Killer Confections
Chapter 1
“This mango daiquiri is to die for.” I popped a juicy red maraschino cherry into my mouth, lifted my tropical drink and toasted the bride.
Liz’s hazel eyes sparkled brighter than the diamond-studded wedding band placed on her left hand three hours earlier. She tapped her creamy pina colada, encased in a coconut shell, against my fruity concoction.
“Here’s to a marriage made in heaven.” I glanced at the fiery sun hovering above the white-tipped waves, ready for its nightly dip into the ocean. “Or in Hawaii, which is practically the same thing.”
“You can’t top this romantic scenery, Laurel,” she replied, “plus there are…”
“No dead bodies,” we said in unison.
Liz and I both laughed. I was grateful my British friend’s Valentine’s Day ceremony had gone off without a hitch, since her original wedding plans found me waltzing with a killer and narrowly escaping a frigid death in the depths of Lake Tahoe.
I breathed a sigh of relief. My best friend was officially Mrs. Brian Daley. All it took was flying 2,468 miles from Sacramento to the Big Island of Hawaii to make it happen.
Liz smoothed the skirt of her strapless white gown and lifted a perfectly waxed blonde eyebrow. “Maybe you and Tom will be the next to tie the knot.”
I stared at the horizon wondering how likely it was that Detective Tom Hunter and I would walk down the aisle any time soon. “I don’t see any weddings in my future. Tom and I spent more time together when I was a murder suspect than we do now that we’re––” I set my glass on the table to make air quotes for emphasis, ––“‘dating.’ At the rate our relationship is progressing, we’ll need a church with extra-wide aisles to accommodate our matching set of his-and-her walkers.”
“Such a pity he cancelled his trip.”
“According to Tom, his latest homicide case takes precedence over a Hawaiian vacation.” I shrugged and sipped my drink. “It seems the only way to woo my cop is with a corpse.”
“Nice image, Laurel.” Liz wrinkled her nose. “So maybe Tom won’t turn out to be your Mr. Right. Don’t forget I dated over fifty guys before I found the perfect man.”
My best friend wasn’t kidding. While I’d embarked on a sensible banking career after college, Liz had traveled to exotic locales, seduced by the glamour of foreign countries. Not to mention foreign men, of all shapes, sizes and nationalities. Her dating memoir should be entitled Fifty Shades of Romance.
My brief, almost deadly experience with a matchmaking agency would send most women to a nunnery.
Liz shifted her gaze to her groom who’d replaced his tuxedo with a red-flowered shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Brian had almost completed the metamorphosis from El Dorado County Assistant District Attorney to tourist. Someone just needed to tell him to dump the loafers he’d paired with black socks.
Brian’s height made the stocky man chatting next to him look even shorter.
“Your brother and Brian seem to be getting along.” Liz blew a kiss at her handsome, fashion-challenged husband. Her new husband and my brother stood at the bar taking turns doing shots, both acting a couple of decades younger than their early forties.
“It’s nice to see Dave enjoying himself,” I said. “He’s looked so stressed the last two days. I swear his hairline’s receded another inch since we arrived.” I watched my bearded, balding older brother toss back another shot of an alcoholic concoction whose color bore a strong resemblance to Ty-D-Bol.
Yuck.
I peeked at my watch, wondering where my sister-in-law was. “Dave better not get drunk. Regan won’t be happy.”
“I still can’t believe Regan missed our wedding ceremony,” Liz said. “I’ve only met her the one time, but considering we held the reception at Daiquiri Dave’s, you’d think she would make it a priority.”
My gaze scanned the interior of the restaurant my brother and his wife had opened three years ago. They’d purchased a decrepit local Tiki bar, situated on massive lava rock formations twenty feet above the ocean, and transformed it into one of Kailua-Kona’s most popular dining spots. Hard work and an oceanfront setting, combined with twenty varieties of colorful fruit-flavored daiquiris, had paid off.
“Dave mentioned Regan’s been putting in long hours at her accounting job, but I don’t understand why working at a coffee plantation would be so demanding.” I folded and unfolded the tiny lilac paper umbrella that came with my tropical drink. “This is Hawaii, after all. Headquarters for hanging loose.”
The sound of chattering female voices drew my attention. “Talk about hanging loose. I think the entertainment just arrived.”
The eyes of every man in the place veered to the five bronzed beauties moving through the restaurant. Their fluid grace was either hereditary or acquired through years of hula lessons. The women ranged in size from a five-foot tall gal whose dark hair flowed past her knees, to a lithe dancer whose coconut-shell bra struggled to contain her mammary exuberance, to a woman on the far side of middle age and middle girth. A wreath of woven green ti leaves perched on each dancer’s head.
The female leading the procession, who seemed to be drawing the majority of male attention, was Keiki, a server at the restaurant. Keiki performed in their Saturday night shows and on special occasions such as tonight’s reception. Her facial features were exotic perfection as was her Hawaiian Barbie body.
The last dancer to climb on the stage also wore a matching sarong and coconut bra, although his shells dangled limply above his skinny waist. What was my friend and Hangtown Bank co-worker, Stan Winters, doing among all of these women?
Liz burst out laughing at my surprise in seeing our gay friend’s insertion in the troupe. “You know Stan. He’s never met a stage he didn’t want to perform on. At least he’s not wearing his Zorro outfit and dancing the Argentine tango.”
Brian and Dave joined us at our large table, which overlooked the crashing surf far below. The bride welcomed her groom with a lusty kiss. My brother sat down and directed his gaze to the dancers on the small stage. As the owner of the restaurant, Dave obviously wanted to ensure every part of Liz’s reception was perfect, even the entertainment.
My mother appeared behind me, her smile as wide as the Pacific Ocean that normally separated Dave from the rest of the family. Ten years ago, Dave had moved from the foothills east of Sacramento where we all lived, to Hawaii. Our reunion s were infrequent and always far too short.
My mother, the former Barbara Bingham had recently wed Robert Bradford, a retired detective. Despite my initial misgivings about my widowed mother getting involved with the man who’d been determined to prove I was killing off my dates, true love won out. I now couldn’t be happier they’d found one another. It helped that my teenage daughter, Jenna, and seven-year-old son, Ben, adored their new grandfather. He’d agreed to babysit them while my mother and I attended Liz and Brian’s island wedding.
“I’ve been looking forward to this show,” Mother said. “Maybe I can pick up a few tips and perform a private hula for Robert when I return home.” She giggled and attempted to roll her hips, proving once again that the two of us are related and that Hawaiian hip rolling is not in our DNA.
I loved that my tall, elegant sixty-two-year-old mother wasn’t as uptight as she used to be, but remarks like that made me want to stick my fingers in my ears.
Keiki grasped the microphone. Her sultry voice sounded as seductive as her body looked. She introduced the dancers and congratulated the bride and groom. “Tonight we will perform several dances for you. By special request,” she turned and winked at Stan, “our first number is the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song.’” Stan bowed and his wreath slipped onto the stage. He plopped it back on his head where it hung over his left ear.
Three musicians in Hawaiian shirts and khakis strummed their guitars and ukuleles as the dancers began to move. The five women moved as one to the sensuous rhythm. The youngest musician couldn’t keep his eyes off Keiki. Although all the women were graceful, she shone like the star she clearly was.
Stan moved like no other Polynesian dancer, sort of a cross between Derek Hough from Dancing with the Stars, and MC Hammer, the father of hip-hop. Despite Stan’s wild gyrations, when the song ended, I teared up all over again. Just like I’d done earlier at the ceremony.
When a huge round of applause erupted, I worried Stan might plan on becoming a permanent fixture with the troupe, but Dave strode on to the stage, thanked him, and gently shoved him in the direction of the stairs. Stan nimbly hopped down and dragged a bamboo-backed chair over to our table, squeezing in between Liz and me.
One of the servers stopped to take our drink order. “Would you like another daiquiri?” she asked. I nodded and she turned to Stan.
“I’m thinking of going with a Tropical Itch,” he said.
I stared at him. “Is that a drink or a disease?”
“Ha, ha. Fruit juice, rum, vodka, and a backscratcher. You can’t beat that combination,” Stan replied. “Although maybe I should hold off in case they want me to perform an encore.”
“In that case, drink up.”
“Very funny. That was a blast and the dancers were terrific to me. I appreciate Dave giving me Keiki’s phone number so we could practice before the reception. She said she would teach me more dances before we head home. Can’t you see me throwing flaming swords in the air?”
Yes, I could. Although I visualized the swords bouncing off Stan’s head and searing his remaining hair into a crispy fringe. Stan shifted his chair closer to mine and whispered something.
“I can’t hear you,” I said. “Speak up.” The dancers were performing again and the sounds of “A Little Grass Shack” overpowered his low baritone. He moved so close I could practically taste the wasabi on his breath, which made me crave more of the spicy sushi rolls Dave’s chef had prepared for the wedding feast.
“Keiki and her sister, Walea, were arguing before the show,” Stan said. “I had a question about the routine and didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard Walea accuse Keiki of carrying on with a married man. Keiki seems like a sweet girl so it’s hard to believe.”
“That’s surprising, but it’s none of our business how she handles her personal life.”
“I’m afraid Keiki’s private life is about to become personal for you.” Stan’s gray eyes communicated his concern.
“Huh?”
“Keiki is having an affair with your brother.”
Chapter 2
My gaze zoomed to the stage where Dave and Keiki stood side by side, deep in conversation, her hand resting lightly on his freckled forearm.
How do you say “Oh crap” in Hawaiian?
“You must have misunderstood,” I said to Stan. “Dave would never have an affair. He’s one of the good guys.”
Dave was twelve and I was ten when our father died in an auto accident. My brother had been my rock during that sorrowful period and through my heartbreaking divorce almost three years ago. He’d flown to California to provide solace after my contractor husband, Hank McKay, had left me for one of his female clients. Hank’s definition of multitasking apparently meant nailing his client as well as her shingles.
Dave had not only provided a broad shoulder to cry on, he’d also offered to rearrange my ex’s body parts. Now that’s a terrific brother!
“Keiki didn’t admit they were having an affair, but she didn’t deny it either.” Stan nudged my arm and pointed at the stage. “Look at the two of them.”
Keiki and Dave chatted and laughed together, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. My brother possesses a great sense of humor. His entire staff probably adored him as much as his younger sister did.
“Uh, oh,” Stan said. “Look who just arrived.”
My sister-in-law walked through the restaurant headed in our direction. Her dark almond-shaped eyes proclaimed her Chinese heritage, while her porcelain complexion and auburn hair were inherited from her Blarney Stone-kissing kin. Today she appeared exhausted, her face alabaster pale above her colorful sundress. The bright red blossoms on her dress matched the flowering hibiscus bushes nestled around the building.
Stan jumped up and offered his chair. Regan nodded her thanks and sat next to me, her eyes glued to the stage where my brother and Keiki conversed. I had no idea if Stan’s information about Dave and the dancer was correct, but diverting my sister-in-law’s attention from the stage seemed like a good idea.
I smiled at her. “Dave told us you had to meet with your boss today. I’m glad you made it back for the reception.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Regan said. “Koffee Land is hosting a reality show in ten days. The owners, Ritz and Pilar Naygrow, had a ton of stuff to go over with me.”
“That sounds exciting,” I said, as visions of Hollywood stars danced in my head.
My sister-in-law rubbed her palms over her eyes. “It’s far more annoying than exciting at this point. But Ritz is my boss. When he says jump, I leap as high as he sets the bar.”
A fruity drink magically appeared in front of Regan. I could never keep these tropical concoctions straight, but this one was about the size of a Honda Civic.
Regan thanked the waitress. “Mahalo, Walea.”
“You’re welcome,” said the server. “You missed a terrific show tonight.”
Regan nodded towards Dave and Keiki. “I think I arrived just in time to see the ‘show’.” She picked up her glass and inhaled the cocktail as if it were fruit juice sans the alcohol.
Walea gnawed on her lower lip. I leaned forward wondering how she would respond to Regan’s remark.
“Can I get you anything, Laurel?” Walea evidently decided to keep mum on the subject of my brother and her sister.
When I declined her offer, she sashayed away, making me wonder if island parents taught their toddlers to wiggle their hips as soon as they learned to crawl.
Dave finally noticed Regan’s arrival. He broke off his conversation with Keiki, walked across the stage and down the steps, arriving at our table. He sat next to his wife and aimed a kiss at her cheek. He missed as she rebuffed him and turned to face me.
“How was the ceremony, Laurel?” Regan asked. “Was Liz happy with the location?”
“That small stone church you recommended was beautiful,” I said. “I can’t imagine a more perfect way for them to begin their life together than getting married in paradise.” My eyes veered to the happy couple who were having their picture taken against the backdrop of the lava rock setting.
Regan twisted her gold wedding band as her solemn eyes met mine. “Paradise can be rife with pitfalls.” She picked up her drink, seemingly intent on chugging the remainder.
Dave dropped his arm around his wife’s shoulders, but she shrugged him off.
“Sweetie,” he said, “you know you can’t handle alcohol.” He attempted to remove Regan’s glass. Their hands collided and the fruity concoction crashed to the floor. A red puddle oozed down the bamboo planking. It pooled under the slender, bare feet of Keiki, who was helping Walea clear the tables.
Keiki shot a look at Regan that I was unable to decipher, but she remained silent as she picked up the shards of glass. The youngest musician rushed to help her, but Dave brushed him aside and began to assist the dancer himself.
Regan muttered something under her breath, grabbed her straw tote and stood, her slight frame swaying slightly.
“Are you okay?” I asked as I followed her away from the table.
“I think I’ve had too little to eat and too much to drink.” Regan’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s been a grueling week, and I’d better go home before I say anything foolish to my husband.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shrugged. “You can try knocking some sense into your brother.”
I pointed at a grove of palm trees to the side of the open-air restaurant. “We’re a hard-headed family. Could take a coconut, or two, to do the trick.”
Her lips curled up in a weak smile. I was pleased my attempt at levity lightened her mood somewhat. I still found it difficult to accept anything was going on between Dave and the gorgeous dancer, but I wasn’t averse to stepping in and finding out.
It had been a few decades since this pigtailed tomboy tormented her big brother, but I felt confident I hadn’t lost my touch.
Chapter 3
Nothing beats sleeping in and enjoying a leisurely morning in a tropical setting. The bride’s interpretation of leisure, however, differed dramatically from mine. My definition does not include embarking on an early morning snorkel sail after a night of dining, drinking and general carousing. My head felt like a troupe of Tahitian dancers and drummers had moved in overnight. The proportion of rum to fruit juice in those mango daiquiris I’d swilled must be higher than I’d realized.
I shoved a pillow over my face as the cloying sound of “Tiny Bubbles” blasted from the radio. I rolled over to turn off the alarm when someone silenced it for me.
“Good morning, dear. Rise and shine.”
Ugh. It was bad enough sharing a room with my mother. Listening to her perky greeting was even more annoying than Don Ho’s bubbly wake-up call. My stomach roiled as I eased myself against the padded gold brocade headboard. “Why don’t you go ahead without me? I don’t think I’m up for a boat ride this morning.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Liz will be crushed if you don’t join us. I’ve already ordered breakfast from room service. Nothing like some hearty oatmeal to keep you regular.”
I closed my eyes trying to decide at what age my mother would no longer be interested in facilitating my digestive system. I opened them and squinted at the woman in question. She was dressed in a pair of sea-foam capris and a floral shirt that accented her short feathery blonde hair. With silver sandals, a sea-green tote and matching visor, she looked ready to star in an AARP advertisement to vacation in Hawaii.
The odds of winning the lottery were higher than of me getting out of our morning excursion.
I pushed my rumpled but extremely soft sheets aside and stumbled into the capacious marble bathroom. The oversized Jacuzzi tub beckoned but, with only a half hour to spare, I quickly showered, did my make-up and finished the bowl of heart-healthy oatmeal, made slightly less nutritious with heaping tablespoons of brown sugar and golden raisins added to the contents.
By seven-thirty, Mother and I were standing in front of the elevator, along with a family of six, the kids ranging in age from eight to toddler. I wished my children could have joined me on this trip, but my daughter, Jenna, a high school junior who dreamt of becoming an astronaut, hadn’t wanted to miss her SAT study classes. Ben, my seven-year-old, couldn’t afford to miss his second-grade classes either. Although my son hadn’t been officially diagnosed with ADHD, he possessed “attention discovery disorder.” Everything outside the classroom seemed far more interesting than what was happening on the pages of his textbooks.
I pictured Ben giggling with his best friend, Kristy, already almost twice his size. The young girl would top my five foot four and a quarter by fourth grade. Kristy took after her six-foot-three father, Detective Tom Hunter, my on-again off-again boyfriend. I sighed as I pictured Tom’s broad shoulders and thick chestnut hair, which occasionally grew past regulation length when he was too busy hunting down murderers to squeeze in a haircut.
Unfortunately, in the six weeks that we’d been seeing each other again, our dates were as infrequent as his visits to Super Haircuts. I’d hoped that a week together in a tropical setting would heat up our relationship, but Tom cancelled two days before we were scheduled to leave, ostensibly to hover over his latest crime scene.
Why couldn’t I find a boyfriend who preferred to hover over me?
Maybe his official duties weren’t the real problem. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in me. I was beginning to think it was time to move on. The elevator’s ping coincided with the plummeting of my heart at the thought of Tom and me breaking up.
We hadn’t even had a chance to ping together!
Mother’s cell rang as we stepped out of the elevator into the enormous open-air lobby of the Regal Kona Resort. It didn’t take a detective to detect the call was from her new husband. Her rose-infused cheeks and giggles reinforced my deduction. Liz and Brian strolled toward us, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. They wore matching blue-flowered shirts and smiles.
Liz’s wake-up call had obviously been more arousing than mine.
I was surrounded by people talking and thinking about sex. Enough to make a person gag. Speaking of which, Stan approached dressed in fluorescent floral attire, wearing a straw hat large enough to provide shade for a family of four.
“Nice chapeau,” I remarked.
He grinned. “Got it on clearance for fifty percent off. Can you believe it?”
Sure could. But if the wind died down, his hat would make an excellent fan. And if the engine quit, we could use the hat to propel the boat.
Brian went to claim his rental car from the valet while the rest of us stopped at a grass-roofed kiosk for four Kona coffees to go. My cell rang just as I finished doctoring my coffee. My heart sang, hoping the call was from Tom.
I dug in my purse and grabbed the phone. Once I identified the caller, I told my heart to dial it back a notch.
“Hey, Dave,” I said. “Are you on your way to the boat?” I picked up the steaming cup and sipped.
“No, I can’t go with you guys. I have to meet the police.”
My cup missed my lips, but not my navy T-shirt. I asked my brother to hold while I blotted a half cup of coffee from my chest.
“Why are you meeting with the police?” I asked, fearful of his answer.
“A body was found on the rocks below the restaurant. They need access inside.”
My stomach clenched at the image of someone lying on the lava rocks far below the building. “How awful. Did they give you any details?”
“No. I assume the tide carried the person there, but I can’t imagine who would go swimming in that area. The current is far too dangerous.” Dave’s voice cracked as he said, “I only hope it isn’t anyone I know.”
Chapter 4
Dave’s news bummed everyone out, but realistically we realized there wasn’t anything our group could do to help him. I knew it would be a trying experience whether Dave personally knew the victim or not. I hoped for my brother’s sake that the answer was “not.”
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the Kailua pier. Brian easily located the parking lot recommended for seafaring tourists. We grabbed our assorted beach gear and headed for the boat. Foreign-speaking passengers from the enormous cruise ship anchored in the bay wandered around wearing confused expressions. Several companies offered morning boating expeditions, so the pier was awash in aloha-shirted, fanny-pack-wearing tourists.
The strangely pleasant scent of fish and seaweed reminded me of childhood vacations along the California coast. Eventually we located our boat, the Sea Jinx. The name of our vessel didn’t enthrall me, but I was pleased it appeared to be immaculate and roomy.
A young woman dressed in a royal-blue polo shirt and form-fitting white shorts, and with a mane of blonde curls secured by a scarf, greeted the passengers. “I’m Amanda, your hostess and marine life specialist,” the petite woman announced in an annoyingly perky voice. “Welcome to the Sea Jinx. Is this your first time sailing with us?”
Everyone replied in the affirmative as we followed her up the gangway.
“You’re all going to have a great time. Let me give you the grand tour.” She showed us where the “heads,” aka potties to us landlubbers, were located. Then she bounced up the stairs, assuming we’d bounce along behind her.
Amanda must have noticed my red-rimmed, hung-over eyes because she pointed me in the direction of the coffee. A variety of juices and pastries were also set on the bar.
“After a successful snorkel expedition,” she said, beaming a 100 watt smile at us, “we’ll all celebrate with a Mai Tai.”
I was afraid to ask her definition of “successful.” Did that mean no one on board ended up as shark bait?
We followed Amanda’s instructions to store our gear under bench seats that ran down the center of the main deck. Mother and I sat next to each other on the blue-padded cushions. I immediately proceeded to lather myself with a 15 SPF sunscreen.
Liz plopped down on the slick white non-cushioned seat across from us “You’re going to need something stronger than that,” she said. As the owner of a full-service spa in El Dorado Hills, she was dedicated to protecting her peaches-and-cream English complexion.
Liz pulled a large tube from her red-striped bag and handed it to me.
“A sunscreen with 120 SPF?” I twisted the cap open. “If I put this on, I’ll return home paler than when I left.”
“You’ll thank me in forty years.”
I squeezed the tube. The sunscreen had the viscosity and stickiness of Elmer’s Glue and an unusual scent. Lavender combined with skunk. The ointment would definitely repel any men from attacking me. I wasn’t confident it would have the same effect on marine life.
Despite my teasing Liz, I had no desire for my fair skin to turn lobster red. I tried to pull my T-shirt over my head so I could spread the lotion across my neck and shoulders, but it caught on the strap of my bathing suit. For a brief moment, I worried about a wardrobe malfunction. Good thing only my mother and Liz were in the immediate vicinity.
As I struggled to slide the narrow neck of my tee shirt over my unruly copper curls, my swimsuit strap was prodded back in place.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said.
“Any time,” responded a voice at least two octaves below my mother’s soprano.
In under a millisecond, I ripped the cotton tee over my head. I found myself staring into a pair of cobalt-blue eyes that reflected even bluer than the surrounding ocean. Eyes filled with amusement. The crinkles around the man’s eyes indicated laughing came naturally. He was tall, trim and tan, and I had a feeling he was the captain of the Sea Jinx.
I had one additional clue. A captain’s hat perched on his thick, sun-streaked blond hair.
He proffered his hand. “I’m Steve Bohannon. You must be Dave’s sister. You look just like him, except you’re um…” His gaze briefly dropped to my chest, which I could feel turning the same shade of red as my cheeks, “even prettier than he described.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Dave said you’re hot. I mean, you know all the hot spots, that is, the hot spots to snorkel…” I looked around for something to do besides babble like an idiot. I grabbed the pink container of suntan lotion and squeezed hard.
White goop shot out of the tube, splattering across the zipper of his shorts. I reached out to wipe off the mess then realized my hand was barely an inch from Steve’s crotch. What would Emily Post do?
Emily wasn’t available, but Stan miraculously appeared with a beach towel in hand. I grabbed the towel and handed it to Steve. He wiped off his shorts and grinned. “There’s never a lack of adventure on a boat.”
Liz introduced herself and asked if he was ready to leave.
“It looks like all the passengers are on board. We’ll be underway in a few minutes.”
“We know Dave won’t make it, but I haven’t seen Regan yet,” I said.
“Sorry, that’s what I came out here to tell you when you got me a little distracted.” Steve’s smile proved the combination of white teeth against a dark tan could be equally distracting. “Regan texted she’s been delayed so we’ll have to go ahead without her.”
“Did she mention why?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just said she’d see you later. Trust me. I’ll make sure you have a great time. Don’t forget I’m the guy who knows all the ‘hot’ spots.”
* * *
An hour later, I discovered there’s hot, and there’s steaming hot.
The sun’s morning rays were hot, but with Captain Steve by my side, the sizzle level climbed so high I worried one of us might spontaneously combust.
I never realized how sexy it could be to have a handsome man help me don swim fins. The Hawaiian version of Cinderella. It almost made me forget Detective What’s His Name.
Shame on me. Here I had a boyfriend back home, one who was always there for me.
Sort of. The widowed detective not only had a young daughter to rear, but he’d recently been promoted to head of the homicide division for the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department. Between solving crimes and an occasional Snack Dad moment, there seemed to be little time left for me. I could count our dates in the past two months on one hand and still have a couple of digits left over.
The man kneeling at my feet interrupted my musings. “How does that feel?”
Was Steve referring to the gigantic rubber flippers scraping against my oversized bunion s, or the touch of his large hand resting gently on my right calf?
“Fine. Thanks for the help.” I stood and wobbled in my webbed footwear.
Steve put his arm around my waist and steadied me. “Hey, Dave’s my best friend. I promised I’d make you and your mom my priority.”
Steve grabbed my hand and we crossed to the starboard side of the vessel where a ladder hung over the side, dipping into the clear blue water of Kealakekua Bay, a popular dive spot. The white twenty-seven-foot obelisk erected on shore to honor Captain Cook glimmered in the distance. This spot was chosen to honor the sea captain because it was where the natives killed him once they realized he wasn’t really a god.
Tough crowd!
I watched Liz step carefully on the ladder, her fins jutting out at an angle. Brian patiently treaded water near the bottom rung. His bride clambered down the ladder with such dexterity one would think she’d been a duck in a former life. They kissed briefly, donned their gear and swam away from the boat, hand in hand. How nice to have someone waiting to explore the underwater magic together.
I must have looked worried because Steve hurried to reassure me. “You’ll be fine out there. Timmy and Rafe will keep an eye on everyone in your group.”
Timmy, a young man with longish dark hair, gave me a curt nod then moved to the back of the boat.
Rafe smiled wide, exhibiting a large gap where both front teeth seem to have disappeared. “Yes, missy, I look out for you. I will not let no big shark make lunch from you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. I hoped any sharks hovering near the Sea Jinx were on a low-fat no-protein diet.
I eased down the rungs far less gracefully than Liz. My vision is so bad that if I didn’t wear my contacts, I wouldn’t even recognize an octopus until it had wrapped all eight tentacles around me. I de-fogged the mask before I secured it and hoped no saltwater would intrude.
The ocean looked dark, deep and scary from my masked perspective, but I hated feeling like a wimp. Plus I was surrounded by other snorkelers. What could go wrong? I secured my snorkel and placed my face down in the water where I discovered an incredible new world.
The schools of brilliantly colored fish stunned me. Tiny yellow fish darted here and there, checking out the chubby mermaid who disturbed their play. Larger fish ogled me and I ogled them back.
I continued swimming away from the boat and a huge rock formation floated up on my right. The rocks slowly moved apart and I found myself face to face with a giant turtle. Then something tugged at my left foot. Was a shark about to turn me into an antipasto platter?
I tried swimming away, but the creature refused to let go. I thrashed my legs in a scissor-like movement disturbing the tiny schools of fish. Within seconds, they disappeared from sight.
My foot finally pulled free and I surfaced. My sigh of relief lasted less than a second before a dark shadow hovered next to me. I squinted at the large mammal, which did not possess a long snout and, oddly enough, wore swim trunks more iridescent than the fish I’d admired moments before.
I straightened and treaded water while I removed my mouth guard to scold my visitor. “Stan, why did you grab me?”
With his head above the waves, Stan fumbled with his own equipment before taking out the piece of rubber stuffed between his thin lips. “Sorry. I was afraid if I didn’t latch on to your foot, I’d never be able to stop you. You need to come back to the Sea Jinx.”
“Is it my mother? Is she okay?”
“Your mother is fine. For now.”
“What do you mean?” The heart palpitations I’d felt earlier when I thought I was about to turn into shark bait returned in full force.
“Dave was able to identify the body they found on the rocks.”
I put my hand over my heart. “Oh no. Who is it?”
“It’s Keiki.”
“Omigod. Do they know what happened to her?”
“I don’t know the details, but it gets even worse.”
“How on earth could it get any worse?”
“They’ve taken your brother in for questioning.”
Chapter 5
The weather mirrored the group’s dour mood on our ride back to the Kailua pier. Dark storm clouds shifted ominously in the sky as we shifted nervously on the boat. Amanda did her best to entertain the passengers by sharing the mating secrets of humpback whales. The subject seemed to enthrall the young woman, but I wasn’t in the mood to think about dating or mating, on land or at sea.
The fifty-minute ride felt like fifty hours, although Steve had the engines on full throttle. We found out the police had not officially arrested Dave, but after meeting with him at the restaurant, they’d “invited” him down to the station for further questioning.
I had plenty of my own questions for my brother, especially after Regan’s inference the previous evening that something was going on between him and the now deceased dancer. I phoned my sister-in-law, but her cell rang and rang. After landing in her voicemail for the third time, I left a message asking Regan to call back. A matter of life and death.
Once we’d arrived at the Kailua Pier, our small group debated our next move. Neither Steve nor Brian thought barging into the Kona police station was an option. For all we knew, Dave might be gone by now. There wasn’t much we could do until we heard from my brother, so we said good-bye to Steve and drove down Alii Drive in search of a place to eat lunch.
As we neared Daiquiri Dave’s, we encountered bumper-to-bumper traffic. A Mustang and an SUV with blue lights on their roofs were parked in front of the restaurant. I imagined it would have been filled with the police earlier this morning. A few tourists wandered along the street, gawking and snapping photographs of a setting one rarely sees in the tropics––yellow and red hibiscus bushes covered with crime scene tape.
A young couple dressed in sweat-stained T-shirts, jogging shorts and running shoes, darted across the street in front of our car. Brian slowed the vehicle to a crawl to avoid adding any more victims to the local casualty list.
I tapped Brian on the shoulder. “Can we stop for a minute? Let’s see what we can find out.”
“C’mon, honey, pull over,” Liz said. “It’s the least we can do. Maybe they’ll tell us if Dave is still at the police station.”
“Okay.” Brian maneuvered the sedan into a grassy patch further up the road. “They might respond to an assistant D.A., even one visiting from California.”
I threw the passenger door open before he could yank his keys out of the ignition. Brian might have more official status than me, but Dave was my brother, and his welfare was my top priority. My thin-soled flip-flops skidded on the parking lot’s gravel surface as I rushed toward the restaurant. I reached the open door of the building and halted. Although no crime scene tape barred my entry, I was uncertain what kind of reception my appearance would garner.
No one stopped me from entering Daiquiri Dave’s, so I walked inside. Off to the left, in a casual setting, tables and chairs rested on a sandy floor in front of a low lava rock wall, the only barrier between the cliff-side restaurant and the pounding surf twenty feet below. Two men stood in the more formal dining room located to the right of the stage.
A gray-haired man wearing a tan print shirt and khakis snapped photos from various angles. The younger, uniformed officer examined the thick ropes securing one post to another, which kept patrons from inadvertently falling over the wall. I recalled that the top rope barely reached my hips. I tapped the younger officer on his navy blue shoulder. He jumped to his feet and glared.
“What are you doing here? Did you not see the crime scene tape?” he asked in slightly accented English. “No one is allowed inside this establishment.”
“The tape didn’t extend to the entrance so I thought it would be okay.”
He stretched his arm and pointed to the doorway. “Please. Leave now.”
The older man turned toward me. “Do you have a question, ma’am?”
Ma’am? I turned around to see if my mother had sneaked up behind me. I was decades too young to be ma’amed.
“My brother, Dave Bingham, owns this restaurant. My family just heard the news about Keiki’s death and I was curious…”
The detective’s dark eyes shifted their gaze from my face to the rocks below. I couldn’t help but follow his glance. My heart flopped down to my flip-flops when I realized the beautiful dancer must have fallen over the wall on the opposite side of the restaurant, plummeting to her death.
I stared at the massive lava rocks rising out of the ocean churning below. Last night, a full moon had been shining on the huge waves crashing over their dark surface. The scene epitomized the magic of the tropics. Now the lava formations appeared sinister and threatening.
I rested my hand on a column for support. The officer gently removed it and asked me to step away from the wall. “We don’t need any more fingerprints in this area. There’s already way too many to sort through.”
“Of course, fingerprints are everywhere,” I replied. “My best friend held her wedding reception here yesterday. Our group partied until well after midnight.”
The two men exchanged glances. The older, informally dressed man guided me to a seat at one of the tables. I collapsed into the chair, my mind swirling with questions. He reached into his pants pocket and grabbed one of those dog-eared notepads all police officers seem to carry.
“My name is Detective Lee, with the Criminal Investigation Section of Hawaii P.D. Since you were here last night, you may be able to help with our inquiry. First, what is your name and how do you know the deceased?”
“I’m Laurel McKay.” I explained that Keiki performed with the dancers and helped wait on tables the previous evening. He asked me how long she’d worked at Daiquiri Dave’s and what time she left the restaurant last night. I didn’t know the answer to either question.
He did not ask me if she was sleeping with my brother, which was fortunate because I definitely did not know the answer to that question. But given Keiki’s fate, I sure would like to find out.
A loud male voice interrupted our conversation. At the entrance, Brian, with our entire party in his wake, argued with a female officer attempting to bar their entry. Even though this section of the restaurant wasn’t officially roped off, Detective Lee had indicated they didn’t want people traipsing around and leaving additional footprints in the smooth white sand.
But could the police accurately cast footprints from the shifting grains of sand?
The right pocket of my jeans shorts shrieked, startling me as well as the officers. I jumped up, dug into my pocket to retrieve my cell and looked at the display.
Regan. Finally. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hit the green answer button.
“Laurel, what’s wrong? Why did you––” The rest of her query was lost when an enormous wave crashed below. I moved away from the wall, attempted to increase the volume on my phone and accidentally hit the speaker button
“I’m at the Lounge. Did you hear the news about Keiki?”
The surf chose that moment to recede, leaving behind a silence as deafening as Regan’s next statement.
“I don’t want to hear another word about that conniving slut. She’s history to me!”
Chapter 6
Sometimes technology sucks.
I slammed my thumb on the speaker button before Regan could convey additional uncensored remarks. The curious expression on Detective Lee’s face indicated he’d overheard more than enough.
I plastered my cell to my ear. Regan continued to mutter remarks about Keiki, so I finally raised my voice. “Stop and listen a minute. Where are you?”
“I’m at Koffee Land. That girl has always been a troublemaker. I told Dave we never should have hired her, but Walea pleaded with us to give her a job and––”
I finally shouted into the phone, “Keiki’s dead.”
If I’d expected Regan to be startled by my announcement, I was wrong. Dead wrong. The silence lasted for a few seconds before she finally responded. “What happened?”
“The police haven’t shared the details, but I think she fell over the wall and landed on the rocks below your restaurant.”
More silence. Was she paying attention to this phone call or multi-tasking at work while we talked?
“Regan, are you still there?”
“Do they know how she fell?” Regan asked.
I shrugged before I realized she couldn’t see my movements over the phone. “I don’t know anything about it other than the police interviewed Dave at the Kona police station.”
My comment finally provoked a reaction from my sister-in-law. “Why did they question Dave?”
“I presume because he owns the restaurant.”
The detective tapped my shoulder and asked if he could speak with Regan. I handed over my cell.
“Mrs. Bingham, this is Detective Lee.” He moved away from the table making it impossible for me to eavesdrop.
My mother suddenly appeared at my side with the rest of the gang not far behind. The police must have relented and let everyone in. I wrapped my arm around my mother’s waist and pointed toward the rocks below.
“Oh, my!” She gasped as she looked at the steep drop. “That poor young woman. Do you think she stayed late to clean up and got too close to the ropes? Dave will be horrified if this accident had anything to do with poor workmanship.”
Dave would be even more horrified if he ended up arrested for murder.
Our group spent the next fifteen minutes sharing everything we knew with the two officers. Our knowledge ranged from zero to zilch. None of us had met Keiki before last night, but she was alive and well when we returned to our hotel. At least I assumed she was alive. Somewhere around my fourth daiquiri, temporary amnesia set in. With my brother and mother as chaperones, I hadn’t worried about letting my curly mop down for a change.
When the officers finished with their questions, it was finally my turn. “Where is my brother? Is he under arrest?”
My mother morphed from a tranquil tourist into her normal intimidating real estate broker persona. “Do we need to hire an attorney? You realize my son is a well-known business owner with a restaurant to run. Not only must he find a replacement for Keiki, but yellow crime scene tape strewn all over isn’t going to help his business.”
I flinched at her less than sympathetic comments, but even at sixty-two, my mother was prepared to defend her forty-something chicks. I glanced in the direction of Alii Drive, trying to assess the financial impact Keiki’s death might have on the restaurant. Based on the substantial number of gawkers wandering up and down the street taking photos with their phones, business might increase out of morbid curiosity.
Stan chose that moment to jump into the conversation and insert his sand-covered flip-flop in his mouth. “Yeah, just because Dave and Keiki were making whoopee––” Stan abruptly stopped talking as six pairs of eyes zeroed in on him.
“Making what?” Detective Lee’s heavy black brows merged into one dark suspicious furrow.
Stan’s cheeks turned redder than his sunburned forehead. “Um, they were making whoopee pies, um, I mean poi.”
“What the heck is whoopee poi?” Liz asked.
Stan sank lower in his chair and mumbled, “You know, when they mash the taro roots, they yell out, um, whoopee?”
If I had a poi pounder right now, I’d be using it on Stan’s head. His sunburn must have turned his brain into mush.
The officers abruptly stood, walked away and conversed. Stan slumped in his chair looking wilted as Liz and I glared at him. My mother appeared baffled by the “whoopee” conversation, and I saw no point in enlightening her.
The officers returned to our table and announced we were free to leave. They also informed us they’d finished questioning Dave before we arrived. Before we departed, I needed to get one crucial issue resolved. I asked the detective to follow me over to the bar so I could prevent anyone listening in, especially big mouth Stan.
“You still haven’t confirmed if Keiki’s death was an accident or murder,” I said.
“That is correct.” Lee’s comment as well as his blank expression revealed nothing.
“What do you think?”
I sensed a glimmer of a smile forming on Lee’s otherwise stoic façade, but it was probably a reflection of the sun on his Ray Bans.
“I think you and your family should try to enjoy the rest of your vacation. It may be a day or two before the restaurant can reopen. Do you have any upcoming excursions planned?”
Was the officer attempting to be sociable, or did he want our whereabouts in case anything suspicious turned up? Either way, there was no reason to hide the group activities Liz had mapped out.
“We’re planning on driving to the volcano tomorrow then visiting Koffee Land. My brother’s wife works there so she’s going to give us the grand tour.”
“That should be very enjoyable although your sister-in-law may not be available tomorrow. When is your group scheduled to fly home?”
“Sunday. Is that a problem?”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “Just make sure you contact me before you leave. And Miss McKay––,” Lee paused to remove his sunglasses then leaned close. A hint of lime aftershave made me crave a piece of key lime pie. His next statement made me crave something more potent.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Don’t let our island’s beauty and serenity lull you into a false sense of security. Sometimes the emotions seething below a person’s calm surface can create far more damage than a volcanic eruption.”
Chapter 7
Less than five minutes later, our group was seat-belted and motoring down Alii Drive. Every time I thought of Officer Lee’s warning, goose bumps shimmied up and down my arms. It made me suspect that they suspected Keiki didn’t accidentally fall to her death.
It was almost two in the afternoon, so we continued south, discovering a restaurant next to Magic Sands Beach. In winter, I’d been told, you could lie on the beautiful sandy beach one afternoon then, after a storm-filled night, discover it magically gone the next day.
We had no problem finding a choice table with an ocean view. The lava rock barrier protecting this restaurant from the pounding surf appeared higher and more secure than Daiquiri Dave’s exterior wall. Something my brother would undoubtedly regret for the rest of his life.
The server had just taken our lunch orders when my cell rang. I glanced at the name revealed on the screen and hit the accept button. “Dave, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s been a long…” his voice broke and I remained silent while he regained his composure. “Sorry about that. What are you guys up to now?”
I shared our current location then paused when Liz waved a half-eaten wedge of pineapple in my face, mouthing something unrecognizable. “Hold on a minute.”
“Are he and Regan still coming to the luau tonight?” Liz asked.
I shook my head at my friend. Liz probably thought a pig roast would be the perfect way to cheer up my brother. Although she might be right. Our company could prove a good distraction for him.
Dave said he needed to track down Regan and check on her plans. I was surprised they still hadn’t communicated, but perhaps she was unable to connect with Dave while he was with the police.
“Have you talked with Keiki’s sister?” I asked.
“Not yet. I wanted to call you first. I’m not sure Walea or any of her family will even speak to me.” He sighed so deeply my phone shuddered. “I still can’t believe Keiki fell over the wall. And why was she there all alone so late at night?”
“How do you know she was by herself?”
He paused. “She must have been alone or whoever was with her would have called 911 when she fell. Wouldn’t they?”
Not if they were the person who pushed her over.
“Do you know who found her?” I said.
“The officer said some guy staying at the hotel next door got up to go to the bathroom around three-thirty in the morning. He decided to sit on the lanai and catch a moonlight view of the waves crashing on the rocks. Instead he saw the surf crashing …” another catch of his breath before Dave finished, “just below Keiki’s broken body. Geez, Laurel, what if my negligence led to her death? How am I going to make this right with her family?”
“Did the police say it was definitely an accident?”
“No, in fact it sounded like they thought the opposite. They weren’t particularly forthcoming when I asked questions although they sure asked a ton of their own.”
“Like what?”
“They questioned me about Keiki’s background, how long she’d worked for us. If she had any enemies or anyone who disliked her. Current and previous boyfriends. If I thought she was using drugs. Weird stuff like that.”
“Those aren’t unusual questions,” I said.
“Well, I’m not the crime show buff you are. I’m strictly a Kitchen Confidential junkie.”
“Do they think Keiki overdosed? Or committed suicide?”
“Oh, man. I can’t imagine any of those things.” His voice caught. “She, Keiki, had so much going for her.”
“Was there evidence of a struggle?” I asked.
“I don’t know. All I heard was the cops found bits of broken glass scattered on the rocks way below the restaurant, but that could have happened days ago.”
“What did they––”
“Hey, Regan’s on the line. Gotta run. I’ll see you later.”
A loud click. I found myself staring at my phone while four pairs of eyes stared at me.
“Why didn’t you let me talk to Dave?” Mother complained. “Is he all right?”
I nodded and slid my phone back into my tote. “He sounded as good as one would expect.”
“Did he learn anything from the cops?” Brian asked. “They didn’t test his DNA, did they?”
I frowned, trying to remember standard operating procedures on my favorite crime shows. “Dave didn’t say anything about DNA testing. Would the cops automatically test everyone they bring in for questioning?”
Brian pondered my question before replying. “It depends whether they found anything indicating the fall wasn’t an accident. I don’t know what kind of shape she was in after plummeting twenty feet.”
Liz and I both grimaced at the unpleasant image of Keiki’s crumpled form.
“If there was any evidence indicating a struggle between her and someone else,” Brian said, “they would take the DNA of potential suspects.”
“Considering the condition of her body, what could they possibly find?” Mother asked Brian.
“Her hands could indicate if she attempted to defend herself, possibly scratched someone, so the police might find DNA underneath her nails. They’ll probably test to see if she had sex with any possible suspects.”
Why is it whenever a murder occurs, the topic of sex eventually rears its ugly head?
Liz lifted her glass and proposed a toast. “To Keiki, may she rest in peace. And if someone was responsible for her tragic death, may they rot in hell!”
Mother and I shared a glance as we reluctantly raised our glasses. If someone was to blame for Keiki’s death, that person deserved punishment.
I just hoped it wasn’t anyone in my gene pool.
Chapter 8
After a short and somber lunch, we drove back to our hotel. Brian announced his plans to take a nap. Liz decided if Brian was sleeping then she should be shopping. Since Stan acted in the capacity of unpaid personal shopper for both of us, Liz asked him to accompany her. I felt torn between watching Stan help Liz rack up frequent spender points on her Visa, and taking a nap myself. Whether it was the morning snorkel activity or the chilling news of Keiki’s death, the idea of some quiet shut-eye won out.
Mother and I returned to our room, pleased to find the beds made and fresh orchids placed in the vase on the desk. She sank into a comfortable chair and put her feet up on the oversized ottoman. I stripped off my clothes, slipped a clean extra-large T-shirt over my head and slid under the sheets. My eyelids were seconds away from closing. Soon I would forget about everything that had occurred today. I assumed my mother would do the same.
Silly me.
“Laurel, are you asleep?”
Yes. At least I will be if there are no more interruptions.
I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, willing myself to fall into a quick and oblivious slumber.
“Do you think Dave was having an affair with Keiki?”
Bye bye, dreamland.
I rolled over and faced her. “Why would you ask a question like that?”
She glanced down at her hands, clasped together as if she was in prayer. Perhaps she was praying for the soul of the deceased dancer. And for my brother.
“Last night, I sensed something was wrong between Dave and Regan, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then Brian and Stan made some comments today about Dave and Keiki when they thought I couldn’t hear them. Your brother is such a good man. I can’t imagine him having an affair.”
My big brother had been my rock during high school and in the three years since my divorce. But despite what my mother thought, he wasn’t perfect. No man is.
