” She’s getting more nervous by the minute, but a small laugh seems to break the ice. “I’ve got water.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I watch her step on the rung of the stool to rise high enough to get into the seat. I changed my mind—if she’s five feet tall, I’d be surprised.
“Did you just move in?” I’m not sure why I ask her that. I guess it’s due to the stacked boxes against the wall. I point to them.
Shaking her head, she answers me. “No. This stuff was my mom’s.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Gone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
I must have said something hilarious, because she throws her head back and laughs. Hard. Funny, I sort of like it. It’s part giggle, part hearty laugh. “She’s not dead. She’s in—” She looks up for a moment. “—California now, I think.”
“You’re not sure?”
Daisy shrugs and, with a smile, tells me, “She sends postcards.”
“What about your father?”
The smile drops from her face fast. “He’s here.”
I point downward. “Here? As in your apartment.”
Rolling her eyes, Daisy shakes her head. “No. In Ames. He’s a professor.”
“At ISU?” Dumb question, but I have to ask.
“Yeah. American literature.”
Taking my phone out of my back pocket, I open my Notes app and begin to type. “What’s his name?”
“Why?” she snaps. “What do you need with him? And what are you typing?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I place the phone down next to my leg. Chuckling, I reply, “Habit.”
She releases a breath that makes me wonder what the deal is with Daisy and her father.
“His name is Dorian Buchanan.” After a pause, she adds with an eye roll, “Doctor Dorian Buchanan.”
“I take it you’re not close to your dad.”
She scoffs. “My father and I are definitely not close.”
“Why’s that?”
Sliding down from the stool, she crosses her arms in front of her. If I’m not careful, she’s going to ask me to leave, and I’ve got more questions. “Does that really have anything to do with my neighbor? It sounds to me like you’re digging for things that don’t relate.”
“Just curious.”
She smirks. “Curiosity killed— the cat.”
I hate that expression. It makes me think of my cat, Pepper Anderson, and I’d be really bummed if anything happened to her. I nod. “It did. But it’s also my job.”
Turning, she moves toward her kitchen. Looking back at me, she asks, “Sure you don’t want some water?”
Maybe I should just accept. It could buy me some time. “Sure. I’ll take some.” I stand and follow her. I need to see her face as she responds to my queries. “So, did you know Kara Becker very well?”
“No. I thought she’d moved out until I saw her last week getting her mail.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“I said hello to her, but that was it.”
“Did she respond?”
Daisy shrugs. “She said hi back.”
“So you didn’t socialize with Ms. Becker?”
My question must surprise her because her head jerks up and our eyes meet. “Socialize?”
“Yeah. Did you hang out with her here?” I jerk my thumb toward the door. “At the pool or other facilities?”
“Um… no. I don’t really socialize. With anyone.”
“Why not? You’re in school, aren’t you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I graduated two years ago.”
“Oh? You look so young.”
She chuckles. “Well, I’m not ancient. I’m twenty-three.”
“I see.”
“How old are you?” she asks, handing me a small glass or water with one ice cube.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You look older.”
Well, what do you say to that?’ “Thanks?” I must have said the right thing because she laughs again. “I’m not ancient.”