I still hadn’t forgiven Dave for kidnapping my Barbie doll when we were little and forgetting where he’d buried her in the backyard. After Rex, our Golden Retriever, dug her up and discovered the joys of nibbling on a curvy plastic doll, Malibu Barbie became the only Barbie in the neighborhood with an A cup.
I shook my head clear of childhood memories. “Why don’t you discuss it with Dave this evening?”
She vehemently shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t ask him a question like that. I’m not one of those prying mothers.”
Really? I wasn’t anxious to be a prying sister either, but I was concerned about Dave and Regan.
“I’ll try to talk to him tonight, although he’ll probably be exhausted from today’s ordeal. In the meantime, let’s try to enjoy ourselves for Liz’s sake. She’s worked hard to keep everyone entertained. After all, this is technically her honeymoon, even if she chose to spend it with all of us.”
I had a feeling the next time Liz planned an event, no one in my family would be invited.
* * *
Two hours later, Stan, Mother and I stood along the side of the imu pit oven where the kalua pig roasted. For centuries, the Polynesians had used underground ovens to steam whole pigs, sweet potatoes, even fish and bananas. This particular pit was four feet long and three feet wide with deep sloping sides.
The cook addressed the crowd of curious bystanders, describing how the pit was constructed. First, a layer of covering material, usually taro or green ti leaves, went over the hot lava rocks, followed by a hundred or more banana leaves or stalks, then the native pig, which was covered with more layers. Loose dirt formed the top.
“An all day event,” said the smiling chef, whose girth indicated he enjoyed his own cooking.
And I thought making sloppy Joes was a lot of work. There would be no kalua piggy roasts in my backyard anytime soon.
After admiring the imu’s skilled workmanship, we wandered over to the bar area, where the thirsty patrons had already formed a long line. I planned to limit my consumption of fruity drinks tonight. I needed a clear head to wheedle personal information out of my brother.
Speaking of the devil, Dave strolled in our direction, deep in discussion with a tall, bronzed male who looked as good striding across land as he did on the deck of his vessel.
My hand involuntarily reached up to fluff my hair, which due to the island humidity, had an annoying tendency to shrivel into tiny corkscrew curls. Too bad the humidity didn’t cause my butt to shrivel up a size or two. I smoothed the skirt of my dress, pleased that I’d chosen a light blue sundress that matched my eyes, instead of a plain tee and shorts.
Dave gave me a quick peck on my cheek before turning to our mother who smothered him with a hug. Steve flashed me a smile so sexy my insides turned to poi.
My mother inspected her first-born child like an appraiser at an antiques road show. “Honey, are you okay?”
Although Dave nodded with an affirmative, the dark puffy circles under his eyes contradicted him. In the last twenty-four hours, it looked like he’d also lost even more ground in his battle of the bald.
My mother greeted Captain Steve then looked around. “Where’s Regan? Isn’t she joining us?”
“She called and said she would try to make it later.” Dave’s voice sounded as bitter as day-old espresso. “As usual, something came up at Koffee Land.”
Mother crossed her arms, looking miffed. “Your wife needs to work on her priorities.”
I, too, was surprised Regan hadn’t appeared and wondered if it was strictly due to her workload. She hadn’t seemed particularly upset about the news of Keiki’s death, but maybe she was merely relieved the beautiful dancer was no longer around to tempt Dave. I needed to find a way to get my brother alone sometime tonight and find out the truth.
Hoping to distract my mother from interrogating Dave in public, I decided to make Steve the subject of my own gentle grilling. “Have you always lived on this island?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m a Wall Street dropout. Seven years ago I tossed dozens of designer suits and ties in the garbage and hopped on a plane.”
“That’s impressive. People always complain about their jobs and talk about giving up a high-paced career for a more relaxed existence. You actually did it.”
“Those ties felt like a noose around my neck. Even though I left behind the opportunity to make millions, I’ve never regretted my decision.” He gestured toward the sun setting over the ocean. “You can’t put a price on this beauty.”
I nodded in agreement, although I felt more mesmerized by his gorgeous looks than the beautiful sunset in the background. Steve was not only handsome and charming. There was a depth to him.
“I know you and Dave have been friends for awhile, but how did you two meet?”
My brother smiled for the first time tonight. “C’mon, pal. Share the whole sordid story with my little sis.”
“Believe it or not, we met when I was on vacation on the island. I was here with a, um, friend.”
Dave snorted. “Steve was here with his fiancée.”
My eyebrows rose.
Steve colored under his tan. “We were staying at one of the big resorts. This island had such a strong pull over me, I told her I wanted to chuck my career and move here permanently. We were in love so it never occurred to me she wouldn’t feel the same way.”
“Instead, she dumped the contents of the ice bucket on his head,” Dave chimed in. “Told him to choose between her and the palm trees.”
Steve chuckled. “I headed out to find solace and the first person I met was my friendly hotel bartender.”
Dave smiled broadly. “I served him. Counseled him. After I closed down the bar, I helped him back to his room, worried he’d get an even frostier reception from his fiancée. She had already packed her bags and left for home. We ended up ordering room service and ate and talked all night long. At least until Steve passed out.” He shoved Steve’s shoulder. “You’re kind of a lightweight, pal.”
I could see a deep bond existed between the two men. In the next couple of days, Dave would need all the support he could get. In the distance, I spotted someone hurrying in our direction. Someone who should have been the first person to support my brother in his time of need.
But would she?
Chapter 9
Regan’s long auburn hair flew in the breeze, the expression on her face blacker than the sleeveless top and slacks she wore. She marched up to Dave and poked her index finger in his chest.
“I warned you about that slut. Do you know how hard I’ve worked so you could follow your dream of owning a restaurant?” Regan’s face matched the setting sun in its intensity. The crack of her hand meeting Dave’s cheekbone was more startling than a gunshot.
“Hey!” He jumped back out of reach, the surprise of his wife’s attack evident in his expression. The imprint of her palm stood out against his cheek.
Steve pulled Regan aside. She briefly struggled before bursting into tears. He led her away, quietly rubbing her back in an attempt to soothe her.
“Dave, what on earth is going on with the two of you?” Mother asked.
“Just some issues we haven’t resolved. It doesn’t concern you in any way.”
“But––” She stopped as Dave covered her lips with his fingertips.
“Don’t worry about it.” He glanced toward his wife. Regan seemed to have calmed as she conversed with Steve. “Why don’t you and Laurel get us some seats so we can all sit together tonight? Dinner will be served soon and you don’t want to miss the show.”
I felt torn between interrogating my brother about his marital issues and keeping my mother distracted. I grabbed Mother’s arm and dragged her in the direction of the tables and chairs set up for the luau. In the seating area, she assumed typical Barbara Bradford form, scoping out the table with the best view of the performers. That meant our group would sit by the stage. I hoped Regan would keep any further accusations to herself, at least during the performance. Even though she’d indicated concerns about a possible relationship between Keiki and Dave last night, her violent outburst stunned me. Could my sister-in-law have anger management issues, causing my brother to seek other, more serene arms?
Liz, Brian and Stan interrupted my musings, tropical drinks in hand and orchid leis around their necks.
“Isn’t this fabulous?” Liz lifted her lei and sniffed in the sweet scent of the delicate purple blossoms. “Hawaii is absolutely heaven. I can’t think of a more relaxing place to be.”
Considering Keiki’s death, and my brother and sister-in-law’s domestic issues, on a scale of one to ten, Hawaii so far only qualified for a two when it came to relaxation. But I agreed the scenery was spectacular. The golden foothills outside Sacramento where I live are beautiful, but nothing compares to a brilliant orange ball of fire slowly sinking into frothy white waves. Palm fronds waving in the breeze, framed its descent.
My backyard scenery also didn’t include half-naked men dressed solely in loin cloths, running across my lawn lighting tiki torches, although that was a heck of an idea. The eerie sound of a blown conch shell broke my reverie. I gazed in the direction of something even more delectable than the bronzed young men.
Food!
The aroma of roasted pig teased my senses as we approached the buffet. Aloha-shirted servers ladled out concoctions that smelled great but looked unfamiliar until I reached the end of the line. My favorite dinner staple––mac’n’cheez. I had a feeling this breadcrumb-topped delight might surpass the blue-and-yellow-boxed recipe I specialized in making.
With my plate piled high with kalua pork, curries, lomi-lomi salmon, sweet potatoes, and a minuscule portion of the purplish poi, I returned to our table, empty with the exception of one person. My sister-in-law.
Regan slumped in the folding chair, her chin resting on her tapered fingers, her face blotchy. Remnants of mascara clumped in the shape of a tiny spider indicated she’d been crying.
I set my plate on the red-flowered tablecloth and reached into my shoulder bag for a tissue. I gently wiped the black smudge off her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Mahalo, thank you, for your kindness. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.” Tiny rivulets of water rolled down her pale cheeks. “Now I’ve probably lost my husband forever.”
I dug in my purse for another tissue. “It’s totally understandable. You’ve been working hard and now this horrible accident has occurred.”
I pondered the wisdom of bringing up any romantic involvement between my brother and the dancer, but it was time to learn why Regan suspected the worst of her husband.
“Forgive me for prying, but do you honestly think Dave and Keiki were having an affair? It’s so hard for me to believe he would do something like that.”
Her dark eyes drilled into mine. “If you had spent any time with Keiki, you’d know what I was talking about. She used every inch of her perfect body to get what she wanted.”
“But why would she want Dave?” I love my brother, but the guy isn’t Brad Pitt, either in looks or bank account.
Regan shrugged. “I’m not sure. Supposedly, Keiki had a challenging childhood. Walea is actually her stepsister. I think there were issues with her own father when she was growing up so maybe she was looking for a father figure.”
“Dave said the police asked him about previous boyfriends. Were you aware of anyone Keiki dated––someone who might have been upset with her?”
“She dated one young man, also a dancer, on and off, but dumped him a few months ago. But I know he couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“Why not?” Former boyfriends are excellent suspects. Former husbands who leave you for another woman are even better.
Okay, I was getting off track here. I tuned in again to Regan.
“He died shortly after their break-up.”
I gasped. “How tragic. Was it an accident?”
“Possibly, although there were rumors he committed suicide because he was so devastated by the breakup. He didn’t leave a note so no one will ever know.” Regan’s face darkened as she scowled. “I used to think your brother was devoted to me. But a woman like Keiki can change a man. And not for the better.”
“Yes, but––” My reply was interrupted when Liz, Brian, Stan, and Mother joined us. With Steve and Dave not far behind. By the time the two men arrived, the only available seats were at the opposite end of the table. It was probably just as well Regan and Dave would sit apart. He nodded at her then proceeded to ignore her. She finally left to get some food, rejoining us seconds before the trio of musicians began to play.
As eight female dancers edged toward the stage, I recognized Keiki’s sister. I elbowed Stan. “Walea is performing tonight. Don’t you think it’s odd she’s dancing and not mourning her sister?”
He cocked his head. “Even in Hawaii they probably follow that old tenet––the show must go on.”
“There must be other dancers who could replace her.”
“Not necessarily. This resort only holds a luau once a week. Maybe she needs the money and couldn’t afford not to show up. Hawaii is an expensive place to live. I understand many people on this island hold multiple jobs just to get by.”
I stared at Walea, performing as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She shook her curvy hips, sheathed in a white sarong, and tossed her waist-length hair from side to side.
Maybe Walea did need the money. Or maybe she didn’t care that her stepsister had died.
Was anyone mourning the loss of the beautiful dancer?
Chapter 10
The luau entertainment was terrific, although every time Walea returned to the stage, my thoughts drifted to her stepsister’s tragic death. The emcee, who reminded me of a tan Jay Leno minus the formidable chin, possessed an excellent sense of humor that helped distract me from my ominous ruminations.
He introduced each number with a brief history of the geographic region in the Pacific where it originated. He explained how the performers portrayed the meaning of Polynesian songs through the actions of their bodies, particularly the use of graceful hand movements.
I glanced over at Regan. She glared at her husband who conversed in low tones with Steve. My sister-in-law looked like she was about to produce a graceful hand motion of her own. One utilizing the third finger for emphasis.
The well-built, oiled bodies of the male dancers captivated me with something more–– agility. It made me wonder why Keiki would break up with a dancer her own age and go after my slightly balding, slightly pudgy brother.
The troupe performed a Fijian Dance where the men sat on the floor clapping poles together at an amazing speed and with unerring accuracy. A true crowd pleaser came next–– the Siva Afi ––the daring fire knife dance.
“I wonder how long it would take for me to learn that dance,” Stan whispered.
“Folsom Lake isn’t big enough to put out the inferno you’d start if you took up fire dancing.”
“Party pooper,” Stan muttered.
The dancers spun their fiery swords under and around their writhing bodies. At the finale, they threw the flaming batons high enough to reach the satellite servicing my smart phone. I started breathing again once they were all successfully caught.
The men bowed and smiled broadly as the audience roared its approval. The Hawaiian Jay Leno indicated there would be one more participatory dance that included members from the audience. As the performers fanned out into the crowd searching for victims, I lowered my head. The worst thing you can do in one of these situations is make eye contact with a performer.
Stan waved at a handsome young man who must have registered on his gaydar. “Yoo hoo, over here.”
As the dark-haired dancer approached, Stan shoved me out of my chair and into the man’s muscular arms. What the heck!
Everyone at our table hooted, including Regan, who smiled for the first time that evening.
“I’m Kimo.” The young dancer introduced himself as he guided me onto the stage. I stared at the crowd in complete paralysis, wishing that Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire, would pluck me off the stage and use me as a virgin sacrifice. I’d rather be thrown into an erupting volcano than dance before an audience.
Not to mention, I’d been a practicing virgin since my divorce, so I almost qualified for a sacrificial role!
Kimo moved his muscular tush in a mesmerizing circular motion to demonstrate how to shake my booty. While I had more than enough booty to shake, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like a total dweeb. I glanced at the audience awash in a sea of video cameras and phones.
OMG. My inept hips were going viral. I would never get laid again, and I wasn’t talking about the floral version.
Two capable hands suddenly grabbed my waist and spun me around.
The gods finally smiled down on me as Steve traded places with Kimo. The ship captain’s broad shoulders and back blocked the audience’s view of my clumsy gyrations. He gently placed his hands on each side of my waist and before you could say “Liliuokalani,” my hips swayed as if they were born to hula.
The last note of the song ended before I was ready to quit our Hawaiian foreplay. The amateurs were ushered off the stage to another round of applause and catcalls. Instead of returning to our seats, I asked Steve to wait with me so I could speak with Walea after the show ended.
Keiki’s stepsister, the last woman to exit the stage, stopped to talk to a musician. He placed his ukulele inside a soft-sided case and together they strolled away from the stage, headed in our direction. Our shadowed enclave made Steve and me practically invisible and the couple passed by without a glance at us. I tapped Walea on her shoulder. She spun around, her black eyes fearful.
“Sorry to frighten you,” I said. “I wanted to offer you and your family my condolences for your loss. It must be such a trying time for everyone.”
A flash of anger replaced the fear in her eyes as she recognized me. “It was your brother who caused my sister to die. I curse the day I introduced him to Keiki.”
“I’m certain Dave had nothing to do with her death,” I said. “But why do you think she was in the restaurant so late? Was Keiki meeting someone?”
The man standing beside Walea shoved his face so close to mine I could count the pockmarks on his cheeks. “Tell your brother we know what he did. Our Hawaiian gods will not let his actions go unpunished.”
Steve inserted himself between the man and me. “Now, listen here––”
An angry rumbling from above interrupted his sentence.
The gods had spoken.
Chapter 11
Those Hawaiian gods are one heck of a responsive bunch. Seconds after Walea’s enraged friend threatened us, thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a huge downpour. Steve grabbed my hand and we ran. Our group was already gathering belongings, ready to dash to shelter.
Heaven forbid a sudden tropical shower disturb Mother’s perfect coiffure. She whipped a tiny satchel out of her purse and transformed it into a lightweight slicker. With a matching rain hat.
We hustled across the expanse of lawn that felt like it had grown to the size of a football field. By the time we reached the lobby everyone except my mother was soaked. Steve’s wet polo shirt molded nicely to his chest, displaying an impressive six-pack. My soggy sundress clung to my derriere, emphasizing my need to enroll in a Polynesian dance class.
“Thanks for the dance lesson,” I said to Steve. I grabbed a towel from the stack the hotel staff dispersed to their drenched luau guests. “Do all ship captains have to learn how to hula?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s not a requirement for our license, but I was lucky to get lessons with…” He paused and a pensive expression crossed his face.
I ventured a guess. “Did Keiki teach you?”
Steve nodded. “Keiki occasionally substituted for the Sea Jinx’s principal dancer. I managed to pick up a few moves from her.”
My nosy self was curious what “moves” Keiki and Steve had shared, but I decided to focus on Keiki’s movements with my brother instead.
“I guess you could tell from Regan’s outburst that she thinks Dave and Keiki were having an affair,” I said. “Did Dave ever confide in you about Keiki?”
Steve’s eyes flicked toward Dave, who was leaning against a pillar. “Your brother and I are tight, but we don’t pry into each other’s personal stuff. Don’t you think that’s a good policy to maintain?”
Not prying into a pal’s love life? As far as I was concerned, true friendship means being there to support a friend’s decisions. Also being there to tell them when they are about to screw up.
I sighed. Men seem to have different codes about stuff like this. No wonder they’re so clueless when it comes to communicating with the opposite sex.
I glanced at Dave. His eyes were fixed on his wife who conversed with our mother. I wondered what the couple’s plans were, or if they were even going home together. This might be my only opportunity to get him alone. I said good-bye to Steve and joined my brother.
“Hanging in there, Dave?”
He nodded but remained silent.
“I spoke to Walea after the show.”
That got his attention. “What did she say?”
“Um, she kind of cursed you.”
“What?” He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Laurel. Don’t tell me you believe that Hawaiian mumbo jumbo.”
Not really. Although that mini-monsoon had erupted within seconds of that scary guy yelling at me. Just thinking about his threat made goose bumps or what the locals call “chicken skin,” appear on both arms.
“Walea was with a nasty fella. About your height, dark hair, with lots of acne scars on his face. He played the ukulele at the luau tonight.”
“That’s Henry Gonzalez, Walea’s husband,” he replied. “Not the most cheerful guy on the island, but he’s an excellent musician.” Dave rocked back and forth on his heels. “I should stop by their house. See if there’s anything I can do to help.”
I rested my hand on his freckled forearm. “I’m not sure they’re in the mood for company from you or anyone in our family. Walea sounded like she blames you for Keiki’s death.”
Dave rapidly blinked away the water that had started to pool in his eyes. “What if they’re right and the ropes weren’t secured properly? Maybe it really is my fault she’s gone.”
“No point worrying yourself sick until you find out if it was an accident or not. Did the police say when you can open up again?”
“They said they’d be done tomorrow, but I’m not sure I can handle reopening the restaurant after what happened.” He rubbed the corner of his right eye. “It won’t be the same without her anyway.”
Her? I was about to grill Dave further when Mother joined us. Darn. Any revelations would have to wait. Mother’s arm wrapped snugly around Regan, who looked prepared to bolt the second her mother-in-law loosened her firm grip.
“Dave, your wife and I were discussing our expedition tomorrow.” Mother placed a special emphasis on Regan’s marital status. Subtlety was not Mom’s middle name.
“I heard you’re all driving to the volcano in the morning then Regan’s taking you on the coffee tour,” he said.
Regan shook her head. “We’ll have to delay the plantation tour until the next day. I’m meeting with a Detective Lee tomorrow afternoon at the police station.”
Dave’s eyebrows jumped an inch. “Why are they talking to you?”
It might be time for Dave to stop watching cooking shows and start catching Law and Order reruns.
“Regan is co-owner of the restaurant,” I said. “They’re probably going to interview all your staff. Most likely they’ve already spoken to Walea and she’s…” My voice dropped off as I realized interviewing Walea and her family wouldn’t make the authorities more sympathetic to our family.
“It’s not like I have anything useful to share.” Regan narrowed her eyes at her husband. “I took a sleeping pill last night so a troop of dancers could have paraded through our condo without waking me up. Should I have heard anything?”
Dave’s face paled and his left eye twitched, but he shook his head.
“I’m sure you two have much to discuss.” Mother released her hold on Regan and gently pushed her toward her husband. “Go home and get a good night’s rest. Brian can drive us to the volcano tomorrow. You can take us on the tour of Koffee Land the next day.”
Regan appeared hesitant. I didn’t envy her position but Mother was right. It was time for Regan and Dave to sit down and discuss Keiki. And their marriage.
Dave placed his hand on the small of his wife’s back. As the couple receded into the distance, I noted the gap between them increased.
Liz, Brian and Stan joined my mother and me.
“We can’t do the coffee tour until Tuesday,” Mother said. “So why don’t we visit the black sand beach at Punalu’u and the volcano tomorrow?”
“Great idea,” Stan said. “That beach is loaded with honu, huge green sea turtles. I’d love to get a photo of them sunning themselves.”
“We can also squeeze in a stop at the Punalu’u Bake Shop,” Liz added. “I’ve been dying to sample their malasadas.”
“What are malasadas?” I asked.
“Very sweet, light and airy pastries. Similar to doughnuts but better. Full of custard or fruit. Some are even stuffed with chocolate cream.”
Forget the giant turtles and the volcano.
Liz had me at the chocolate cream-filled doughnuts.
Chapter 12
By eight o’clock, we’d all gathered in the lobby. Despite Mother’s objections, I skipped my heart-and-colon-healthy oatmeal breakfast. My daily calories were reserved for delicious fried carbs. The sugar-filled pastries might sweeten the grumpy mood brought on by two voicemails I’d just played back.
Last night I’d turned my phone to silent for the luau performance and missed a call from Tom. I couldn’t decide if I should be pleased or annoyed that he’d finally phoned. His brief message said he hoped we were all having a great time.
No mention that he missed me. Or longed for my return. Or that he wished he could have joined me at this beautiful tropical resort. My fingers hovered over the phone itching to send an equally curt text message, but I decided to wait. Maybe the magic of this island would restore my spirits.
Jenna, my sixteen-year-old, had also left a message. Though her voice mail kept cutting in and out, I heard her mention something that cost “only two hundred dollars.” I texted and asked her to elaborate. With my new stepfather, a retired detective babysitting both kids, I wasn’t worried about either of them getting into trouble. The request for something that cost only two hundred dollars was more troubling.
But I’d worry about that later. Today I was on vacation.
Three hours and three thousand calories later, with my body stretched out on an inadequately sized beach towel, I attempted to keep the broiling black sand from turning the soles of my feet to burnt charcoal.
My towel rested twenty feet away from some sunbathing sea turtles. After practically inhaling three of the cream-filled pastries at the southernmost bakery in the United States, my body felt bloated. I bet the turtles could move faster than I could. Every now and then, one of the placid creatures would poke his or her head out, gaze at the crowd of tourists and withdraw back into its shell.
I wished I had a cool shell to hide my own sweaty body. The palm trees that lined the Punalu’u Black Sand Beach made for a postcard photo op, but the black sand formed from the lava flowing into the sea had created a molten hot playground for beachgoers.
Mother lay next to me on an oversized hot pink beach towel. She’d rearranged it at least ten times until it sat perfectly perpendicular to the ocean. Her thick-soled flip-flops, a lovely shade of raspberry edged in rhinestones, shimmered in the noon sun.
She rolled over to face me. “This vacation probably isn’t what you expected, is it?”
What I’d expected was some quality bonding with the brother and sister-in-law I rarely saw. Not intervening in a domestic dispute that may have turned deadly. I’d also anticipated private time alone with Tom.
I swiped at tiny grains of sand on my legs. “It’s not exactly the romantic vacation I envisioned when we initially planned this trip.”
“You know how I hate to pry…” I stifled a snort, but my mother has excellent hearing. She sniffed, but continued. “Detective Hunter is a fine man, but maybe he has too much responsibility with his new position to be in a relationship with you. Or with any woman.”
“You’re probably right. It was silly to get my hopes up for this trip. I kept imagining the two of us sharing romantic evenings––walking the beach together and later making––” My face turned the color of my mother’s beach towel when I realized I was about to discuss my sex life with her.
Or my hope that I would finally have a sex life once Tom and I vacationed together in Hawaii.
She chuckled. “It’s okay, honey. You’ve been single for a few years now, although not nearly as long as I was alone after your father passed away. Try not having a sex life for almost thirty years.”
Talk about TMI! That was way too much information.
After my Dad died, I’d never seen my mother with another man until she started dating Detective Bradford the previous fall. I’d always wondered if she’d squeezed any dating into her busy life once my brother and I moved out. No need to wonder any more.
“How could you tell Bradford was the man for you?” The question had nagged at me since their initial meeting, but I’d never had the nerve to ask, even after they married.
She rolled over on her back and rested her hands on her stomach. “Timing had a lot to do with it. Robert and I are both sixty-two. He was contemplating retirement from the sheriff’s department. I was wondering if I’d still be selling real estate and showing houses twenty years from now. I’ve enjoyed my career, but I haven’t had much of a life of my own, other than raising you and your brother.”
She sat up and smiled. “I doubt any Realtor on their death bed ever said they wished they’d gotten one more listing.”
My turn to chuckle. My mother had been a workaholic all of her life. In the beginning, she had no choice because she needed to support her young family. Once she became the top agent in her office, her competitive nature wouldn’t allow her to drop back to number two in sales.
It looked like the new Mrs. Barbara Bradford would finally bring some balance into her life.
“Plus Robert is terrific in bed.”
Oh ick! That made for more than enough mother/daughter bonding for me. I leaped off my towel and hotfooted it down to the water where Stan was cooling his heels.
Stan glanced at me as I splashed noisily beside him. “Did those big old turtles scare you?”
Nope, but my mother sure did. Our conversation reminded me of my brother and Regan’s strained relationship. The couple had married after a brief courtship and I felt like I barely knew my sister-in-law. I’d looked forward to getting to know her better on this trip but bonding over a dead body was not what I’d had in mind.
After a quick dip in the ocean, we decided to head to the volcano. I tried to clean the sand off my calves with a wet wipe. Dark streaks ran up and down my legs leaving me even stickier. As I reached into my straw tote for a clean towel, I noticed a missed call on my cell.
My brother had phoned but left no message. I tried calling him back, but there was no reception. Maybe I’d have more bars once we climbed higher up. I’d feel more relaxed once we learned more about what happened to Keiki.
At the visitor’s center inside the Hawaii Volcanoes Park, we wandered around the displays and watched a mesmerizing and scary film. Kilauea is frequently referred to as a drive-in volcano since it’s one of the few spots where tourists can drive past steaming beds of lava. According to Hawaiian folk lore, Pele, the volcano goddess is very unpredictable. The current eruption could go on for another one hundred years or stop tomorrow.
After pondering my most recent conversation with my mother, I decided that Pele and Mom had a lot in common.
After our drive around the crater, we tried to check into the Volcano Village. We discovered there was no room at the inn. Who knew the volcano was a hot destination for celebrating Valentine’s Day? None of us wanted to drive the three-plus hours back to our resort in Waikaloa. We piled in the car and headed down to Hilo, a thirty-minute drive.
Liz Googled a discount travel website on her smart phone and booked two rooms at a decent hotel. The honeymooners snapped up a room with a king-size bed. The three of us decided to save money and take a double-bedded room. My mother and I could share a bed and Stan could have the other.
Stan had been my confidant for so long, I often thought of him as the sister I’d always wanted.
My cell rang just as we entered our hotel room. Speaking of siblings…
“Dave, finally. How did Regan’s meeting with the police go?”
“She spent almost three hours there, and they took a DNA swab, but she didn’t seem too concerned.” He paused for a few seconds. “Although that’s odd since my wife normally worries about everything. Her staff claims she angsts over every unaccounted for coffee bean.”
Hmm. I was surprised they’d taken a sample of Regan’s DNA, but maybe the Hawaii police just believed in being thorough. “Did the police mention when you can re-open the restaurant?”
“They’re supposed to remove the crime scene tape early tomorrow. Our insurance agent will meet me at the restaurant around noon. I need to know if…” Dave’s voice faltered, “if I was responsible in some way for Keiki’s fall.”
My heart broke for my brother who had to worry if negligence made him inadvertently responsible for a woman’s death.
I tried to boost his morale. “C’mon, Dave, think positive. What are you and Regan doing tonight?”
“She’s packing right now. She stays in one of Koffee Land’s guest cabins when she needs to be in Hilo overnight. For business.” His voice dropped and it almost sounded like he muttered “supposedly.”
He coughed. “Anyway, Regan said it would be easier to spend the night there to prepare for your tour tomorrow. She’s leaving here in a few minutes.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I’m going to grab a six-pack, sit on our lanai and contemplate the meaning of life.”
Chapter 13
Torrents of rain pelted our balcony screen door and woke us early the next morning. According to our guidebook, the eastern side of the island could receive as much as 150 inches of rain per year. No wonder everything was so lush and green. I just hoped all 150 inches didn’t fall today.
The group vetoed Liz’s plan to pay an early morning visit to a botanical garden. The gang opted for a leisurely breakfast of sweet potato rolls, macadamia nut pancakes and a hearty portion of local bacon. Liz reluctantly acquiesced once I promised we’d return on a sunny day and I’d zip-line through the botanical garden with her.
Luckily for me, the odds of the sun shining in Hilo before we flew home were about as high as the odds of me snapping onto a flimsy rope hundreds of feet above terra firma.
Once we escaped Hilo, the rain magically disappeared and the sun popped out, creating an enormous arched rainbow against the blue sky. We stopped at the Punalu’u Bake Shop on our way to the coffee farm. I managed to make a quick pit stop without succumbing to the purchase of any more pastries.
At the rate I was eating my way across Hawaii, I would need to jog around all 266 miles of the Big Island to work the calories off.
Koffee Land occupied five hundred acres near the quaint town of Honaunau, at the southern end of the Kona coffee district. Regan’s employer was one of Kona’s largest coffee farms. Most of the eight hundred growers on the island cultivated far smaller holdings, anywhere from one to five acres.
A brilliant lime green sign adorned with bright violet letters announced our approach to Koffee Land. Even the lava rock entry bore the KL logo. A long, winding paved road ended at a modern-looking building, the impressive visitors’ center. Covered lanais on three sides allowed tourists to sit and enjoy distant ocean views while they sipped their coffee.
As our group ambled up the sidewalk, we admired the brilliant red blossoms of the bougainvillea bushes planted along the walkway. I pushed open the heavy Koa wood door and my nose led the way into the coffee-scented gift shop.
Welcome to Starbucks on steroids.
A young girl dressed in shorts, a lime green polo shirt with KL embroidered on the pocket, and a name badge that read Tiffany, smiled at us.
“Welcome to Koffee Land. Is this your first visit?”
“Yes,” said Mother. “My daughter-in-law, Regan Bingham, is supposed to show us around.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. Would you like to sample some of our award-winning coffee while you wait?” She pointed to a beige granite-topped counter across the room bearing seven large carafes and a variety of condiments.
Silly question. Liz and Brian were already pouring coffee into paper cups before the young woman could finish her sentence. The rest of us followed suit. Labels on the tall silver carafes told which beans had been ground to make the coffee inside. Small bowls in front of each silver cylinder displayed the actual Koffee Land beans: Standard medium and French roast, Gold label premium versions of each roast, and something called Peaberry. Plus toasted coconut and chocolate macadamia nut.
Yum yum. By the time I’d tasted all the versions, I’d have so much energy I probably could run all the way back to the hotel. We jostled each other as we sampled small cups of the steaming liquid.
“Aloha, everyone.” Regan joined us, her arms spread in welcome, but her smile seemed strained, and she looked exhausted. Her lime-green shirt hung on her petite frame and emphasized her pallor. It wouldn’t surprise me if Regan had dropped a few pounds in the last couple of days.
Criminal investigations can do that to people. In fact, being a murder suspect is the only weight loss program that ever worked for me.
“There are so many choices,” Mother said. “Can you explain the difference between the assorted roasts?”
Regan pointed to the bowls. “See the difference in the color, size and shape of the various beans? The lightest beans are our medium roast, which technically produces the purest tasting Kona coffee. Many people, especially Starbucks regulars, prefer the darker French roast. The higher temperatures required for their roasting removes some of the natural flavor though.”
I mulled that over. “So if I prefer a light roast, I’m not a coffee weenie. I’m really a coffee connoisseur?”
“That’s correct.” Regan reached into one of the bowls, grabbed a small round bean and passed it around. “Now the Peaberry is our most robust bean.”
“Peaberry coffee usually costs more, doesn’t it?” Stan asked.
Regan nodded. “It occurs when the coffee cherry yields only one bean instead of the usual two. It’s very rare.” She paused. “Sort of like a good man.”
Before she could elaborate, the door opened and six more caffeine-seeking tourists entered. Regan looked at her watch. “Darn. I hoped to take you on a private tour, but we’re short-handed today. Victor needs to leave to help his wife and daughter prepare for Keiki’s funeral.”
“Keiki’s funeral?” I asked. “Why would your staff be involved with that?”
“Oh, I guess you didn’t know,” Regan replied. “Victor is married to Keiki’s mother.”
“Her father works here too?”
“Victor is, I mean, was Keiki’s stepfather. And he doesn’t just work here.” Regan gnawed on her lower lip. “Victor is my boss.”
Chapter 14
For a brief moment, you could have heard a coffee bean drop. Then the chatter of the other tourists filled the room.
“Victor married Keiki’s mother several years ago,” Regan clarified. “Technically he’s my boss because he runs the coffee operation. Since I’m the controller, I also report to Ritz Naygrow, the owner. He…” she stopped as two men entered the center from the back of the building. “There’s Ritz and Victor now.”
A short wiry Asian man in his early fifties conversed with a tall dark-haired man with cinematic good looks. Dressed in an off-white linen blazer and dark slacks, the taller man looked like he’d stepped off the movie set of South Pacific, ready to sing “Some Enchanted Evening.” I took a wild guess this was the owner. Regan gave a half-hearted wave in their direction and they headed toward us.
She introduced the men to our group. “This is Ritz Naygrow, the owner of Koffee Land. And this is Victor Yakamura.”
Mother took Victor’s calloused hand in both of hers. “We are all so sorry for your loss.”
Victor stared at her with red-rimmed eyes, bordered by crow’s feet so deep they appeared etched in stone. “Mahalo. Thank you,” he said, releasing her hand. “I must go home now and assist my daughter and my wife.”
“We’ll talk about that matter tomorrow,” Ritz said to Victor.
Keiki’s stepfather nodded then took his leave.
“How do you like Koffee Land?” The dashing coffee plantation owner’s brown eyes sparkled as he beamed at our group. This man was either naturally energetic or he’d just drunk a pot full of Peaberry coffee.
“They just arrived,” Regan told Ritz. “I was about to give them a tour.”
“Of course, of course. They must have the grand tour,” he responded, his voice indicating a trace of an accent. “Feel free to tell them about our upcoming event. But, first, I must go over something with you. Perhaps your guests can sample one of our many delectable items while they wait.”
“Um, okay.” She pointed to a shelf of brightly wrapped boxes. “If you’re hungry, check out our selection of donkey balls. They’re really tasty.”
Liz and I looked at each other. Did Regan say what I thought she said? We zipped over to the aisle Regan had pointed to and discovered an assortment of Donkey Balls, a local brand of sphere-shaped chocolate candies with flavor options ranging from chocolate-covered macadamia nuts to chocolate and fruit-flavored malt balls larger than a super-sized jawbreaker.
What a great place to work. Caffeine in liquid and solid forms. Liz and I each purchased a pack and shared them with the group while we waited.
Regan looked frustrated when she returned. “Ready for the tour?”
I wondered if everything was okay, but with my cheeks stuffed full of chocolate chunks, all I could do was nod.
As we hiked toward an area planted with coffee trees, Regan provided running commentary. “The history of Kona coffee goes back over 180 years. At one point, all Kona coffee trees came from one single tree in the King of France's private greenhouse.”
“Talk about a huge family tree,” joked Stan.
Regan politely chuckled then explained that elevations for coffee farms on the Big Island ranged from 1,500 to 3,500 feet. Unlike grapes, which are picked in the fall at the precise moment the vintner determines, coffee cherries don’t ripen at the same time. They get picked four to six times a year. Labor costs for hand picking are one of the reasons Kona coffee is so expensive, sometimes exceeding fifty dollars a pound.
Fifty dollars a pound? No wonder they call it Kona gold.
“After the cherries arrive at the mill, the beans are washed then sundried on decks called hoshidanas.” Regan pointed to a large deck in the distance
“What happens if it rains?” I asked.
“We use lots of tiny umbrellas,” Regan responded. When my mouth gaped, she smiled. “A little coffee humor. We have mechanical dryers if needed.”
As we continued the tour, I marveled at the similarities and differences between grape growing and coffee farming. More than fifty wineries are located in El Dorado County. Several owners are friends of mine, so I knew a tremendous amount of love and labor went into producing the award-winning Gold Country wines.
“Are all beans grown on this island considered to be Kona coffee?” I asked.
Regan shook her head. “True Kona coffee must be grown within the Kona coffee belt, an area twenty miles long and only two miles wide.”
“I read something about a scandal where some grower bought less expensive beans then sold them as one hundred percent Kona coffee,” Stan said.
“That was a huge scandal and it led to new laws,” replied Regan. “Inspections are now required to ensure that all beans labeled as 100% Kona are grown in the district.”
“Next up is the roasting room. After that, I’ll show you our latest project. Something no other coffee farm has done.” She pointed to a tall wooden tower situated on a distant hill.
“Is that a zip-line tower?” Stan asked.
“Our latest addition,” confirmed Regan. “Ritz and Pilar are determined to turn Koffee Land into a destination coffee farm. They want to host weddings, special events, even movies. Our first big event is a new reality show called The Bride and the Bachelor. They start taping next Monday.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said. “Aren’t you excited?”
“I guess.” Regan nibbled her lower lip. “I personally think if a coffee farm produces fabulous coffee that should be enough. But Ritz thinks on a grand scale. We’ve just completed the addition of six more ‘honeymoon’ cabins to the two guest houses that were already on the property, plus an event pavilion and the zip-line, of course.”
“Are you going to have zip-line weddings?” Liz turned to her husband. “Darn. That would have been something, wouldn’t it, honey?”
Brian’s eyes cut to mine. It was a good thing Liz was already married. There was no way this matron of honor would have “zipped” down the aisle.
“Can we ride it today?” Liz asked.
“Not today, although it will be operational before you leave for home. Everything was delayed when we had to stop construction for a few weeks. The coffee farms surrounding us are not happy about our new additions. They keep saying these delays are due to bad juju. That the gods don’t want the Kona coffee belt turned into Disneyland.”
“Those Hawaiian gods are an active bunch, aren’t they?” Stan said.
Regan’s face turned as white as the fluffy clouds up above us as she replied. “I don’t know if the gods were involved or not, but it’s tragic when a worker is killed.”
Chapter 15
“Omigod,” I said. “What happened?”
“He fell off that zip-line platform.” Regan pointed to the tower in the distance. “His boss asked him to stay late to finish something. Supposedly he slipped and fell from the platform to the ground.”
“Ouch. That’s about a forty-foot drop,” Stan said.
“His body wasn’t discovered until the following morning. It was horrible.” She closed her eyes as if remembering the incident. “Henry was beside himself with grief. And now the poor guy has to deal with his sister-in-law’s death as well.”
“Henry was his boss? Walea’s husband?” I asked. “No wonder he’s so…” I wanted to say crabby, but that seemed rude considering what the poor man had recently suffered.
“It’s been a tough month for all the staff.” Regan glanced down at her watch. “We better get on with the tour. By the time we return, Ritz will undoubtedly have another project for me to work on. I just wish we made money as quickly as he spends it.”
As Stan and Brian peppered Regan with questions about the zip-line and other Koffee Land improvements, my phone beeped indicating a missed call from Dave. The reception on this side of Mauna Loa must be iffy. I followed the others into the roasting room, but it was so noisy I slipped out to return my brother’s call. In the distance, an SUV climbed the long driveway to the visitor’s center. Poor Regan. She would barely finish with our group before leading another tour.
My thumb was poised over Dave’s number when the squeal of brakes drew my attention. The vehicle I’d noticed skidded around the last curve and slid into a parking space near the front of the building. The car had barely stopped when two men stepped out. One was dressed in a shirt and slacks and the other in a Hawaii police uniform.
Uh oh. What were the odds the officers stopped by for a free cup of coffee and a Donkey Ball snack?
I shoved my phone back into my cluttered purse. Dave could wait a few more minutes while I found out what was going on. I trotted down the sidewalk and managed to catch up with the officers as they entered the visitor’s center. The taller red-haired man was kind enough to hold the heavy door open for me.
Tiffany stood frozen behind the reception counter. Her dark eyes were as huge as the chocolate-covered malt balls I’d crunched on earlier.
“Aloha,” she squeaked. “Do you want any c..c..coffee?” Her arm shot out in the direction of the large carafes. Then she raced out the door as fast as her flip-flops would allow.
The two men turned and stared at me, the only other occupant in the room.
“Can I assist you?” I asked the man dressed in civilian clothing.
“Do you work here?”
Since I wasn’t dressed in a lime-green Koffee Land polo shirt and I was hauling a huge straw tote with me, I gave him a two for his deductive abilities.
“No, I’m visiting from California. My sister-in-law works here. Are you looking for one of the employees? Several of them are off today due to a death in the family.”
“We’d like to speak with Regan Bingham. Is she available?”
“Regan is my sister-in-law. She’s out escorting a tour.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed, and I could swear his jaw squared right before my eyes. He whipped out a pad and pen from his pocket. “Okay, lemme get this straight.” His Bronx accent seemed out of place in Hawaii. “Are you saying you’re related to Dave Bingham, the owner of Daiquiri Dave’s restaurant?”
I nodded. “Dave is my brother. Is he okay?”
“For now.”
What kind of an answer was that? I opened my mouth to ask my own questions when the door opened and another man entered the center. He looked startled to see me but quickly recovered. “So, Ms. McKay, we meet again. What a strange coincidence.” His tone of voice indicated he didn’t think much of coincidences.
Neither did I.
“Detective Lee, what brings you to Koffee Land? Does this have anything to do with Keiki’s death?”
He pressed his lips together. “Where is Mrs. Bingham?”
The guy with the Bronx accent turned to Lee. “She’s supposedly giving some folks a tour. Some little hottie ran out the door the second we arrived. Should I send Yaku after her?”
“Yes, immediately. And, O’Grady, if you would be so kind as to locate this tour group and bring Mrs. Bingham back here. Then we can finish our business.”
O’Grady stuffed his notebook back in his pocket, opened the door and let it slam behind him. Yaku headed outside, leaving me alone with the detective. I decided to be hospitable and offer some refreshments. A little sugar might sweeten his mission.
“Would you like a ball or two while you wait?”
Some days I actually think before I open my mouth. Today was not one of them.
A hint of a smile appeared on the detective’s face. “Mahalo, but I will pass on your offer for now. However a cup of coffee would be refreshing.”
His gaze roved around the center as he walked toward the coffee samples. The door opened again and I expected to see O’Grady enter along with Regan and the rest of our party. Instead, a throng of white-haired tourists wandered into the center. Through the open door, I watched more passengers disembark from a parked Paradise Tour bus.
I hoped Regan or Tiffany returned soon, because I was having a difficult enough time playing host to one cop. I had no idea how to entertain a busload of caffeine-starved seniors.
Lee plastered his cell to his right ear and used his palm to cover his left ear to muffle noise from the boisterous group. Apparently, he still couldn’t hear. He opened the door and, as he walked out, he mouthed, “Don’t leave.”
Like I could? I felt like an airport controller directing men and women to their respective restrooms and others to the coffee counter. Where was my sister-in-law and why were the police here in force? If an employee didn’t show up soon, I might resort to giving away candy samples. If nothing else, chewing on the huge chocolate spheres would stifle the noise level.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to resort to a Donkey Ball free-for-all. O’Grady returned with Detective Lee, Regan and the rest of my gang.
Stan bustled over. “You missed the best part of the tour. Where’d you go?”
“Dave phoned and I went outside to return the call. Before I could buzz him back, these officers arrived, followed by this busload of tourists.”
“That red-headed guy said we had to follow him to the center. What’s going on?”
“Officer Lee,” I pointed in the detective’s direction, “wants to talk to Regan.”
“Oh.” Stan looked left and then right. “So where is she?”
“She’s…” I spun around in a circle trying to locate my sister-in-law among the crowd of aloha-shirted tourists.
Lee joined us, looking puzzled. “Do you know where your sister-in-law is?”
I shrugged. Lee motioned O’Grady to his side. O’Grady rushed out the door and Lee began circling the room.
My eyes scanned the center for Regan but no luck. Stan went outside to look for Regan and Tiffany while I entered the ladies’ room. After peering at the shoes lined up in each stall, I decided none of the pairs was related to me, although I spied a cute set of floral wedges in the handicapped stall. I would try to make their owner’s acquaintance later on.
As I headed back into the main room, Regan and my mother appeared in the rear doorway. Each carried two large carafes of coffee, one per hand. I eased my way around two senior citizens, who debated whether their dentures could handle the jawbreaker-sized chocolate- covered macadamia nuts. As I approached my mother, I reached out to grab one of the containers from her.
“Thanks, honey. Those pots are heavy when they’re full.”
Lee appeared by my side and offered to carry one of Regan’s containers. It was reassuring to see the police in Hawaii were as kind and helpful as everyone else I’d encountered on the island. Whether it was due to the tranquil atmosphere, or lack of crime, it was a refreshing change from the overly suspicious cops I was more accustomed to in California.
We set our carafes on the coffee counter. Regan lined them up in the proper order to match the beans on display. “I better get to the register and attend to all of these customers.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Detective Lee’s face remained impassive as he reached under the back of his aloha shirt and pulled out something round and silver.
“Regan Bingham, you’re under arrest for the murder of Keiki––”
Chapter 16
Just when you think you can trust a cop, they go and arrest one of your relatives.
The next few minutes were more chaotic than Times Square on New Year’s Eve. One would think the presence of a police officer reading Miranda rights to a Koffee Land employee would send the tourists streaking back to their bus, but a pressing need for a Donkey Ball snack seemed to outweigh good manners. A few of the senior citizens refused to leave until someone rang up their orders.
I was ready to grab their walkers and thump them on their fluffy white heads, but help finally arrived. Yaku discovered Tiffany hiding behind a large burlap sack of coffee beans in the back room. She’d worried the police had come to grill her about one of her brothers, known for his expert pakalolo farming skills. When she discovered the authorities were more concerned with murder than marijuana, she ventured out to assist the customers.
Detective Lee led Regan out the door and down the sidewalk. I followed them, still in disbelief.
“Let me get Regan’s boss,” I said. “Maybe he can intervene.”
Lee held up his palm, the tips of his fingers almost touching my nose. “Please, let us do our job.”
“But––” The roar of a car engine caught my attention. I watched a white Mercedes convertible peel away.
Regan grew even paler. She attempted to lift her arm, but the handcuffs restricted any movement.
“Do you know who was in that car?” I asked her.
Regan’s reply was barely audible. “Ritz.”
Hmm. You’d think the owner would be concerned about the arrest of an employee. Didn’t he see his controller being led away in handcuffs?
Brian grumbled and attempted to throw his legal weight around, but an El Dorado County Assistant District Attorney was weightless in this state. Lee said Regan could contact her husband once they’d completed her processing at the Kona station.
The officers were gentle, but firm, as they led Regan to their car. Tears poured down her cheeks as she bent over and eased into the backseat of the SUV. Liz and I waved at her, sympathetic tears streaming down our faces. My mother was as white as the pearl earrings dangling from her ear lobes, and I worried she might collapse from the strain.
I put my arm around her waist. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine. But that poor child. Why would they take Regan away?”
I turned to Brian. “Did Lee say anything about their reason for arresting her?”
“He said they had new evidence, but they weren’t willing to share it with me. Have you talked to your brother? He needs to hire a criminal defense attorney for her.”
I dug into my purse, grabbed my phone and speed-dialed Dave. He picked it up on the second ring. “Laurel, finally. Did you get my message?”
“Sorry, I saw you called, but––” I stopped as Dave interrupted me.
“I have good news,” he said, “well, news that made me feel better.”
Huh? What was Dave talking about? I was beginning to think that after so many years of living on the island, the Vog, Hawaii’s volcanic version of smog, had destroyed some of his brain cells.
“Remember I was supposed to meet with the insurance inspector today? One of the detectives came by around eleven to remove the crime scene tape so the place would be accessible. I’ve been tearing myself up thinking it was my fault Keiki fell over the wall. The detective said the autopsy report showed it definitely wasn’t an accident.”
“Yeah, about that––” I tried to interrupt Dave, but he kept talking, his voice sounding happier than I’d heard in a long time.
“I know it’s horrible that Keiki was murdered, but you can’t imagine my relief that negligence wasn’t the cause of her death. I called Regan with the good news, but she didn’t pick up. Maybe we can make a fresh start now that…” His voice trailed off for a minute. “Anyway, with the crime scene tape down, the place is ours again. How about we have a celebration tonight? I’ll cook an authentic Hawaiian dinner for just our family and your friends. What do you say?”
There was really only one thing I could say.
“You may want to put that celebration on hold. Regan was just arrested for Keiki’s murder.”
Chapter 17
A loud thud echoed over the phone line. Either the phone dropped out of my brother’s hand, or he was knocking it against his hard head.
“I must have misunderstood you,” Dave replied. “I thought you said Regan was arrested.”
“That’s exactly what I said. Three police officers just took her away. One of them was the detective we met the day they found Keiki.”
“Why would they arrest Regan? What did they say?”
“Not much. Brian attempted to question them, but they didn’t share anything. The officers are bringing her to the Kona station, and she can call you once she’s been processed. Do you know a good criminal attorney?”
“Of course not. What kind of question is that?”
“A practical one. Regan will need a defense lawyer to represent her.”
“Damn it. There are probably plenty of people who wanted to kill Keiki.”
My blood started to boil hotter than the coffee I’d drunk earlier. “Why did you withhold that kind of information from us?”
The phone went silent. Then Dave said, “Keiki was a complicated person. That’s all I’m going to say. Please come to the restaurant, and we’ll talk when you all get here. In the meantime, I need to take care of my wife.”
The line went dead.
“What can we do to help, luv?” Liz’s lower lip trembled, a sure sign she was upset, but trying to keep it together.
My mother slid her arm around my best friend’s waist. “Liz, our family has created more grief for you than any bride should have to contend with. Maybe you and Brian should take off on your own and spend some well-deserved time alone. You don’t need to be involved in any more of our family crises.”
“Thanks, but this is a group honeymoon, and Brian and I are here for you. Right, honey?”
Brian smiled and clasped her hand. “Of course, we are. Now let’s drive back to Kona and come up with a plan.”
We spent the drive debating the best way to proceed. Mother wanted to stop at the police station to see how Regan was doing, but Brian doubted we’d be allowed to see her. Stan insisted he should infiltrate the dance troupe to snoop and find out who might have wanted Keiki dead.
“I doubt if Walea will let you dance with them again,” I said to Stan. “I’m sure she hates Dave, Regan, and anyone affiliated with our family.”
He stroked his chin. “Yeah, but we had such a good time practicing that routine together. What if I called her and asked for a private lesson or two?”
“Her family is busy preparing for Keiki’s funeral,” I said. “Now that the autopsy has been completed, won’t they release the body fairly soon?”
“I would imagine within a day or two,” Brian responded from the driver’s seat. “That’s standard procedure in California and it’s probably the same over here.”
By the time we reached town, the sun had gone to sleep. The parking lot in front of the restaurant remained empty, but the crime scene tape was gone. A sign at the entrance informed potential customers that Daiquiri Dave’s Lounge was temporarily closed due to renovation. The only remodeling I could think of was fortifying the lava rock wall Keiki had tumbled over.
Now that they’d arrested Regan, the police must be certain she pushed Keiki over the wall. Even though my sister-in-law disliked the dancer, she wouldn’t have resorted to killing her. Would she? That unsettling thought sent shivers from my neck to my tailbone, but I immediately shoved it aside.
The restaurant appeared closed, but the door opened when Brian turned the knob. Inside, the sound of men’s voices drew us toward the bar area where Dave perched on one of the bamboo bar stools. A bottle of vodka and a glass filled to the brim sat in front of him. Steve, who occupied the adjacent stool, sipped his own glass of colorless liquid.
I didn’t want to seem like a control freak, but surely the two guys had a better plan than getting drunk tonight. Someone needed to spring Regan from the joint.
Dave gulped his drink in two seconds then reached for the half-empty bottle of vodka. I grabbed it first and raised it over my head.
“What is the matter with the two of you?” I glared at both men, equally annoyed with my brother and his best friend. “Drowning your sorrows isn’t going to solve anything.”
Steve slid off the bar stool with athletic grace and gestured for me to take his place. “Your brother is having a tough time dealing with this situation. You’ll be happy to know I’m only drinking Sprite.”
My brother spun around on his stool. “Laurel, stop being such a pill. Steve and me––” Dave burped. “We have a plan.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of plan? I hope it doesn’t involve breaking Regan out of jail.”
He shook his head from side to side and frowned. “You are always so negative. Steve and I have it covered. All we gotta do is find the killer ourselves.”
He snatched the bottle out of my grasp. “Now how hard can that be?”
Chapter 18
We spent the next half hour trying to sober up my brother who continued to insist the local police were only interested in getting the murder off their books.
Brian responded to Dave’s assertions. “I don’t think you realize the importance of working within the system.”
“Based on the stories my sister has shared,” Dave said, “that method hasn’t worked so well for her in the past.”
Brian’s face colored as Liz and I traded glances. I had no reason to doubt the competency of the Hawaii Police. Except for the fact that they’d arrested my sister-in-law, which led me to sincerely doubt their investigative prowess.
I also doubted that given my brother’s current condition, that he should be cooking in a kitchen full of sharp pointed objects. We locked up the lounge and trooped down the street to the Kona Inn Restaurant, a terrific dining spot located at the Kona Inn Shopping Center. The young hostess showed the six of us to a corner table overlooking a velvety green lawn that marched up to the ocean.
We decided brainstorming would be better without booze so we skipped the tropical drinks and ordered dinner. My nostrils flared as the scent of batter-fried Maui onion rings wafted over from the table next to us. Three succulent orders of onion rings later, we were deep into discussing what we knew so far.
“Someone needs to ask the obvious question,” said Brian. “What kind of evidence do the police have implicating Regan?”
Dave drooped in his chair. His initial alcohol-enhanced excitement about helping his wife seemed to have dissipated. “Yesterday, when I was waiting for Regan to finish with the cops, I overhead two officers discuss a bandage Regan wore above her wrist.”
My mother looked puzzled. “Since when is a bandage proof someone is a murderer?”
“A scratch or other injury could indicate the suspect fought with the victim,” Brian replied. “Regan mentioned they tested her DNA yesterday so they must have noticed something suspicious.”
Brian twisted in his seat to address Dave. “Did you see or hear Regan go out that evening?”
Dave’s right eye twitched as he replied. “Nope, didn’t hear a thing.”
Aha! I knew that twitch. My poker-playing teenage daughter had taught me how to read facial expressions and body language. That twitch was a sure “tell” whenever my brother lied. I remembered many a Monopoly game when he claimed to have lost all of his money. Several twitches later, pastel-colored paper bills mysteriously appeared in his shoes and shorts.
So Dave was lying. But about what?
My mother had managed to live in a twitch-free zone for the last forty-two years so she rarely found fault with her eldest child. It was up to me to get to the bottom of this mess.
“Did Regan mention anything about meeting with Keiki after the reception?” I asked Dave.
He shook his head with nary a twitch. Therefore, as far as my brother knew, Regan had not met up with the dancer.
“Will you be able to get her released?” Stan asked.
“According to the attorney Steve found for me, the police can keep Regan under arrest for forty-eight hours before they must decide if there’s sufficient evidence to have her arraigned. If the Prosecuting Attorney decides to proceed, the bail could be a million dollars or more. The restaurant and our condo unit are our only collateral. There’s no way we have a million dollars in equity.”
“Your wife is worth far more than a million dollars.” My mother raised her voice as she addressed her only son. “Let me know what you need. I’m sure Robert would agree to help.”
I didn’t recall my mother offering to provide any collateral when I was almost arrested. All I could remember her telling the detectives was that I was too disorganized to commit murder.
Some witness for the defense!
“How did you find an attorney so quickly?” I asked Steve. “You don’t hang out with the criminal element, do you?” I snatched another onion ring, expecting him to smile in response.
Steve’s gaze drifted out the window and he paused a few seconds before he answered.
“Hawaii may be the Big Island, but it’s a relatively small community. You meet people from many walks of life, never knowing if there’s a particular reason why you crossed paths with one another.”
Steve stretched out his palm and his fingertips grazed mine. His touch startled me, and I inadvertently shoved my chair into the unlucky server standing behind me. Seconds later, waves of molten heat rolled down my body, all the way to the tips of my toes.
My very clammy toes.
Was this what Regan meant by paradise being rife with pitfalls?
Chapter 19
There is nothing less romantic than having a bowl of clam chowder dumped on you. The creamy soup coated every inch of my body. I could feel a couple of clams nestled in the frizzy curls just above my left ear.
On a positive note, Dave smiled for the first time that evening. Steve proved to be a perfect gentleman. He not only refrained from laughing, but he dabbed his napkin in his water glass and slowly, almost sensuously, wiped the creamy chowder off my thighs and calves.
If you’ve never had a hot guy clean hot soup off your legs, you’ve really missed out. It was difficult to distinguish whose cheeks burned brighter––mine, or the server who accidentally dumped dinner on me when I bumped into her.
Mother, Liz, and I retired to the ladies’ room to determine if there was any permanent damage from my soup shampoo. The two women circled me like hawks assessing their prey.
“I don’t know, luv, you’re going to need some extra powerful conditioner. Assuming we get it all out.” Liz wrinkled her nose. “You may have every feral cat on the island following you down the sidewalk.”
My mother scrambled around in her straw tote. She pulled out a pair of scissors and pointed them at me.
My eyes widened. “Where did those come from?”
She shrugged. “I always keep a pair in my purse, along with duct tape. It’s my Realtor first-aid kit. I was kind of surprised they missed them at the airport.”
I was kind of surprised my mother hadn’t been classified as a terrorist.
“So where do we go from here?” Liz snipped off a few strands of hair so thick with goop they resembled string cheese.
My mother, head cocked, leaned against a wall papered in a palm tree motif.
“More to the right,” she directed my new hair stylist. “What’s your plan, honey? We need to prove Regan didn’t do it, and we only have three more days on the island.”
I whipped my head to the left. Not a good idea. My sudden movement surprised Liz.
“Whoopsie, daisy.” She quickly dumped something in the trash that looked like a big chunk of my hair.
“Enough with the trimming. I’d rather have birds pecking at my head than leave myself in your lethal clutches. Mom, do you really expect us to find the killer in your time frame?”
“Robert says the first forty-eight hours are the most important. By tomorrow morning it will be,” she peeked at her watch, “seventy-two hours give or take. You have your whole team here to assist you. I’m sure the local police will welcome our input.”
Somehow, I doubted that.
“We certainly can’t fly home with Regan stuck in a cell and a killer still on the loose.” Liz handed the scissors back to Mother. “And Brian has a big trial starting on Monday so we can’t miss our Sunday flight. C’mon, Laurel, get a move on it.”
I rolled my eyes. My team was such a bunch of amateurs. As was I. But I knew just the professional who could help us out. There was nothing like a dead body to get Detective Tom Hunter’s attention.
Two hours later, I perched on the rim of the hotel’s oversized marble-covered bathtub, cell phone in hand. My mother was already in bed, worn out from the day’s activities and the stress of worrying about her son and his wife. It was close to midnight in California so there was a possibility I would wake up Tom, especially if he had his cell sitting close to his bed. Knowing him, he probably slept right next to it.
I would love to switch places with that phone.
The shrill ring of my cell made me jump. “Tom?” I was thrilled the detective was intuitive enough to call me when I needed him most.
“Mom?”
“Jenna, what are you doing up so late. Is everything okay?”
Everything was fine. In fact, it was excellent. One of her classmates invited her to the Winter Ball, which entailed the purchase of not only a new dress, but also shoes, a manicure and a pedicure. She guaranteed she would not let any pre-party planning interfere with her SAT test the same day.
Knowing how goal-oriented my daughter could be, I never worried her social life would interfere with her concentration. Jenna could shop and formulate mathematical theorems simultaneously. She could also calculate every discount combination imaginable long before the register finished totaling her purchases.
My daughter’s analytical abilities would have been a huge plus in the Mortgage Underwriting department at Hangtown Bank where I work, but for some odd reason, her current career choice was aeronautical engineering. Not mortgage banking.
Go figure!
By the time Jenna and I hung up, it was close to one in the morning West Coast time. Too late to call Tom. I washed and moisturized my face and covered every inch of my body with the lotion provided by the hotel. The blurb on the bottle guaranteed the silky lotion would caress my skin. I slid under the covers, closed my eyes and let the scent of the fragrant macadamia nut oil lull me to sleep. At this point, I’d take whatever caressing I could get.
The melodic tones of my cell woke me from a rapturous slumber. I could still feel Tom Hunter’s arms wrapped around me, his lingering kisses working their way up and down my oiled body, which in my dream was now a svelte size six.
I grabbed my phone before the caller could wake my mother. “Hi, honey,” I said in a husky voice.
“Hi, yourself,” replied a deep baritone. “You sure know how to make a guy’s morning.”
Oops. I focused my near-sighted eyes on my phone and noticed the call was from the local area code.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Steve. I apologize if I woke you.” His tone indicated he was disappointed, not so much that he woke me, but because there was already a “honey” in my life.
“Oh, sorry, I was still in dreamland.” I stretched across the bed to see what time it was. Six-thirty? These ship captains are early risers. “I thought you were my daughter calling. Is anything wrong? Is Dave okay?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s as good as he can be in this situation.”
“I can’t believe they may set Regan’s bail at a million dollars. It’s not like someone can sneak off this island. You’d need a plane to do that.”
“Or a boat,” said the Sea Jinx captain. “It wouldn’t be the first time a suspect used amphibious means for an escape.”
Good seafaring point.
“You’re probably wondering why I called so early. I’m privy to some information regarding Keiki, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I thought you might be able to give me some advice. Can we meet at your hotel?”
“Sure, when?”
“How about now?”
Chapter 20
Men! They have zero concept of how long it takes a woman to make herself presentable. I flung on a pair of khaki shorts and a sleeveless coral top. A swipe of blush, mascara and lipstick, and I was ready. Mother was still asleep so I left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and headed for the elevator.
Even this early, the elevators were crowded with parents, kids, collapsible strollers, and filled-to-the-brim beach bags. When my children were young, Hank and I didn’t have the means to take our kids to a five-star hotel like this one. They were lucky to stay at a campground with a flushable potty and running water.
I squeezed into an elevator filled wall-to-wall with toddlers. The lit-up array of numbers indicated the little ones had engaged in their favorite elevator game. After stopping at all twenty-nine floors, the doors opened and I made a dash for it.
Steve talked on his cell next to an ornate stone pedestal table topped by an enormous tropical flower arrangement. He wore his blue Sea Jinx polo shirt and khaki shorts that displayed trim, muscular legs.
I sighed. I hate when a man’s calves look better than my own. As soon as he noticed me, he finished his conversation and walked over to meet me. Before I could say “Aloha,” Steve engulfed me in a welcoming hug that made my nerves tingle all the way down to my pink-tipped toenails. I was still blushing as he led me to the hotel’s Island Café where the host seated us at a corner table overlooking a tropical garden. A tiny brook meandered through the lush foliage. Flashes of orange and yellow indicated the koi fish were enjoying a morning swim.
“Thanks for meeting me so early,” Steve said. “Our snorkel cruise leaves at nine, and that’s followed by an afternoon outing. This was the only time I had available.”
“Anything that will help Regan is my first priority. No matter how early.”
After our server poured our coffee and scribbled down our breakfast orders, Steve stared at his cup, deep in thought.
I nudged his foot with my sandal.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m struggling with the best way to share this information.”
“How about just the facts for now. We can proceed from there.”
My goodness, didn’t I sound official? I was a regular Nikki Heat!
“Okay. Our brochures advertise that the Sea Jinx provides entertainment for the guests on the sunset cruise. The boat isn’t big enough for a full troupe, but the guests enjoy the music and dancing along with their drinks and pupus.”
I grinned. The thought of those Hawaiian appetizers always brings a smile to my face.
“About a week ago, Noelani, the principal dancer, called in sick. Both Keiki and Walea had covered for Noelani a couple of times in the past. This time Keiki was available and she agreed to perform. As usual, she was amazing. Had the male guests eating right out of her hand. In fact, the tip jar almost wasn’t big enough; it overflowed with ten and twenty-dollar bills.”
“Sounds like a profitable evening for her,” I said.
“Therein lay the problem. The crew and the entertainers normally split the money in the tip jar. You might remember one of my crew, Timmy Soong, from your snorkel cruise. Since Keiki wasn’t a regular, he said she didn’t deserve as big of a share of the tips. She claimed the jar was full because of her performance. The two of them got into a huge argument. One minute she was yelling at him; the next minute he was shouting at her. From the water.”
My eyes widened. “He fell in?”
“She pushed him in. That girl was in great shape.” He looked off to the distance and smiled.
Interesting.
The server chose that moment to bring our orders. I was attempting to be good so I’d only ordered the small stack of macadamia-nut pancakes. It would be back to boring bran flakes soon enough. Steve dug into his bacon-and-cheese omelet and for a few minutes, we were content eating our excellent entrees.
“So then what happened?” I asked.
“The guys and I pulled Timmy out of the water. Rick, one of the musicians, and Rafe, the other member of my crew, thought it was hilarious. The more they ribbed Timmy, the madder he got. I finally pulled him aside and told him to dry off and cool off. I grabbed some extra cash from my wallet and gave it to Keiki. I figured that was the end of that. As the guys walked away from the boat, their conversation drifted up to us. Timmy yelled a parting remark.”
“What did he say?” I asked, stabbing a piece of pancake with my fork.
“You gonna die, bitch.”
Chapter 21
My hand shook and my pancake flipped on to the table. “Do you think Timmy killed Keiki? Over something so petty?”
“I didn’t even remember the incident until they arrested Regan. But now that the police have definitely declared it was murder, I wonder.”
“How did Keiki respond to Timmy’s threat?”
“She was real shook up. I didn’t want her walking back to her car alone and thought she might like some company. We ended up going over to Hugo’s Hula bar and had a couple of drinks. At the bar, she explained that she’d dated Timmy’s younger brother for a few years then suddenly ended it two months ago.”
“Regan mentioned something about Keiki dumping her former boyfriend and then him tragically dying. Did Keiki say why she broke up with him?”
Steve shrugged. “She didn’t elaborate. Said it wasn’t meant to be. That it wasn’t,” he made air quotes, “the direction she intended to go. She had bigger plans.”
“Do you think those plans had anything to do with her murder?”
Steve’s face paled beneath his tan. “At the time, I didn’t give much thought to her comment. Keiki was an attractive woman and she seemed driven. I don’t know if she wanted fame, fortune or both. I guess being one of the most gorgeous dancers around wasn’t enough for her.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Were you interested in Keiki?”
Steve’s eyes clouded over, and he appeared distracted for a moment. “Let’s say I wasn’t completely immune to her charms and leave it at that.”
Then he smiled. “Of course, that was before my best friend’s little sis stumbled into my life.”
I felt my cheeks turning the color of the koi that swam past at that moment. I could swear it winked. Was it just me or did the supersized goldfish also think something fishy was going on?
“Now that the police have confirmed Keiki was murdered, are you going to tell them about Timmy’s comment?”
He frowned. “I’m hesitant to talk to them without discussing it with him first. These local kids have a hard enough time making a living. I don’t want to do anything that would get him in trouble with the authorities. Timmy’s had a tough time this past month dealing with his younger brother’s death.”
“I understand, but I hate to think of Regan sitting in jail if Timmy had anything to do with Keiki’s murder.”
“You know, it could have just been talk. Young guys sometimes think they need to put up a macho front when they’re around their friends.”
“I suppose everyone lets something slip now and then.” I recalled some of the maternal comments I’d made over the years. “I might have threatened my children once or twice with a fate worse than death. Like no TV.”
“See, it could be nothing.” He rubbed his jaw for a minute. “Although that night at the Hula bar, Keiki mentioned a possible stalker. She was positive her car had been tailed a few times.”
Now that was interesting. A potential stalker could be a potential suspect.
“Hey, I have a terrific idea.” Steve’s smile was so infectious the women at the next table seemed to brighten. “Why don’t you join us for the sunset sail tonight? You’re really good at drawing people out. I’m sure you could find a tactful way to question Timmy. He’s not the chattiest guy around, but he would probably respond far better to your questions than to being grilled by his boss.”
I wasn’t convinced of my ability to draw Timmy out, but, I would talk to anyone with information about Keiki’s murder. It was the least I could do for my sister-in-law. I pulled out my phone and checked my calendar to see if Liz had made plans for the group that evening.
“Evidently the honeymooners decided to spend a night alone. Should I ask Stan and Mother to join us?”
“We’re fully booked so there won’t be any extra seats for them.” Steve reached out and placed his slightly calloused palm on top of mine. “Besides, once you’re done talking to Timmy, you and I can spend some time together. We’ll finally have an opportunity to get to know each other better, without being surrounded by your family and friends. What do you say?”
The more important question was what would Tom Hunter say? My inner Laurel warned me to stay far away from bronzed sea captains with bewitching blue eyes.
I told her to mind her own business. I had a date to watch the sun set over the Pacific.
* * *
Four hours later, I sat at a different table in the same restaurant with Mother and Stan, discussing my upcoming boating expedition. The tropical koi swam past our table, their colors so vivid and bright, I almost needed sunglasses to reduce the glare.
“So you and the sea captain are hooking up tonight, huh?” Stan wiggled his brows.
“There will be no hooking up.” I scrunched my nose at his comment. “At least for me. I’m only going on board to talk to Timmy from the Sea Jinx crew.”
My mother dropped today’s edition of the local newspaper next to my plate. An unflattering photo of Regan stared back at me from the front page. “I think it’s an excellent idea. We need to help free Regan. And soon. This kind of publicity,” she scowled and pointed at the paper, “isn’t going to help their restaurant one bit. She might even lose her job.”
And her freedom, I thought, staring at the black-and-white photo of my sister-in-law.
The article was relatively brief, mentioning only that the Hawaii police had arrested Regan for Keiki’s murder, and that she and my brother owned Daiquiri Dave’s Lounge, where the victim had also worked.
“I think Steve is right, Laurel. You’re easy to talk to, and you never know what you can learn from questioning Timmy,” Mother said. “Plus Steve is a nice guy. Handsome, personable, and he owns his own boat.”
Stan nodded his agreement. “A man with a boat––the ideal man. Well, he would be if he swam in the other direction.”
“So you haven’t met any hunky Hawaiian hotties yet?” I asked him.
“The day is young.” He looked at his watch. “And in five hours I have a lesson with some Samoan dancers.”
“How did you wangle that?”
“Your brother gave me Walea’s number, and I called her. She was a little reticent at first, but I overwhelmed her with my charm and she referred me to these guys.”
“Will she be there?”
“Nah, she and her husband are performing somewhere tonight. She told me I’m a natural though.”
Walea was right on one count. Stan was a natural. But of what, was the question?
“Did she say anything about her sister?” I asked.
He nodded. “She said she was glad the police discovered Keiki’s killer so quickly.”
“Was she surprised about Regan’s arrest?”
He shrugged. “If she was, she didn’t mention it to me. She said she was grateful justice had been served, and her family could go on with their lives.”
“I can sympathize with Walea, and I feel terrible about her loss,” Mother said, “but if we don’t find the killer soon, I’m not sure how my son and daughter-in-law will go on with their lives.”
Chapter 22
When I arrived at the boat that evening, I learned that Walea was substituting for the Sea Jinx’s principal performer, Noelani, who was sick once again. On a positive note, Noelani was overjoyed to learn her twenty-four-hour flu bug was in reality twenty-four-hour morning sickness.
I was thrilled at the opportunity to see Walea. Keiki’s sister might think the killer was behind bars, but I needed to prove otherwise. My empathetic manner would hopefully encourage her to confide in me. Between Walea and Timmy, I could discover some useful facts to help our amateur investigation.
My focus tonight would be 100% on detecting. No distractions whatsoever, not even hunky blue-eyed ones.
Even though I was looking forward to talking with Walea, I should have guessed she wouldn’t be happy to see me. Walea and Henry arrived a few minutes after I did, about fifteen minutes before the passengers were to board. She and her husband sent identical glares in my direction. Fortunately, I was standing next to Amanda. The naturalist’s bubbly personality could coax a smile out of Jaws.
Amanda threw her arms around Walea as she offered condolences. “Honey, how are you doing? I was so sorry to hear about Keiki.”
“Mahalo, Amanda. We are still in shock.” Walea practically spat at me as she cried out. “What are you doing here? Hasn’t your family brought enough pain to mine?”
I took a step back. So maybe Walea wasn’t in the mood for condolences from me. Amanda took Walea’s arm, guiding her to the other side of the Sea Jinx. Henry joined Rick in the bow of the boat where the young musician tuned his guitar. I recognized Rick from Liz’s reception. The young man’s muscular biceps boasted dragon tattoos curling down and around each elbow. As his arm moved up and down so did the dragon’s colorful tail.
Walea and Amanda chatted briefly then Amanda left to welcome the passengers. The dancer walked down the stairs leading to the lower deck, her garment bag and flowered tote in her hands.
I followed her down, figuring this might be my only opportunity to speak with Walea in private before she began her performance.
“Can I help you with anything?” I asked.
Her full lips curled in disgust. “What kind of help can you provide?”
She turned away and began pulling assorted items from her oversized bag.
I moved closer. “You can’t honestly believe Regan killed your sister.”
Walea grabbed a coconut bra out of the enormous tote and flung it at me. I ducked as the hard brown shells narrowly missed my head. The dancer could have doubled as a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. The bra bounced off a beam then clattered to the floor.
I picked up the apparel-turned-assault weapon, debating if it was safe to return the item to the owner. Since dancing would be somewhat awkward without the upper half of her costume, I reluctantly handed it back to her.
Walea’s passionate outburst was short-lived. Her plump body seemed to droop along with her spirit. She muttered a soft mahalo. Tears ran down her plain, sorrowful face.
“I apologize,” she said. “My family’s tragedy is not your problem. I am only mad at myself for talking your brother into hiring Keiki. I thought a steady job and paycheck might keep my little sister out of trouble. But trouble always managed to find her.”
“Beautiful women are frequently magnets for trouble,” I responded. “And for men.”
She nodded in agreement. “Men looked at Keiki like she was their last meal. No matter where we went, they devoured her with their eyes. Once she realized her power over men, especially haoles, it turned into a quest for her.”
“A quest for money?” I ventured.
She shrugged, the movement fluffing her mahogany mane around her shoulders. “Money, trinkets, power. Whatever she could squeeze out of them. Sometimes I think Keiki did it for the thrill of the chase. Reel in a big fish, gut him, then drop him back in the ocean.”
“Someone mentioned she was your stepsister?”
“My father met her mother, Kiana, eight years ago when Keiki was fourteen.” Walea gracefully donned her grass skirt then modestly removed her capris. “Kiana worked at the same coffee farm as my father before he moved to Koffee Land. The coconut didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to those two women. Kiana went after my father with no holds barred. He left my mother and in less than a year, he and Kiana married. I had a new stepmother and stepsister.”
“I can sympathize. My ex-husband left me three years ago for one of his clients. It’s tough, especially on the kids.”
“It was horrible. My mother fell into a depression so there was no one to watch over my three little brothers but me.” A flash of anger surfaced and flared in her eyes. “I hated Kiana for taking my father away from us.”
“How did you and Keiki get along?”
“Growing up with three brothers, I always longed for a little sister. All of a sudden, I had one. Whether I wanted her or not.” She laughed, but it was a harsh mirthless sound. “Then I discovered if I hung out with Keiki, there were boys surrounding me. For the first time ever. They might have been her cast-offs, but they were good enough for me.”
Interesting family dynamic. Was Walea’s husband one of Keiki’s so-called “cast offs?”
The man in question suddenly ran down the stairs. He frowned when he noticed us together. In an icy voice, his acne-scarred chin almost touching mine, Henry told me to “Stay away from my wife.”
I stepped back, relieved when Steve called for me from above deck. I darted up the steps to find a very anxious sea captain holding a tablecloth in his hand. Steve and the crew had waited to cast off because both Timmy and the regular bartender were late. Timmy had finally shown up, but the bartender had called to say his car had been rear-ended.
Before I knew it, I was serving drinks and yummy pupus while maneuvering between passengers who jumped from their seats every time Amanda spotted a whale. At the rate she kept pointing out marine mammals, it looked like the humpbacks were enjoying far more romance on their Hawaiian vacation than I was on mine.
Steve had talked me into wearing a makeshift sarong. I wasn’t certain the blue-flowered tablecloth that had morphed into a flowing Hawaiian garment was necessary, but it made me feel somewhat exotic.
“All I’m missing is a flower,” I complained to Steve as I pointed to the yellow hibiscus clipped over Amanda’s ear.
Steve smiled and grabbed a tiny orchid from the bar supply. He tucked it behind my ear, apologized for putting me to work, and told me I was the most beautiful woman on board the boat.
I’m such a sucker for a compliment, especially when an azure-eyed Adonis is the one whispering it in my ear.
My previous boating experiences consisted of me sitting on my butt and watching the shoreline. Balancing a tray of drinks on deck was like roller-skating on a surfboard. I assumed I’d eventually acclimate to the boat’s movement, but as the shoreline receded, the choppiness increased. My primary goal was to avoid dumping mai tais or daiquiris on the passengers. So far, I’d limited my spills to my own washable garment.
I’d begun to wonder if I would ever get an opportunity to talk to Timmy when Steve announced the evening’s entertainment would begin.
A reprieve at last. After promising one Australian matey I would return with refills once the show ended, I set my tray on the bar and told Amanda I was going below deck to talk to Timmy.
The boat rocked and I teetered on the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing. I finally spied Timmy in the corner, his dark head bent over a small bench. Noise from the ship’s engine must have muffled my footsteps. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he spun around faster than a whirling dervish on speed.
One muscular arm wrapped around my neck, squeezing off my windpipe. His hot breath burned the hairs on my nape. Choking, I struggled to push his arm away, but I stopped when I felt the prick of something sharp pressed against my tender skin.
Chapter 23
My body shook with fear and my trembling became so violent, my sarong threatened to slip from R-rated territory into an X-rated tell-all.
“Sorry. You kine spook me.” Timmy removed his arm from my neck and slipped the Swiss army knife back into his pocket. “Why you not upstairs?”
I gathered a large breath to calm myself down then let it out. Bad idea. Remind me not to wear a garment secured by only one knot the next time I’m assaulted from behind. I snatched the top of my sarong with both hands and hitched it up to its original PG version.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
Timmy turned his back to me. He shoved a brown paper-wrapped parcel into a canvas knapsack. He threw the bag into a small storage locker, attached a silver padlock to the door and clicked it shut.
He swung around, a tiny crescent-shaped scar on his cheekbone flashing white under his angry gaze.
“Fo’ what you want with me?”
I wanted answers. Lots of them. If only I could think of questions that wouldn’t upset this intimidating young man. I knew our time alone together was limited so I decided to barge ahead.
“I understand you knew Keiki, the girl found dead near Daiquiri Dave’s Lounge.”
“Yeah, so. She popular girl.” He smirked. “Lotsa guys knew that one.”
So I was finding out. I just hoped my brother wasn’t a member of Keiki’s fan club.
“I’m only interested in one guy. Your brother. I heard Keiki used to date him.”
Timmy’s face darkened and his hands balled into fists. “Ya, dat bitch, she use him den dump him.”
“Used him how?”
“She had dis “lolo” crazy idea for making dem both rich. She ask him…” Timmy abruptly stopped.
“Ask him what?”
“Nuttin. At least nuttin to do with her dyin.” He raised his voice and shook his fist in the air. “I know she da reason my bruddah kill hisself.”
“You don’t think it was an accident?”
Timmy stuck his nose so close to mine I could see the two lone hairs he’d missed when he’d shaved his chin. “My bruddah, he good kid. Careful about his work. Maybe it was accident. But maybe Joey kill hisself cause of dat no good wahine. It none of your business, so don’t go poking your nose where it don’t belong.”
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Amanda motioned at us. “It’s getting rougher out. We need both of you up here.”
I’d been so distracted by our conversation I hadn’t even noticed the ship pitching more than ever. I tightened my sarong and followed Timmy as he raced up the stairs. Earlier the clouds had provided a postcard photo opportunity. Now they dumped rain by the boatload.
Amanda shoved a pile of orange life vests at me. “Here. Pass these out to the passengers. Be careful not to scare them. Tell them it’s merely a safety measure.”
Fine. I had no problem reassuring the passengers. But who was going to reassure me?
Amanda and Walea covered one side of the boat and I took the other. Once they finished, the two women urged the passengers to follow them below deck. I handed out my last orange vest then realized I’d been so generous passing life jackets to the passengers that I’d neglected to don one myself.
I looked around and thought I saw Steve running down the stairs to the lower deck but it was difficult to tell with the driving rain. Someone better be piloting this boat. Maybe Rafe had taken over for him. Farther up on the starboard side, I noticed Timmy bending over some type of storage chest. I hustled over and tapped him on his shoulder.
I had to scream above the roaring wind to make myself heard. “Where are the other life jackets located?” He scowled but pointed toward the rear of the boat, so I scurried in that direction.
By now, my sarong felt like a wet shower curtain was plastered to my skin. The straps of my sandals irritated my bunion s so I slipped them off and tucked them under a seat. It would be more comfortable moving around the boat without them. A few seconds later, my bare feet slipped on the wet deck. Comfort came at a price. I inched my way across the slippery surface with a death grip on the railing.
How quickly this romantic sunset sail had morphed into a nightmare journey. The lights from the hotels and condominiums lining the shoreline were barely visible through the king-size sheets of rain.
I stumbled on a thick coil of rope and caught myself before I landed on all fours. Whew. That was close. I’d better find those vests and get below to safety.
The remaining orange jackets hung on a couple of hooks. I sidled over and grabbed one for myself. Getting the vest closed over my double D’s was a struggle. Someone needed to manufacture a version for the full-figured woman. I finally secured both fasteners and let out a sigh of relief.
I heard a muffled noise behind me just as I grabbed the other two vests. Suddenly I was knocked into the ship’s railing. I released my hold on one of the life jackets and tried to grasp onto the slick metal rail.
The boat pitched and I felt another jolt.
Then I was airborne.
Chapter 24
I hit the ocean with a cannonball splash. Water flew everywhere, including into my nose and mouth.
“Blech.” I spewed out a magnum’s worth of seawater. I would need a daiquiri the size of a Big Gulp to wash that salty taste away. Good thing I was wearing the life jacket, which kept my tablecloth sarong from slipping off and floating away. Not that it mattered. It was far more likely a shark would turn me into a sushi appetizer than I’d get arrested for indecent exposure.
I stared at the distant lights. Although they were probably only a few miles away, it could have been a few thousand as far as I was concerned. The odds of me successfully paddling to shore were slimmer than of me winning an Olympic gold medal. I yelled until my vocal cords refused to participate, but the Sea Jinx continued to recede in the distance. No one would hear me now.
Which made me wonder––did anyone see me go overboard?
My stomach lurched. Not from the churning waves, but from the terrifying question––how did I end up in the ocean? Did a heavy gust knock me over the railing? Or did someone push me?
An important question that needed an answer. But it would have to wait until I resolved the more pressing issue.
How the heck would I get back to shore?
The Sea Jinx continued to motor toward the bay and away from me. The only people who might notice my absence were Steve, who was undoubtedly intent on getting his passengers safely back to the pier, and the tipsy Australian whom I’d promised a Mai Tai refill.
My face felt wet from the salt water splashing my chin, combined with the salty tears rolling down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes with my damp fist. This was no time to feel sorry for myself.
If only I had my cell with me. I could have used my iPhone to call for help and the GPS to find my way. And maybe I’d finally have time to finish the e-book I was reading while I waited for help to arrive.
I shook my soggy curls. The salt air must have invaded my brain. I clasped my hands together and prayed to whichever Hawaiian god could turn off this massive spigot of rain.
I wasn’t sure if any of the local gods heard my plea, but the rain halted as abruptly as it had begun. The ominous storm clouds shifted apart and a brilliant full moon shone upon the dark water. The man in the moon had never looked so appealing.
A faint noise caught my attention. I squinted and spotted what looked like a small boat heading in my direction. Hallelujah.
I would be rescued in minutes. Unless––
Suddenly I realized the boat aimed directly at me. I waved my arms back and forth and shrieked louder than a stadium full of Justin Bieber fans. Within seconds, the roar of the motor ratcheted down to a purr.
The lights on the twenty-foot vessel blasted me in the face and I screamed again. The boat shuddered and stopped less than six feet away.
I heard someone yell, “Man overboard.”
Technically, he was wrong, but this didn’t seem the time to go all women’s lib on him.
“Help,” I yelled. I paddled and thrashed my way to safety. No one would ever compare me to Michael Phelps, but I reached the side of the boat without anyone having to dive in and rescue me.
A long hairy arm reached out. I grabbed on to a calloused palm and gratefully let its owner yank me into the boat. Unfortunately, he wasn’t completely successful in his mission.
Maybe it was time to lay off those cream-filled malasadas.
With my torso stretched across the interior of the boat and my legs dangling over the side, the men decided more assistance was in order. They each grabbed one of my arms and successfully hauled me aboard.
Not a minute too soon. The sound of an enormous fish bouncing its snout against the side of the boat startled us. I stared as the grandson of Jaws displayed a set of teeth that would have scared my dentist into retirement. He flipped his sleek body around, and with one last flick of his fin against our boat, swam away.
I lost it. I stuck my head over the side of the boat and heaved everything I’d consumed that day. Including those macadamia nut pancakes.
One of the men handed me a handkerchief from his shorts pocket. “You are one lucky wahine.”
I threw him a weak smile as I wiped my face. “I’m luckier than I was a few minutes ago. You saved my life.”
“Probably. You were this close to being that fella’s dinner.” His wizened face cracked into what probably represented a smile for him. He reached into a small cabinet and handed me a thin blanket. “Here. The water temp isn’t that cold, but we don’t want you going into shock.”
I was already shivering so I gratefully wrapped the wool blanket around my sodden body.
My other rescuer started the engine and we headed toward the pier.
“By the way, my name is Glenn Hakanson,” said the man sitting next to me. He pointed to the gray-bearded man at the wheel. “And that’s Phil. Now who are you and how in the blazes did you end up in the ocean?”
Chapter 25
I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to run into the fishermen before they ran into me. It turned out that Glenn and Phil had been so successful hooking a big fish that they’d stayed out later than usual and then got caught in the sudden storm. I not only bonded with the men but also with their other chunky passenger. The dead tuna glared at me as if he held me personally responsible for Glenn and Phil turning him into someone’s ahi dinner.
As we motored toward the pier, I noticed a large boat that looked a lot like the Sea Jinx heading in our direction. Someone must have noticed my absence after all. Glenn got on the radio and within a few minutes, he’d connected with Steve. They decided the fishermen would deliver me directly to the pier, which they considered a safer option than handing me off at sea. I was in favor of anything that lessened the odds of me landing in the ocean again.
We arrived at the Kailua Pier shortly after the Sea Jinx docked. Several Hawaii fire department vehicles were parked in the loading and unloading area. Although it was reassuring to know they’d noticed my absence, I still questioned if someone intentionally pushed me overboard. If Phil and Glenn hadn’t come along when they did, my shark-mangled body parts might not have been discovered until they rolled in with the surf.
Glenn tied up his boat, the aptly named Survivor, at the dock. He and Phil helped me climb up onto the pier. The Sea Jinx passengers were disembarking, some of them looking a lot greener than when they’d first boarded. As we drew closer, I spotted Timmy among the departing tourists. I shouted his name. Timmy turned and his eyebrows rose to his hairline when he saw me. He ran off and disappeared behind the ticket building.
At the sound of my voice, Steve looked up, his expression confused. When he recognized the curly-haired woman dressed like a soggy burrito, he dodged around the passengers and ran toward the three of us. Steve scooped me up in a hug and spun me around the dock.
When he finally put me down, he kept my still-trembling hand gripped in his large comforting one. “I was so worried about you. What happened?”
Members of the Search and Rescue team joined us. “Are you okay, Miss? Do you need to go to the hospital? We can get you there in a flash.”
I shook my head and droplets of water spewed everywhere, making me feel as attractive as a wet dog. Between my salt-water dunking and over-the-side stomach cleansing, I looked and smelled worse than a sodden Schnauzer.
“I’m fine.” No sooner had I uttered those words then I sneezed three times.
“You should get checked out.” One of the men eyed me up and down. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell in?”
My eyebrows drew together as I frowned at him. “I didn’t fall in. I was pushed.”
Steve dropped my hand. “Pushed? What makes you say that? I assumed you slipped on the deck and fell overboard.”
“Nope, I was definitely pu…” I hesitated and thought back to those moments before I ended up in the ocean. “Well, I think someone pushed me. It’s all kind of a blur now.”
“You’ve had quite a scare,” said one of the rescue workers. “It might be a few days before you remember what actually happened.”
“You’re lucky these fishermen found you,” his partner added. “It could have taken us hours to locate you. There are some mighty unfriendly creatures in the ocean.”
As far as I was concerned, there were unfriendly creatures on Steve’s boat. Although I’d have to admit I’m not the most graceful person in the world. A big gust could have blown me overboard.
But if that was the case, why did Timmy run away when he spotted me?
The rescue personnel walked away to update the Coast Guard on my safe return. I spun around and scanned the pier. Most of the passengers had dispersed, but the crew and entertainers should still be around.
“Have you seen Walea and Henry?” I asked Steve.
“I think they’re packing up their stuff. Do you want to talk to them now?” he asked. “Don’t you want to get back to the hotel and get cleaned up?”
Hmmm. Not too subtle. I guess my eau de ahi scent wasn’t exactly a man magnet. I noticed Walea and Henry walking down the gangway. Her hands moved rapidly as she spoke, although not in the graceful style she used when she performed. It looked like they were arguing.
I broke away from Steve and ran toward the couple, huffing as I drew closer. My few minutes thrashing in the ocean must have depleted my oxygen supply.
“Walea,” I yelled, hoping to catch them before they disappeared.
She dropped her garment bag and stared at me as if I was a ghostly apparition.
Did Walea or Henry push me overboard? If so, they’d be better off facing a ghost than the wrath of Laurel McKay.
Chapter 26
“You’re alive,” Walea cried out.
“You seem surprised.” I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders as my eyes shifted from Walea to her husband. Henry set his ukulele case on the dock, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Despite his calm demeanor, his hand trembled as he shoved the lighter back in his shirt pocket.
“You should go back to your hotel. You could catch cold.” Walea picked up her oversized tote and nudged Henry with her elbow. He grabbed his instrument, and the couple headed toward the parking lot conversing in hushed tones. Was it my sashimi scent that sent them away? Or the surprise of seeing me alive again?
It was too bad my son wasn’t here. His selective bionic hearing would come in handy since my own ears felt plugged with salt water. Someone screeched my name, and I turned back to the boat.
Amanda raced down the gangway and threw her arms around me. “We were so worried,” she trilled. Evidently someone who studies marine life isn’t put off by someone who smells like it.
I later learned that Rafe had heard a splash and thought he saw someone in the water, but by then the boat had moved on. He went below to see if any passengers were missing and it dawned on Amanda that I was nowhere around. When they couldn’t locate me, Steve realized I must have fallen overboard and called 911. He’d immediately turned the boat around to search for me.
Amanda gave me one more hug then took off. The rescue team again offered to drive me to the hospital but I declined. I’ve never met a hospital that didn’t have a predilection for sticking pointed objects into their patients. After coming within inches of turning into a shark shish-ka-bob, the last thing I needed was to have a gaggle of nurses and doctors poking and prodding at my waterlogged body.
I heard someone calling my name and turned to see Stan scurrying toward us. I smiled at my friend as he rushed across the dock toward Steve and me. I’d forgotten that he’d offered to pick me up since his dance lesson was scheduled to end about the time the Sea Jinx docked.
Stan halted a few feet away, his nose twitching as if he’d discovered a bushel of overripe bananas. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“You’re close. But it’s more like something the boat dragged in. I fell overboard.”
“OMG. Sweetie, you could have drowned.”
Yeah, I could have been annihilated in a variety of ways.
“She had a close call,” Steve said. “But Laurel’s a real trooper.” He grabbed my hand as the three of us headed toward the parking lot. Stan discreetly walked ahead. Although it would have been more subtle if he hadn’t been humming, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”
All I could concentrate on was returning to the hotel to a hot bath and a cup of hot tea. And my mommy. No matter how old you are, or how many children you’ve birthed, there’s nothing like having your own mother pamper you after a bad day.
Especially if your day involved someone possibly trying to kill you.
Steve apparently had his own ideas of how to perk up a waterlogged woman. As we reached the ticket building, he pulled me into the shadows. I immediately tensed, but my tension disappeared when he planted a sweet kiss on my lips. My blanket fell to the ground as Steve wrapped muscular arms around me and drew me close. With the blanket no longer draped around me, Steve’s hard-as-a-rock body nestled against my wet, covered-with-a thin tablecloth curves.
The Sea Jinx captain definitely knew how to make a woman perk up.
* * *
With Steve’s heated good-bye kiss coursing through every vibrating nerve in my body, my brain shifted into overdrive on the ride home. I leaned back in the passenger seat and contemplated the surprise kiss as well as my near-death experience.
Since Stan doesn’t agree with the philosophy that silence is golden, he interrupted my reverie the minute we reached the highway.
He turned to face me. “Okay, give.”
“Hey, watch the road.” Why do so many drivers feel the need to make eye contact with their passengers when they converse? Hadn’t Stan noticed all the flowers in front of memorials lining both sides of the Queen Kaahumanu Highway?
He pulled his gaze back to the road. “So what exactly happened? I want to know everything. Right up to that smooch Steve planted on you.”
Can’t put much past my pal.
I relayed the events of the evening beginning with my conversations with both Walea and Timmy and ending with my sudden dunking and subsequent rescue.
Stan shuddered. “Gosh, you are one lucky woman.”
“Or one unlucky woman,” I muttered.
“Are you certain someone pushed you?”
“I can’t be one hundred percent positive.” I tried to remember what happened on the boat before I landed in the water, but all I could recall was my harrowing time floundering in the ocean.
“Did anyone act suspicious when you reappeared?” Stan asked, shifting into investigative mode.
I thought about it. “Walea looked startled to see me, but she was below deck with Amanda and the passengers when it happened, so she couldn’t have pushed me. Henry seemed nervous when I turned up. I have no idea where he was when I went overboard. And Timmy bolted the second we made eye contact.”
Stan’s head swiveled ninety degrees as he stared at me.
“Eyes on the road,” I said.
He returned his gaze to the highway, which thankfully wasn’t as busy as it normally is. “What do you mean Timmy ran away?” he asked.
“After I climbed up on the dock, I noticed Timmy walking away with the passengers. When I called out his name he took off. That’s when Steve and the rescue guys spotted me. They raced over and asked a zillion questions. When you showed up, I forgot to mention Timmy’s weird behavior to Steve.”
“You need to tell the police. First, Timmy threatened Keiki a few days before her death. Then he warned you to back off. Minutes later you were fighting for your life.”
“Yeah.” I shivered remembering my brief terrifying stint in the ocean. “But Henry could have pushed me in as well. Shoot, one of the tourists might have come upstairs in search of a cocktail refill, accidentally bumped into me and been afraid to admit it.”
“Speaking of Henry and Walea, you haven’t asked me about my dance lesson,” Stan said.
No, I’d been too caught up reminiscing how I’d almost died an hour earlier.
“So how was it? You still have your hair and limbs so I gather sword and fire dancing weren’t on the agenda.”
“Ha ha. Wait until you see what I can do with a fire baton.”
Oh, dear. I could only imagine, but I held my tongue. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just fun and games. Don’t forget I was operating undercover.”
I wasn’t certain how my slightly-built fair-haired friend could run a covert ops among the huge Samoan dancers, but I went along with his delusional detecting daydreams.
“Learn anything helpful?”
He nodded but kept his eyes front and center. “Just call me Magnum PI. I told the guys what a tough vacation this had been for our group, what with Keiki’s death and Regan’s arrest. It didn’t take long for me to learn that her former boyfriend took it hard when Keiki dumped him.”
“I discovered her boyfriend was Timmy’s brother,” I said. “He seemed really angry toward Keiki. Thinks his brother committed suicide because of her. That his death wasn’t an accident.”
“According to the troupe, Joey was a terrific dancer. He and Keiki started dating a few years ago. They performed together quite a bit when they were a pair.”
“Did she date any of the other guys in the troupe?”
“Not that they mentioned, but she could have. These guys are buff-o! When they get oiled up…” Stan paused. “Oh, well, a guy can dream, can’t he?”
“Never stop dreaming,” I replied, ever the optimist. Someday Stan would find his Mr. Right. “Did anyone mention any other potential suspects?”
“Supposedly Keiki told Joey she was now seeing an older man. A guy who could provide her with the lifestyle she felt she deserved. Joey was so upset he told his pals he followed Keiki’s car a couple of times, wanting to find out who’d replaced him.”
“Joey followed Keiki?” Could he have been the possible stalker Keiki had mentioned to Steve? “Did Joey see who she was meeting?”
Stan nodded.
“Wonderful. You did some great investigating. Was it anyone we might know?”
Stan’s hands clenched on the steering wheel, but he kept his eyes on the road as he shared the new information.
“Your brother.”
Chapter 27
Stan delivered my bedraggled body directly to my hotel room, where my mother ministered to my every need. Nothing tops a warm bath and room service, consisting of a cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate cheesecake, to assist in a near-drowning recovery process. You couldn’t ask for more, although even after I devoured the food on all three plates, I still tasted the lingering kiss Steve and I had shared.
When I awoke the next morning, my muscles felt stiff and sore. Black, blue and purple spots speckled my body like a Jackson Pollock painting.
After the previous night’s experience, it was nice to receive some positive news for a change. Dave called to tell us the police were releasing Regan. He had no idea if they needed more evidence to pursue a case against her or if the detectives uncovered another suspect. I was thrilled she would be free.
I had almost as many questions bouncing around my overactive brain as I had black-and-blue marks on my body. Questions for both Regan and my brother. Especially after Stan’s revelation about Joey spying Dave and Keiki together on several occasions. Did those encounters have anything to do with her murder? Just because Joey spotted Dave and Keiki at locations outside of the restaurant didn’t automatically make Dave the mystery man she was dating.
Tonight I would get Dave alone, no matter what it took, and find out the true relationship between him and the dancer. And hopefully find out more about Keiki’s stepsister and brother-in-law. Someone was hiding something, and I had the bruises from last night’s deep-sea plunge to show for it.
Regan and Dave arrived at the hotel minutes before we departed for the spa. Liz took one look at Regan’s wan make-up free face and dispirited demeanor, and insisted she join us. Regan protested at first but I talked her into it. This could be the perfect opportunity to have some alone time with my sister-in-law.
As a spa owner, Liz had negotiated a discount on treatments for all the girls. And Stan.
Liz had signed me up for a seaweed wrap. She claimed the sea kelp that covered me from my forehead to my toes, would remove all the toxins from my body. Considering how much alcohol, chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and onion rings I’d consumed on this trip, my body could officially be classified as a toxic waste site.
Although the dark green mixture didn’t smell horrible, the seaweed paste reminded me of last night’s involuntary swim. It would have been nice if someone had warned me in advance that the staff member responsible for coating every inch of my curves would not be a female.
There I was, practically naked as a pelican, tiny strips of thin paper barely covering my lady parts, when Paoli, the young masseur walked into the room.
He flashed me a grin and told me to relax.
Ninety-nine percent of my body lay exposed and he wanted me to relax?
I gritted my teeth and once Paoli slathered my body with the seaweed mixture and cocooned me in a light wrap, I finally did relax. For a minute. He turned on some New Age music and left me alone with my thoughts.
There is nothing like a dark room, soothing music and no distractions to send my brain zooming in every direction. Even though the police had released Regan, she could still end up spending the rest of her life behind bars. I needed to learn what kind of evidence they had on her, and anything else she knew about Keiki’s relationship with my brother.
What better time than now when she couldn’t escape my slimy clutches?
I sat up and immediately felt woozy so I waited for my head to clear. Paoli had wrapped me tighter than a taquito. With some difficulty, I finally eased my left arm out first, followed by my right. Then I peeled the sticky wrap off my even stickier body. My pristine white terry cloth spa robe hung from a hook on the wall.
Seconds later, I sneaked out of my room, semi-camouflaged in my seaweed-spotted robe, flip-flops, towel turban, and glasses. The door squeaked but none of the spa staff loitered in the hallway. I sensed they would frown on clients disappearing mid-treatment.
My next dilemma––which closed door led to my sister-in-law?
Poking my head inside each room didn’t seem like the best option. The last thing I wanted to do was walk in on a naked stranger. Or worse––a naked Stan. I’d hate to get Liz in hot water with the hotel when she had gone to so much trouble to provide a relaxing afternoon for everyone.
A clear plastic holder outside of each treatment room held a small piece of paper that listed the present occupant’s name and schedule of appointments. I crept along the hallway peering inside the holders until I ran across Regan’s name. I pushed open the door and slipped inside.
Regan lay on her stomach, her head resting on her hands, her long hair knotted on top of her head. Large black stones decorated her slender back. Liz must have signed Regan up for the hot lava rock massage, thinking it would provide the relaxation she needed after spending two days in the cellblock. I imagined it would take more than a massage and some overheated stones to erase the memory of that experience.
I tiptoed inside and bumped my knee into a large tray stand. The magnifying mirror resting on the top tier teetered on the edge, but righted itself without crashing and leaving me with another seven years of bad luck.
At my last calculation, I was at 147 years worth and counting.
I eased around the table and bent over to check on Regan. If she was taking a well-deserved snooze, I’d leave.
Regan lunged at me. Hot rocks flew off the table as her hands closed around my neck.
“Hey, it’s me, Laurel,” I protested as loudly as someone being strangled can eke out.
Regan released her surprisingly strong grip. She grabbed the folds of the thin towel that covered her and sat up, her legs dangling over the side. With her wild eyes and frizzy auburn hair, she resembled a demented Raggedy Ann.
“Geez, Laurel, you almost gave me a heart attack,” she lashed out at me. “What are you doing in my room?”
I grabbed a stool from the corner of the room and plopped down. “I thought this would be a good time to chat.” I placed my hand on my chest hoping my heart palpitations would ease up. “Guess my timing could have been better.”
“You think?” She tightened her grip on the blanket and glared. “I swear I can’t tell if you and your friends are trying to help me or hurt me.”
“Help you, of course.” Now I was miffed. After all, I’d almost drowned playing detective on her behalf. “Why would you think otherwise?”
She sniffed. “It crossed my mind that one of you turned me in to the police. To protect your brother.”
I was almost shocked speechless. Almost.
“We would never do that. Besides, the only thing Dave could be guilty of was negligence, and the police proved Keiki’s fall wasn’t an accident.”
“What about his rendezvous with Keiki the night of the wedding reception?” Regan’s dark eyes burned brighter than the hot rocks scattered around the room.
“Dave met with Keiki? At the restaurant?”
She nodded. “The night of the reception I overheard Keiki tell her sister she was meeting her lover later on. When we got to the condo, I told Dave I planned to take a sleeping pill. Instead, I stayed awake to see if he would sneak out to meet her.”
These revelations were not relieving my heart palpitations. I breathed deeply as my mind analyzed this new information.
“Did you tell the police?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do anything to implicate my husband. He may be guilty of adultery, but I can’t imagine him as a murderer. Plus I didn’t follow him. All I know is that he left the condo––,” Her eyes saddened and for a minute she looked like a lost little girl. “I confessed to the police that Keiki and I had words, though.”
“When was that?”
“That same night. After I left you, I decided to visit the ladies’ room before I drove home. While I was in the stall, I overheard Walea and Keiki discuss her impending rendezvous with the boss that night. I stayed in the stall until they left.”
“I’m so sorry.” I patted her hand, not knowing how else to comfort her.
“I was devastated by her admission and it took me awhile to get a grip. And to dry off my tears. On my way out of the restroom, I bumped into Keiki. She wore this smug, self-satisfied smile on her face. I totally lost it and accused her of sleeping with Dave. Then I grabbed hold of her arm and shook her.”
Regan removed her left arm from the towel and displayed several scabbed-over scratches. “That she-lion clawed me with those dagger-sharp fingernails of hers.”
An energy-efficient light bulb flashed in my brain. “So that’s why the medical examiner found your DNA under her nails.”
Regan nodded. “I don’t know if they believed me or not. No one witnessed it.”
“What did Keiki say about Dave?”
“She laughed and didn’t deny having an affair with him.”
“I can’t imagine you having the strength to push Keiki over the wall although––,” I eyed the hands that attempted to choke me a few minutes earlier.
She held up her arm and flexed a bicep. “The coffee business is great for maintaining muscle tone. Even accountants have to pitch in sometimes and haul huge bags of beans.”
Regan slid off the table. “It’s just as well you interrupted me. I shouldn’t waste time getting spa treatments. I need to get back to Koffee Land. Assuming I still have a job. I haven’t spoken to Ritz or Pilar since the police carted me off.”
“Don’t you think you deserve some R&R before you go back to work? Dave mentioned you’ve been putting in tons of overtime. He’s not too happy about your long hours.”
“Maybe not, but it sure didn’t take him long to find a replacement for me.” Her shoulders slumped and her thin towel slid down her waif-like body. “Dave doesn’t get my devotion to my job. Your brother is a wonderful chef and he’s terrific with customers. But when it comes to anything financial, the guy is clueless. We couldn’t keep the restaurant going if it weren’t for my salary.”
“Maybe you can find a position that’s less onerous, with lower pay, but far less hours.”
“I can’t leave them in the lurch now. Not with the television crew due on site this weekend. We’re hoping once the show is on the air, the publicity will draw attention to Koffee Land and boost coffee sales. Plus Ritz has been very generous to me.”
My eyebrows went up at that comment.
Regan put her palm against my back and shoved me in the direction of the door. “I have to get back to work. Trust me. The coffee business can get really complicated sometimes.”
I was sure it could, but was anything more complex than murder?
Chapter 28
I returned to my treatment room and climbed back on the massage table seconds before Paoli returned. He looked perplexed by the trail of goop spattered across the floor, but he said nothing and merely led me to the Vichy shower room. There I morphed from a Shrek lookalike to a drowned rat.
As far as I was concerned, the benefits of the seaweed wrap were not worth all the bother. Or the expense. From now on, the cheap aloe lotion I purchased at the dollar store would suffice as treatment for my toxic body and scaly skin.
After I showered, shampooed and blow-dried my hair, my next scheduled stop was the manicure station. The last few days had been so stressful, I’d chewed my nails down to their nubs, leaving little left to polish. I hoped the technician could work some mani-magic.
I left the spa and walked into the tranquil beige-on-beige-on-beige hair and nail salon. Liz sat in front of a young nail technician, babbling away. The manicurist filed my friend’s nails without once looking up. When I slid into the chair next to Liz, I realized she was chatting on her cell, her ever-present Bluetooth jammed into her ear. My manicurist, who introduced herself as Rose, placed a bowl of warm water in front of me. She instructed me to soak my right hand then she picked up my left hand and began nipping at my torn cuticles.
“Bye, sweetie. Love you.” Liz turned to me, her smile wide. “That was Brian.”
No, duh.
“He called Tom to discuss that big murder trial your hunky detective has to testify at. The jury selection starts on Monday.” She threw a quizzical look at me. “While they were talking, Brian brought up Keiki’s murder. And the near drowning of Detective Hunter’s girlfriend. Something Tom knew nothing about.”
Shoot. I knew I’d forgotten something on my to-do list. Call my boyfriend back home and tell him someone tried to kill me.
“Ouch,” I yelped as blood spurted from the cuticle Rose just snipped.
“Sorry. I distracted. You almost drown and don’t call boyfriend?” She waved her manicure scissors at me. “Bet he no be happy with you.”
Bet she be right. If there was one thing that annoyed Tom Hunter, it was my failure to disclose an almost fatal experience.
“I would have called him this morning if you hadn’t insisted on dragging me down here,” I accused Liz.
“Nice try,” she replied. “How could you forget to call him? Or was it intentional? Maybe you didn’t want to tell him about Steve.” She tilted her bronze curls in my direction and winked.
“Who Steve?” asked Rose, indicating I should switch hands. “You got you new boyfriend?”
“No, I got no new boyfriend. I mean…” I sat there flummoxed as Rose snipped away at the ragged edges of my cuticles. I really didn’t know what my heart or my libido desired. Anger surged through me as I realized none of this would have been an issue if Tom had prioritized me over his career. If we’d been enjoying our time on the island together, there would have been no distractions like the captain of the Sea Jinx.
My irritation with Tom disappeared as quickly as it surfaced. Realistically, the detective would always put me behind his career and his daughter. Maybe we were setting ourselves up for failure even before we started anything serious. Was I really attracted to Steve or merely flattered by his attention? Maybe I just felt lonely in paradise. Easily flattered and seduced.
Well, not seduced. Not yet anyway.
But my own situation made me realize how a lack of attention from Regan might have made it easier for Keiki to seduce my brother. What really happened during their rendezvous the night of the reception?
Even more important, what occurred afterward?
“I promise to call Tom,” I said to Liz, “but first I need to get Dave alone.”
“Another guy? You one busy miss,” Rose remarked. Liz giggled while I explained that Dave was my brother and I needed to talk to him that evening.
“So, you have big plans for tonight? What color you like?” Rose pointed to a dazzling and confusing array of polishes.
I glanced at Liz as I pointed to a bottle of Magnificent Mango Mama polish. “Do we have plans this evening? What exactly is on the agenda for the rest of the week?”
“Tomorrow I scheduled a ride through the Waipi’o Valley. Doesn’t that sound brilliant?”
“It depends what I’m riding. Does it have legs and eat hay?”
Liz shook her head and attempted to look mysterious. “It has wheels and guzzles gasoline.”
Rose slapped her palm on the table, “Oh, you take ATV ride. Much fun. Kinda bumpy on trail though. You no mind bumpy ride?”
Are you kidding? That could be my theme song.
Chapter 29
While Mother remained at the spa enjoying a pedicure and reflexology treatment, I returned to the room, delighted for the opportunity to have it to myself. Since the spa required that patrons turn off their cells, I first checked for messages. The second I hit the ON button, a series of text messages beeped on my screen.
“Are you okay?” That was the first text from Tom at eleven a.m.
“Please call me and let me know you’re alright.” Message two at noon.
“Call me ASAP.” Message three at 1:06 p.m.
“What the hell is going on?” Number four at 2:10 p.m.
Not the most amorous of texts. Shakespeare sure didn’t have to worry about any poetic competition from my homicide detective. It made me wonder if it was possible to enjoy a romantic relationship with a man who experienced the dark side of life on a daily basis. Was Tom concerned about me or merely annoyed with me?
I hit speed dial to return Tom’s call. My heart thumped loudly while the phone rang. I anticipated my call would go straight to voicemail and was startled when his deep baritone came on the line.
“Laurel, it’s about time you called.”
Grrrr. “Aloha to you, too.”
The phone went silent. I visualized him counting to ten before he responded. “Can you imagine what it’s like to learn that your girlfriend almost drowned and she didn’t bother to call you?”
That was better. He truly was worried about me. And he’d referred to me as his girlfriend. I grinned as I replied, “I know how busy you are. I didn’t think you needed anything else on your plate. Two fishermen came to my rescue so everything is fine.”
“Brian didn’t give me the details so how the blazes did you end up in the ocean? That boat outfit sounds like a shoddy operation. I hope they compensated you for your ordeal.”
“Oh, it wasn’t Steve’s fault someone shoved me overboard.”
“Who the hell is Steve? And what do you mean someone ‘shoved’ you overboard?” The steel in Tom’s voice meant he was back in investigator mode.
Here I was apologizing again, a situation that occurred far too frequently in our erratic relationship. I was a grown woman with a career and a family. I didn’t need someone telling me what to do. Especially from 2,468 miles away.
“Steve is my brother’s best friend and the owner and captain of the Sea Jinx,” I replied in a voice that dripped stalagmite-sized icicles. “He’s been a complete rock for Dave and his wife, and he’s been nothing but kind and solicitous of me.”
My cheeks flushed as I recalled that extremely solicitous kiss last night.
“If you say so.” Tom sounded dubious, but his tone calmed down. “Why do you think someone pushed you overboard?”
I shared the details of Keiki’s murder and Regan’s subsequent arrest, as well as Timmy’s death threat to Keiki and our conversation on board the boat.
By the time I’d finished, the sound of Tom’s fingers drumming on the top of his desk was loud enough to provide a backdrop for an entire dance troupe.
“Honestly, I’ve never met anyone who was such a magnet for murder.”
“Hey, it’s not like I intentionally go looking for murders to entertain me. That’s your job.”
“Exactly. My job is to solve homicides. Your job is to drink daiquiris, lie on the beach, and enjoy your vacation.” Tom chuckled at what he obviously thought was a cute remark.
I bristled at his laughter. “Excuse me, but remember those last two killers I discovered?”
His laughter abruptly stopped. “What I distinctly remember is how you almost died both times.”
Well, yeah. But, technically, I was batting one hundred percent in figuring out whodunit. My timing was just a tad off.
“Promise me you won’t interfere in this case. Let the Hawaii police do their job,” Tom said.
“I promise I won’t get in the way.”
“That’s the vaguest statement I’ve ever heard.”
“Look, my brother and sister-in-law’s welfare is important to me. Besides, the police here don’t seem nearly as intelligent as you and your officers.” I had no reason to make a statement about the competency of the local police, but a little flattery never hurt.
“Nice try. Now please stay out of trouble.”
Yeah, yeah. Heard that refrain before. “It would be a lot easier if …,” the phone clicked and I found myself talking to the dial tone, “you were here with me.”
Chapter 30
Liz had arranged the perfect distraction for our group tonight. One of the largest hotels on the island boasted not only seven restaurants, but guests could travel via electric boat over the resort’s extensive waterways. The Grand Canal–Hawaiian style.
Once the five of us arrived at the hotel, I perked up. If Ben were here, my son would have described the resort as ginormous. Four different pools offered swim-up bars, cave-like grottos, waterfalls and meandering streams. Dolphins chased each other around a large pond, every now and then leaping into the air and thrilling the hotel guests.
We strolled down long open-air corridors lined with multi-million-dollar paintings, beautiful vases from various Chinese dynasties and an array of ancient statues. I lagged behind the others, stopping to read the commentary on a bronze statue representing the Hindu goddess Kali, a twenty-four-armed wonder. I eyed my glossy coral-tipped digits and calculated what a manicure would cost the multiple-armed goddess.
My hand was quickly swallowed by a much larger, stronger hand.
I glanced up to see that Steve had joined us. He flashed his body-tingling smile and tilted his head at Kali. “Ever wish you had an extra couple dozen hands and arms?”
My mind raced as I analyzed the benefits of owning so many appendages. The negatives far surpassed the positives so I shook my head. “Two arms and two legs are more than sufficient for someone as uncoordinated as I am.”
Steve squeezed my hand. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Laurel. You have a lot going for you––you’re attractive, smart and fun. That’s why I like hanging out with you.”
Responding to compliments is not my forte so I switched directions. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a sunset sail?”
“When they predicted another storm tonight, we cancelled the trip. I didn’t want to worry about anyone else falling overboard.”
Or anyone else being pushed.
“I’m keeping an eye on you tonight. There are too many bodies of water on the hotel grounds for someone with your propensity for falling in.” Steve winked, but I sensed an undercurrent of concern. Maybe last night’s kiss was more than just relief his best friend’s sister hadn’t drowned on his watch.
After my irritating phone conversation with Tom, it was nice to have an appreciative male by my side.
“How do you like life on the island?” I asked. “Was it difficult to adapt from your previous career?”
“Not really. I grew up near the Finger Lakes area in upstate New York so I spent my high school summers crewing for some of the locals. Owning a boat seemed natural once I relocated here. Unfortunately, big boats don’t come cheap. Plus, I moved here at the peak of the market. Tourism dropped dramatically after 2008, and it still hasn’t fully recovered. I love what I’m doing, but it’s definitely been a financial struggle.”
I smiled sympathetically. My own California residence was still underwater figuratively although not literally. In Hawaii, which was prone to tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes, either version was conceivable.
We caught up to the others at the boat stop. Shortly after, our boat glided on its rails down to a Japanese restaurant known for its fabulous sushi creations. We waited ten minutes for Dave and Regan to show up then decided to go ahead without them. The speed and dexterity with which the chef sliced and diced with his perfectly honed blades was impressive, but I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.
Despite the tranquil atmosphere in the restaurant, I sensed the topic of Keiki’s murder was never far from anyone’s thoughts. Once the chef departed to show off at another table, my mother moved it front and center.
“Steve, my daughter almost drowned after getting pushed off your boat last night. Who do you think did it?”
Mother’s questions were even more pointed than the sushi chef’s knives.
Steve gazed at me with concern. “I can’t believe someone intentionally shoved Laurel off the boat but,––”
“I’m fairly certain I was pushed,” I said.
“You don’t think the wind combined with the choppy waves could have sent you overboard?”
“No, I don’t.” Why was it so hard for Steve to believe someone pushed me?
Stan, ever the peacemaker, must have noticed my curt tone. “Let’s assume for the purpose of this discussion that someone pushed Laurel over the railing. Who are the potential suspects?”
“Good point,” added Brian. “How many crew members were there?”
“My usual crew was on board. You met Rafe and Timmy on our snorkeling expedition. Amanda’s our marine expert. We normally have a bartender, but he was sidelined by a car accident, which was why Laurel got drafted to serve drinks. Walea danced and her husband, Henry, and another young guy, Rick, provided the music.”
“Okay, that makes six potentials. What about your passengers? Any possibilities?” Brian asked.
Steve shrugged. “Laurel would have a better idea about that. Did you tick anyone off?”
Excuse me? I could feel my eyebrows draw together as I shot Steve a look.
“Sorry.” He smiled and rested his hand on mine. “That didn’t come out right. Were there any ornery passengers? Anyone drunk enough to accidentally push you off?”
I nibbled my lower lip as I attempted to picture members of the sailing party from the previous evening.
“A guy from Australia got sort of belligerent when I stopped serving drinks.”
“You know how those Aussies can be,” Steve responded, seeming relieved to point a finger at someone other than his trusted crew.
I wasn’t all that familiar with Aussies other than Hugh Jackman. That adorable Hugh could push me into Moby Dick’s mouth, and I’d still have a major crush on him.
“Walea and Amanda were below deck with the passengers,” I said, “but I have no idea where Rafe and Rick were when I fell overboard. Or Henry. He seemed shaken up when he and Walea saw me at the pier afterward. I suppose the most obvious person is Timmy. He ran away when I called out to him. And when I went below to talk to him earlier that evening, I found him holding some parcels in his hand. He quickly stowed them in a locker.”
“Okay, that’s a clue with a capital C,” Stan said. “He could be smuggling something and was worried you noticed.”
Brian cocked his head. “Aren’t there a lot of issues with drugs being smuggled in and out of the islands, Steve?”
Steve nodded. “It’s a problem, that’s for sure. I hate to think one of my crew is involved in something like that though.”
“Didn’t you say Timmy had a record?” I asked.
“A lot of these kids have something negative in their past. Usually something dumb when they were juveniles. That doesn’t elevate him to drug dealer.”
“I don’t know,” Stan said. “I kind of like him for our killer.”
“Me too,” said Dave, as he and Regan joined our group.
Mother jumped up to hug her eldest and his wife. It was nice to see them together although their body language wouldn’t convince Dr. Phil or anyone else that they were a loving couple.
“So who did you all decide was the killer?” Dave asked. He started to put his arm around Regan then hesitated as if gauging her reaction. It was nice to see her lean in rather than push him away. Maybe this horrible situation would bring them closer.
“Yes, what’s our next step, Madame Detective?” Stan’s grin quickly switched directions into a frown as he stared over my shoulder.
“I think you can leave the next step to us,” said a familiar voice.
I twisted in my seat and met the intense gaze of Detective Lee standing next to a smirking O’Grady. “What brings you here, Detective? Would you care to sample some sushi?”
“No, we’ll leave the sushi for you. We have an arrest to make.”
Chapter 31
“It’s about time the police realized Regan didn’t murder Keiki,” Mother said. “Are you here to apologize?”
Detective Lee looked confused for a second, but that didn’t stop him from pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.
Uh oh. This couldn’t be good.
Regan closed her eyes and lifted her arms, prepared for the worst. The detective surprised us and instead asked my brother to stand. The litany began, “Dave Bingham, you have the right to remain silent….”
Lee had barely begun reciting Miranda rights when Mother shrieked in his ear.
“Stop. He didn’t do it,” she screamed. “I killed Keiki.”
Between Mom claiming to be the killer, Regan crying over Dave’s arrest and Stan’s attempts to secure dozens of takeout boxes for the remains of our dinner, the atmosphere in the Japanese restaurant quickly changed from softly subdued to caterwauling chaos.
Dave remained quiet as Lee cuffed him. He whispered in Steve’s ear then attempted to quiet down our mother.
“Mom, it’s okay, we’ll sort it out at the police station. Settle down.”
I’d never seen my mother so agitated. Not even when five of her escrows all contingent upon one another fell apart. And what was the deal with her claim she was the killer?
She began pounding her fist against Lee’s chest. He calmly placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “Mrs. Bingham, please settle down or I’ll have to arrest you for assault and battery against a police officer.”
She held out both arms. “Take me. I’m ready. Just leave my son alone.”
Good grief. My mother had been watching too many crime shows. Or drunk too much sake.
I grabbed her arm and dragged her away. “Mom, pull yourself together. Let me find out what’s going on.” I plopped her down on a cement bench outside the restaurant and went back into the fray. Briefly. The manager of the restaurant shooed our group toward the door. As far as I knew, they hadn’t given us a bill for our dinner, so peace and tranquility must be more of a priority than profit.
Brian left us to speak with Detective Lee while Detective O’Grady walked ahead with Dave. Even with his arms cuffed behind him, my brother held his head high.
Brian returned to our group, and Regan questioned him. “What did he tell you?”
He shrugged. “Not much. Some new evidence came up that implicated Dave although I have no idea what it is. You need to contact your attorney and have him meet with Dave at the police station tomorrow.”
“What about me?” she asked. “Am I free now?”
Her question surprised me. I would have thought Regan would be more concerned with her husband’s situation, but maybe she needed clarification.
“I guess you’re free, but I’ve never seen a situation where one spouse is arrested for murder and then the other spouse is taken in a few days later.”
Regan perched on a bench, her contemplative expression looking like she was miles away. Or maybe just wishing she was. Tiki torches burning against the backdrop of a purple, pink and orange sky made the setting a natural for romance. But not for a wife who had just seen her husband hauled off by the police.
Regan finally declared she felt too shook up to drive so Steve offered to take her home. One of us could pick up Dave’s car from the hotel the following day.
The occupants of our rental car remained silent as we drove back to our own hotel. My mother’s bizarre reaction to Dave’s arrest had me worried. I could swear from the minute Lee placed the cuffs on Dave’s wrists, her hair had whitened a shade or two. I wished I could beam her husband over from California, not only to provide moral support, but also to give us some professional advice.
Mother and I entered our hotel room. She walked to her bed and flopped down on top of the covers. Directly on the hotel bedspread! Where prior room residents had lain and done who knows what. My mother must be truly upset if she wasn’t worried about catching any hootchy-kootchy cooties.
“Mom, do you want me to get you an aspirin? Maybe a cup of tea?” She hadn’t uttered a word since her restaurant outburst. It was the longest my mother had remained silent since she delivered me into the world.
She continued to lie on the bed, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest.
“Please talk to me. I’m sure the police have made a dreadful mistake,” I said. “It’s not like they’re used to investigating murders on this island. Why don’t you call Robert and see what he recommends?”
She turned her head to the right, undoubtedly to check the time in California. The clock verified it was well after midnight back home.
“It’s too late to call him now.” She blew out a deep sigh. “I feel like such a failure.”
“You? You’re one of the most successful women I know.”
“Successful in real estate. But I’m beginning to think my parenting skills were lacking. First you were a murder suspect, and now Dave’s been arrested. Where did I go wrong?”
I walked over to the bed and kissed her forehead. “This has nothing to do with your parenting. You are a wonderful mother. I still don’t know how you managed to do it all. Let’s concentrate on the facts and see what we can do to solve Keiki’s murder. It’s become obvious the police aren’t going to do a proper job.”
“Your brother has always been kind of bull-headed. But I’m certain he’s not capable of murder.”
“You admit Dave can be a tad strong-willed?” Her statement was almost as surprising as Dave’s arrest.
She smiled. “I know your brother isn’t perfect. I may be a mother, but I have two eyes and ears.”
Hmmm. How many of Dave’s past escapades was my mother aware of? And now that she was sharing, how many of mine? I’d worry about that later. My brother was our top priority for now.
“Why did you tell Detective Lee you killed Keiki?”
She sat up and placed her palms on her cheeks. She looked almost as puzzled as I felt. “I have no idea. Maternal instinct clicking in, I guess.”
“I can understand maternal instinct, but what if Dave turns out to be the killer. How far would you go to protect your son?”
Chapter 32
Exhaustion kept us from finishing our discussion. The next morning I did discover how early Mother could wake up to devise a plan to spring her son out of jail.
Said plan included waking me as well. I personally didn’t think a sleepy Laurel would be much help, but the clackety-clack of the room service cart, along with the smell of hot coffee, eggs and bacon, was enough to induce me to assist her efforts. My mother must really want my help if she’d ordered this mouth-watering cholesterol-heavy breakfast.
Mother moved the silver-domed plates of food to the small glass-topped table on our lanai. The full circular moon shone bright against the pink streaks beginning to light the morning sky. I poured coffee for both of us and carried the mugs outside, along with cream, sugar and our utensils.
I sipped my coffee and stared at the tips of the distant waves shining iridescent against the black water. The pounding surf reminded me that something hauntingly beautiful could be equally dangerous. The dead dancer was not unlike those waves.
In life and in death, Keiki had impacted the people whose paths had crossed hers. The central question we needed answered was whose path crossed hers last?
Mother put down her cup and picked up her ever-present legal pad and pen.
“I called Robert while you were sleeping, and he offered some excellent suggestions.”
I nodded while I crunched on a piece of bacon. A former homicide detective could definitely provide a few helpful tips.
Mother ticked items off as she read them from her list.
“We need to make sure Regan has contacted their attorney, whether Dave wants one or not. If he thinks he’s innocent, he might waive his rights which Robert said would be a mistake. I’m sure Regan is as anxious to have Dave released as you and I are.” Mother picked up her coffee and eyed me over her cup. “At least, I hope she is. That girl has exhibited some strange behavior.”
I crunched and nodded once more. Regan seemed more tightly wrapped than my Saran Wrap. Was there more to their marital issues than she’d already told me?
“Did Robert have any suggestions for our investigation?” I asked.
Her eyebrows drew together as she tapped her pen on the glass-topped table.
“He certainly did,” she said in a frosty tone. “He suggested we leave the detecting to the Hawaii police whom he was certain were capable of arresting the guilty party without any help from us. Men!”
“You’re never going to convince a homicide detective we’re better suited to discover the killer. I don’t know if the police are biased against both Dave and Regan or if they think they have sufficient evidence. But we know they’re not guilty.”
“Exactly.” Mother rubbed her pen against her lower lip. “Are you completely positive Regan is innocent?”
“Honestly, I’m not certain of anything except Dave isn’t a murderer. I’m also convinced he knows something he isn’t sharing. Now that his situation has changed for the worse, maybe he’ll come clean with us.”
“Do you believe he was having an affair with Keiki?” she asked.
I shrugged. “At this point, I could care less whether Dave had an affair or not. That’s for him and Regan to work out. But we need to find out where he went the night Keiki died. Did he have a rendezvous with her or not?”
“If Dave wasn’t with his wife at the condo,” Mother remarked, “then Regan doesn’t have an alibi either.”
“What about that mystery man Keiki was dating? It might be Dave but it might not.”
“That’s true. But how can we find out who she was seeing?”
“We could question Keiki’s mother. Girls tell their mothers everything.”
She peered at me over her rose-colored reading glasses. “Just like you share everything with me?”
“Point taken.” I grinned. “But it’s worth a try. Keiki’s new older boyfriend could definitely be her killer. And if she didn’t confide in her mother or stepsister, maybe one of the other dancers would know his name.”
“If it has anything to do with hula, Stan would enjoy investigating,” Mother added.
“Yep, the next thing you know he’ll be sporting a trench coat and fedora over his coconut shells and grass skirt.”
Four hours later, we met up with the gang. By then, I was ready for a nap, and hoped a second breakfast might energize me. I turned the menu over looking for side items and was shocked at the cost.
The hotel’s regular blend of coffee was three dollars per cup with refills, but one-hundred-percent Kona coffee was five dollars. The stuff really was liquid gold. When Jay, our waiter, arrived to take our order, I asked if he could distinguish between the two.
“Easily,” Jay said, “but I’ve lived on the island all my life. Of course that doesn’t mean I can afford the premium stuff. Not on my wages.”
Nice, not too subtle ploy to get a bigger tip.
“But there are plenty of folks who can’t tell the difference between Folgers’ instant and pure Kona coffee.”
“That’s Brian.” Liz gently punched her husband’s arm. “As long as it’s hot, he doesn’t care if it’s fresh ground beans or two-year-old powder.”
Brian threw her the look that sent defense lawyers quivering, but Liz just responded by placing a raspberry lip print on his cheek.
“Bring Laurel and me a cup of each, please,” Mother asked Jay. “We’ll see how refined our coffee palates are.”
Jay returned a few minutes later with two large carafes and several empty mugs, which he set in the center of our table. “I thought it would be more fun if you all joined in.”
Jay poured each of us a small serving from the pots, labeled numbers one and two. We doctored them with cream and sugar to suit our taste. Neither Brian nor Stan could tell one from the other. Mother, Liz and I thought the second, more flavorful pot must be the pure Kona coffee.
“The women won this round.” Jay nodded his head in our direction. “It gets harder with the various blends because some coffee makers are more skilled than others.”
“Regan told us over three million pounds of green beans are produced annually,” Brian said. “If someone could pass off Columbian as pure Kona coffee, they’d have quite the profitable scam.”
Leave it to Brian to steer the discussion in a nefarious direction. “The coffee business is truly fascinating.” I drained the last drop of my luxury coffee. “I’d love to learn more about it from Regan.”
“Has she called?” Brian asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet. I left her a message around seven this morning, but it went directly to voicemail. I assumed she was still asleep. I don’t know if she’s contacted the attorney or not. For all I know, she’s forgotten about Dave, and she’s back at Koffee Land lost in the world of debits and credits.”
“You can tell she was born to be a CPA for a coffee farm,” Stan remarked. When I looked confused, he smirked. “She’s a true bean counter!”
I rolled my eyes at Stan’s pitiful joke, but it made me wonder if there were other reasons why Regan spent so much time at Koffee Land. She knew her workload frustrated Dave.
Did she have other ulterior reasons for spending her days and occasional nights at Koffee Land? The handsome owner seemed congenial and Regan indicated she liked him. Or did she “like” him? My hormones must be rebelling at my lack of erogenous activity because now I suspected my sister-in-law of having an affair with her boss.
Welcome to As the World Turns – the Hawaii Five-O version.
Was it possible Regan murdered Keiki so her husband would be jailed, leaving her free to pursue her adulterous ways?
Or did I drink way too much coffee this morning?
“We only have forty-eight hours to find the killer,” Mother announced. “We need to split up so we can question everyone on my list. Then we’ll––”
Brian interrupted her, using his trial attorney voice to get his point across to us. “Listen, I know you guys think you’re Sherlock Holmes, Colombo, and Jessica Fletcher combined, but you need to leave the detecting to the real detectives this time. Lee seems fairly sharp. He also doesn’t look like he’d brook the kind of nonsense Hunter lets you get away with, Laurel.”
I opened my mouth to protest then decided to stuff it full of scone. Liz could handle Brian.
“Sweetie, we can’t just wing our way home without helping Laurel and Barbara.” Liz reached out to stroke Brian’s back.
“I know this hasn’t been an ideal honeymoon,” Mother said.
Brian cocked an eyebrow at her.
“The three of us are perfectly capable of handling the detecting without you. Liz, why don’t you and Brian go off on one of those expeditions you’ve booked?”
Liz looked at her watch. “Oh, bollocks, I bloody well forgot about the ATV outing. I wonder if they can reschedule for tomorrow.”
I sighed. “I don’t think we have time for any more tourist attractions.”
“Don’t you remember, this was the tour in Waipi’o Valley.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I was really looking forward to that. The reviews made it sound amazing. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“I’ll call and see what they can do,” Liz said. “What’s your first priority on the investigation?”
“My first priority is to get Dave a get-out-of-jail-free card. But I don’t even know the name of Regan and Dave’s criminal attorney.”
Brian waggled his finger in front of my face. “Even if you knew his name, it wouldn’t do you any good. An attorney is only going to discuss the case with his client and whoever the client designated as an outside contact.”
I swallowed my last bite of scone. “Fine. If we can’t get Regan to call us back, and we can’t glean any info from Dave’s attorney, we’ll just have to pay a condolence call to Keiki’s family.
“Who knows? Maybe her mother holds the key to solving this murder.”
Chapter 33
Shortly after breakfast ended, Regan returned my call. She told me that the attorney would meet Dave at the detention center this afternoon. Just as I’d suspected, Regan was back at Koffee Land. Since she produced the staff W-2’s, which included employee addresses, she agreed to give me Keiki’s parents’ address.
“Don’t do anything to embarrass me,” she added.
As if being arrested for the murder of an employee, followed by your husband also being held for the same murder wasn’t embarrassing.
Regan and I sure had a difference of opinion on many things.
Someday when this whole ordeal was over, I hoped my sister-in-law and I could establish some kind of friendship. Although by then, Regan and Dave might not be married.
Or they might be cohabiting in prison.
Mother and I urged Liz and Brian to enjoy their remaining time on the island alone. We talked them into driving us to the Grand Hotel so we could pick up Dave’s car. We didn’t think Dave would mind our borrowing it since he wasn’t going anywhere in the near future. His red Mustang convertible was a tight fit, but once I put the top down, Stan had more headroom in the rear seat. With my hands on the leather-covered steering wheel, and the wind blowing through my hair, I felt like we were flying.
Oops. I yanked my lead foot off the accelerator. Given their finances, I wondered what Regan thought of Dave’s new fire-engine-red sports car. Was my brother suffering such a huge mid-life crisis that the sports car splurge hadn’t been enough to make him happy?
Did Keiki pursue him or vice versa?
According to my earlier conversation with Regan, Victor should be at home today helping his wife prepare for Keiki’s service. I was concerned about intruding on their privacy but at this point, I didn’t feel we had a choice. Especially since two of the suspects were relatives of mine. I rationalized our visit by thinking if I were Keiki’s mother, my foremost desire would be to see my daughter’s killer locked up. And to be one hundred percent certain it was the right person behind bars.
Having resolved my inner turmoil, I mentally rehearsed a few questions for the couple. Once they answered them, we could get out of their hair.
Keiki’s mother and stepfather lived a few miles north of Koffee Land. We turned onto their drive, lined with coffee trees. I wondered if Victor ran a small coffee business on the side or if he only sold the coffee cherries to other farms. Several vehicles were parked in a graveled area to the side of the house. They could belong to relatives or friends.
Or even the killer.
Hmmm. What were the odds someone would arrive on their doorstep, casserole dish in hand and admit to the murder?
We walked single file up the wooden stairs to the front deck. I rang the doorbell, which chimed a cheerful melody.
A beautiful woman answered the door. With flowing dark hair and smooth unlined skin the color of café au lait, she looked too young to be Keiki’s mother. Victor peered over her shoulder. He looked puzzled then recognition dawned.
I offered my hand and introduced myself. “Hello, Mr. Yakamura. My name is Laurel McKay. Regan is my sister-in law. She introduced us the other day at Koffee Land.”
Victor nodded. “Can I assist you with something? Does Regan need anything from me?”
“Oh no, she’s fine.” Well, as fine as someone whose husband was reclining in a cell for supposedly murdering the stepdaughter of the man I was addressing. “We all feel so bad about Keiki and…”
My voice petered out, and Mother stepped forward. The shiny green foliage of the oversized plant we’d purchased at the supermarket almost hid her face.
“We brought this in memory of Keiki.” Mother listed to the left and Victor grabbed the red-flowered anthurium before she or the plant could topple over the deck railing.
“Mahalo, for your kindness.” He stepped back looking unsure whether to invite us inside or not.
“Hey, there’s Walea,” Stan piped up. “Yoo hoo, sweetie.”
Walea moved forward and whispered in Victor’s ear. He hesitated then ushered us into the house.
The Yakamuras’ house was decorated in tropical fashion, with dark woods, a flowered sofa and matching chairs grouped around a square mahogany coffee table. An open bar divided the living room from the kitchen, whose countertops overflowed with wall-to-wall casseroles and plates of baked goods. Two women sat at each end of the sofa. Both wore their long dark hair loose and flowing down their backs. I recognized them as dancers from Daiquiri Dave’s.
When we walked in, they stood to make room for us.
“Please don’t leave on our account,” I said to the women.
“No, it is time to go. Walea, we will see you at the restaurant at five.” As the dancers sashayed out the door, I marveled again at their sexy walk. It looked so natural that I cocked my hips to the left and right to replicate the swiveling movements they made.
Ouch. I hoped I’d packed some extra Advil.
“Are you performing tonight?” I asked Walea.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, money doesn’t grow on coconut trees, you know. We are not all rich Californians here on this island.”
We are not all rich back in California either, but that wasn’t a topic worth quibbling over.
The older woman gracefully pointed to the sofa. We sat down, thigh to thigh, looking as guilty as kids whispering during a church service.
The woman’s voice possessed a lilting quality that soothed as she welcomed us. “My name is Kiana. I am Keiki’s mother. It is kind of you to come here. You show the true aloha spirit.”
I smiled. Demonstrating aloha spirit sounded far better than ferreting out who killed her daughter.
My mother demonstrated her own aloha spirit. “We feel terrible about what happened to Keiki. I wanted to assure you that despite his arrest, my son had nothing to do with your daughter’s tragic death.”
A flicker of something darkened Kiana’s face, but it disappeared, and her countenance regained its former placid demeanor. It made me wonder if she agreed with our assumption that Dave did not kill her daughter. Was there something Keiki’s mother was hiding?
Kiana chose to discuss a less confrontational topic than her daughter’s murder. “Have you been able to enjoy our beautiful island?”
“We haven’t had time for much sightseeing although we’re taking the ATV ride at Waipi’o Valley tomorrow,” I replied. “Unfortunately, we only have two more days to investigate the murder before we fly home.”
“It won’t be easy finding Keiki’s killer in that amount of time,” Stan said.
Kiana placed long elegant fingers against her slender throat. “You are detectives in California?”
I exchanged looks with Mother and Stan.
“We’ve assisted the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department on several occasions,” I mumbled. Fortunately, no sheriff’s department representatives were present to debate that fact.
“You are helping the detectives here?” Kiana appeared confused, which was not at all surprising since we were equally confused at this point.
“Yes, we are.” The Hawaii police didn’t know we were assisting them, but that was a mere technicality. My brother’s freedom was at stake here. “We have some excellent leads so far, but we thought it would help to interview Keiki’s current boyfriend. Unfortunately we didn’t have a contact number for him.”
We didn’t have a contact name either, but this was no time to split hairs.
Kiana’s eyes clouded over. “My daughter used to date a fine young man named Joey. We hoped they would settle down and get married some day. Unfortunately, he died in an accident about a month ago. It was so sad for a young man to have his life cut short that way.”
Kiana addressed her husband who’d returned to the living room. “Victor has dealt with so much tragedy lately––at work and at home.”
Victor’s heavily lined face corroborated her statement. I tried to recall what work-related tragedy she referred to. “There was that horrible accident at Koffee Land when they were building the zip-line. Did you know the young man who died?”
“That was Joey,” Walea chimed in, “my sister’s former boyfriend.”
Chapter 34
Aha! The plot thickens. In fact, this plot was becoming thicker than poi.
“Oh, I missed the connection.” I looked at Victor. “So Keiki’s boyfriend worked for you?”
“No, no.” He shook his gray head vehemently. “I have nothing to do with the zip-line construction. That is Ritz’s crazy––,” he paused then started again. “I manage the coffee processing only.”
“Walea’s husband, Henry, is the contractor for the zip-line.” Kiana shifted her gaze to her stepdaughter. Her full lips tightened as she glanced at Walea.
Walea fidgeted as she met Kiana’s accusing stare. “It’s not Henry’s fault that Joey died. I am sure he jumped from the tower because Keiki broke his heart.”
“Are you saying your poor dead sister caused Joey’s death?” Kiana’s voice caught as she wrung her hands together.
“Heh, some sister,” Walea muttered.
Victor jumped up and stood in front of Walea. “You must not talk badly about your younger sister.”
“Are you kidding?” Walea leapt out of her chair. “That slut of a sister humiliated our entire family.” She stormed out of the room and down a hallway that appeared to lead to the rear of the house. Seconds later Walea emerged, purse in hand. Without another word, she left the house, the screen door banging shut behind her.
Victor’s hands and voice shook as he stared out the door. “I apologize for my daughter. Keiki’s death, following so quickly after Joey’s accident, has been a trying experience for our entire family. Henry blames himself for Joey’s fall. He feels he should have made the boy wait until the morning to fix the cabling.”
“Are you certain it was an accident?” I asked, “Is it possible Joey intentionally jumped?”
The lines around Victor’s eyes etched deeper as he shrugged. “At this point does it really matter?”
I thought it might but decided to let that line of questioning die for now. “Do you know who Keiki started dating after she broke up with Joey?”
Kiana, eyes downcast, plucked at the fabric of her dark skirt. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. I didn’t want to miss the name of the new boyfriend so I leaned forward.
“My daughter had big dreams. But she didn’t always share everything with me.”
“Unfortunately,” Victor muttered under his breath.
Kiana patted his arm. “Keiki is, was an…an adventurous girl. Sometimes her dreams created trouble. Not too long ago, she mentioned there was a man interested in her. Someone she found intriguing.”
“Was it someone she’d met recently?” Mother asked. If the answer was yes, that should eliminate Dave as Keiki’s potential lover.
Kiana shook her head. “No, it was someone she had known awhile. Recently he’d taken an interest in her.”
My mother’s perfect posture wilted and her shoulders slumped. “Someone who might be married?”
Kiana’s eyes, darker than French-roasted coffee beans, gazed wistfully at us. “Possibly. I was afraid to ask. All she said was he had money and a nice car.”
She lifted her arms in a supplicating manner. “Who he was, I do not know. I’m afraid Keiki has taken his name to the grave with her.”
Sadly, whoever it was, may have been the person to send the beautiful dancer to her grave.
Chapter 35
After promising Kiana and Victor we would stop by their house for Keiki’s memorial reception on Sunday, we left their home, pondering the implications of Kiana’s revelations. The description of Keiki’s new boyfriend could fit many men. It also described my brother.
“Should we attend the reception?” Mother asked. “Maybe her parents only invited us to be polite.”
I thought it over for a few seconds. “No, I think they were sincere. Our plane doesn’t leave until the evening, so we have time.”
“Are you kidding?” Stan said. “This is the perfect opportunity to find the killer. Remember all those clues we picked up last time?”
As far as I recalled, my Mother and Liz had each picked up several new clients, but nary a worthwhile clue.
“I bet they’ll have a hula tribute to Keiki.” Stan’s eyes sparkled and he started swaying to the music that must be playing in his head. “I heard they do that in these situations, especially if the deceased was a dancer. Do you think I should offer––?”
“No,” Mother and I shouted simultaneously.
Stan looked hurt so I attempted to mollify him “Hey, pal, you wouldn’t catch McGarrett dancing when he should be detecting.”
He cocked his head. “Good point. Dancing might be a distraction.”
Yeah. For everyone else as well.
I glanced at my watch. “Do you want to stop by Koffee Land and check in with Regan? It’s almost noon and it’s only a ten-minute drive.”
“I could use a cup of java.” Stan yawned.
“It’s probably too soon,” Mother said. “But maybe Regan will have an update on Dave’s status.” The fine lines she tried to conceal with luxury cosmetics were now evident, proclaiming her baby boomer status.
We piled in the car and drove toward Honaunau. Dark clouds crisscrossed the sky, indicating afternoon showers were in the forecast. My ears popped once we reached 2,000 feet in altitude. The higher we climbed, the more exotic the landscaping became. Looking at the large, abundant red blossoms entwined around tall Ohia trees reminded me of a local legend.
Ohia, a Hawaiian chief, supposedly fell in love with Pele’s sister, Lehua. Pele, who wanted him for herself, was so furious with Ohia that she turned him into a tree. The other gods tried but were unable to change Ohia back into a man. When Lehua refused to leave his side, they transformed her into a beautiful red flower instead. That way the two could be united forever.
Needless to say, Pele was pissed.
Whether you’re a goddess or a mere mortal, true love does not always run smooth. Now if we could only determine who was pissed off enough to kill Keiki.
We drove through the imposing entrance to Koffee Land and followed the long curving drive to the visitor’s center. The parking lot seemed more crowded than on our last visit. The center, however, was empty except for Tiffany who stood behind the counter.
“Your parking lot is packed.” I said. “What did you do with everyone? Are they all on tour?”
Tiffany shook her head, the ebony strands of her glossy hair flying in every direction. “The television people are here today. They’re hosting some kind of reception for the contestants in the gazebo.”
Stan’s eyes lit up. “Could we take a peek?”
She smiled and shrugged. “I’m not sure. You can ask Regan if it’s okay.”
“Is she around?” I asked.
“She should be in her office.” Tiffany picked up her phone and dialed an extension. While we waited, I perused the goodies in the Donkey Ball aisle. Some folks take Xanax for anxiety. I find that chocolate is cheaper and tastier. With my brother in jail, I could use a pound or two of the over-the-counter medication.
I heard noises and glanced up, expecting to see Regan. Her handsome boss approached, dressed in an off-white suit and Panama hat, looking the picture of a nineteenth-century plantation owner.
Regan followed behind Ritz. I couldn’t imagine concentrating on work while my husband languished in the detention center, but she possessed an amazing loyalty to her employer.
“Ritz, you remember Dave’s family.” Regan reintroduced all of us to her boss.
He latched on to my mother’s hands. “Regan has told me about your son’s difficulties. Please let me know if I can do anything to help. The police here are not so experienced in the murder cases. I’m sure it is a big mistake.”
Mother gently released her hands from his grasp. “Thank you. I appreciate your offer. This has been a trying vacation. First Regan was in custody and now Dave.”
Ritz smiled at my sister-in-law. “I’m most relieved to have Regan back here at Koffee Land. She is the backbone of our enterprise.”
Regan’s face glowed with the compliment. The owner had definitely mastered the art of positive reinforcement.
“In the brief time that I met her, Keiki seemed like a nice girl,” Stan said, “but she’s been kind of a vacation wrecker.”
I could see Regan mouthing the words “home wrecker” under her breath.
“Ah yes, the young victim. Such a tragedy,” Ritz replied.
“Did you know her?” I asked.
He nodded. “She stopped by on occasion to see her stepfather. Keiki seemed to be a source of much frustration to Victor and his wife. A beautiful but confused young woman, I would say. She made Henry crazy, too. Have you met her brother-in-law?”
“Yes, we’ve met both Walea and Henry. How did Keiki upset him?”
“Henry mentioned she had a drug problem, but I don’t know the details. I know he was nervous when she was selected as one of the contestants for the reality show. I think he was afraid she might do something to embarrass the family.”
“Keiki was supposed to be on The Bride and the Bachelor?” I asked.
“Such a tragedy to have her young life cut short,” Ritz said. “This show might have been the impetus to turn her life around. But moving on to happier topics, have you had the opportunity to explore our beautiful island?”
“We’re going on an ATV tour in the Waipi’o Valley tomorrow,” I said.
“Ah, the Valley of the Kings. Waipi’o is indeed a special place. Make sure you don’t miss the view from the rim.” Ritz glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry. I have a meeting in Hilo. Again, please let me know if I can be of service.” We thanked him and he headed out of the center.
“Have you heard from Dave or his attorney?” I asked Regan.
“Not yet. But it’s probably too soon.” Regan chewed on her thumbnail. “I need to get back to work. Can I get you anything else?”
Mother looked ready to burst in tears. “This waiting is killing me.”
“Could we walk around the grounds?” I asked, hoping that might calm my mother while we waited to hear from the lawyer.
Regan looked relieved to get rid of us. “Sure, just don’t disturb the TV crew. They have something going on with the contestants over in the pavilion.”
We said goodbye to Regan and Tiffany then walked out of the center. A series of gold arrows pointed to various locations on the property, all of which seemed to lead in the same direction. Even without the arrows, we would have been able to locate the TV crew from the noise.
“Your sister-in-law seems to place far more importance on her career than her husband,” Mother confided as we walked side by side down the graded path.
“Maybe it’s her method of escape. Burying her head in a spreadsheet could be an accountant’s security blanket.”
“Humph.”
The noise level increased as we drew closer to the pavilion. The structure resembled a gazebo on steroids and could easily provide enough room for several hundred attendees. I didn’t see any TV cameras so this must be an informal pre-taping gathering. As we drew closer to the grand pavilion, I noticed a familiar face.
“It’s Amanda, the naturalist from the Sea Jinx,” I said to the others. “I wonder what she’s doing here.”
The three of us approached the covered structure.
“Hi, Laurel.” Amanda beamed a wide smile at us. The red hibiscus over her ear matched the short polka-dot sundress she wore. “Are you involved in the show?”
I shook my head. “My sister-in-law works at Koffee Land so we stopped to see her. What about you? How come you’re not out on the Sea Jinx today?”
“I’m one of the contestants on The Bride and the Bachelor.” She bounced up and down in excitement, her long blonde curls and bosom bouncing in tandem. If they judged the contestants on bounciness, she was a shoo-in.
“Congratulations,” I said. “So what’s the show about?”
Amanda put her hand over her heart. “The girls are all competing for the bachelor, Jacques Andre Cointreau.”
Stan whistled. “Isn’t he the grandson of Philippe Cointreau?”
She smiled, bubbling over with youthful optimism. “Yes, we have so much in common. I think we’re a perfect match.”
“That hunk won the Survivor, the Amazing Race, and Dancing with the Stars,” Stan said. “He is a fox-trotting, sea-faring survivalist. You go get him, girl.”
She giggled. “I’ll give it my best. I just hope I can measure up to the other contestants.” She glanced around the pavilion, and I followed her gaze.
Talk about island beauty. Every girl in the room was gorgeous and dressed to kill. But Amanda was equally lovely, and I admired the way she used simple native flowers to accessorize. Some of the women glittered more than the showroom at Tiffany.
“We just learned Keiki was a contestant too,” I said. “It’s so tragic what happened to her.”
Amanda shook her head. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. We’ve known each other since high school. It would have been so much fun to be on the show together. I heard the police finally arrested her killer so that’s good.”
“They did not arrest the right man,” Mother shouted, surprising me with her intensity.
Amanda edged away from our group. If the young girl thought my mother was intimidating now, she should try negotiating a contract with the Queen of Centurion Realty.
“The man they arrested is my brother,” I explained to the frightened young woman. “We’re all upset because we know he didn’t do it. We just need to prove it to the police before we leave the island Sunday. That gives us only two more days. Do you have any idea who would want to kill Keiki?”
She shook her curls, her eyes welling with tears. “Poor Keiki. You probably heard what happened to her former boyfriend, Joey?” She looked at us and we all nodded. “Well, his brother, Timmy, hated Keiki. I was on the Sea Jinx one night when he threatened her, although I can’t imagine him following through with it.”
“How about any new boyfriends?” Stan asked. “We heard she started dating an older man.”
She pondered our question. “Keiki never mentioned anything to me. Although I did see her with––,” Amanda stopped and eyed the ground. “It was probably nothing.”
“No clue is unimportant when it comes to my son,” Mother said using a gentler tone this time. We didn’t want to frighten the young woman away if she possessed some valuable information.
Amanda toed her sandal in a circular motion in the grass, seemingly reluctant to disclose one of her friend’s possible suitors. A tall woman with a clipboard and a frown called out Amanda’s name, beckoning at her.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“Please tell us what you were going to say,” I pleaded with her. She waved back at the other woman indicating she was on her way.
“Okay, I saw Steve and Keiki together a few times. But it was almost a month ago and probably didn’t mean anything. “She blasted a Crest-white smile at me. “Besides, I think Steve really likes you, Laurel.”
The clipboard-carrying woman called Amanda’s name again, angrily tapping her foot as she glared at our group.
“Sorry,” Amanda said. “I really must go.”
“Good luck, dear.” Mother patted the young woman on the arm.
Amanda smiled a thanks and scurried away to join the others. Mother and I chuckled as we left the pavilion.
“Ah, youth, the stars are aligned,” I said, “therefore it is my fate––”
“To meet my mate,” Stan sang out. “Hey, she’s a cute kid. I hope this show works out for her. Everyone deserves to meet their Mr. Right.”
My lower lip trembled, and I sensed a lone tear rolling down my cheek. Everyone does deserve to meet Ms. or Mr. Right. But once the initial romance wears off, how do you keep a relationship going strong? The unhealthy relationship of my brother and his wife saddened me, as did the memory of my own broken marriage. How could the joining of two people in love lead to so much disappointment? And tears.
And as I was discovering on this island––betrayal!
Chapter 36
We continued on the path that led uphill away from the pavilion toward the vista point. After a short walk, we reached the crest. Two men conversed at the base of a tall tower.
“What a spectacular view,” Mother said.
She wasn’t kidding. A lush green valley surrounded us, the undulating hills covered with tall Ohia and Koa trees, abundant ferns and an occasional zip-line tower. In the distance, the ocean sparkled as if diamonds were dancing on the crests of the waves.
We strolled over to check out the view from the tower, which was at least forty feet tall.
“This isn’t operational yet,” the shorter man announced. He wore a large diamond stud in one ear and sported dragon tattoos on each of his muscular arms. He and his arms looked vaguely familiar, but since many young men on the island had tattoos, I doubted his was the only fire-breathing arm in Hawaii.
“We were just admiring the scenery,” I said. “Will the zip-line be running soon?”
“We’re testing it today,” said the other worker. “It needs to be ready by Monday for the reality show. After that, it will open to the public. You should try it sometime.”
I looked at the belts, hooks and pulleys intended to haul a person a thousand-plus feet to the next tower with a mere two-hundred-foot drop over the valley below.
“That small contraption can hold me?” Both men laughed at my skeptical tone.
“Yes, miss,” replied the older, heavy-set man. “Trust me. If it can hold us, it can hold you.”
Stan moved closer to the tower. “Oh, you can ride tandem on this zip-line. That’s a nice feature.”
“The TV show needed to have two people go at the same time, and our boss thought that would be an added attraction. Sometimes people feel more comfortable if they’re zipping next to a friend.”
“Can more than one person ride together on the same line?” I asked.
He nodded. “Sure, you and your mom could ride together as long as your combined weight didn’t exceed 270 lbs.”
Mother glanced at me then shook her head slowly. Was she implying I’d eaten one malasada too many for her to feel comfortable flying through the air with me?
“I’ve always wanted to try zip-lining,” Stan said. “How safe is it? Someone mentioned there was an accident here not long ago.”
The men shared a look. The young tattooed fellow was about to speak when the older man laid a hand on his shoulder. “That accident had nothing to do with the safety of these lines. We’re about to take a ride to the next tower now. Stick around and watch.”
The workers climbed four sets of stairs to reach the platform at the top of the tower where a third man waited. Even from this distance, I recognized Henry, their boss, glowering at us as usual.
We watched as they hooked themselves into the harnesses and tested the clamps from the upper line. Henry gave them a thumbs-up, and they took off. They waved back at us as they flew down the line. The smaller, wiry one leaned backward and spread his colorfully inked arms out wide, displaying the familiar “hang loose” Shaka sign so popular in the islands.
“That looks like fun.” Stan’s gaze followed the men’s swift ride across the canyon.
That depends on your definition of “fun.” I’d personally prefer to pull my upper lip over my forehead than go zipping through the air.
“Regan must have an update on Dave by now,” said Mother, all business. “If not, then it’s high time we drive to the detention center and find out what’s going on ourselves.”
We strolled past the pavilion, which was filled with more estrogen per foot than most men would want to handle. That Jacques Cointreau must be one hearty dude.
I couldn’t imagine competing for a guy on national television. It was hard enough dating someone without having millions of viewers watching your every move.
When we arrived at the center, Tiffany was busy ringing up coffee purchases. Mother and Stan needed to visit the restrooms so they headed in that direction. I knew the offices were located in the back of the building, so I decided to find out if Regan had an update yet.
I walked through the closed back door into a short hallway. The first office, dark and empty, was presumably Victor’s. In the next, Regan sat behind a functional modern desk, hands clasped under her chin, peering at rows of tiny numbers on her computer screen. I knocked on her door, and she jumped.
“Laurel, you startled me. What are you doing back here?”
“I wanted to see if you’d heard anything new about Dave.”
“The attorney called a little while ago.” Regan leaned back in her chair and rubbed both eyes.
I sat in the one extra wooden chair in her tiny office. “This has to be so hard on you.”
“It’s a nightmare. In my heart I know Dave didn’t do it, but then sometimes I wonder…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened. “I wonder if my husband did kill Keiki.”
I jumped up, put my hands on her desk and leaned over, our chins practically touching. “You can’t be serious. You believe your husband––my brother–– could commit murder? You two really do have a screwed-up marriage.”
Regan shrank back in her chair. “I don’t know what to think about my marriage. I can’t remember the last time Dave confided in me about anything.” She opened a drawer, grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “And it’s been months since we’ve made love.”
Okay, this was awkward. Why did all of my family members feel obligated to share the details of their sex life, or lack thereof, with me?
Regan cleared her throat. “I better get back to work.”
“Will we see you tonight?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know how late I’ll be working. I’ve taken over some of Victor’s duties during his absence. We’ve had issues with our crops due to the borer beetle invasion, so we don’t have nearly the quantity of beans we thought we’d have for sale. Between Ritz’s spending for all the improvements and less coffee revenue than I anticipated, our bottom line isn’t looking good. I’ll be glad when Victor returns. Maybe he can figure out why there’s such a shortage.”
“That reminds me, Victor and Kiana invited us to Keiki’s memorial service. Are you going?”
Her face paled. “I suppose I have to or Victor will be offended. I’m sure Ritz and Pilar will attend as well. As for Dave…who knows if he’ll still be in jail or…?”
My cell rang. I picked up, hoping the caller would have an answer to Regan’s question.
“Hey, Steve. Do you have any news?”
“I do, but where are you?”
“We’re still at Koffee Land. I’m in Regan’s office right now.”
He paused for a few seconds. “Call me back when Regan isn’t around.”
I glanced at my sister-in-law who was listening intently to my end of the conversation.
“Sure, we’re leaving soon. Thanks for the call.”
Regan interrupted before I clicked to end the conversation. “Does Steve have any news?”
“Not really. He wanted to see how we were doing. I should leave you to your work.”
“Okay, I’ll keep you posted and please do the same if you hear something first.”
I hugged her good-bye then bolted down the hall and out the door leading into the center. Stan and my mother stood by the register chatting with Tiffany. I joined them.
“Do you have any news about Dave?” Mother’s voice cracked slightly and she dropped the bottle of passion fruit jelly she’d been holding. Tiffany caught the jar before the sticky substance could crash and explode all over the counter.
“I’ll update you in the car.” She paid the bill and I scurried out the door, with Stan and Mother on my footsteps. I was anxious to call Steve back and learn why he wanted Regan kept in the dark.
I dialed from the parking lot.
“Is it safe to talk?” Steve asked.
“I’m with Mother and Stan, getting in the car. Why are you acting so mysterious?”
“Try to stay calm and don’t let your mother get freaked out.”
If Steve thought that comment would calm me, he was wrong, because I was the one starting to freak.
“Dave will be released in an hour or so,” he said.
“That’s terrific news. But why can’t Regan…” I could feel my mother’s eyes boring into my head. “Do we need to pick him up?”
“No, I’ll get him. Basically, after talking to the police, Dave doesn’t want to be with Regan.”
Sometimes I’m quick. Sometimes not. “Huh?”
“He’s afraid to be with her. Thinks she really could be Keiki’s killer.”
Chapter 37
It was a good thing Stan was at the wheel, because Steve’s remark would have sent me off the road with the convertible wrapped around a huge banyan tree.
“Laurel, are you there?” I could hear Steve yelling. My brain felt as frozen as the hand clutching my cell.
“Yeah, just a little shell-shocked,” I replied. “What does Dave want to do?”
“I’m going to pick him up as soon as the police finish processing his paperwork. He can spend the night at my place,” Steve said. “It’s not like Regan has been all that interested in springing him.”
Unfortunately, that was too true. Why couldn’t my sister-in-law put as much effort into her marriage as she did her job?
Steve continued. “Besides, Dave has some information he wants to share with you. Says his little sister can probably out-detect the cops on this island.”
Aw shucks, I thought, blushing at the compliment.
“I’ll be busy with our sunset sail tonight, but you and Dave can talk at my condo. Just try to keep it to yourself. He’s been worried about the stress and its impact on your mother.”
I agreed and hung up the phone. Now all I had to do was find an excuse why I needed to be alone with my brother tonight.
* * *
Getting time alone with Dave proved to be an easy task. Liz discovered the hotel offered free entertainment every Friday night. Hula addict Stan was delighted to watch the show with Brian and Liz. Mother, relieved that Dave was free, was exhausted from the strain of the last few days. She had no issue with her offspring spending some time together.
I grabbed the keys for Dave’s car and headed down the barren lava-rock-lined highway toward Kailua town. I realized this was the first time I’d been by myself in eight days. I love my mother and my friends, but it was nice to have a few minutes of down time to reflect on the week’s events.
I glanced out the car window at the proclamations of love spelled out on the Hawaiian version of graffiti––white coral set on black lava rocks. Did local couples replace the stones when they replaced their lovers? When my husband replaced me three years ago, I was a total wreck. I had no self-confidence or self-esteem. But I’d bounced back. My banking career had taken off and I’d even begun dating.
Okay, the dating thing hadn’t gone all that well. And my self-image still needed a little work. But I felt good about myself finally, and what I had to offer someone in a future relationship. Keeping a marriage alive seemed to be difficult for everyone, my brother included. It’s one thing to suspect your husband or wife is having an affair.
It’s quite another to suspect your spouse is a killer.
I arrived at Steve’s condominium just before sunset. He lived in an older project, but based on the number he supplied, his unit was only steps from the ocean. The elevator creaked its way to the fourth floor. I turned to the left and strolled down the concrete walkway until I reached Steve’s unit.
Dave must have heard my sandals click-clacking because he swung the door open before I had time to knock. His eyes looked bleary and were almost redder than his beard. He held a bottle of beer in one hand while he hugged me with the other.
I noted a typical framed welcome on the wall requesting that all shoes be removed. That was fine with me. My bunion s could use a break from their leather prison.
“Thanks for coming,” Dave said. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m driving so I’d better not have any alcohol. How about a soda?”
Dave grabbed a can of cola out of the refrigerator. I peeked inside, curious to know what a bachelor’s refrigerator looked like. Steve had it stocked with fruits, veggies, yogurt, beer and soda. No wonder the ship captain was in such great shape.
I followed Dave out onto the lanai where we caught the last flickers of the setting sun. As the ball of fire plummeted into the watery depths, I thought I saw a lime-colored burst of light on the horizon.
“Wow, is that a green flash?”
“Yeah, as long as there aren’t any low clouds on the horizon, you can see them frequently. Whenever I have the time to actually watch a sunset, I think how amazing it is that I live in paradise.” Dave picked up his long-necked bottle, guzzled half of it then wiped his lips with his fist. “Although lately it’s more like Paradise Lost.”
I sat in a beige cushioned chair, and Dave flopped down in a matching chair on the other side of the glass-topped table.
“So what’s going on?” I sipped on my soda then placed the can on the table.
Dave described his night in the cellblock. Only one other guy had landed in there, and they’d placed him in another cell, so Dave hadn’t been saddled with a cellmate. He knew he wasn’t guilty, so even before his attorney showed up, he’d waived his rights and answered the detectives’ questions as best he could. It turned out he was able to provide them with new information regarding some of Keiki’s recent activities.
“What kind of activities?” I asked. “And why didn’t you tell me, or the police, sooner?”
“Remember, when the detectives originally interviewed me, I was traumatized that Keiki died due to what I thought was my negligence. Then when they arrested Regan for murder, all I could think about was getting my wife out of jail.”
“And hours after Regan was released yesterday, you were arrested.”
Dave took another slug of beer. “Those metal cots in the cellblock are perfect. Not for sleeping, but for pondering what you did wrong. Or in my case, wondering what information I might possess about the killer.”
I waited for Dave to share at his own pace, although I had to restrain myself from kicking his ankle to hurry up.
“I was seeing Keiki,” he said.
Damn, I said to myself, as I knocked my soda all over the table. Dave rushed inside and brought out a wet sponge and a few paper towels.
“You’re just as clumsy as you were thirty-plus years ago.” He shook his head as he wiped up my sticky mess.
Just as he’d cleaned up after me three decades earlier. The French would say, «Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.» This American would say, “Once a klutz, always a klutz.”
“Remind me to remove any liquids the next time I reveal something important,” he said. I started to respond, but he shushed me. “And I need to be more specific. I did meet with Keiki twice outside the restaurant, but I was not––let me repeat–– not having sex with that woman.”
Gee, where had I heard that phrase before?
But my brother continued to look directly at me. No flinching. No twitching. He had nothing to gain and far more to lose if he lied to me or to the police.
“You heard Keiki used to date a guy her own age named Joey?” he asked. When I nodded, he continued. “She told me she started seeing someone else, a man with more wealth and sophistication than her former boyfriend.”
“Do you know who she started dating?” Finally, a clue to the guy’s identity.
Dave shook his head. “Nope, she didn’t share his name and I really didn’t care.”
I sighed. Typical man. No nose for news or for gossip.
“What she did share,” he said, “was that Joey took it real hard when she dumped him. I guess he told a few friends he was devastated enough to kill himself. Then he had that fatal accident at Koffee Land.”
“Several people think he jumped off that zip-line tower on purpose. That it wasn’t an accident.” I said. “I saw it today. It’s pretty high.”
“It could have been suicide or an accident. But Keiki thought it was something else.” Dave sipped his beer and stared out at the horizon.
“What else could it have been other than suicide or an accident? That only leaves––” Dave’s eyes locked on mine as I realized what the third alternative might be.
Chapter 38
“Murder? Keiki thought someone murdered Joey?” My head was spinning and I hadn’t even touched a drop of alcohol. “Why? And who?”
He shrugged. “Why and who are both big questions now that she’s dead. Joey called Keiki the night before he fell off the tower. Said he wanted her advice on something. At first, she thought he might be looking for a way to get back together, but he convinced her he was worried about something going on at Koffee Land.”
“Did they have a chance to talk?” I asked.
“No. Joey died before they got together. She originally thought his death was a tragic accident like everyone else. Then a couple of people like his brother, Timmy, claimed Joey killed himself because of her. After Joey’s phone call, she knew he wouldn’t have committed suicide before they talked.”
“Did she tell the police about her concerns?”
“No, she was still thinking it through, trying to figure it all out. She never mentioned any names, but she said it could have a huge impact on someone important to her. After sleeping on it last night, or rather not sleeping on it, I mentioned our conversation to the police. It turns out Joey’s accident is still an open case. Anytime someone dies in an unexplained incident, the police keep the file open until it’s resolved to their satisfaction.”
“So we could be looking at a double murder,” I clarified.
“We?” He lifted an eyebrow at me.
“Hey, you’re the one who invited me over. By the way, what is the deal with you and Regan? Why are you spending the night here at Steve’s?”
“I honestly don’t know what’s going on with my wife. Three years ago, when we first put together plans for the restaurant, it was such an exciting adventure. It was risky putting all of our assets into a business with a ninety-percent failure rate, but Regan couldn’t have been more supportive. And the restaurant did well. Not enough income for the two of us to live on, but not bad for a new venture. She enjoys her profession and never complained about working to keep us afloat.”
“When did Regan start working at Koffee Land?”
“Their controller quit about six months ago. Walea told Regan about the opening after Victor mentioned it to his family. He said they were having a tough time recruiting someone. CPA’s don’t exactly grow on palm trees on this island. And it was a lot more money than she was making at her old accounting job.”
“Regan seems devoted to her boss and her job.”
“Yes, she is.” He rubbed his reddish beard that seemed to have acquired some new white hairs in the past few days. “Shortly after she started working there, she began putting in long hours. I couldn’t figure out if it was all work or if some play had crept into the equation. Have you met Ritz? He’s very smooth, very––”
“Very Cary Grant,” I acknowledged, “but just because she works for a handsome boss doesn’t mean Regan is having an affair with him.”
“I know, but in the last few months we’ve drifted apart. I was afraid to question her because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know if something was going on between her and Ritz. When Keiki approached me about her problem, it felt good to be needed by someone.”
“Especially someone as gorgeous as Keiki.”
Dave lifted his arms, palms out, and threw me a sheepish grin. “Hey, middle-aged guys need an ego boost every now and then, especially when their forehead is expanding an inch a day. And I have to admit, I was fairly certain Regan and I were headed down the highway to divorce court.”
I felt like whacking him on his ever-increasing forehead. Middle-aged men can be such putzes around beautiful young women. “Okay, so Keiki came to you regarding something going on at Koffee Land. Why wouldn’t she share the name of the person she was troubled about? Was she worried about their reputation? Or concerned that revealing the problem could result in some backlash to her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be something involving her family. Or maybe she was working up the nerve to disclose something about my wife and Ritz.”
“I wonder why she thought Joey could have been murdered.” I nibbled on my lower lip. “He must have seen something while he was working on the zip-line.”
Dave nodded. “So the killer could be anyone. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it could even be my wife.”
Whether it was the breeze shifting from the north, or Dave’s comment, I suddenly shivered.
“Do you think Steve owns a light jacket I could wear?”
“Sure. He won’t mind if you help yourself.”
I opened the slider that led from the lanai into the master bedroom. It felt weird being alone in Steve’s room, which was exceptionally tidy. A dark forest-green quilt and oversized pillows covered his king-size bed. His three-drawer bureau was a beautiful piece of furniture, made out of teak wood and carved in an intricate pattern. Beautiful though it looked, the last place my fingers should be walking was through Steve’s drawers. I needed the answer to some serious questions, and they did not include whether the Sea Jinx captain wore boxers or briefs.
I pushed the mirrored door aside, hoping I could reach in and grab a windbreaker or sweater from his closet. The door jammed, leaving only a four-inch opening, not sufficient for me to reach inside the closet. I glanced down and noticed a piece of paper stuck between the door and the runner.
I reached for the paper, but it refused to budge. I yanked one more time and discovered the paper was actually a small photo. I brought the photo up to my face. Huh!
Why was Keiki smiling at me and what was she doing in Steve’s closet?
Chapter 39
I raced back to the lanai.
“You didn’t find anything to wear?” Dave asked.
The goose bumps on my arms seemed to be increasing exponentially. I threw the photo at my brother.
“What are you––?” Dave stopped mid-sentence as he grasped the photo. “Where did you find this picture of Keiki?”
“On the floor of Steve’s closet.”
Dave stared at it for a full minute before responding. “Gosh she was lovely. But why would Steve have a photo of her?”
“I have no idea. Could Steve be the older man she was seeing?”
Dave flipped the photo back and forth in his hand as he gazed out at the ocean. “Man, I never saw that one coming. I know Steve dated someone a while ago, but he said he broke up with her.” Dave’s eyes met mine. “I had the impression he was becoming interested in you.”
I rested my chin on my palms. “I kind of thought so myself. Especially after that last boat ride.”
And especially after that burning kiss.
I sure do know how to pick them.
“Hey, just because we found Keiki’s photo here doesn’t prove anything. It could be work related,” Dave said. “You know, for promotional reasons. She performed on his boat occasionally.”
“True.” Then I remembered a conversation from earlier today. “Amanda from the Sea Jinx said she saw Steve and Keiki together away from the boat on several occasions. Although she said the meetings took place awhile ago.”
Dave and I stared at each other.
“Do you still want to spend the night with Steve?” I asked.
Dave slumped in his chair. “I don’t know where to turn right now. I’m too exhausted to spend another night arguing with Regan, and now I’m not sure about staying here.”
“Why don’t you come back to my hotel? I’m sure Stan would let you bunk with him.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“C’mon, the worst that can happen is Stan will talk your ear off all night.”
“Or lend me his clothes.” Dave snickered as he stood and followed me back inside the condominium unit.
I was relieved Dave retained his sense of humor. I couldn’t imagine the stress he’d been under since the discovery of Keiki’s body less than six days ago. Dave gathered his things while I loaded our dirty dishes in Steve’s dishwasher.
Even suspects deserve to come home to a tidy kitchen.
We stepped into the elevator, which chugged down the three floors to the lobby. I could have made better time walking down the stairs. And if we’d taken the stairwell, we also wouldn’t have been so surprised when we reached the ground floor.
The doors opened with a clang, followed by an “oh shit” from my brother.
Steve looked as surprised as I felt. “Where are you two going? Dave, aren’t you spending the night?”
Dave froze in place, eyes wide. Lips silent.
Great. He picked a heck of a time to relinquish his big brother “I’m in charge” status to his baby sister.
“My mother was anxious to see Dave,” I explained. “She’s been beside herself with worry so we’re going back to the hotel.”
Steve looked surprised. “Did you get a room there?”
“No, I’ll stay with Stan,” said Dave.
That comment made Steve’s blond eyebrows merge into a bushy question mark. “Okay, buddy, whatever you want. It’s too bad ‘cause I invited some friends over for a poker game. I thought it might lift your spirits to hang with us. But I’m sure you’ll have an interesting time hanging with, um, Stan.”
“Maybe next time,” Dave replied. “This week has been pretty tough on Mom.”
“Sure, I get it. Hey, Laurel, can I have a word with you?”
Dave and I exchanged looks, but he waited while Steve and I walked out to the open-air lobby.
“I’m worried about your brother,” Steve said. “He told me about some of the stuff he shared with the cops. I hope the information won’t put him in any danger.”
So did I. Especially danger from the friend he’d shared the information with.
“I don’t know who Keiki’s murderer is, but they aren’t getting near my brother.”
Steve put his arm around my shoulder and drew me close. I swear I am the worst detective in the world. Here I was ready to put the guy in jail and throw away the key, and he still made me tingle.
I drew away from Steve. He looked perplexed but let me go. “So how will you keep Dave occupied for the next couple of days?” he asked.
I nibbled on my lower lip. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Liz arranged an ATV tour of Waipi’o Valley tomorrow morning so we’ll try to include Dave.”
“That should be a great trip. I wish I could join you, but we have a morning snorkel sail.”
Steve’s comments and actions seemed so normal I decided my suspect meter must be broken. There was no way such a nice guy could kill anyone.
Dave called out. “Hey, Laurel, let’s get going.”
I said goodbye to Steve and joined my brother. As Dave and I walked to the parking lot, I looked back. Steve was talking on his cell, frowning, as the doors of the elevator closed.
Dave took over the driving detail, which was fine with me. I realized that I’d been up since five this morning. Dave must be equally exhausted since he’d only slept a few hours in his cell. I replayed my conversation with his friend in my head.
“I can’t imagine Steve as our killer.” Dave echoed my thoughts.
“Me either.” At least, I preferred that someone who kissed me was not a killer.
“You know if the cops don’t come up with any other suspects, they can arrest me again.”
“What kind of evidence do they have?”
Dave shot a glance at me then returned to stare at the dark and almost empty road ahead.
“In my opinion, a lot of the evidence is circumstantial,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “How about your lawyer’s opinion?”
“I guess it depends if the Prosecuting Attorney thinks she has a sufficient case against me.”
“So share. What do they have?”
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Well, like I said, some people––I don’t know who––saw me in town with Keiki those couple of times. It’s not like we were trying to hide our meetings.”
“They must have more than that.”
“There is. An opened bottle of beer with my fingerprints was sitting on the rock wall, but it probably got missed when we cleaned up. The police also ran tests on those pieces of broken glass they found on the lava rocks below the restaurant. They got the results back and it showed something.
I gasped. “Like drugs?”
“A type of drug, I guess. They tested it, and it turned out to be Ambien.”
“The sleeping medication? Do any of your bartenders or servers use it?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea if any of my employees use it. Unfortunately, I do.”
My head swirled with Dave’s new revelation. “So Keiki was poisoned?”
“They weren’t originally sure if her death was an accident, suicide or murder. But the toxicology results showed that Keiki had Ambien in her system. Enough to put a dance troupe to sleep.”
“Lots of people take Ambien. That’s very circumstantial evidence.” I loved the sound of that word “circumstantial” rolling over my tongue. Made me feel like I almost knew what I was doing.
“I think that’s one reason they didn’t feel they had enough hard evidence to charge me with murder––yet. Although Detective Lee stated that Walea pointed an incriminating finger at me. She claimed Keiki had a rendezvous arranged with her boss.”
“You didn’t meet Keiki, did you?”
He shook his head. “No. But when I arrived home after the reception, Regan and I got into it once again. She accused me of sleeping with Keiki, and I denied it. Then she stormed into the bedroom, slammed the door and went to bed, I guess. I watched TV awhile then went for a walk. Thought the night air might clear my head.”
“Heck of a time for a stroll,” I muttered, shaking my head at my alibi-less brother. On the other hand, his eyelids remained twitch-free. It appeared he was telling the truth.
“Hey, it’s Kailua, for Pete’s sake. This is as safe a town you can live in as anywhere.”
Unless you’re a hula dancer caught up in some nefarious activity.
“I guess if you were gone, Regan could have met Keiki at the restaurant and slipped Ambien into something she ate or drank.” I glanced out the window at the passing scenery wondering if I should ask Dave the question that kept nagging at me. “Do you honestly think your wife could be the killer?”
“I don’t know what to think. Ever since Ritz wangled this deal with The Bride and the Bachelor show, Regan’s been wound tighter than a championship yo-yo.”
“Was she stressed enough to fight with Keiki over you?”
“My wife can accomplish anything she sets her mind to,” he replied. “Even murder.”
Chapter 40
Saturday morning arrived far too early. I stumbled into the bathroom and stared at my bleary eyes. Once I returned home to Placerville, I would need another vacation to recover from this one. It seemed wrong to go on the ATV outing when we should be detecting, but it was the excursion I’d most looked forward to since we’d first planned this trip. Plus I felt my brother could use a break after his horrendous week.
The island brochures described the Waipi’o Valley as beautiful, serene, and a sacred area in the Hawaiian culture. With vistas 2,000 feet above the valley floor, twin waterfalls and a black sand beach, it was a guaranteed once-in-a-lifetime experience. Unfortunately, the only way to experience the beauty was to drive a four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle, or ride a four-heeled all- terrain horse.
The guys chose the gas guzzler, of course.
I yawned and followed the scent of coffee brewing in the miniature coffeemaker. I poured a cup then joined my mother on the lanai. She put down her magazine and stared at me. My hair was so wild and frizzy I was surprised the tiny yellow songbirds that greeted us each morning hadn’t moved in and turned my head into a vacation nest.
“You look like crap,” she commented, but in her usual elegant manner.
“Mahalo, Mother.”
“Honey, maybe you should stay behind and rest. We’re only here until tomorrow. Don’t you want some time relaxing on the beach?”
“I’d like to spend a month lying on a chaise lounge with a daiquiri by my side, but that’s not going to happen either.”
“Did you and Dave come up with any brilliant deductions last night?” Mother asked.
I dumped a packet of sugar in my cup, sipped some coffee then opened one more packet. “Nothing other than the realization he can’t trust anyone outside of our family.”
“I hate to fly home and leave him all alone to fend for himself,” she said. “Even though he was released, he’s on the front page of the morning newspaper. The police stated the case is still an open investigation. Do you think that means they could arrest him again?”
“According to Dave, yes, they could.” I stared at the distant ocean view. “How would you feel about extending our stay a few days?”
“I was going to suggest it myself. Why don’t I skip the ATV ride and stay behind to change our reservations? Will your children mind if we’re here a few more days? What about the bank?”
“The kids will be fine. They dote on their grandfather and he’s probably spoiling them to death. And work won’t be an issue.”After saving the president of Hangtown Bank’s reputation last year, I had a feeling he could spare me for a few extra days.
Although I’d worried about taking the ATV excursion when we should be investigating, Dave was thrilled to take the tour. Especially after he stopped at the restaurant and discovered reporters hoping to get an interview with a recently released murder suspect. We all agreed the break would be good for him.
Winding our way through Waimea cowboy country, we passed cattle farms and horse ranches set against the backdrop of snow-topped Mauna Kea. If I squinted, I could even see the world’s largest astronomical observatory perched atop the 13,796-foot summit.
The rolling hills at this high elevation reminded me of the California gold country, except this tropical terrain received far more rain, leaving the hills greener than the finest emeralds. On my next trip to Hawaii, I was packing my cowboy hat and boots for a little Paniolo riding on the range.
I only hoped that any return trips to this beautiful island would involve a relaxing vacation and not a visit to my brother in prison.
At the ATV tour center, our small group along with some other patrons mounted our red four-wheelers. Les, our friendly guide, demonstrated the use of the hand brakes and throttle, which seemed easy enough. We lined up in a straight formation, behind our leader. Although I’d never driven an ATV before, the instructions appeared fairly simple. I’d recently piloted a snowmobile. How hard could it be?
I strapped on my helmet, grabbed the handlebars and got ready for the ride of a lifetime.
Chapter 41
My first thought: I’m going to die!
My second thought: I’m going to die without ever having sex again.
That realization woke me from the fog of sheer terror that engulfed me when I realized my ATV was only a few feet away from crunching into a massive eucalyptus tree. I swerved to squeeze in between two gigantic trees, and my back tire nipped a palm on the right.
Thud! The tree I’d whacked attempted to return the favor by clobbering me with one of its coconut projectiles. It missed by a couple of inches. How did I get this far behind the rest of the group? And why weren’t they looking for their missing friend?
I weaved my vehicle between a few more trees and finally reached a grassy meadow and scenic viewpoint where the rest of the tour group waited.
“What happened to you?” Liz asked, as I rolled to a stop next to her.
“Me?” I said. “Which way did you guys go?”
Stan pointed to a wide trail rutted with tire marks.
Oh, so that was the trail.
“I took an alternate route,” I responded.
The tour guide snorted and Liz rolled her eyes.
“You’re supposed to stay with the group,” Liz said. “We weren’t sure what happened to you until we heard you playing bumper cars with the trees.”
Everyone’s a critic.
The guide motioned for our group to follow him. I attempted to do a U-turn and discovered ATV’s aren’t that maneuverable. By the time I circled back, I was stuck at the end of the line again with a bunch of strangers. This time I would remain close to the group. The last thing I wanted was to find myself alone on one of the many trails leading in and out of this immense valley.
The clouds that had threatened to drench us all morning finally let loose. The patter of rain sounded like elves tap-dancing on my helmet. My eyelashes were working overtime blinking away droplets of water. I wondered if anyone had thought of installing windshield wipers on the helmets.
The trail seemed mushier by the minute. Tiny puddles rapidly turned into small streams. I knew that the all-terrain vehicles would not have any difficulty maneuvering in the mud. I, on the other hand, was not an all-terrain woman. I gripped the handlebars as if my life depended on it. Ahead of me, the riders reduced their speed to a crawl. A misty fog hovered over us as we reached the higher elevation of the rim overlook. The next time I visited the Waipi’o Valley I was bringing my yellow slicker and carrying a thermos of hot chocolate in my backpack.
I pulled alongside the other riders. Stan lifted his visor and shook his head in bemusement. “Looking a little raggedy, darling. You do know the visor goes down to cover your face.”
I knew it now.
“I bet this ride is beautiful when it’s not raining.” I peered into the mist and pointed to the left. “Is that the waterfall over there?”
Stan squinted. “I think so. What a shame about the weather. We’ll have to come back another time.”
Yesirree. We’d have to do that for sure. I parked the ATV and wandered over to listen to Les. He pointed to a few distant landmarks, including the waterfall and the black sand beach far below, but the falling rain made it difficult to see them clearly. On a normal day, we would ride down to a small pool where the group could frolic and swim. Since the weather wasn’t in a frolicsome mood today, everyone agreed with his decision to return to the center.
We loaded up in single-file formation. I ended up in the rear again with a rider behind me who was smart enough to bring raingear. It was comforting to have someone following me. I wouldn’t have to worry about being stuck by myself if something happened to me or my machine.
The sooner this expedition ended, the happier I’d be. We might even arrive back at our resort in time to get in some last minute beach time. I visualized the perfect afternoon––lying on a lounge next to the ocean with my Kindle in one hand and a daiquiri in the other. And since it was a daydream, I visualized a hunky guy next to me––a guy with… with…I was so deep in thought trying to decide if my dream date was a blond, blue-eyed sea captain or a police detective with Godiva-brown eyes, that I didn’t notice the ATV on my preoccupied tail.
Wham! My tush lifted in the air from the jolt of a machine ramming my vehicle. With a drop of over a thousand feet on my right, this was no place for an overly anxious driver. The trail was so slick, I was afraid to speed up to try to get away. I also didn’t want to risk any backward glances checking on the rider behind me. Maybe he would realize his mistake and drop back.
Bam. The vehicle slammed into my back right tire. The jolt sent me flying off my ATV. I landed on the slick grass and began sliding. Down, down, down.
Right over the rim.
Chapter 42
The beauty of the flora and fauna in Hawaii never ceases to amaze me. Another wonderful attribute is the hardiness of the foliage. As I tumbled down the side of the mountain, my flailing arms managed to latch on to a thick green vine. I sucked in huge gasps of air while I clung with both hands to the remarkably sturdy plant.
I breathed deeply, trying to calm my stomach, which had catapulted up to my throat the moment I was airborne.
I had no idea if the rider who crashed into me was still in the area. Did he do it on purpose? Talk about road rage. And where did my own machine run off to? Had it crashed into a tree or even worse––another rider?
I yelled and screamed to no avail. The group was probably miles away by now. Would anyone realize I was missing before it was too late? Did Les keep track of the riders? Tears rolled down my muddy cheeks as I realized I was hanging from a cliff.
Alone and on my own.
Where was a blue-eyed or a brown-eyed hunk when I needed one? Although at this point, I would take a cross-eyed, cross-dressing hunchback if he could haul me back up the mountain.
Get a grip, Laurel. Or, at least, maintain the one you have. Thank goodness for my broken corkscrew back home. If it wasn’t for my weekly fight with the wine cork, the biceps in my right arm would never have been strong enough to hold on until help arrived.
If it ever arrived. I shifted so I could look around to get my bearings, but the movement caused my left knee to scrape against some jagged rocks. The vine I clung to dropped a few more inches. A couple of stones bounced down the hill, pummeling my arms and legs.
The stalk of the plant drooped lower and lower and so did I. My tenuous grip was loosening, and I had no idea if the plant could continue to support my weight.
If I’d only skipped that second macadamia nut muffin at breakfast.
My head ached as if someone was repeatedly punching my helmet. The pounding increased as rumbling sounded above. Was my attacker returning to finish the job? Then the ground above me started to shake.
This had better not be an earthquake. I was in no mood for a natural disaster. I was enough of a walking, talking disaster without any help from unseen geologic forces.
A line of bright headlights beamed above, almost blinding me.
“Yoo hoo, Laurel,” shouted Liz. “Hang on, luv. We’re here for you.”
“Don’t let go,” Stan yelled.
Like I would?
I cautiously lifted my head and spotted our tour guide anchoring a rope around a large boulder near the rim overlook. I hoped it was strong enough to support both our weights. The rubber soles of his shoes bounced off the cliff face as he worked his way down to where I clung to my sagging lifeline. In no time at all, Les was by my side and tying another rope around my waist. I walked, crawled and occasionally slipped back a few feet as I climbed uphill. With the entire group working together to hoist me up, I eventually made it to the top.
Once I reached the overlook, I could have kissed the ground, but I’d had enough close and personal contact with the muddy soil. I decided to kiss Dave, Stan, Liz, Brian, and the tour guide instead.
“How did you fall over the rim?” Liz asked. She wrapped her arm around my bruised and aching body, giving me a gentle squeeze.
“I was rammed from behind.” The minute I uttered those words, everyone stopped talking.
Les whirled around, his dark eyes startled. “What?”
My eyes scanned the group of people gathered around me. “Someone rammed me. He wore a helmet so I have no idea what he looks like.”
“Would you recognize the driver’s clothes?” Stan asked, morphing into Hawaii Five-O mode.
“He was wearing raingear.” I scrutinized the other riders more carefully, none of whom was dressed in any type of protective clothing. Could my assailant have stripped off his raingear and be hiding in plain sight? That was a disquieting thought. I rubbed my palms over my cheeks then looked at them. My hands were raw, covered with mud and something that resembled the color my hair stylist used on my roots.
“Oh, luv, your hands and face are bloody well messed up,” Liz said. “And I left my Aloe Vera packets in the hotel. They’re so soothing in moments like this.”
“Yes, there’s nothing like some soothing Aloe Vera lotion to erase the memory of FALLING OVER A CLIFF!”
“Are you up to driving yourself back on your ATV?” Les asked. “If not, you can sit behind me.”
The weight of making a decision about how to drive back to the ATV center suddenly seemed like the weight of the world, and I dropped to the ground. Dave immediately flopped down next to me. He put his arm around me and reminded me of all the numerous incidents in the past when I’d managed to return home after falling off my bicycle, out of a wagon, off my skateboard, and off the roof of the doghouse.
Yes, I was pretending to be Snoopy. Doesn’t every five-year-old?
By the time he’d finished regaling me and the other riders with some of my childhood antics, Dave had me laughing so hard over previous incidents in my checkered youth that my ribs ached even more than before. Once again, just as he’d done many decades ago, my big brother came through for me.
Dave offered to have me ride behind him, and even though it was a tight fit for us siblings, I smiled in agreement.
Like they say, blood is thicker than water, and I had the blood dripping down my face to prove it!
Chapter 43
By the time we reached the tour office, I felt beat-up and beat. I practically fell out of the ATV, but Les, our guide, was by my side in seconds, prepared to escort me into the building. My friends and brother were right behind me. The minute the woman in the center laid sympathetic eyes on me, she reached under the counter and pulled out a full-size first-aid kit.
“Gal, you look like you been run over by an ATV. Did that machine give you some trouble?”
I nodded, which made my head feel like it was stuck between two cymbals performing a rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
“She had a run-in with a cliff,” Stan said. “I think the cliff won.”
“Well, you come with Naomi and I’ll get you all fixed up like new.”
Naomi led me into the backroom where she proceeded to smother my assorted body parts with fragrant oils. An assortment of BandAids soon dotted my arms and legs. Liz had followed us in and the two women compared notes on their favorite healing lotions and potions. My friend assured me that Naomi’s kukui oil combined with Liz’s special Aloe Vera salve would turn me into a new woman. No one would ever know I’d experienced a literal cliff-hanger.
On the car ride back to the hotel, I struggled to remain awake. Worried that I’d suffered a concussion, Dave insisted on nudging me every time my chin dropped to chest level. We finally stopped at a Starbucks in Waimea. Dave decided if a double shot of espresso and one of their dark chocolate bars wasn’t sufficient to keep me from dozing, then we would need to find an urgent care facility.
For years, Dave had claimed I needed to have my head examined.
The gasps from a few customers when I entered the store, warned me I must look like a complete disaster. There had been no mirrors in the ATV center so I almost suffered a heart attack when I entered the ladies’ room and saw my image reflected over the sink. I looked like a cast member of Survivor.
And not one from the winning team.
After five minutes in the bathroom, I realized nothing outside of laser surgery or black magic would improve my appearance. I joined the gang seated at a table in the corner. Brian must have gone outside to make a call because he walked back in, stuffing his cell in his Bermuda shorts pocket.
“How do you feel, luv?” asked Liz.
“Like a convoy of ATVs ran over my body.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Brian said. “Did you see how far down that drop was into the valley?”
Yes, indeed. I’d definitely noticed the two-thousand-foot drop into the valley below me. My hands trembled as I gripped my drink. Dark brown drops of hot espresso dotted the table.
Stan grabbed a napkin and cleaned up my mess. “So tell us why you think you were intentionally knocked off your ATV?”
I sipped the dark brew and let the coffee work its comforting warmth into my stomach before I replied.
“The driver rammed me twice. The first time I managed to hold on to the ATV, but just barely. I figured he was simply a tailgater and hit me accidentally. The next impact was more forceful. It had to be intentional.”
“Do you think it was a case of road rage?” Liz tapped her stir stick on the table while she contemplated the possibilities. “Even if no one in the group admitted to it?”
I shook my head. “I suppose there are crazy drivers anywhere, but it felt like such a personal attack. I’ve mulled it over, and now I’m wondering if it had something to do with Keiki’s murder. Maybe someone wanted me out of the way.”
“They almost succeeded,” Liz said dolefully.
“Who knew you were going to be on the ride this morning?” Brian asked.
Dave and I exchanged glances. At least one person knew about our excursion. But he should have been out riding the waves this morning. Not riding on an ATV.
Chapter 44
Regan called Dave while we were en-route to the hotel. With the reality crew arriving at Koffee Land the next day to begin filming, Regan claimed that Pilar insisted she stay onsite overnight to assist them with any issues that might come up. Victor would be unavailable due to Keiki’s memorial service the next day.
A range of emotions crossed Dave’s face as they conversed. Anger that his wife was placing her career over her husband once again, seemed to be followed by relief that he didn’t have to worry about said wife sleeping next to him that evening. At least one thing was certain. Regan wasn’t anywhere near Waipi’o today.
We dropped Dave at his home so he could clean up. Since Brian had to be in court Monday morning, this was the newlyweds’ last night on the island. Brian and Liz wanted to run errands and pick up souvenirs to take home. Her eyes twinkling, Liz declared she had a special surprise in store for me. Knowing my best friend’s quest to discover the next anti-aging miracle cream, she probably planned on emolliating me with some slick new spa item she’d discovered on the island. With my arms throbbing from my cliff-side descent, I welcomed anything that would soothe my aching limbs.
Dave agreed to drive over to the hotel and dine with Mother, Stan and me later this evening. My watch showed three o’clock, and, concussion or not, I needed a nap. Maybe I could find a hammock near the beach. Once my mother saw my condition, I sincerely doubted she would let me rest without a lengthy grilling.
Fortunately, Mother was out when I entered our room. I flopped on the bed, a huge mistake, since the firm mattress was not designed to soothe a battered body. The walk into our marble bathroom entailed only five additional steps, but my limbs were so stiff and sore it felt like five miles. A hot toddy and a hot bath sounded wonderful.
And a hot Tommy to hug me and kiss my many boo boos sounded even better.
I shook my bedraggled curls. It was a good thing the detective wasn’t on the island. There was no way I wanted Tom to see me in my current condition. Most women would worry their boyfriend wouldn’t be interested in a body as bruised and battered as mine. My detective, on the other hand, would shift into investigative mode. The last thing I needed was another lecture.
The bath proved the perfect cure. My aches disappeared beneath the hot water and jasmine-scented bubble bath provided by the hotel. The bubbles not only soothed my physical aches and pains, they cleared the fog from my brain.
Did the driver of the ATV intend to kill me or just delay me from investigating any further? As far as anyone knew, I was supposed to fly home the next day. Did I possess some critical knowledge pertaining to the murders? Even if I still hadn’t figured out what it was yet?
Much as I hated to admit it, the most likely suspect had to be Steve. I sank deeper into the bath, my sigh so robust a bevy of bubbles floated out of the tub. The ship captain had employed Keiki on several occasions. I found that photo of the dancer in his bedroom. Although he hadn’t come right out and said he was interested in her, he admitted he’d found Keiki enticing. It would have been easy for Steve to frame Regan, or his best friend, Dave. Plus he’d invited me on board the Sea Jinx the night I almost drowned.
The final nail in the coffin I felt like shoving him into was that he knew I would be at Waipi’o Valley today.
I jumped out of the tub and grabbed one of the oversized fluffy white towels from the rack. The relaxing heat from the bath was nothing compared to the white-hot anger that surged through my body toward the person who’d tried to kill me.
I needed to stop him before he did any more harm to me. Or to anyone else.
Chapter 45
Imagine my astonishment when I arrived at the hotel restaurant to dine with my mother, Dave, Stan, and a surprise guest.
Steve. The man I’d recently voted most likely to be our killer.
As I slid into the vacant chair between Steve and Stan, I sent a “what the heck were you thinking” look across the table to my brother. He threw his palms up indicating he was as clueless as I was.
My mother provided the answer to the question in our eyes. “I ran into Steve in the lobby and invited him to dine with us. I knew you wouldn’t want to leave without spending some time together, Laurel.”
Steve casually placed his arm along the back of my chair. I shot him an accusing look. He either didn’t recognize an accusatory stare or he was an exceptional actor.
“Your mother’s timing was perfect,” Steve said. “I dropped by because I wanted to talk to both you and Dave.”
How convenient, since I also wanted to talk to him. “How was your snorkel expedition today?” I hoped my question would catch him off guard and he would reveal his true whereabouts this morning.
“We had a decent turnout,” he said. “We were a little short-handed, but I think everyone had a good time.” His knee touched mine ever so slightly. “Of course, it would have been more fun if you were on board serving drinks.”
Steve winked at me. “Wearing that attractive tablecloth.”
I blushed at his distracting compliment. Focus, Laurel. I twisted in my seat and stared at him, trying to ascertain if he was lying. “So you weren’t at Waipi’o Valley this morning?”
Steve looked at me as if I was suffering Alzheimer’s symptoms. “No, remember, I told you last night we had an early morning sail. Your mother mentioned you had a slight accident. Those ATV’s can be tricky when you’re a beginner.”
“They can be especially difficult if someone tries to kill you.”
“What?” Steve and my mother gasped simultaneously. I forgot that Dave and I decided to inform my mother I’d had a minor accident, not that someone had forced me to learn rock climbing in one not-so-easy lesson.
“The driver of one of the ATVs intentionally rammed me,” I apologized to my mother. “We didn’t want to upset you.”
“I don’t understand.” Her face turned whiter than the napkin resting on her lap. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone who knew we would be riding ATV’s in Waipi’o today,” Dave said. “That leaves one person we know of.” He leaned forward, his expression fierce as he glowered at his best friend. “We told Steve where we were going last night.”
Steve’s expression quickly changed from confusion to a mix of disbelief and anger. “You thought I had something to do with it? That I attacked Laurel on her ATV? Are you kidding me, pal?”
Steve rose from his chair and threw his napkin on the table as he glared in my direction. “And here I thought you were beginning to have feelings for me. I sure do know how to pick them.” He turned to my mother. “Barbara, thank you for your invitation, but I think it’s time for me to leave. Good night, all.”
Steve strode out of the restaurant and into the lobby without a backwards glance. Stan threw me a guilty look. “You might want to stop him. Don’t forget we told Keiki’s parents we were going on the ATV ride. I also told Tiffany. And a guy at the front desk I was kind of flirting with last night.”
Hmmm. Now that I thought about it, I’d also told Ritz about our trip, and he could have shared it with anyone. Geez. Was there anyone on the island who didn’t know our travel plans?
Dave shot out of his chair and zipped around the tables, chairs and servers to catch up with Steve. In the space of a week, Dave had lost an employee and possibly his wife. Now it looked like we’d chased away his best friend.
I followed in Dave’s wake. I felt horrible that we’d accused Steve of attacking me when all our evidence consisted of was my suspicious nature and the crumpled photo of Keiki I’d found in his closet.
I was an even worse detective than Inspector Clouseau.
I hustled as fast as I could, but every inch of my thighs and calves ached. I finally caught up to Dave and Steve arguing in the lobby. I shoved myself between the two men. “Hey, guys, stop right there.” Dave’s face was almost as red as his receding hair and beard. Steve was tight-lipped and cool, but he didn’t try to leave.
I ordered them to follow me to a grouping of chairs in the lobby. Dave collapsed into one of the soft cushioned seats while Steve remained upright and tense.
“Look, Steve, I can see why you’re upset.” I cringed as my bruised booty made contact with one of the smaller settees. “We thought there was a ton of evidence pointing in your direction.”
Steve lifted a brow. “Anything you could have shared with me before I vaulted to the top of your suspect list?”
“Look, man,” Dave said. “We found a photo of Keiki in your closet the other night.”
“Why were you going through my things?” Steve’s reply was cooler than a cup of Hawaiian shaved ice.
“Dave and I were sitting on your lanai talking,” I explained, trying to mend the rift I’d created between the two men. “The breeze from the ocean picked up, and I felt chilled, so he suggested I borrow a jacket from your closet. When the sliding door jammed on a piece of paper, I grabbed it and saw it was a photo of Keiki.”
“That’s your evidence? Good thing you aren’t applying for a job with the Hawaii police department,” Steve said. “Keiki asked me to take some photos of her a while ago. I use a professional camera for the cruise passengers’ pictures. She was submitting an application to be a contestant for that reality show they’re taping at Koffee Land.”
Dave chimed in with his own accusations. “We also told you about the ATV trip.”
Steve ran his hand through his unruly blond hair. “I mentioned to the gang at poker last night that your group was going up there. I’ve never taken the ATV ride and I was curious if anyone else had been on it. You didn’t say it was a secret.”
Dave and I exchanged glances.
“Who was at the poker game?” I asked.
“The usual suspects.” Steve smiled slightly. “I didn’t mean it that way. Or maybe I did. My crew was all there. Plus Rick, the guitar player, and a musician friend of his he brought along. That’s one of the reasons I wanted Dave to participate. I knew you were concerned about your sister falling off the boat, and I thought this would be a great opportunity to discover if my crew saw anything suspicious that night. Or if someone would admit to pushing Laurel, either intentionally or accidentally. Beer is an excellent accelerant in getting a confession.”
Dave shrugged. “That wasn’t a half-bad idea. I wish you’d told me about it in advance.”
Steve frowned. “You never gave me a chance. You insisted on returning to the hotel, remember.”
I sure did remember. Boy, I sucked at detective work.
“Did you learn anything from the guys?” I asked.
Steve nodded. “That’s why I drove down to the hotel to see you tonight. Timmy normally joins us for our Friday night game, but he didn’t show last night. I figured with everyone well lubricated, I could bring up your concerns about being pushed and maybe lure them into revealing something.”
“Did your plan work?” I asked.
“It was a very successful fishing expedition.”
Chapter 46
“What did you use as bait?” I asked.
Steve’s smile managed to be both sexy and sincere as he replied, “You.”
I leaned back into the cushions. “What?”
He winked at me. “I told the guys how much I enjoyed your company. That I was trying to woo you back on the boat again but after your last life-threatening experience, you refused. I think the guys really felt my pain.”
Hmmm. They should feel my pain!
“After a few beers Rick finally admitted he might have seen something.”
“Why didn’t he say anything before?” I asked.
“Rick had gone back up on the deck looking for his cell. He figured he must have left it behind when they were playing. The rain was coming down heavy and visibility was difficult, but he thought he saw you at the stern. Then less than a minute later when he located his phone, he looked up but only saw Timmy in the same area. He didn’t think about it again until we realized you were the one who’d gone overboard. When you showed up okay––” Steve stopped as I glared at him. “Well, not entirely okay, but at least you were alive. Rick figured there was no need to say anything more, especially since he didn’t see anything conclusive.”
“Did Rick question Timmy about it?” Dave asked.
Steve shook his head. “Rick and Timmy aren’t exactly buds. But he apologized to me for not mentioning anything earlier.”
“Remember that night on the boat when I first encountered Timmy below deck, I saw him shove some packages in a small locker and put a padlock on it. Is there any chance he’s selling drugs?”
Steve sighed and looked pained. “I didn’t want to believe it when you first mentioned it, but you may be on to something. Timmy not only didn’t show up for the poker game last night, he never showed up for the sail today. And he never called in. With Amanda off on that reality show gig, we ended up short-handed.”
I pondered how easy it would have been for Timmy to learn about our ATV ride from one of the crew. Very easy, it seemed. I was about to question Steve further when Stan interrupted us. “Regan’s on the phone for you, Dave. She said you weren’t answering your cell so she called your mother.”
Dave leaned over and shook hands with Steve before following Stan back to the restaurant.
I stood and smoothed my sundress, prepared to follow my brother.
“Please sit,” Steve said. “I have something to say.”
I plopped back on the loveseat half wishing I could hide beneath the overstuffed cushions. I was embarrassed we’d accused Steve of murder, although my theory seemed so plausible a few minutes earlier. Steve parked himself next to me, his muscular thigh pressed against mine. For a minute, we sat in silence. The lilting sound of Hawaiian music drifted up from the bar below. Steve leaned close. The tips of his fingers grazed my reddening cheeks as he tucked an errant curl behind my ear.
My eyes widened as I realized he was about to kiss me, and there was a strong possibility I would kiss him back.
The sound of someone clearing his throat behind us broke the spell. I shifted closer to the side of the small sofa, unsure if I was relieved at the interruption or not. What would Tom say if he could see me now?
Seconds later, I had the answer to that question.
Chapter 47
“Tom!” I squealed as I jumped up. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question.” The detective’s angry eyes darted back and forth between Steve and me.
I was so eager to greet Tom that I almost climbed over the loveseat, but I’d already fallen over a cliff today. I didn’t need to add to my collection of bruises by falling on top of Tom. I zipped around the sofa anxious to jump into his welcoming arms.
That’s when I noticed no arms were reaching out to welcome me. Instead, Tom stood rigid, his arms folded, right foot tapping, and eyes sparking with outrage.
Steve also stood, arms folded, left foot tapping. They resembled a set of matching angry bookends. I had a feeling neither Dear Abby nor her sister, Ann Landers, ever encountered a situation like this.
For some reason it’s either raining men or I’m in the midst of a three-year drought.
Fortunately, Stan arrived to save me.
“Tom, boy do we need you,” Stan said. “Your girlfriend almost went home in a body bag today.”
Trust Stan to find a way to stop everyone in the lobby.
His remark fortunately distracted Tom from the vision of me cuddled up next to the good-looking captain.
Within seconds, my toes dangled above the marble floor as Tom lifted me, enveloping me in his muscular arms. He smelled like a mixture of lime and musk, but with an exotic hint of plumeria added to the mix. Our lips fused together, and every ache and pain from the day’s misadventures disappeared.
Heat coursed through my body, and we probably would have stood melded together all night if a few spectators hadn’t started clapping. Tom gently set me down and I reluctantly untangled my arms from around his neck.
“Are congratulations in order?” yelled one woman, pointing at her left hand.
Tom’s face colored and he shook his head. Despite my state of euphoria from that sizzling kiss, I was disappointed at how quickly he’d responded in the negative.
I glanced in Steve’s direction. He leaned against a column, his expression quizzical. My own expression wasn’t any less questioning. I turned to Tom. “How did you get here?”
He flapped his arms. “I flew.”
Very funny. “No, what are you doing here?”
“The trial was delayed a week, and after talking to Brian yesterday, I decided to take a few days off. I thought you’d be pleased to see me. But…” Tom shot a look in Steve’s direction. “Perhaps I’m interrupting something?”
“No, Steve and I were just discussing the murder. He’s been very helpful.”
Tom’s eyebrows furred together. “I could see how accommodating he was trying to be.”
Steve smirked and inched so close that his lips almost touched my ear lobe. “We’re not done here,” he whispered. Then he kissed my cheek and sauntered out of the lobby.
Tom still looked annoyed so I tucked my arm through his. “Now that you’re here, what’s on your agenda?” I asked.
He smiled the smile that made his crow’s feet crinkle and my lady parts tingle.
“Knowing you, there will be plenty on my agenda.” He leaned closer. Instead of the kiss I anticipated, he yawned in my face. “Sorry.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight California time. It’s been a long week.”
“It’s been a long day for me, too.” I winced as he embraced me and drew me in tight.
You can’t get much past a homicide cop, even a weary jet-lagged detective. “How are you feeling? Brian and Liz told me about your accident when they picked me up from the airport.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” I bristled at his assumption that the person who rammed me had not done it on purpose. “That ATV driver intentionally tried to send me over the cliff.”
Tom ruffled my hair. “Hon, what are the odds someone knew you were taking the ATV tour, arranged to be on said tour, and managed to get you alone and knock you off the vehicle?”
Detectives are so darn logical. When he put it that way, I almost agreed with him. But every inch of my bruised body declared him to be wrong.
Although he did call me “hon.” That was one heck of a distraction.
Liz and Brian hurried toward us, both beaming like Cheshire cats on a catnip drip.
“How do you like our little surprise?” Liz wiggled her eyebrows. “Or, rather, our big surprise.”
I grinned back. “Tom is the perfect antidote for today’s incident.”
“We worried about you detecting on your own without us along to protect you,” Brian said. “So we lured Tom over here for a few days.”
My smile disappeared as I debated what they used for a lure. My sparkling personality? My penchant for getting into trouble?
Another dead body?
I glanced up at Tom and he quickly reassured me. “It didn’t take much to convince me. Plus I was about to lose some of my vacation time if I didn’t take it soon. After a good night’s rest, I’ll be ready for some sightseeing. And some relaxing beach time, of course.”
“It’s a beautiful island. And tomorrow there is something special on the agenda.”
He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Is it a quiet and romantic getaway? For just the two of us?”
I smiled. The two of us plus a few hundred mourners. What better place to discover the beauty of the island than Keiki’s memorial service?
Chapter 48
Despite becoming involved in a murder investigation, this trip had provided a wonderful opportunity to learn more about the Hawaiian culture. Not only are the indigenous islanders the most gracious people in their attitude toward their ohana, their own family as well as any extended family, but they also bid farewell to their loved ones in a unique manner. This morning Keiki’s family members and close friends would ride outrigger canoes out into Kailua Bay for a short ceremony. Then they would disperse her ashes into the ocean and pray for her spirit to depart in peace.
Although Victor and Kiana had invited us to their house for the memorial reception, we weren’t close enough to their family to participate in the seaside ceremony. Not to mention that two of my own family members were suspects in the murder of their daughter.
Talk about awkward.
Since I had a murder to solve and anyone could watch the service from shore, I planned to be one of the onlookers.
Our group assembled in the lobby to bid tearful goodbyes as the newlyweds headed to the airport. Brian almost looked relieved as the bellman carted off their luggage. Preparing for his murder trial the following week would probably seem like a vacation compared to spending his honeymoon with my family.
Dave and Regan each planned on stopping by Victor and Kiana’s house later in the day, along with the owners and staff of Koffee Land, who would take turns paying their respects to the family.
Tom and I wound up being the only ones watching the seaside ceremony from the shore. The sight of the six outrigger canoes arranged in a semi-circle beyond the reef was more moving than I’d anticipated. Even when someone is not personally acquainted with the deceased, there is nothing like the poignancy of a memorial service to make you reflect on your own life. Your achievements and what you hope to accomplish in the future. At this point in my life, my accomplishments comprised a very short list consisting of my two wonderful children. By the time I depart this earth, I hope that list will have grown exponentially.
My eyes teared up, and I swiped my fist at my cheek. Without a word, Tom reached into the pocket of his khaki slacks, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. I dabbed my eyes then gave it back to him. He eyed the mascara-dotted cloth and stuck it back in his pocket.
“You okay?” he asked, with a sensitivity I found surprising.
“Yeah.” Another sob almost erupted, so I took a couple of deep breaths before I replied. “This has been an emotional week. It’s not often two family members are arrested for murder. And even if the police discover the real killer, I’m fairly certain Dave and Regan are headed for divorce court.”
Tom put his arm around my shoulder. “Once the police wrap up the case, your brother and his wife may be able to save their marriage. Sometimes it just takes time to heal those rifts.”
I nibbled on my lip, curious if Tom would discuss his previous marriage. “You sound like an expert on that subject.”
“Even the happiest of couples have issues. Communication or lack thereof is the biggest source of marital breakups.” Now it was Tom’s turn to be pensive. My question probably brought back a ton of memories of his late wife who’d passed away a few years earlier.
I mentally kicked myself for bringing up this tragic subject, but Tom leaned in and kissed me on my surprised, but very receptive lips.
“Let’s make sure we keep those communication channels open at all times, okay?” His eyes were soft, his tone tender.
“Always. I’ll never keep anything from you.”
“Good. So I don’t have to worry about you getting into trouble trying to find a killer without me, right?”
Nope. With my detective by my side to protect me, I couldn’t possibly get into trouble.
Could I?
* * *
After the seaside burial, I drove the rental car through downtown Kailua pointing out various places of interest such as Hulihee Palace, the former vacation home to Hawaiian royalty. I decided to continue on Alii Drive rather than head immediately for the highway. I pulled into the lot at Daiquiri Dave’s and turned off the ignition.
“What are we doing here?” Tom asked.
“I thought if we stood in the exact spot where Keiki was murdered, you might get a better feel for the crime scene,” I said. “The Hawaii police would be lucky to get your input.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He eased his six-foot-three inches out of the sedan. “I doubt the local officials want my feedback, but let’s take a look.”
The door to the restaurant was locked which I’d already anticipated so I led Tom around the left side of the building to the public viewing area.
A middle-aged woman sat on the lone concrete bench overlooking the ocean. A shrill howl echoed from below. As we approached, the woman peeked over her shoulder and smiled.
“Terrific view isn’t it?”
I nodded and looked around for her pet. “I could have sworn I heard a dog.”
She laughed. “That’s Ruckus, my beagle. Aptly named, I might add. He’s easily bored so I let him loose.”
I peered over the edge and saw Ruckus barking his pea-sized vocal cords off. “Looks like he found some buried treasure.”
“Unfortunately Ruckus isn’t the most discerning treasure hunter around.” She leaned over the wall and whistled. “C’mon, boy, back here.”
Her beagle might be a little ADHD, but he knew to obey his mistress. His owner, Helen Morris, introduced herself as a retired history teacher who’d moved to the island six months earlier. In less than thirty seconds, Ruckus was running in circles around us. He dropped his clump of seaweed booty on the ground then sat quietly with his tail swishing, waiting for applause from his mutual admiration society.
A small item glinted among the seaweed. I leaned over to pick it up but met with resistance from Ruckus. Since I preferred to keep all my digits intact, I withdrew my hand. Helen had better luck. She tossed him a liver treat and reached for it herself.
I peeked over her shoulder as she plucked the item, iridescent in the bright morning sun, from its seaweed nest.
“It’s an earring. Pretty stuff,” I said.
“It’s abalone which is very popular in Hawaii. There are all types of variations, but most have a greenish or blue hue.” She squinted at the earring. “There’s something caught on the hook. I can’t tell what it is without my glasses.”
I put my hand out to grab it, but my professional cop beat me to it. He scrutinized the earring then looked up. When his eyes met mine, I felt as chilled as if a bucket of ice just dumped on me.
“It may look like leather,” he said, “but I think it could be a piece of skin.”
Helen and I leaned forward and gawked at the brilliant earring with the infinitesimal piece of skin attached to the wire.
“You don’t suppose––that earring belonged to Keiki?” I asked.
Tom shrugged. “It could belong to anyone who’s been in this area or even dined at the restaurant. Although it’s odd the skin is still attached.”
“Could Keiki have pulled it off her killer?”
“Killer?” Helen drew back and yelled for Ruckus to return. I quickly explained about Keiki’s death the previous weekend, although I skipped a few details––such as my family members’ arrests.
Tom looked frustrated as he stared at the shiny item in his hand. “Too bad I don’t have any evidence bags with me.”
I reached into my purse and grabbed a small clear baggie. I never leave home without them. Convenient for buffet leftovers as well as evidence. I dropped the earring into the bag and placed it in a side pocket of my purse.
Helen seemed as anxious to leave our company as Ruckus was to explore new territory. We said goodbye and got into our car.
“You need to turn that earring over to the police,” Tom said. “It could contain the DNA of the victim, or the killer.”
“Of course. I’ll do it right after the memorial service.”
Tom was right. The earring might be an important clue. Or it might not. For all we knew the item could have been buried for days or weeks before the murder. But before I turned it over, I would check with my sister-in-law to see if the earring belonged to her.
It’s not like I was withholding evidence from the police. I was merely storing it for them.
All I had to do now was pray that the owner of said evidence wasn’t married to my brother.
Chapter 49
Tom and I enjoyed the leisurely ride to Victor and Kiana’s house. I drove so he could enjoy the lush south Kona scenery.
“I assume today’s visit isn’t just a sympathy call,” Tom said. “Will we be searching for additional clues amid all the condolences?”
“Maybe.” I kept my eyes glued to the curvy road. “My plan is to keep my eyes, ears, and lips open.”
“Lips?”
I nodded and smacked my lips. “They have terrific pupus here.”
Tom laughed and we spent the rest of the drive chatting about our “case.” In the past, Tom and I had been on opposite sides of a murder investigation, and I’d been forced to morph into Nancy Drew to keep myself, and later my boss out of prison. Now I felt like we were part of a detecting duo. Nick and Nora to the rescue.
All we needed was a Schnauzer, matching fedoras and a very large bottle of gin.
We drove past the Yakamuras’ house. Cars lined the street in all directions, including the rental my mother and Stan drove. We ended up parking a few blocks away. As we walked up the long gravel driveway, the lilting sound of a Hawaiian song floated toward us. Since the music seemed to come from the backyard, we headed that way. We arrived in time to see Walea and three other dancers pay tribute to Keiki.
My breath caught as I watched the dancers’ eloquent movements to the words of a plaintive melody. Multiple spigots opened, and tears rained down my cheeks again. At the rate my tears were erupting, Tom needed a handkerchief as big as a bedspread. The thought of that beautiful and talented young woman’s life cut short was heartbreaking. Until this moment, I’d been determined to prove the innocence of my family members. Now I was even more committed to finding the murderer for Keiki’s sake.
The musicians put down their instruments, and the dancers dispersed to visit with friends and family members. Eighty plus people milled about the backyard, but I had yet to see any of my own family wandering about. A man standing in front of me taking photos with his phone completely blocked my view. I accidentally bumped into him and his phone crashed to the ground.
“I’m so sorry, let me get that.” I bent over, but he was faster and grabbed it first. We barely missed a forehead collision. I wobbled on my wedge sandals, on the verge of falling, but Tom grabbed my hand and kept me upright.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized to the man’s back.
He turned around and surprised both of us. “Ms. McKay, what an odd coincidence. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Detective Lee’s eyes narrowed when he met Tom’s cool gaze. Lee must have recognized a kindred spirit because he put his hand out and introduced himself.
Tom shook Lee’s hand and said, “Detective Tom Hunter with the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department.”
A half-smile formed on Lee’s thin lips. “So you’ve brought in reinforcements from California? Your brother doesn’t have faith in the Hawaii Police?”
“Of course we do. Tom is my….” I hesitated. What was Tom’s official title in my life other than investigating detective?
“I’m Laurel’s boyfriend joining her for a few days,” Tom said. “Completely off-duty. I’m looking forward to exploring your island. I’ve never been to Hawaii before.”
I grinned. I could get used to that word––boyfriend.
Lee tapped his phone against his palm. “There are many wonderful attractions to explore on our island although some are more dangerous than others. Such as the ATV ride in the Waipi’o Valley. One hears rumors that occasionally a tourist gets rammed and almost killed.”
My mouth opened wide enough to stick a foot-long Subway sandwich inside. “How did you hear about that?”
“We’ve been watching everyone involved in this investigation.” Lee’s unblinking eyes locked on Tom’s face. “I’d advise you to keep an eye on your girlfriend. Someone is not happy with her. And I don’t need another murder on my island.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom replied coldly. “It’s under control.”
Lee strolled off, undoubtedly to terrorize someone else. It actually made me feel better knowing the detective was on site assessing the crowd. If he was checking out Keiki’s friends and family then he was less likely to be arresting my friends and family.
I had some investigating of my own to do, but couldn’t figure how to go about it with Tom by my side. Despite his earlier remarks that he planned to assist me, I doubted he would interfere with an official investigation. Especially now that he’d met Detective Lee.
I led Tom over to a bougainvillea-covered arbor where Keiki’s parents greeted their guests. Maybe he would come up with some pertinent question I’d overlooked so far. Kiana stood placidly next to her husband and stepdaughter, as elegant and graceful as ever. Her dark hair flowed down her black linen sheath. I couldn’t tell whether it was her natural demeanor, or if her doctor had prescribed some “tranquility” drugs.
Victor didn’t seem to be holding up as well as his wife. His eyes looked bloodshot and his face blotchy. Even though Keiki was his stepdaughter, the young woman had lived under his roof for over eight years. As a parent, I would imagine if something this devastating happened to one of your children, it would leave an emotional scar that would last forever.
I introduced Tom to Keiki’s parents.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Tom reached out to take Kiana’s hand. “I’m a widower and I know how painful it is to lose someone, although one should never lose a child.”
Kiana held his large palm in her tiny one. “Mahalo for your kind wishes, but my daughter is at peace at last.”
Walea, who stood next to her stepmother, rolled her eyes. I worried she would go off on another “slut of a stepsister” tangent so I jumped in before she could mouth off. “I heard Keiki tried out for The Bride and the Bachelor reality show.”
Walea nodded. “She was excited when she found out she was a contestant. I was happy for her. I hoped her dreams might finally come true.”
“Such a sad situation,” I said. “The bachelor could have been her Mr. Right.”
Walea frowned and shook her wavy mane. “Keiki could have cared less about a proposal from Jacques Cointreau, although he had looks, money and fame. All she really wanted was the notoriety and glamour of participating on the show.”
“It could have been a big break for her if she wanted an acting career. We stopped at Koffee Land after we saw you on Friday,” I said. “The reality show was holding a reception for the participants. Did you know Amanda is a contestant?”
“I didn’t realize she’d made it, too.” Walea said. “Amanda’s the one who told Keiki about the show to begin with. They’ve known each other since they were both cheerleaders in high school.”
A ha. Did I know a former cheerleader when I met one or not!
“She seems like a sweet kid,” I said. “I hope the show works out for her.”
Walea nodded. “I do too. The two of them were friends, but it seemed like they were always competing with one another. Whether it was for boys or beauty pageants, my little sister always had to be number one.”
A woman whose long gray braid trailed down the back of her flowered muumuu walked up to Kiana and whispered in her ear.
“I’m sorry, I guess we’re out of coffee,” Kiana said. “Will you excuse me? I need to make some more for our guests.”
“Can I help?” I offered. Making coffee seemed the least a member of my family could do to assist Keiki’s parents.
“Mahalo, you are so kind. There are two coffeemakers on the counter, and you’ll find the coffee beans in the pantry.”
Tom and I walked away, and I pointed to my mother and Stan across the lawn. “Why don’t you join them while I get the coffee started for Kiana. Just watch out for anyone with a suspicious look on his or her face.”
“I’m a homicide cop. Everyone looks suspicious to me,” Tom said. When I frowned, he kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry, you’re currently exempt from that description.”
For a change.
I opened a screen door that led directly into the kitchen. The beautiful Koa wood cabinets gleamed, but I didn’t see anything that resembled a pantry door. Maybe the pantry was located outside of the kitchen.
I wandered down a hallway, past a laundry room, and opened a door. Nope, that was the garage. I went in the opposite direction, but the only door I found led to a linen closet.
I walked back down the hallway and opened the door leading into the garage again. Maybe in Hawaii they built pantries in the garage for better storage in the humid climate. The Yakamuras’ garage contained a car and a truck, a tool bench and the assortment of stuff that tends to accumulate in garages. Although their accumulation of “stuff” appeared far less messy than mine did. One more item to add to my spring-cleaning to-do list when I returned home.
Off to my right was a white-paneled door. As I drew closer, the smell of fresh coffee assaulted my senses. Finally. Then I realized a small brass padlock hung on the doorknob. I shook the padlock and it came loose. It seemed somewhat odd for Victor and Kiana to padlock their pantry. They must have unlocked it so they’d have access to the storage area during the party. With an extra push of my hip, I shoved the door wide open.
Talk about the mother lode. This door didn’t open to a pantry. It opened to a huge room running the length of the two-car garage. Inside the room sat piles of one-hundred pound burlap bags of coffee beans. All labeled with a familiar logo in lime green and purple.
KL for Koffee Land.
Chapter 50
The potency of a ten-by-twenty square foot room stuffed full of coffee beans was enough to bring on a caffeine migraine. I started counting the bags then gave up. There were at least a hundred of the huge sacks containing what looked like pulped green coffee beans stored in the room. A table near the entrance was bare except for a stack of unmarked brown bags.
I shut the door to the private room and re-entered the garage. My head reeled with questions and a coffee hangover. I knew Victor managed the coffee operation, but would that also entail distribution? Even with my limited knowledge of the business, it didn’t make sense for so many bags of Koffee Land beans to be stored off-site. I kept trying to think of a reason for the secret stash, but nothing came to mind.
I entered the house, retracing my steps down the long hallway to the kitchen. Walea stood by the counter, waiting for some fresh coffee to brew.
“We wondered what happened to you.” Her eyes narrowed and I wondered if I smelled as if I’d been bathing in coffee beans.
“I needed to use the powder room. Sorry I didn’t get the coffee started. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
She gave me a funny look and shook her head. I went back outside, my brain creating and abandoning a variety of scenarios regarding the coffee stash.
I noticed my family and friends congregated under a huge banyan tree. Regan was just the expert I needed. I barreled across the green lawn and reached the group in seconds.
“We were about to send a search party for you.” Tom’s tone sounded light, but his eyes indicated he’d been anxious about my absence.
“Sorry. Something distracted me.” I turned to Regan. “Just out of curiosity, how is your coffee distribution handled?”
Her expression suggested I’d drunk one too many cups of coffee, or alcohol, if I had a burning desire to learn the answer to that question right now. “You mean how do we sell our coffee?”
“Yes, sort of. Do you also sell your beans to other coffee farms?”
She shook her head. “No, some of the smaller farms sell what we refer to as parchment––that would be the dried green beans––to some of the larger more established processors. Then they handle the milling, roasting and distribution of the product. We process only our own beans at Koffee Land and sell directly from there, either to customers who come into the store or to people who order over the internet. Knowing Ritz and Pilar, eventually they’ll expand and start selling to grocery stores and other outlets.”
“Why do you want to know?” Mother asked.
“Oh, just idle curiosity.”
Stan and Tom snorted simultaneously at my response.
Honestly!
I took Regan aside. “So you don’t store Koffee Land beans any place outside the farm?”
She shook her head. “No. What’s going on?”
I looked in the direction of Keiki’s parents. I couldn’t accuse them of theft during this reception honoring their deceased daughter. That would be too cruel. But did those bags in the storeroom have something to do with Keiki’s murder?
“I’ve been talking to people and heard bits of conversation here and there,” I replied. “When we took that tour with you the other day, you discussed the value of green coffee beans. The bagged coffee you sell ranges from thirty-five to forty-five dollars. Aren’t the beans themselves worth significantly less?”
“It depends whether it’s a good crop year or not. A bag of green beans is usually worth from $9 to $10 per pound. With the borer beetle destroying crops like they have at Koffee Land and other farms, the price has gone up in the last few years.”
My analytical brain kicked into gear. A hundred-pound bag of green coffee beans could be worth close to a thousand dollars. And there had to be at least one hundred bags in that storeroom if not more. We weren’t talking pennies.
We were talking a hundred thousand dollars. And that was just for the beans stored in the room at this moment. How many coffee beans had made their way in and out of Victor’s garage in the past few months? Or years?
Chapter 51
I glanced at Victor who stood alone by the patio. It appeared that he, in turn, was watching me. I worried that Walea had mentioned my wandering around their house without supervision.
My lips felt dry so I reached into my purse for my pink lip gloss, which was tucked into the side pocket, right next to the evidence baggie containing the earring we, or rather Ruckus, had discovered. This would be the perfect opportunity to hand it over to Detective Lee. But, first, I needed to show it to Regan.
I pulled Regan away from the group once again and led her to a shaded corner where we could be alone.
Her lips curved into a half-smile. “More urgent coffee questions?”
“Maybe, later. I found a piece of jewelry and wondered if it belongs to you.” I grabbed the clear bag and held it in front of her face. She looked curious but not concerned.
“Can you take it out of the baggie?” she asked.
Probably, but I couldn’t chance adding any more of Regan’s DNA to the evidence file for this case. I also didn’t want to tell her where I’d found it.
“I need to keep it secure for now,” I replied, evading the question. “It’s an abalone earring. Is it yours? Or have you seen it on anyone else?”
She shook the bag, trying to get a clear view of the earring, but even I could see it was difficult in the shade. Regan moved away from the tree and into the sunlight. She brought the bag closer to her face.
“I have a couple pairs of abalone earrings. I love the bluish green hues, but I don’t remember losing one. I can check when I get home tonight.”
“Do you know anyone else who owns a pair?”
“I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t own a pair. They sell them everywhere. They’re pretty, fairly inexpensive, and durable.” She scrutinized contents of the baggie. “It looks like something is stuck on the wire. I wonder what it could be.”
“Yes, it is most curious, isn’t it?” said an annoying familiar voice.
“Detective Lee, I was looking for you.” I threw a friendly smile in his direction, but it bounced off his grim façade.
“Of course you were. Would you care to share anything with me, or do you normally keep abalone earrings in sealed bags?”
No wonder the man made detective. He must be part dolphin because his hearing was sonar quality.
Regan watched as I plunked the bag into his open palm. “Where did you find the earring?” she asked.
“At the outlook next to Daiquiri Dave’s.”
Regan gasped. “Where Keiki went over the wall?”
I nodded. “Tom and I stopped to take a look this morning. While we were there, a woman’s dog dug it up. I planned to hand it over to you, Detective. This was my first opportunity.”
Sort of.
He sniffed. “If you see any more dogs digging up jewelry, I would appreciate a phone call. Immediately.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his card. Then he led me away from Regan.
“Ms. McKay, despite your lack of knowledge regarding the chain of evidence, you seem like an intelligent woman. And an empathetic person as well. Please do not let your feelings for your family lead you to destroy any evidence you come across. It could result in harm to others. And possibly to you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but Detective Hunter is here to protect me.”
“Yes, I recognized his name from your official file.”
I stepped back. “You have a file on me?”
“Every potential suspect in this case has a file. Let’s make sure yours doesn’t turn into another murder book.”
Detective Lee strolled across the lawn leaving me with my mouth open. Not an unusual state. The sound of a soft Hawaiian melody snapped me back to the present. I recognized Rick, the young musician who played at Liz’s reception and on Steve’s boat the other night, strumming chords on a guitar. As his bare arm moved up and down, the tail of his dragon tattoo flashed then disappeared again.
Henry stood next to him playing his ukulele. The guests had moved aside to make room for the dancers whose timing was impeccable as their arms and hips moved simultaneously, sharing the story told through the music.
The music suddenly stopped, and the dancers halted. Several guests swiveled their heads in the direction of the gate. I followed their gaze to see my brother walk into the yard.
When Dave realized he was the center of attention his face turned redder than the bougainvillea bushes lining his path. Now that I thought about it, he probably hadn’t spoken to either of Keiki’s parents since her death. I could understand why he felt he should attend. Keiki was not only an employee, she had also confided in him. Would her parents be pleased or upset that he stopped by?
One person indicated his displeasure immediately. Henry dropped his ukulele on the ground and marched up to my brother. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but since Henry began to poke Dave in the chest, it didn’t look like he was welcoming my brother with open arms.
Someone needed to clue Henry into the aloha spirit. My mother circled the two men, prepared to jump in and rescue her offspring if need be. I noticed Lee creeping closer as well, although his intent was most likely to catch someone incriminating himself.
Tom appeared behind me. He wrapped his muscular arms around my waist. “What’s going on? Do I need to break anything up?” It felt so good to have someone to lean on for a change.
“I’m not sure. The guy yelling at Dave is Henry, Walea’s husband.”
“So I’m guessing the guy who looks like you except for the balding hair and…” Tom’s voice trailed off as his palm lightly brushed the curved part of my body that bore no resemblance to my brother.
PING!
I slapped myself mentally. There would be plenty of time for pinging later.
I grabbed Tom’s hand and hauled him into the melee. “Tom, meet my brother Dave. And this is Henry. He’s the excellent ukulele musician we heard earlier.”
“I enjoyed your playing, Henry. And Dave, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Same here. I appreciate you jumping in and saving my little sis from that killer.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Killer? What are you talking about?”
Tom and I exchanged glances. “Let’s just say murder has brought the two of us together on more than one occasion,” I said.
“We can sure use your help investigating Keiki’s murder,” Dave said to Tom before he turned back to Henry. “I’ve said it over and over, but I’ll repeat it once again. I did not kill Keiki. She came to me for advice and I tried to help her.”
“Keiki came to you for advice?” I jumped when I realized Victor had joined us.
Dave stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth. His eyes flicked from Henry to Victor then back to me. “Keiki said Joey was concerned about something going on at Koffee Land.”
“Joey wasn’t involved in the coffee operation,” Henry said. “He worked for me putting in the zip-line.” A worried expression crossed his face. “What did he tell Keiki?”
Victor put a reassuring hand on Henry’s shoulder as he addressed my brother. “I doubt my daughter knew anything about Koffee Land worth discussing. Dave, I appreciate your gesture coming to our house today, but your presence is making my wife uncomfortable. I think it would be better if you left now.”
Dave looked embarrassed as he glanced at me. Detective Lee joined us and drew Dave aside from our group. They conversed briefly then Dave spoke to me. “I guess I better leave. Laurel, I’ll see you and Tom later on.”
Tom and I watched along with everyone else as Dave left with the detective. Victor and Henry walked off and rejoined their wives.
Regan raced up to join us. “Where are Dave and Detective Lee going? Is he under arrest again?”
I shook my head. “No, Victor thought it best for Dave to leave. He claimed Dave’s presence was making Kiana uncomfortable.”
Regan stomped her foot as I looked on in astonishment. “Well, that’s just wrong.” Then she ran out the gate after the two men.
“What was that all about?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know. My brother and his wife are the perfect candidates for Dr. Phil’s show. Or maybe Jerry Springer.”
We waited to see if Regan would re-appear, but she and Dave both must have left. Detective Lee also did not return and I hoped his lack of an appearance did not signify that one of my relatives was back in custody.
We said brief farewells to Keiki’s family, all of whom seemed anxious for us to depart. As I went into the house to make a pit stop before the long drive, I noticed the woman with the long gray braid and dressed in the green muumuu, brewing a pot of coffee.
I walked up to her. “That sure smells good. Do you know which brand it is?”
“It’s Victor’s own coffee. He grows beans here, roasts them himself and then sells them to some of the locals.”
Interesting. I had many more questions about the nature of the garage storage room, but I would save them for the next day when I took Tom to Koffee Land. As we walked back to our rental cars, we discussed Victor’s enormous coffee stash. Mother and Stan agreed it was odd, but they also thought there could be an easy explanation. Perhaps Victor liked to recycle the cast-off Koffee Land bags. Or Ritz needed beans stored off-site.
I shoved the mysterious coffee cache to the back of my mind. As Tom and I drove back to the hotel, I concentrated on a burning question that had nagged at me since Tom’s arrival yesterday. A question that caused my body to create its own version of a Kilauea eruption.
Tom flashed one of those melt-in-your-arms smiles at me. Be still my heart and all those girly parts that were celebrating in advance. Geez, you’d think it had been years since we’d partied with anyone.
Oh yeah, it had been. Shoot. Would I even remember how?
I pondered if it truly was dead bodies keeping Tom and me apart. Was I the one who was afraid of our relationship escalating? How could I expect to take the place of Tom’s deceased wife in his heart, or in his life? Was he looking for a replacement, or just someone to do the horizontal hula with?
And why was it whenever Tom and I were together, I had far more questions than answers?
Chapter 52
Tom and I managed to sneak away from Stan and the others for an intimate evening at the hotel’s best oceanfront restaurant. After consuming an excellent seafood dinner and finishing off an equally excellent bottle of wine, we strolled down to the surf, hand in hand. I almost forgot to worry about where our relationship was going. Standing barefoot on the beach, our arms entwined around one another, seemed a wonderful way for it to begin.
The smell of Tom’s cologne and the taste of his soft lips against mine made me forget about everything except the need to be with him. Our bodies surged together as the waves crashed around us. The noise of the waves made it almost impossible to hear him crying out my name.
Wait a minute. As far as I knew, Tom wasn’t a ventriloquist. If his lips were locked on mine, who was yelling for me?
Actually, more to the point, who wasn’t calling my name? When I pulled away from Tom’s embrace, I discovered Regan, Dave, Stan and my mother staring at us. The next time Tom and I walked down to the beach, I was attaching a “do not disturb” sign to the back of my head.
My family can find more ways to ruin a romantic evening. With my fists clenched on my hips, I shouted over the boisterous waves. “What’s the matter?”
Stan bounded up to us, his entire body pulsating with excitement. “Dave and Regan had a heart to heart talk,” he said. I muttered, “Finally,” and glared at my brother and sister-in-law in the distance.
Stan went on, “When they started discussing what each of them knew individually, they put two and two together, and came up with the killer.”
Okay, that was probably a good enough reason to interrupt us, although it didn’t mean I had to like it.
Tom and I grabbed the shoes we’d tossed on the sand. We walked back to the grassy area, so we could carry on a conversation without the din of the monstrous waves crashing around us.
“What did you two discover?” I asked Dave and Regan. Despite having our kissing interrupted, I couldn’t help but smile to see them with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists.
Nothing like detecting to bring a couple together, I always say.
Dave looked sheepish. “Once Regan and I realized we’d both jumped to conclusions suspecting each other of having an affair, we started comparing notes.”
“Yes.” I impatiently tapped my sandaled foot anxious to return to Tom’s embrace.
“I didn’t know Joey had shared his concerns regarding Koffee Land with Keiki,” Regan said, “until Dave told me that was the reason he’d met with her away from the restaurant.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “And Dave wasn’t aware I’d heard a conversation between Joey and Henry regarding the safety of the zip-line platforms. Joey was concerned the pilings weren’t deep enough to support the forty-foot towers.”
“That could be serious,” Tom interjected.
“The original structures weren’t supposed to be that high, but they decided to raise them when they added the tandem line,” Regan explained. “I overheard that conversation a few weeks before Joey’s fall but assumed Henry and his crew corrected the problem. I know they did some repair work after Joey fell off the platform.”
“Or jumped,” Stan added.
“Or was pushed,” Dave said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever discover the truth regarding his fall.”
“The murderer could have killed Keiki if he thought she knew too much,” I threw in.
“Henry must be the killer.” Dave punched his right fist in the air to punctuate his announcement. “That’s why he kept threatening me. To throw us off his scent.”
“Your theory’s plausible,” Tom said. “But not conclusive. I’m sure Detective Lee has considered all of Keiki’s family members as potential suspects, including her brother-in-law.”
“Yeah, but does Lee know about the conversation between Joey and Henry?” I asked Regan. “Did you tell them when you were arrested?”
She shook her head. “I never thought of it until a few minutes ago when Dave and I began comparing notes.”
I reached into my purse and grabbed my cell. Interesting how two detectives in two different states were on my speed dial.
Definitely not something to tweet about.
My call landed in Lee’s voicemail, giving me only twenty seconds to state my message. Shoot. I couldn’t even order a meal from McDonald’s in that amount of time. I told him to meet us at Koffee Land at ten in the morning.
And to bring his handcuffs.
Chapter 53
Homicide definitely trumps hot hotel sex. Not that Tom and I had made any plans to roll around the 800-thread-count sheets in his room. For some reason, confronting a murderer in the morning seemed easier than confronting a man in my bed the morning after. I was beginning to think I needed some couch time.
What I couldn’t figure out was if I needed it with Tom or with a therapist!
By the time my alarm sounded, I’d thrashed around so much my sheets looked like I’d hosted a busload of tourists under the covers. At least one problem was resolved the previous evening––Dave and Regan’s relationship. They were making out like teenagers when they headed home to their condo.
Tom had politely escorted Mother and me back to our room so my night ended with one chaste kiss and the promise of more to come tonight. All we had to do was ensure the police arrested Henry this morning. Then we could relax and enjoy the remaining two days of our vacation.
Since all the zip-line work had been completed, Regan wasn’t positive if Henry intended to stop by Koffee Land, even though today was its inaugural run. Once she reached the office, she would call and notify him his final check was ready for pick up. It was a substantial sum, and she was confident he would pick it up in person rather than wait for the mail.
Detective Lee hadn’t returned my message so I didn’t know if he was busy with another matter, or just ignoring the musings of an amateur sleuth. Tom possessed zero authority on the island. He was coming along solely to ensure I didn’t attempt anything I’d regret later.
I’d gone on my laptop the night before and Googled zip-line construction. I discovered a previous accident on the island that had occurred because the pilings hadn’t been driven deep enough into the shifting volcanic soil to support the height of the zip-line tower. Did Joey threaten to share his concerns with Ritz? Or the authorities?
Unfortunately, everything we’d learned so far was hearsay, and we’d based our deduction solely on statements made by Joey and Keiki. Statements that could not be corroborated by anyone still living––other than our suspected killer–– Henry. I tried to find a flaw in our logic, but our suppositions made sense to me. Regan had overheard a conversation between Henry and Joey regarding the safety of the zip-line tower. Joey had confided in Keiki about a concern regarding Koffee Land. Henry had threatened both Dave and me on different occasions, and he’d been on the Sea Jinx the night I fell overboard.
I was also comfortable with our plan. We’d devised an excellent strategy to lure the suspected killer to Koffee Land and we’d notified the police. We even had a backup detective although he was more moral support than official backup.
We arrived at Koffee Land and found a temporary barrier blocking the entrance. A sign indicated the coffee plantation was closed to the public this week. How did I forget the reality show began filming today? Should I warn Lee to be discreet? No blue lights flashing or sirens blaring?
Tom and Stan moved the barrier so it only partially blocked the driveway. That way Henry could get in as well as the police, assuming they were interested in my nocturnal musings. When we drove up to the parking lot, we found it filled with vans, trucks, cars, and people.
“Do you think we can watch them tape the show?” Stan asked me, eyes hopeful. Reality TV trumped detecting as far as my pal was concerned.
“I don’t have a clue,” I replied as we walked up the sidewalk to the entrance. The door to the center bore a “closed” sign, but when I pushed on the door, it opened. My sister-in-law knew we were coming, so they must have posted the notice for any tourists who ignored the driveway blockade.
I walked through the deserted center calling out Regan’s name. Victor’s and Regan’s offices were vacant, as was what I assumed was Ritz’s office, far grander than the other two. Plus a bigger clue: the walls were loaded with plaques and trophies engraved with his name.
“Maybe everyone is out on the set,” Tom said.
That’s why he’s the top guy in the sheriff’s department. And in my heart.
“Sounds like the perfect excuse to visit the pavilion. Stan will be thrilled. I just hope he doesn’t try to win the bachelor for himself.”
We bumped into Ritz on our way out of the center. He informed us that the building was supposed to be closed since all of the staff was out on the set.
“Do you think we can watch them shoot the show?” I asked Ritz as he locked up the center.
“This is a closed set so we’re not supposed to have any visitors, but I guess you’re family of sorts. Just keep quiet once we get over that rise.”
Running into Ritz was a convenient coincidence since my coffee questions had been percolating in my mind all night. Along with thoughts of the killer.
“Ritz,” I said, “your operation is so amazing. I don’t know how you’ve managed to maintain the quantity and quality of your coffee production on top of your other expansion plans.”
Ritz puffed out his chest, clad today in a silky taupe aloha shirt and paired with taupe trousers. I wondered if the man even owned a pair of jeans. My gaze drifted to Tom’s cute denim-clad tush, as he and my mother walked ahead of us.
That man was born to wear jeans. And some day I wanted to be the one to take them off him.
Back to my burning coffee questions. “Do you store all of your beans on the property? Ever use other temporary storage facilities?”
He shook his head. “No, we have plenty of space for our current crop. In fact, we have enough capacity to double production. That insidious borer beetle finally hit us this year so Victor has had his hands full ensuring only a small percentage of our acreage has been affected. Thank goodness for his expertise managing our crops.”
If Ritz only knew that Victor’s expertise may have diverted coffee beans away from Koffee Land and into his own hands. I wondered what drove the long-term employee to cheat his boss. Did it have anything to do with his family? Perhaps it was expensive supporting Kiana? And what about Keiki? Did she factor into Victor’s theft?
Or did Victor factor into her murder? I couldn’t imagine Victor killing his stepdaughter. The grief in his eyes appeared to be real.
But so was Keiki’s murder. Very very real.
Chapter 54
The pavilion area looked exactly how I expected a reality TV show set to look.
Pandemonium in paradise.
Cameras, computers and people everywhere. In the pavilion itself, a dozen young women in colorful outfits chatted with one another. It didn’t look like anyone, much less the four of us, would be noticed in the melee.
I finally spotted Regan and Tiffany, both recognizable by their lime green Koffee Land shirts.
I turned to Ritz. “I see Regan but I don’t want to interrupt her. Do you know who that woman is?” I pointed to an elegant Chinese woman dressed in a summery silk suit who conversed with one of the camera crew.
“You don’t know Stacey Leung-Crawford?” Ritz’s tone indicated his admiration for the woman.
No, that was a name I would definitely remember.
“She used to be the evening news reporter for KXXA news in Honolulu.”
“I haven’t had time to watch the local news.” Except for the terrible evening when the police arrested my brother, which miraculously did not make the late night news.
“Stacey is a big deal on the island, and one of the producers of The Bride and the Bachelor. She hopes it will be hugely successful and make national prime time. I think Stacey is determined to make national prime time herself. Follow me. I’ll introduce you.”
I was more than happy to follow Ritz, and my detective trio trailed behind us. The female contestants and Jacques Cointreau, the male star, stood near what appeared to be a refreshments tent. He looked hot which wasn’t surprising given the above normal temperatures today. The Bachelor chugged half a bottle of water then dumped the rest on his head. The water did nothing to mar Jacques’s striking good looks and bronzed, muscled body.
Quite the contender. If I were twenty years, twenty pounds and two kids lighter, I’d have auditioned for the show myself.
Not really, I thought, stealing a glance at Tom. Our last two days together had given me renewed hope for our relationship. Maybe one of these days the two of us would star in our own bride and bachelor reality show. But without millions of viewers looking on.
A couple of men wearing Koffee Land polo shirts stood under the zip-line tower. “Are the contestants taking a zip-line ride today?” I asked Ritz.
“Yes, that is one of the reasons we had to rush construction,” he replied. “The final inspection was completed Friday so the inaugural ride will be today. Jacques will zip with five of the women.” Ritz pointed to the sky where a helicopter was flying in from the south. “They can film the ride from above. Isn’t it amazing?”
He was right. It truly was remarkable. These girls were lucky. Even if they didn’t land a husband, they would still have the adventure of a lifetime.
Ritz tapped the famous island newscaster on her pink silk shoulder. She whirled, a look of annoyance crossing her delicate features. Seeing Ritz, her expression changed from irritation to delight. She leaned forward to let the elegant plantation owner air kiss each of her perfectly made-up cheeks.
“Ritz, you wonderful man, what a breathtaking spot you have here. I’m so glad you suggested it for our show.”
“But of course. Koffee Land has everything one could desire.”
Stacey’s gaze drifted over to Tom Hunter, who was eying her with his usual cool composure.
“And who is this handsome man?” Stacey widened heavily mascaraed eyes as she questioned Tom. “Are you interested in auditioning for our next Bride and the Bachelor show?
Tom smiled and crossed his hands in front of each other in a “no way” gesture. “Nope. I’m not an actor. Just a tourist.”
She smiled a brilliant smile of her own and reached into an off-white lizard handbag that screamed Prada. “Here’s my card in case you change your mind. You have a natural attractiveness. The women will eat you up.”
Hey. The only woman who got to eat Tom up was me, and I wasn’t sharing my dinner. I introduced myself to Stacey, who merely nodded. She didn’t hand over a business card so she evidently didn’t anticipate any male contenders noshing on me.
When Ritz and Stacey left to find the reality show’s director, Regan and Tiffany joined our group. My sister-in-law looked tired, but happier than I’d seen her since our arrival.
I nudged her arm. “How’s Dave?”
“He’s fine. We were up late last night, um, talking.” Regan giggled. “I told him to sleep in. He should be here any time though. He wanted to participate in catching…” she stopped when she realized Tiffany was absorbing every word. “Tif, honey, why don’t you check out the food tent and see if they need refills on coffee or anything.”
Tiffany smiled and bounded off toward the tent.
Regan shook her head. “Ah, youth. Dave wanted to be here when the police arrested Henry.” She spun around, her expression puzzled. “I haven’t seen Detective Lee yet. Didn’t you call him?”
“I left three messages. I don’t know whether something more important came up or if he decided Henry isn’t a viable suspect. Did Henry pick up his pay check yet?”
“It’s tucked away so he can’t grab it and run. Ritz said Henry was coming by to make sure everything was okay for the initial run.” She chewed on her thumb. “It’s still difficult for me to believe Henry would kill Joey and Keiki because he was worried about his reputation. Tom, do you think we could be wrong about Henry?”
“Hey, you know my position. I think you should all stay out of the detective’s way and let him solve this case,” Tom said. “I’m just here to make sure Laurel doesn’t do anything stu…” he stumbled then finished, “stupendous.”
“Nice save,” Stan remarked.
“Weeks of practice,” Tom shot back.
Men. Gay or straight. They were all annoying at times. I turned my back on both of them and glanced around to see what the contestants were up to now. The women, all equally adorable ranged from petite to tall and sported hairdos that ran the gamut from short blonde bobs to long ebony manes. The pavilion looked like a mini-United Nations with a myriad of ethnicities represented.
Amanda caught my eye and waved. The vivacious marine expert appeared to be in her element. I grabbed Tom’s hand and led him over. Between the beautiful contestants and Ms. Leung-Crawford, I wasn’t leaving Tom alone for a second. Otherwise, before I knew it, he’d be signed up as the poster boy for the The Bride and the Bachelor, Cougar Edition.
“Hi, Laurel, isn’t this exciting?” Amanda eyed Tom curiously and I introduced him as my boyfriend from California.
She furrowed her brow. “Does Steve know you have a boyfriend back home?”
My face colored and I diverted the conversation to something safer than my love life. “Did Steve find someone to help out while you’re shooting the show?”
“Timmy finally showed up for last night’s sunset sail so Steve said he could fill in for me temporarily. Steve was really ticked off about his disappearance. But Timmy has listened to my lectures for months now so he should be okay. I feel kind of bad about taking off for the show.”
“Where did Timmy go?”
Amanda’s eyes opened wide. She looked left then right as if she were about to disclose a state secret. “I asked him about it, but he said it would be better if I didn’t know. He had things to take care of. Something about his family’s honor, whatever that means.”
“So he’s been gone since Friday?” I mulled over Timmy’s disappearance for the last three days. Where had the young man gone, and what had he been up to? Too bad he hadn’t shared anything with Amanda.
“Do you get to ride on the zip-line today?” I asked.
“No, I was a last-minute substitution and the girls were already selected for the zip-lining. Jacques and I are going to picnic at the beach instead.” Her green eyes grew misty. “I think a picnic will be so much more romantic.”
She stared at the bachelor, her gaze intent. “Once he and I are alone, we can really make progress in our relationship. I’m sure none of these other girls have researched him like I have. We’re a perfect match.”
Amanda noticed Stacey Leung-Crawford beckoning to her. “Oops, gotta run.” She raced off to join the bevy of beauties heading to the viewing deck. We wished her luck then walked back to join Stan, Mother and Regan.
“Henry’s here,” Regan said. “He and Victor walked by a few minutes ago. I swear Victor looks like he’s aged a decade. Keiki’s death has really shaken him. I hope he doesn’t fall apart if Henry is arrested.”
“Does Victor need to be here today?” I asked.
“He wants to ensure the camera crew doesn’t go into any areas where our current crops are planted. We don’t need any more crop infestation. I was reviewing the numbers Victor provided from last week’s cherry picking, and they totally suck.”
I had a feeling the sucky numbers had more to do with the excess coffee in Victor’s garage than a beetle colony residing at Koffee Land.
“Has anyone ever stolen beans from Koffee Land?” I asked Regan.
She frowned. “Are you worried some of the film crew or contestants might try to break into our warehouse and steal beans? The building is locked and no one has access other than Ritz, Victor and me.”
“Why would anyone want to steal coffee beans?” Stan asked. “It’s not like you can hide them in your underwear or anything.”
Regan nodded. “Yeah, all the beans are stored in hundred-pound bags. I suppose someone could break in and steal the bags from the warehouse at night. But why?”
Financial gain for one thing. And I’d just discovered the person I suspected of stealing the beans had access to the warehouse.
Was it time to get the Kona coffee crook to ’fess up?
Chapter 55
I decided to discuss my suspicions with Regan before confronting Victor. I told her about the enormous coffee cache in his garage. She was understandably stunned. “That’s impossible. Victor would never steal from Koffee Land. This farm is his life.”
Being the pragmatic detective who dealt with criminals on a daily basis, Tom jumped into the conversation. “Circumstances can change people and turn honest men into thieves. Maybe he’s suffered some financial losses recently.”
Regan mulled over Tom’s comment. “Victor has been acting oddly the last month or so, but I thought it was due to the beetle infestation he was dealing with here. Or Joey’s death. Keiki had dated Joey on and off for several years and I knew Victor was fond of him.”
“What should we do?” asked my practical mother. “Do you want to discuss it with Ritz first?”
I looked around for Ritz. Stacey Leung-Crawford was formally interviewing the Koffee Land owner. No point ruining this wonderful publicity-filled moment for Ritz. Even if one of his employees was a caffeine crook.
I spun around looking for Victor. He stood by the zip-line, talking to Henry.
“Regan, why don’t you and I speak with Victor,” I said. “Give him an opportunity to explain himself. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for what he’s done. Tom, could you keep Henry occupied until Detective Lee gets here?”
Tom frowned. “I’m not obstructing an official investigation.”
“I’m not asking you to interfere with the investigation, although they haven’t done such a great job so far.” I pulled my cell out of my purse. “See, there’s nothing from, oh…crap,” I said, noticing Lee had indeed called. I’d forgotten to turn the mute off this morning. I listened to Lee’s voice mail. He and a couple of officers were en route and should arrive around eleven. I checked my watch. Ten minutes to eleven.
“Detective Lee should be here any minute,” I told Tom. “I’m sure he’d be grateful if you could detain Henry until he arrives.”
“I’ll come with you,” my mother said to Tom.
“You’re not going anywhere near Henry,” Tom said. “Your husband, my former partner, would have my badge if I put you in any danger. Why don’t you and Stan go back to the visitor center and wait for Lee and his men. You can direct them so they don’t waste time trying to locate us.”
Isn’t it amazing what a rational plan you can come up with when a real detective is involved?
Tom, Regan and I left the pavilion, passing by an array of cameras, computers, and other equipment, none of which I could name, but all of which required long thick black cords extending to the electrical outlets in the pavilion. Five contestants were sequestered in one area along with two of the Koffee Land guys who’d worked on the zip-line. Those girls must be zip-lining with Jacques today. As we walked up the hill, the scenery once again blew me away. The view from above would be jaw-dropping. In my case, since I’m afraid of heights, it would also be stomach-dropping.
Deep in conversation, Henry and Victor didn’t notice us approaching until we were almost on top of them. Henry looked up first. He held up his hand, signaling to Victor to be quiet.
“Can we help you?” Henry wore his perpetual frown. At least he wasn’t yelling for a change. If Henry was Keiki’s murderer, he was certainly the crabbiest killer I’d ever encountered.
“Tom was curious about the zip-line operation,” Regan said. “He wondered if you could show it to him before the contestants begin their rides.” When Henry looked annoyed, she elaborated. “Ritz would be grateful if you would take the time to assist his guests.”
Throwing Ritz’s name into the equation worked its desired magic. Henry could hardly refuse a request from his employer. He told Victor he’d catch up with him later, then motioned Tom to follow him up the four flights of stairs to the platform above.
“I guess I’ll return to my office,” Victor said, “I’ve got some paperwork to do.”
“How’s Kiana doing?” I asked.
He shrugged. “How do you think she is doing? She buried her daughter at sea yesterday.”
“That must have been so rough on you, especially after Joey’s fall from the tower.” I shifted my gaze to the zip-line tower where Henry and Tom chatted. Tom pointed to something on the other side of the wide canyon.
Victor reached into his shirt pocket then realized it was empty. “I left my cigarettes in my car. I’ll see you later, Regan.”
I stepped in front of Victor before he could disappear. “Have you been stealing coffee beans from Koffee Land?”
He started. “Did Keiki tell you that?”
“No, I barely knew her, but I was in your garage yesterday.”
He flinched and took a step back. “What were you doing there?”
“I offered to make some fresh coffee for your guests at the reception. Kiana told me the beans were in the pantry, but when I couldn’t locate the pantry in the house, I went into the garage and discovered your secret room.”
“Dammit,” he grumbled, “that room was supposed to be locked.”
“Laurel told me there were at least a hundred bags of beans,” Regan said, “all in Koffee Land bags. How did they get there and why are you storing them?”
Victor looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a very big truck. Off in the distance I heard the sound of a siren. So much for Detective Lee’s discreet arrival.
Victor glanced toward Henry and Tom who were climbing down from the tower. They had almost reached the bottom of the stairs.
I tilted my head and stared at the tower platform high above us. It was a long way to fall. Joey would have been cautious working so high, especially if he was by himself. But what if he wasn’t alone? What if someone he trusted stood next to him?
Not his boss. But what about the father of the girl he’d dated for several years. A man who’d been like a father figure to him. Someone he trusted and admired.
Someone he’d discovered stealing from his employer.
What would Joey have done?
And what did Victor do?
Chapter 56
Victor’s eyes met mine. I froze as he grew stone-faced, his eyes as hard and bleak as lava rock. As multiple sirens blared, I relaxed my tense shoulders. Regan and I had Victor cornered. There was nothing he could do now.
Except grab my wrist with his left hand and twist it behind my back. His right hand was also busy.
Aiming a gun at my head.
“Victor,” Regan screamed. Without a second’s hesitation, Victor performed some elaborate move with his leg, knocking her to the ground. She lay motionless.
“Regan,” I yelled and tried to reach her. My movement prompted a whack on the side of my head.
“Ow.” A tiny rivulet of blood seeped into my copper strands, ruining my first good hair day since we’d arrived in Hawaii.
When Tom saw the commotion, he bypassed the last six stairs and leapt to my rescue. Once on the ground, he realized nobody was messing with Victor. Not when he had a gun pressed to my perspiring forehead.
“Victor, what are you doing?” Henry yelled, as he went to help Regan up off the ground.
I wanted to ask the same question, but the gun-in-my-skull approach turned out to be the one surefire method of shutting me up.
Victor pushed me in front of him but kept his weapon glued to the back of my head. Once we were a reasonable distance from Tom and Henry, he shoved me around to face the distant pavilion. That’s when I realized we were also facing the troops.
Detective Lee, dressed in his usual Tommy Bahama apparel, strode up the hill with at least a dozen uniformed officers. There would be no escape for Victor in that direction without a shootout.
No one had asked for my opinion, but I wasn’t big on the shootout option.
Behind what looked like the entire Hawaii Police Department, a contingent of television cameras filmed all the action, including Victor and me. The bevy of contestant beauties giggled and strutted, not fully clued in to the fact that this reality show had turned into Law and Order, the hostage version.
With all exits blocked, there was only one direction for Victor to go.
Up!
Chapter 57
Victor kneed me in the back and I lurched up the stairs. My red sneaker slipped off my left foot and landed on the ground. Darn. That was my comfiest shoe. He’d better let me pick it up later.
On second thought, would there be a later? What was Victor’s plan or did he even have one? As I stumbled up the stairs, with a gun inches from my back, a myriad of possibilities whirled through my brain. None of them featured a good ending.
By the time we reached the tower platform, Victor was breathing hard––either from stress, or the forty-five steps we’d just climbed. Trust me. I’d counted each one. It might be time for Victor to lay off the nicotine.
As he wheezed to catch his breath, I inched a few feet away. The gun remained leveled at my head. I could sense Victor’s brain churning in an attempt to formulate an escape plan. I decided to distract him.
“Victor,” I said, “I know you killed Joey. But I don’t believe you meant to.”
His eyes filled with sorrow. “No, I only climbed up here to talk to him alone. Keiki had called me the night before and said Joey was concerned about me. She didn’t elaborate so I didn’t know how much Joey had confided in her. I knew he saw me taking bags of coffee out of the warehouse when he worked late one night.”
“You wanted to explain to him your reasons for the theft?”
He nodded and the gun bobbled slightly. “Joey was like a son to me. His father died when he was a young kid. I thought he would be sympathetic once he realized I had no choice but to take the beans since the beetle destroyed my own crops. I did it for my family.” Victor swung his free hand out, demonstrating the size and magnificence of Koffee Land. “It’s not like Ritz would notice the loss. Or even care about the quality of the beans. All he and Pilar care about is fame.”
A voice blaring out of a megaphone filtered its way to the top of the tower.
“Come down now. Before anyone is hurt.”
Victor shook his head.
“We have sharpshooters posted across the grounds. Release your hostage now.”
Sharpshooters? I didn’t like the sound of that. Neither did Victor as he shoved me in front of him. Despite his heavy panting, the distance between the gun and my head had not widened.
Victor stared at the crowd far below then yelled at Henry who stood off to the side. Henry pointed a finger at himself and mouthed something. He walked over to Detective Lee and grabbed the megaphone.
“Victor, come down, please,” Henry said. “Don’t do this to your family.”
With his left hand, Victor motioned for Henry to climb the tower. Detective Lee, Henry, and my own personal detective consulted. Then Henry started the long climb up.
“Are you letting me go?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
This was a heck of a time for Victor to go all inscrutable. Henry reached the top of the platform and threw his arms out as if to hug Victor. His father-in-law responded in a less familial manner by leveling the gun at him.
“Victor, what’s going on? That detective said you killed Joey and Keiki? That’s crazy.”
“I could never kill my daughter,” Victor said, “and that’s how I always thought of Keiki. As my daughter. Joey’s fall was an accident, but the detective is right. It was my fault. I came up here to discuss a personal matter with him. When Joey wouldn’t listen, I grew frustrated and shoved him.”
His eyes clouded over. “I’ll never forget the sound of his scream. I raced down the stairs. When I reached the bottom of the tower, I could tell he was dead. It was too late to help him. So I left. Left Joey there to be discovered the next morning.”
“It’s not too late to confess to the police,” I said. “They’ll understand it was an accident. As for Keiki…”
“I didn’t kill Keiki,” Victor screamed. His eyes bulged, and for a minute, I thought they would pop out of their sockets. Lee shouted via the megaphone once again.
“Enough of this,” Victor said. “Henry, strap her into that harness and attach her to the line at the far right. Once she’s clamped in, you can climb back down. Then it will be my turn. For now, I need her as my hostage.”
“But…” I started before Victor shushed me.
“Do all hostages talk this much?” he muttered, watching as Henry attempted to get me into the zip-line harness, not the easiest task when dealing with a full-figured woman.
Henry finally succeeded in buckling me in. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of tan gloves and handed them to me.
I stared at them in confusion.
“Put them on,” he said. “You’ll need them.”
“Stop talking to her,” commanded Victor. “You can go back down.”
“Please,” Henry pleaded. “Let us help you.”
Victor shook his head. “It’s too late for me now. Just tell…,” he hesitated and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Tell my daughter and Kiana I love them.”
Henry sighed and disappeared down the stairs. With his exit, any hope that Victor might release me, disappeared.
Chapter 58
Trapped in my harness, I was a tiny––okay not that tiny––pawn in this entire drama.
I swiveled my head left. “Victor, please don’t do anything you might regret.” Which by my definition would include anything involving his gun and me.
He glared. “No wonder you’re still single. Do you ever stop talking?”
Geez. Someone woke up on the wrong side of his bed. But where would Victor wake up tomorrow? Did he have an exit strategy? And if so, how did I fit into his plan?
He began strapping himself into the harness on the zip-line running parallel to mine. The two lines were about six feet apart. With my torso hooked to the line, I couldn’t get out of the contraption without help, so I wasn’t a menace to Victor. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t shoot me if I provoked him. Apparently, his concept of provocation included my chatter.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The troops must have thought Victor was harmless now.
Crack! The sharp retort of Victor’s gun told them otherwise. I twisted to the right and peered down the steps. Uniformed officers crouched at the first and second landings. A brown-haired man, dressed in jeans and a white polo shirt lay on the stairs.
Victor shot Tom?
I screamed. Victor raced over to my side and shoved me. With my legs dangling in the air, I gasped as I began zipping above the valley WAY below. I shrieked loud enough for them to hear me in Sacramento.
My family and Tom’s faces flashed before my eyes as I soared through the air. My contacts watered as the treetops whizzed past in one giant green fuzzy blur. I vaguely remembered reading that the rider can control the speed of descent, but Henry hadn’t shown me how.
I zoomed above the canyon, afraid if I looked down I’d pass out. Eventually I would smack into the next tower’s platform, but no guide would be there to assist me. At the rate I sped toward the tower, it would be mere seconds before I crashed.
Chapter 59
I finally recalled seeing something attached to the cable above my head. I pulled it with all my might. My head whiplashed back and forth but I immediately slowed. I was grateful Henry had lent me his gloves. Otherwise, my palms would have been rawer than steak tartare. I sailed into the platform at a mere five miles an hour, landing with a thud on the platform.
I bent over, gasping for air. My knees wobbled as I turned and looked back across the canyon. After my speedy ride, my ears felt so clogged, I couldn’t be certain if more shots had been fired. Was Tom the man I’d seen lying on the stairs?
I was stuck in zip-line hell unable to go to my boyfriend’s rescue.
Or even my own since I had no idea how to unclamp myself from the zip-line. Where oh where was Victor?
The answer appeared a thousand feet away from me. Someone dressed in a brown shirt barreled toward the platform. What were the odds Victor was coming to rescue me? I didn’t need my mathematician daughter to tell me they were pretty low. If I wanted to leave this tower alive, it was up to me. Victor’s hands clasped his harness, but he could have tucked his small gun anywhere.
I swiveled my head right and left searching for something on the platform I could utilize to give Victor a proper greeting.
Thank goodness, Henry’s crew hadn’t finished their clean-up. I saw a loose fragment of wood a couple of feet long leaning against the side of the platform. I frantically tried to release the clasps that were binding me. It was even harder getting the contraption off than it had been getting it on. I worried I would be too late.
I looked up. Victor was slowing down, seconds away from greeting me. My fingers felt like I was wearing thimbles on all ten digits.
Finally. I was free. I bent over and with board in hand, prepared to meet a murderer.
Chapter 60
Bam!
Victor’s head drooped forward, and a trail of blood trickled down his right cheek.
I must be either stronger or angrier than I’d realized. I only wanted to stop Victor, not kill him
I struggled with his harness so I could perform first aid on the man. He surprised me by suddenly reaching into his pocket.
“Stay back,” Victor ordered, the gun wavering in his shaky hand.
Okay. Enough of this nonsense. I kicked my remaining shoe as high as a Rockette. The gun tumbled out of his hands, bouncing into the canyon. As Victor watched its descent, I whacked his skull once more with the hunk of wood.
He slumped over, unmoving. Voices calling from the other side thrilled me to no end.
Minutes later, Henry landed on my platform. Shortly after his arrival, one uniformed officer arrived. Detective Lee zipped over last. His eyebrows lifted as he saw Victor strapped in the harness, head lolling to one side.
“Is he dead?” Lee asked, in the same tone of voice he might have used if I had squashed a bug.
“I don’t think so.”
Lee grunted and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “too bad.” I grabbed the detective’s forearm and shook him hard. “Is Tom okay?”
“The bullet went through his thigh. An ambulance is on the way to take him to the hospital.”
“Will he be okay?” I asked again, needing confirmation.
The roar of the helicopter drowned out his reply but he nodded.
“Are they filming this?” I asked, reflexively wishing I’d stuck a comb in my short’s pocket.
He shrugged. “It’s difficult to stop a news crew from doing its job, but they’ve agreed to help us out. We’ve asked them to load up Mr. Yakamura here and take him in for processing at the police station. We’ll get his full confession then.”
“What about me?” I looked in all four directions but couldn’t detect any means of transportation that didn’t involve my body hanging from a cable.
Detective Lee’s smile widened. “You get to ride the entire zip-line course for free. Heck of a deal.”
Chapter 61
The next hour was a blur. A treetop zip-lining blur, since the only way to get back to the center was to ride all eight runs. With Henry by my side providing me with zip tips, I felt like a pro by the time I reached our final stop. A jeep identified with the KL logo waited for Henry and me at the last platform and transported us to the visitor’s center. Lee and the other officer accompanied Victor in the helicopter.
Tom was my primary concern and his health was all I could concentrate on as I flew over all five hundred acres of Koffee Land. My goal was to get to the hospital fast. But, first, I had to hug every member of my family. Stan got two hugs because he’d recovered my missing shoe.
Ritz was beside himself with the discovery of Victor’s theft and subsequent murders. Regan decided she should stay at Koffee Land and try to do some damage control. I visualized the director, producer and Stacey Leung-Crawford huddled together, trying to assess whether a murder and kidnapping would help market the show. What was it PR people always said? There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Ritz would soon discover if that statement was true.
My personal mission was to check on my wounded detective. We all jumped in the rental car and Stan drove, following the police to the hospital where the ambulance had taken Tom. When we arrived, the nurse informed us he was still in surgery. She escorted us to the waiting room where I paced back and forth, my legs still rubbery from flying through the air.
“Laurel, you’re going to wear out the carpet,” said Mother.
“I feel so horrible. Here Tom came over for a few days of R&R and he ends up getting shot because of me.”
“Well, you wondered how he felt about you,” Stan said, “Guess you have your answer.”
I mulled this over. “Tom would have done the same for any hostage.”
Stan shrugged. “Probably. But how often can you say a fella took a bullet for you.”
Hopefully never again.
In mid-afternoon, they moved Tom from the recovery room to his own room. After the staff got him settled, the nurse announced a family member could visit him. The three of us exchanged looks. None of us qualified for that role.
“I’m his fiancée,” I finally said. The nurse’s dark eyes zeroed in on my bare and ring-less left hand.
“Tom just proposed last night and the ring didn’t fit,” I replied. Stan grinned and gave me a thumbs-up behind the nurse’s back.
She threw me a suspicious look and I smiled sweetly. “I just want to say hi. I promise I won’t tire him out.”
“The man took a bullet for her.” Stan dramatically placed his hands on his heart demonstrating he should stick to loan underwriting, not acting.
“Exactly,” she said, “which is why you get five minutes and that’s it. And just you, the fiancée or whatever.”
I took an elevator up two floors then went in search of room 417. I thought the occupant of the first bed was a cadaver until I realized the body wasn’t cold yet. The man just looked old enough to be Methuselah’s grandfather.
I pushed a blue curtain aside and found Tom asleep, his face pale and his right arm connected to an assortment of tubes. I sat in the orange plastic visitor chair next to his bed and carefully lifted his left hand. The poor guy didn’t need to be disturbed. I just wanted to hold onto him and thank him, even if he was sedated and unable to hear me.
Tom’s hand was large, strong and remarkably mobile for a guy recovering from anesthesia. His thumb rubbed mine in a circular fashion in an area on my hand that was evidently a long-lost erogenous zone. I scooted my chair back, and his eyes flashed open.
“You’re awake?” I asked, ever the brilliant detective.
He sighed. “Thank God, you’re alive. Before they loaded me in the ambulance, someone said Victor had been captured. But no one knew where you were.”
“I was playing Tarzan and Jane zip-lining through the jungle. Unfortunately my Tarzan was on his way to the hospital instead of by my side.”
His tired eyes apologized. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“Are you kidding? You got shot trying to stop Victor. How can I ever thank you?”
Tom tried to prop himself up on the pillow but his IV lines tangled. I leaned over to unscramble them. Tom was in a weakened state and needed those fluids.
But evidently he wasn’t so weak that he couldn’t grab me with his good arm and draw me close. “Having you in my arms, or at least one of them, is thanks enough.”
His lips met mine. The heat of his lips coursed through my body. I felt faint and put my hand out to steady myself. Then I realized I was about to press down on his thigh, exactly where he’d been shot. I shifted my left hand and it landed in a more central location. His quick response was more than I’d anticipated.
Wow. It was good to know it takes more than a bullet to deactivate my detective!
Chapter 62
The Nazi nurse arrived to discover us mid-embrace. I was ushered out of the hospital with a stern warning not to return until the next day if I wanted my “fiancé” to heal properly. After a day of zip-line bonding with nature, I would have loved to drop into one of the hospital’s empty beds for an hour or two, or twelve. Stan drove Mother and me back to the hotel where dinner and a soft duvet awaited. We were out for the count before ten o’clock.
Mother and I might have slept until noon if Regan hadn’t called my cell at nine.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
I shifted under the covers. Ugh. “I’ll survive.”
“Excellent. We have a surprise for you at Koffee Land.”
“Gee, thanks, but I think I’ve encountered enough surprises at Koffee Land to last me for this vacation.” Or a lifetime.
“Please, Laurel,” she pleaded with me. “Ritz is so grateful you discovered Victor’s coffee-stealing scheme and solved the murders that he wants to honor you at a banquet tonight.”
My senses were starting to awaken even without my morning coffee. “How do you define ‘honoring’ me? Is he going to present me with a gold-plated coffee bean?”
“They’re going to film our dinner for the news tonight. And Ritz has some type of award for you.”
“Regan, tell Ritz thanks. I’m not really into that kind of publicity. He can ship a bag of Donkey balls and a thank you note to Placerville. That’s reward enough.”
“Please. It would mean so much to your brother and me. And I’m sure your mother would be thrilled.”
Hmm. I’d never won anything before. Unless you counted my “Catawba melon” trophy for the highest gross in a golf tournament. I was fairly certain that didn’t count. If it made my family happy, I could sacrifice myself and accept whatever Ritz offered.
I agreed that Stan, Mother and I would arrive at Koffee Land by four that afternoon. Mother was thrilled at the invitation and even more excited that Regan and Dave’s marriage seemed on the mend. It was hard to believe it took a murder investigation for them to resolve their differences. But when communication flounders and imaginations go wild, it sometimes takes adversity to bring a couple together.
I wondered how successful the winner of The Bride and the Bachelor would be in keeping their televised relationship alive and well. Based on the People magazine covers I peruse at the supermarket, the life span of a televised marriage proposal is shorter than the life span of a fruit fly. Was the reason for the short-lived engagements due to the contenders’ desire for fame and notoriety, not for a real relationship? Amanda seemed sincere in her efforts to win the heart of Jacques Cointreau. But according to Walea, fame and fortune were the sole reasons her stepsister had entered the competition.
Oddly, we’d never learned the name of Keiki’s older boyfriend. Could it have been Ritz? With Koffee Land as the venue for the reality show, he possessed enough influence to get her on the show. But why would he want to kill Keiki? Did she threaten to tell his wife about his infidelity?
Maybe Pilar had discovered the affair herself and decided to remove Keiki from the show and out of Ritz’s life.
My head spun with an endless pool of suspects. Detective Lee had informed us he was certain Victor would eventually confess to both murders. Lee might be comfortable with his suspect, but I was far from positive that we’d discovered Keiki’s killer. Victor’s protestations that he had nothing to do with his stepdaughter’s demise had seemed heartfelt to me.
Mother and I spent a few hours picking up souvenirs for my kids and her husband. I found a cute sundress for Jenna and figured there was a fifty percent chance she might not hate it. It’s so difficult to buy for teens.
I’d spoken with Ben earlier in the day, and he’d asked if I would bring home one of the giant sea turtles for him. Instead, I chose a stuffed turtle and a children’s book on marine life from the well-stocked Kona Stories bookstore. One of us might as well learn something about ocean inhabitants. Someday Ben might grow up to become a marine biologist like Amanda.
I leafed through the book while I waited for my mother to finish shopping. Contrary to what I’d previously thought, humpback whales do not mate for life. Instead, they come to Hawaii every year in late winter and early spring so the males can chase after the females, frequently wooing them with their singing. The males head butt and tail slap other males who chase after the same hottie female.
When it comes to spring break, boys will be boys. The similarities in wooing behavior were interesting although I’ll take a two-legged suitor any day of the week. Or even a one-and-a-half-legged guy like Tom.
I felt bad that I hadn’t seen Steve since Tom’s surprise arrival. What an idiot I was to be suspicious of him and the dead dancer. I’d feel better if I could make amends before we flew home the next day.
I called Regan back and asked if Steve could be included in tonight’s celebratory dinner. Since it was a Tuesday, he wouldn’t have a sunset sail on his schedule. And I wouldn’t have to worry about the guys duking it out with Tom still stuck in the hospital. I called Tom before we left for Koffee Land. He sounded bored and anxious to leave, but the doctor insisted on keeping him one more night for observation. I promised we’d stop by for a short visit, and hopefully a long kiss, on our way back to the hotel.
Shortly after four, Mother, Stan and I pulled into the parking lot of the center. We’d spent so much time at Koffee Land this past week, it was beginning to feel like my second home. A big sign informed visitors the center was closed for a private event. Another sign directed invited guests to head to the pavilion.
Soothing Hawaiian music poured out of the first-rate speaker system. The camera crew followed Stacey Leung-Crawford around the property as she pointed in various directions, extolling the virtues of the destination coffee plantation. The commentator was dressed to perfection in an elegant ivory sheath and matching high-heeled sandals. That dress would remain stain-free for less than five minutes if I wore it. I guess on-camera newscasters are more graceful than yours truly.
The three of us stopped at the bar and ordered drinks. My lillikoi daiquiri arrived in a coconut shell with the requisite orchid, pineapple slice and maraschino cherry on a swizzle stick. I sipped the refreshing concoction and smiled. Talk about the nectar of the Gods. I’d bet Pele, the fire goddess, would have been a lot less vengeful if she’d drunk these on a daily basis.
I waved at Regan who stood between my brother and Steve. They chatted with Ritz and a tiny dark-haired woman with piercing black eyes and a beak-like nose. Regan motioned to us so we walked over to join them.
Before I could embrace my brother and sister-in-law, Ritz engulfed me in a hug that threatened to bruise the few remaining body parts not injured during the course of this vacation.
“Here she is,” he shouted, holding up my right arm in his left, making me feel like the winner of the World Wide Wrestling championship. The men all cheered. The guests, some of whom looked as confused as I did, applauded as well.
The tiny woman introduced herself as Pilar. “So you are the magnificent Laurel,” she said, her gaze running from the top of my desperately-need-a trim curls to my slightly scuffed turquoise wedges.
“Um, yes, I am the magni…–I’m Laurel. It’s so nice to meet you. Ritz has told us…” My voice trailed off when I realized Ritz had told us zilch about his wife. “So how is the reality show coming?”
“They’re behind schedule due to yesterday’s little hiccup.” Pilar appeared miffed by the scene with Victor the previous day. I was a tad miffed myself when she described my hostage situation as a little “hiccup.”
“My husband needs to be more cautious when selecting employees,” she muttered.
“I still can’t believe Victor stole from me and killed young Joey.” Ritz shook his head ruefully. “And his beautiful stepdaughter. Unbelievable.”
“Keiki seemed like such a sweetheart,” Stan interjected.
Pilar sniffed. “That young woman was no sweetheart. When she discovered something she wanted, she went after it.”
My mother and I exchanged glances. Who or what was Pilar referring to?
As I attempted to think of a way to question Pilar without accusing Ritz of any hanky-panky, she answered my question. “That Keiki wheedled her way into Edward’s heart. Or more specifically, into Edward’s pants.”
I almost dropped my cocktail when Stan and Mother both shouted in unison. “Who’s Edward?”
“Edward Maples is the director of The Bride and the Bachelor. He’s also the father of one of Keiki’s dancer friends. As soon as Keiki discovered he was responsible for choosing the contestants, she went after him like a heat-seeking missile.”
“Now, dear.” Ritz attempted to soothe his wife. “Keiki would have made an excellent candidate for the show.”
She rolled her eyes. “We have a nice line-up of girls now. And hopefully there won’t be any more hiccups.” Pilar lasered a frown in my direction. I merely smiled. My goal was to remain in a hiccup-free zone all night.
Stacey Leung-Crawford joined us. “Laurel, how nice to see you have recovered from yesterday’s dreadful affair.”
Now here was a woman who took a hostage situation seriously.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m just relieved the police have Victor in custody.”
“We’d like to interview you on camera now.” Stacey pursed her lips and looked me over. “Do you want to put on some make-up?”
I thought I already had. “No, I’m good.” My goal was to get the interview over without looking like a complete idiot.
Stacey and I left the others and headed toward the bank of cameras. We passed the Bride and the Bachelor contestants who glimmered and shimmered in the bright sunlight. Their slinky dresses were far removed from your basic Hawaiian muumuu. Amanda had tucked her signature flower into her long blonde hair. Today she chose a coral hibiscus, pinned over her left ear, which perfectly matched the flowers on her strapless dress. I gave her a thumbs-up as I walked by.
When we reached the area below the pavilion, I came face to face with an array of cameras.
Great. Nothing I love more than the opportunity to embarrass myself on TV. Was I a lucky wahine or what?
Stacey motioned to the closest camera guy. “Ted, I want you to pan the contestants. Try to get a close-up of each one. Then zoom in on Laurel and me.”
Stacey smiled and patted my knee, which was shaking more than a hula dancer’s hips. “You’ll be fine,” she assured me.
As she observed the camera crew filming the contestants, her expression morphed from Ms. Congeniality to Ms. Executive Producer. “That stupid girl. I keep telling her if she’s going to wear a flower in her hair, it has to be over the right ear.”
“Huh?” I responded.
“That blonde girl, Amanda, she insists on wearing a flower over her left ear. Hawaiian tradition maintains that wearing it over her left ear signifies she is already taken. That she has a boyfriend, a lover. I’ve told her over and over, but that girl just can’t seem to get it right.”
Geez. What a perfectionist, I thought, as Stacey mumbled under her breath about dumb blondes. She yelled at Amanda, pointing to her ear, but Amanda just shook her head no. In my opinion, if Amanda wanted to wear her trademark flower over the wrong ear, that was her decision. She must have a perfectly good reason for her floral faux pas.
I ogled the beautiful women who were dressed to the elevens in sequined or beaded cocktail dresses. Some of the women wore rhinestone earrings so long they brushed against their shoulders. I personally thought Amanda looked terrific in her floral floor-length dress, its simplicity set off by the tropical flower over the “wrong” ear. She’d left her other ear unadorned.
And Amanda was definitely not a dumb blonde. Not with a degree in marine biology. No one appeared more driven to win the bachelor than her. I’d assumed her daily floral adornment was due to her love for Hawaiian traditions. But if that was the case, why did she flout custom and insist on wearing a flower over the wrong ear?
Or did she have to cover that ear for a specific reason?
Chapter 63
“Amanda mentioned she was a last-minute substitute,” I said to Stacey. “What did she mean by that?”
“When we were notified of Keiki’s death, we had to find a replacement and fast. Amanda was on the list and available to jump in.” Stacey sighed and looked at her watch. “We’re behind schedule so there’s nothing I can do about her now. Are you ready for your interview?”
When I didn’t respond, she repeated herself. “Laurel, are you listening?”
I was listening. But I was also adding two and two together and not liking the result.
Stacey poked my arm and greeted her viewers.
“Tonight I’m joined by a woman who survived a true crime episode that occurred here at Koffee Land yesterday. Laurel McKay was taken hostage by a vicious murderer who killed not once, but twice on this island.” Stacey shoved the microphone in my face. “What did it feel like to have a gun pointed at you?”
Not so good. Kind of like the last time a gun was pointed at me. And why was it every time a gun was pressed to my forehead, I needed to pee? What was up with that?
“I was worried, of course, but deep down I didn’t think Victor would hurt me.”
Stacey stepped back and splayed her palm across her chest, as if stunned by my comment. “But the man threw one of his workers off the zip-line platform. And he murdered his stepdaughter!”
“I still don’t believe that Victor killed Keiki––” I protested. I stared at the contestants once again. How far would someone go to marry her Mr. Right? What measures would she take when she discovered that her friend had made it as a contestant on the show instead of herself? The “friend” who always won, whether the prize was boys or beauty pageants. Once again, Keiki had ruined her chance of winning, but this time she’d also destroyed her opportunity to meet the man of her dreams. My gaze settled on Amanda as her defiant green eyes met mine.
Stacey flashed me a confused look. “If Victor didn’t kill Keiki then who did?”
I pointed to Amanda and yelled. “That girl!”
Multiple cameras wheeled to follow my accusing finger. Amanda froze in place then turned and ran toward the parking lot, stumbling on her four-inch heels.
A sea of stunned faces surrounded me, but no one made a move to stop Amanda who’d recovered from her misstep. Was there a way to slow the fleeing suspect? We had to do something. I looked down at my drink.
Darn. I hated to waste the delicious daiquiri, but someone had to stop her. I dumped the liquid, bent my right arm back and hoped four years of playing outfield for my high school softball team would come in handy.
The coconut projectile missed Amanda’s head but caught her squarely in the back. She fell forward, tripping over the hem of her long dress. I slipped out of my wedges and raced to grab her before she could run off again. With my brother close behind, we cornered Amanda in less than a minute.
Dave held her thrashing arms, and I pinned her down by sitting on her. Sometimes an extra malasada or two does come in handy.
During the struggle, Amanda’s coral hibiscus fell off. I could now see the large crusty scab on the bottom of her left ear lobe.
“Let me go,” Amanda screamed. “I have a show to do.”
“Amanda, we know you killed Keiki.” I pushed my weight down on her struggling legs.
“She slept with the director and stole my spot,” Amanda hissed. “She knew how important this show was to me. I begged her to drop out. To give me an opportunity just once. But she made fun of me. Said I’d never beaten her in anything before, and I wouldn’t now. She told me I didn’t stand a chance with Jacques. She laughed at me. Said I was a nobody and I’d always be a nobody.” Amanda’s bitter laugh sent chills down my spine. “I showed her.”
Stacey and the camera crew arrived to capture our capture. Stacey huffed and puffed from her short jog. Her shortness of breath didn’t stop her from shoving the mike in Amanda’s flushed face. “Do you have anything to say to our viewers?”
Amanda leaned in to the microphone. “Remember to call 889-328-0012 and vote for me.” She smiled at the camera while Dave and I exchanged glances. This girl was officially a tropical fruitcake. Liz once joked that just because someone is a murder suspect, it doesn’t mean they aren’t entitled to meet the man of their dreams.
I doubt that killing off your competition is what Liz had in mind.
My mother had already called Detective Lee who wasn’t far from Koffee Land. In the interim, Dave and Steve tied Amanda to a tree using some of the TV cables. Steve, a master of nautical knots, guaranteed she couldn’t get away.
Amanda seemed to be reveling in all the attention. No one would ever refer to her as a nobody again. When the Bachelor stopped to gaze at the crazy woman who could have ended up as his bride, Amanda beamed as if she’d received Jacques’s marriage proposal. Between the live cameras and the flashing iPhones, this incident was certain to go viral in no time.
By the time Detective Lee arrived, Amanda had shared all with an audience of millions. She even explained how she’d committed the murder. Keiki thought she was meeting Edward the director for a midnight rendezvous. Instead, Amanda showed up, apologizing for their earlier argument and offered to celebrate Keiki’s success. The dancer could hardly refuse such a gracious request.
Keiki filled two glasses with daiquiri slushies. When she went to the ladies’ room, Amanda dumped some fast-acting sleeping pills in her friend’s daiquiri, put the drink back in the blender, and voila! A daiquiri guaranteed to send you to dreamland. Or in Keiki’s situation, to her death.
When Keiki became sleepy, Amanda guided her over to the rock wall. Keiki tried to hold on to Amanda for support but only succeeded in ripping off her killer’s earring before she tumbled to her death on the rocks below.
Steve’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets as he listened to Amanda’s true confession.
“Geez, I can’t believe I hired that ding-a-ling,” he said.
“A deadly ding-a-ling for sure,” I commented. “I see a temporary insanity plea in her future.”
Stan chimed in. “I see a new reality show in her future––Amanda does time.”
Mother shook her head. “I never would have guessed that girl’s desire to win the bachelor would lead to murder.”
“People do the craziest things in the name of love. Or what they think is love.” I gazed at my brother and sister-in-law holding each other tight. “It’s a shame it took Keiki’s murder investigation to bring Dave and Regan back together, but at least there is one positive result of this whole affair.”
“I can go home with a light heart after seeing the two of them together,” Mother said. “I’m sorry this trip didn’t turn out to be much of a vacation for you.”
“You mean getting pushed out of a boat, thrown from an ATV, and involuntarily going zip-lining isn’t your idea of a vacation?” I asked my mother. We both chuckled. I would have stories to share when I returned to the bank.
During a commercial break, Amanda confessed to ramming me off my ATV. After we told her on Friday we had new evidence regarding the killer and needed to solve the case before we left town, she’d become worried. Steve had included her in his Friday night poker party and that’s when she learned we were going on the ATV ride the next day. I never even considered that Amanda was one of the players.
Since Amanda didn’t have to be at Koffee Land on Saturday, she devised a plan to incapacitate me until my flight home, leaving her free to pursue her marital dreams. Her parents lived in the Waipi’o Valley so she was familiar with all of the trails and the tour excursion times. All she had to do was take one of their ATV’s and catch up with our group. Her intent was just to hurt me, not send me to my death. While I was happy to discover Amanda didn’t intend to kill me, that didn’t make her any less of a looney tune.
Detective Lee joined Mother and me. “Ms. McKay, thank you for, um, subduing the suspect.”
“Anytime.” I smiled. “As you can see, Amanda provided you with a full confession.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure how the Prosecuting Attorney will feel about her babbling on the air. We’ll worry about that later.” He tossed a hopeful glance my way. “You’re going home tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Yes, I hate to leave the island though.”
“And we’ll be sorry to see you go.” Lee managed to keep a straight face. “Let me know if you’re ever on the island again.”
“Do you want to get together?” I asked, surprised by his invitation.
“No, I want to know when to plan my own vacation.”
Chapter 64
We spent another hour with Lee and his men, but after Amanda’s televised true confession I had little to add. I was ready to take off when Steve appeared by my side.
“I don’t suppose you’d like a permanent job working on a boat?” He grinned. “We provide great benefits.”
I smiled. I had no doubt working for Steve would be beneficial for any single woman. “That’s a great offer, but it’s time for me to get back home to my kids and my…”
“Boyfriend,” Steve interjected. “He’s a lucky guy.”
Well, technically, Tom had yet to get lucky, but one of these days––
I blushed. “I hope you didn’t think I was leading you on. As you may have gathered, Tom and I still have many issues to resolve.”
“Love is complicated,” he replied. “Just let me know if you ever want to sail away into the sunset.”
“I will, although next time I’m going to require that your crew complete personality profiles in advance.”
He shook his head back and forth. “What are the odds someone that cute could be such a nut? I had a sit down with Timmy yesterday and told him he needed to confess what he’d been up to before I let him back on the boat.”
“Was it drugs?” I asked.
“Let’s just say he was taking care of a “financial” transaction for his older brother. Timmy’s father passed away two years ago. After losing Joey, Timmy couldn’t bear the thought of something also happening to his brother, Mike, his only remaining relative. Mike had been hanging out with a bad crowd. Timmy swore he and his brother will never get involved in illegal deliveries again. It’s not easy for these young guys, but I’ll be there if he needs someone to talk to.”
“He’s lucky to have someone like you,” I said. “By the way, did Timmy ever confess to pushing me overboard?”
Steve looked sheepish. “He came clean but I’m still not certain how to handle his confession. He saw you struggling with the life vests and went to help. A gust of wind knocked him into you, and then you went over the railing. He was completely freaked out, but before he could say anything, Rafe noticed you in the water. Between Timmy’s previous threats to Keiki and his other illicit activities, he was afraid you as well as the authorities would assume he’d pushed you on purpose. Since you were rescued so quickly, he decided to keep mum. He asked you to please forgive him.”
“I knew it was Timmy,” I cried, feeling vindicated in my assumption. But with so much tragedy occurring in the young man’s life recently, I couldn’t bear to be responsible for him going to jail for an inadvertent push.
“Tell him I’ll forgive him if he promises the next time he knocks a passenger overboard, he’ll confess a lot earlier.” I hugged Steve good-bye and was pleased that nary a body part tingled at his touch. My hormones had finally gotten their act together.
It was getting late and I wanted to see Tom before visiting hours ended. I didn’t know if he would be well enough to travel home the next day with the rest of us.
When Stan, Mother, and I arrived at the hospital, a nurse informed us Tom had already checked out and returned to the hotel.
“Such a shame he left so soon,” she confided. “His George Clooney eyes were so distracting I almost forgot to unplug his IV before he left. Do you know if he’s on the market?”
I informed her Tom was not on the market. He had a girlfriend, one who couldn’t wait to be in his arms. I just hoped he felt well enough to put his arms around said girlfriend.
Stan played chauffeur which played havoc with my nerves. He insisted on driving under the speed limit so we could savor our last night on the island. I had mixed emotions about returning home. I couldn’t wait to see my children. But much as I enjoy working at Hangtown Bank, experiencing life on the island and meeting people who’d had the courage to pursue new careers had me thinking.
And where did Tom and I stand? Who would decide when and if we would take our romance to the next level?
“You seem fidgety, honey,” Mother called from the back seat. “I sense it has something to do with Tom.”
Is she perceptive or what? Or are all mothers of adult children intuitive about their grown-up kid’s needs?
I twisted in my seat and peered into the back of the car. “I guess all the marital melodrama of the last few days has me wondering if I’m ready to be in a relationship. It obviously takes a ton of work to keep a marriage on solid ground. Maybe I should stick to reading about romance instead of trying to maintain one.”
“Reading is fine,” Stan interjected, “but it’s no substitute for the real thing.”
My mother leaned forward and patted me on the shoulder. “When it’s right, you’ll know. Trust me.”
Trusting my mother was easy. Trusting my own instincts was the real issue.
Chapter 65
My phone beeped as I inserted our room key into the door. I pulled my cell out of my purse and checked my three new text messages, all from Tom.
Message 1: You made the news once again.
Message 2: Are you okay?
Message 3: I’m lonely.
I grinned at the last message. Did Tom truly miss me or was he missing the excitement of his normal life, juggling Kristy and his career? And an occasional date with me. I dialed his cell.
“So now you’re catching a killer a day?” He laughed. “What are you going to do when you return home? Join the Sheriff’s department?”
“I think I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet of underwriting loan files. At least no one ever wants to kill me at the bank.” I stopped then amended my statement. “Unless I reject their loans. So what happened with you? I thought your doctor insisted you remain in the hospital another night.”
“Lee called to check on me. I think it bothered him that a Hawaii hostage situation resulted in the shooting of an out-of-state police officer. He offered to spring me from the hospital and sent someone to bring me back here. Of course, that was before you and Dave tackled Amanda and screwed up Lee’s day. Nice throw, by the way.”
I giggled, relieved Tom sounded so chipper. I was also relieved all the island drama that had tormented us was over.
“Did Amanda’s confession make the local evening news?”
“Not just the local news. They’ve been re-playing your tackle and her confession during commercial breaks all afternoon. Not to mention national news. Jimmy Kimmel thinks you’re a hoot!”
I plopped on the bed and slipped out of my shoes. “Jimmy Kimmel? Must be a dull news day.”
“Maybe. Is Amanda as cuckoo as she sounds?”
“More than you can imagine. I think she’s still hoping the callers will vote for her despite her arrest. If Detective Lee hadn’t commandeered her phone, she’d be tweeting from the cellblock.”
“Enough about that wacko. Right now, I’m imagining that I’m holding you in my arms.” His low baritone warmed my heart and every nerve in my body.
“Do you feel well enough for me to come up for a few minutes?” I asked. My heart was pounding louder than the music playing in the poolside bar down below.
“Please.”
Chapter 66
I spent an hour making myself presentable for Tom. My skirmish with Amanda had added bruises to the tie-dyed collection left over from my ATV incident. Although considering Tom’s somewhat precarious medical condition, it wasn’t likely he would be privy to any of my battle scars.
Would he? I mulled over his comments and wondered how perky he felt. Was the island working its magic on the homicide detective or was I working my own magic on him? Did my crazy escapades turn him on? Or off?
I knocked on Tom’s hotel room door then realized he’d left it propped open. I didn’t want to be responsible for his medical condition worsening, so I planned to stay a few minutes then return to my own room.
“Tom,” I called out softly. I pushed the heavy door open before closing it behind me. Tom sat in bed, leaning against the headboard, his leg propped up on two overstuffed hotel pillows.
For a guy who’d been shot less than thirty-six hours earlier, he looked darn good. He’d even managed to get some sun. Lying on the stairs of the zip-line tower with noontime rays beating down on your bloodied body is one way to get a tan.
I raced to Tom’s side then stopped, afraid any sudden movement would result in a 911 call. I kissed his forehead and perched on the side of his bed.
Tom grabbed my hand and held it, neither of us talking for a rare minute.
“Did you know it sometimes takes a near-death experience to open a person’s eyes?” he asked me.
“This entire vacation has been an eye-opener for me,” I said. “Wondering and worrying about the difficulties of maintaining a relationship.”
His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened. “So after what you’ve encountered this week, you’ve decided the difficulties aren’t worth the reward?”
I looked away as I contemplated his question. “No. What I’ve learned is that a couple has to keep the channels of communication open at all times.”
Tom rubbed my thumb and my nerve endings jumped around like a game of Tiddlywinks.
“Do you think you and I are ready to make that channel a two-way street?” he asked.
I hesitated then nodded. He bent his head down. As our lips met, the connection felt like more than just the heat of lust or passion. It felt right.
Tom drew me close and draped his left leg over mine. I pulled back for an instant afraid I might hurt him.
“Are you okay?” I asked, breathing hard, my head nestled against his chest.
He stroked my hair lightly. “I have never felt better.”
“I don’t want to do anything to make your injury worse.”
His deep laugh and response was all I needed to hear.
“Haven’t you ever heard that old expression––no pain, no gain?”
THE END
Laurel’s Favorite Tropical Cocktails
Laurel decided to hold a blog contest for daiquiri recipes and other tropical concoctions. A committee of cocktail connoisseurs sampled the recipes and proclaimed these very tasty winners.
THE CHRISTOPHER ROBIN (Christine Hyde and Robin Ylitalo)
Fill a champagne flute halfway with your favorite champagne
Add one shot Malibu Rum
Add orange juice to below rim
Top with Grenadine
PAMA-TIKI (Sherry Joyce)
½ oz. PAMA Pomegranate Liquer (Pomegranate juice works too)
1 oz. white Rum
2 oz. pineapple juice (Fruit for the day)
1 ½ oz. sweetened coconut milk or cream of coconut (good for your bones, not your waistline
Pour mixture in a tall glass filled with crushed ice. Add pineapple wedge for garnish. Turn on beach music, close your eyes and lay on the floor. You’ll end up there anyway!
PEACH FUZZ (by Linda Lohman)
Into a blender add:
1 6oz can frozen lemonade
a cup or two of ice
sliced ripe peaches (to the top of the blender)
1 6oz can Captain Morgan’s Spicy Run
Laurel’s Favorite Daiquiri Recipes
HEMINGWAY DAIQUIRI (as modified by Heather Haven)
1 1/2 oz light rum
1/2 oz maraschino liqueur
1/2 oz grapefruit juice
3/4 oz fresh lime juice
1/2 oz simple syrup*
2 dashes grapefruit bitters*
*optional
I admire Ernest Hemingway for many reasons, and second to none is his love for the cocktail. Add to ice in a shaker and shake that kitten until it purrs. Pour into a martini glass and add a toothpick with a grapefruit section and a maraschino cherry on it. Yummy!
THE DAIQUIRI TO DIE FOR (Peggy Partington)
One bottle of Rum (light or dark)
One lime
Two shot glasses or just a straw
One tropical beach
One handsome young man with six-pack abs
Put them all together and enjoy!
Also by Cindy Sample
Other Books in the Laurel McKay series
Dying for a Date
Dying for a Dance
Dying for a Dude
Acknowledgments
Many thanks and hugs to my critique group for their astute observations, unfailing support and willingness to answer hundreds of emails from me: Kathy Asay, Pat Foulk, Rae James, and Terri Judd. Thanks to friends who were willing to read the early drafts and provide excellent suggestions: Bonnie, C.J., Carole, Donna, Ed, Jana, Jonathan, Kristin, Liana, Linda, Lisa, Lynne, Mary Beth, Michele D. and Michelle K.
A special mahalo to everyone on the Big Island of Hawaii. A big thank you goes to Lt. Gerald Wike, Criminal Investigations, and Chris Loos, Media Relations for the Hawaii Police Department. I appreciate the advice I received from the staff at Kona Zip-line, Les at Ride the Rim ATV, Brenda and Joy at Kona Stories, and Lili Alba for her hula and tour assistance.
The support and encouragement I receive from my fellow Sisters in Crime (Sacramento and Northern California) and the authors who belong to Sacramento Valley Rose, California Writer’s Club and NCPA keeps me motivated when my spirits flag.
I am extremely grateful to Ritz Naygrow and Stacey Leung-Crawford for their generous donations to the Sacramento Library Foundation, and to Steve Bohannon and Glenn Hakanson for their donations to the Sacramento Opera. I enjoyed creating all of your characters.
Thanks to my editors, Kristen Weber and Kathy Asay. Also to my wonderful cover artist, Karen Phillips, who created so many great choices for my Daiquiri cover contest. We never imagined we would receive advice from over 350 participants.
And last, but certainly not least, thanks to those fans from around the world whose emails make this journey so much fun. Keep them coming!
About the Author
Although Cindy Sample’s initial dream was to be a mystery writer, she put aside her literary longings for a weekly paycheck, landing a job as a receptionist. Her career eventually led to the position of CEO of a nationwide mortgage banking company.
After one too many corporate mergers, Cindy found herself plotting murder instead of plodding through paperwork. Her experiences with on-line dating sites fueled the concept for her first mystery, Dying for a Date. The sequel, Dying for a Dance, a finalist for the 2012 LEFTY award for best humorous mystery, and winner of the 2012 NCPA best fiction award, is based on her adventures in the glamorous world of ballroom dancing. Cindy thought her protagonist, Laurel McKay, needed a vacation in Hawaii, which resulted in Dying for a Daiquiri. Never has research been so much fun. Laurel returns to Placerville in Dying for a Dude.
Cindy is past president of the Sacramento chapter of Sisters in Crime. She has served on the boards of the Sacramento Opera and YWCA. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Romance Writers of America.
Cindy has two wonderful adult children who live too far away. She loves chatting with readers so feel free to contact her on any forum.
Sign up for Cindy’s newsletter at http://cindysamplebooks.com/contact/
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Email Cindy at cindy@cindysamplebooks.com
SWEET’S SWEETS
The Second Samantha Sweet Mystery
by Connie Shelton
Sweet’s Sweets
Published by Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of
Columbine Publishing Group
PO Box 416, Angel Fire, NM 87710
Copyright © 2011 Connie Shelton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed and bound in the United States of America
ISBN 1456533509
ISBN-13 978-1456533502
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.
Book layout and design by Secret Staircase Books
Cover illustration © Geraktv
First trade paperback edition: January, 2011
First e-book edition: January, 2011
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
Author’s Note
Readers who might be familiar with the Taos County Sheriff’s Department will undoubtedly notice that the department described in my series is quite a bit smaller than the actual. For story purposes, I’ve given them fewer deputies and other personnel. I’ve also moved the location of the offices. No need to write and inform me of my ‘mistakes.’ It’s been done on purpose. I hope you’ll simply enjoy the story for what it is, including the ‘magic’ parts!
Once again I extend my thanks to Susan Slater, for your editorial suggestions and for all the good catches you make in reading my work. And to my readers, my thanks for your loyalty and for recommending my books to others; you make it all worthwhile. You are the best!
For Dan. It’s amazing how twenty years have just flown by!
Thanks for being such a wonderful partner.
Get another Connie Shelton book—FREE! Click here to find out how
Prologue
The woman tensed. Were those footsteps behind her on the dark street? She couldn’t be sure. She spun to check—saw nothing.
Catching a whiff of cologne—or was it someone’s garden?—she picked up her pace. Where were the crowds? The people who normally jammed the plaza and surrounding streets on these early-autumn evenings were gone. Was it really that late?
She must have lingered in her lover’s bed far too many hours. She raised the collar of her light jacket, sniffed it. Did she smell of him? Despite a shower, she feared that she might carry his scent home.
There was always danger in these matters, the constant fear of being caught, the continual deception, even with her closest friends. The stress of keeping up appearances . . . it was all becoming too much.
But he loved her—didn’t he? She loved him, she felt certain of that. Nearly certain. And yet she couldn’t break the news to her husband. Wouldn’t rip the bandage off and get it over with cleanly. Couldn’t seem to leave the miserable, sham marriage behind and start a new life. The time wasn’t right, not yet
A scuff on the sidewalk behind her. She froze. Dared a glance. A shadow moved but she couldn’t be certain—a man, or merely a tree branch? For a moment she nearly let her guard down, almost didn’t care what happened to her.
But self-preservation prevailed.
She ran blindly up a side street, then spotted an alleyway just ahead. On a nano-second’s impulse she ducked into it. The stupid high heels were killing her feet; she’d never be able to outrun the stalker. What did she have for a weapon?
She fumbled her purse open, felt blindly for anything she might use to defend herself.
The footfalls resumed. Closer.
She held her breath.
Someone was there, mere feet from the alley. Her fingers touched her wallet, a lipstick, her car keys. They closed around a small knife she’d forgotten about, a pen knife her husband had left in the car. She’d intended to take it in the house. A four inch blade—silly, really, for self defense—but it might dissuade an attacker.
The footsteps, again. He seemed to pause and consider the alley. Ahead, as she remembered, the road curved to the north. For all he knew, she might have kept running, beyond his sight. She took his hesitation as uncertainty. She thumbed the blade of the knife open, pressing her back against the block wall.
What if it turned out to be her husband? Possibly the perfect opportunity to rid herself of him forever, to be with the man she really wanted. The thought flitted through her head in an instant, shocking her. But would she have the nerve?
A silhouette filled the alley. Oh god, she thought.
He stepped toward her. She edged away, two steps, bumped into something. He came forward. Instinct kicked in and her right hand slashed toward his face. The knife blade connected—she couldn’t tell where. But at once there was blood. A lot of it.
The man grabbed at his neck and crumpled to the ground. She leaped past his flailing legs. As he rolled to his back she caught a glimpse of his face. A stranger.
Chapter 1
October light filtered through a layer of grime on wide storefront windows, playing up the air of abandonment. Samantha Sweet viewed the challenge ahead of her as she scrawled her signature on the lease. Cleaning up a mess was nothing new to her. She relished the task ahead—refinishing the old wood-framed display cases, throwing out piles of old junk, making those front windows sparkle so that her scrumptious pastries could beckon the world to her door.
Sweet’s Sweets. Her own bake shop. Her dream.
She watched as Victor Tafoya, her new landlord, countersigned the papers. The seventy-five year old man reminded her of the Grinch, minus the green. Skinny, wizened, with a shock of sparse white hair which he usually covered with a battered straw hat, no matter the season—Tafoya was known around town for being miserly and grumpy but generally fair. However, Sam would rather deal with him than his son Carlos, who fancied himself something of a monarch here in Taos. Two terms as mayor, now running for governor of New Mexico, Carlos was reputed to share his father’s stingy ways, without the fairness. Sam dreaded the day he would take over the elder Tafoya’s rental properties.
She sighed and took the signed pages and key Victor Tafoya handed her. The old man grumbled something about how her check better clear the bank or he’d be back, then he walked out without another word.
Sam let a smile spread over her features as she turned and surveyed her little domain. As long as she paid her rent on time and was able to perform repairs herself, she shouldn’t need to deal with either of the Tafoyas for a long time. She loved her vision for this spot—and the location was perfect.
“Knocking, knocking . . .”
Ivan Petrenko, owner of Mysterious Happenings the bookshop next door, peered around the edge of the door. A longtime customer for her pastries, Ivan was an endearing little man whose curious mixture of Russian and French usually kept Sam guessing. Rumor had it that he had defected from Russia to Paris with his wife’s ballet troupe, but there had been no evidence of a wife here in Taos. She must have found Paris more alluring, at whatever point in time Ivan decided to move on to America.
“We are the neighbors now, eh?” He stepped into the room and surveyed the mess the former tenant had left behind.
“It’s going to need some cleanup, isn’t it?” Sam said.
“Oui, but Miss Samantha is how do you say, up to the task?”
Sam laughed. “Yes, indeed. I am. I hope to have the shop open in a week or so.”
Another tap at the door interrupted.
“Samantha . . . it’s official, then?” The newcomer was her other neighbor, Erika Davis-Jones—Riki D-J to everyone—who owned a dog-grooming shop to the south. They’d met through the book group at Mysterious Happenings, and Sam immediately took a liking to the petite British-born young woman who wasn’t a whole lot older than her own daughter.
Sam held up the pages of the lease. “Yep. Here I am.”
Riki squealed and danced around. “I’m so happy for you, Sam.”
Sam showed them around, pointing out the changes she planned to make. Her daughter, Kelly, had designed a logo for the shop in Sam’s favorite shades of purple, and Sam would use those same colors, along with gold trim, in the scheme throughout the store. A wall already divided the space roughly in half, and Sam had a bake oven, walk-in refrigerator, and all the best in equipment on order from a bakery supply house. She’d not revealed to most people where the money came from for her new venture, but there was sufficient cash to do it right and that’s just what she intended to do.
At the moment, though, the main requirement would be elbow grease. The previous tenant had not left on good terms with the Tafoyas—being four months behind on rent before they evicted him—so he’d taught them a lesson by leaving masses of cardboard boxes, unsold product, piles of paperwork and old brochures—generally anything he didn’t want to make the effort to move. And of course the Tafoyas didn’t care. The location, one block off the Taos Plaza, was so prime that they knew it would rent, in any condition. Enter Samantha Sweet and her dream of opening her own pastry shop.
“Is a good place,” Ivan said when they’d completed the quick tour.
“Hmm, it needs a spot of work,” Riki said.
Sam laughed out loud. “More than a ‘spot’ I’d say. But it’s doable. I’ll call up my old resources.” A dumpster and perhaps a couple of muscular teenage boys would come in handy.
“Ah yes, what about that?” Riki asked. “You’ve not quit your other job have you?”
Sam grimaced. Breaking into houses for a living was not how she wanted to spend the rest of her days, but she was under contract for another two years. It had seemed her only choice when money was so tight last year; she’d really needed the income just to scrape by.
“No, I’ll have to juggle both for awhile. Right now I’ve just got two properties in my care and they are pretty simple ones. I’ve suggested to my supervisor that he might shift some to other contractors, if there’s someone who can take them. But I don’t know how it’s going to work out. There are only two of us in the county right now.”
“Well, my shop is only closed on Sundays but if I can lend a hand . . .” The dog groomer patted Sam’s arm. “Better get back to it now.” She practically skipped toward the front door. “Later, Sam!”
“Ah, I am seeing cars at my place too,” said Ivan, heading that direction. “Pleasing to be your neighbor.”
Sam chuckled as he left. It was nice to be here among friends. She had a good feeling about the shop.
“Okay, let’s get busy,” she muttered to herself, walking out to her van parked in the alley behind the row of businesses.
She shed the jacket that had been necessary early this morning and rummaged among her tools in the back of her van for a box cutter. Flattening and stacking empty boxes, she piled them into the van for a trip to the recycling center. The former tenant’s old brochures and other miscellaneous paper could probably also be recycled. Most of the other stuff would simply have to go into the trash. She was no more than an hour into the job when her phone rang.
Delbert Crow, her USDA contracting officer. A new job, and of course he wanted this one tended to quickly. Sam took down the address, her mind zipping through the steps in hopes of handling it, along with her own new cleanup project, as efficiently as possible.
She finished talking with Crow and decided she might as well go out and do the break-in and assess the situation at the new place.
She pulled out the roll of white butcher paper on which she and Kelly had written in huge letters: COMING SOON—SWEET’S SWEETS—A BAKERY OF MAGICAL DELIGHTS. Carrying it to the front of the shop she carefully unrolled it and taped the banner across the front windows. Not only would it conceal the current grime and her subsequent cleanup-in-progress, she also hoped it would whet the appetites of passersby and give the business a boost when it opened. She walked outside and stood on the sidewalk. It looked good. She smiled.
Washing her hands in cold water—she must remember to get the gas and electric turned back on today—she rummaged for a paper towel and then made herself a list of cleaning supplies to bring from home. She locked the front door, felt her way through the dim space and went out the back to her van.
The property her USDA supervisor had added to her workload was located beyond the far south end of town, she discovered as she looked up the address on a road picturesquely named Hickory Lane. She drove through mid-day traffic, past the little community of Ranchos de Taos with its famous historic church, and turned off the highway into an area filled with tiny houses interspersed with single-wide trailers. The lots were small and most had no landscaping to speak of—dirt yards with a few shrubs and a lot of kids’ plastic toys seemed to be the norm. Hickory was the first dirt road after the turnoff.
She figured out the address by process of elimination. Looking for #23 she spotted a 21 on one side and a 25 on the other. The unmarked one in the middle must be it. She pulled through an opening in the coyote stake fence, onto a dirt track that passed for a driveway. The little house was covered in badly done white stucco, with aluminum frame windows and a cheap hollow-core wooden front door. Surprising that the USDA had guaranteed a loan for the place; not surprising that the owner abandoned it. Sad, really, that even such an unassuming house would be beyond the means of the buyer. Perhaps someone who had lost a job in the recession. Sam had no way of knowing. Her job was simply to get inside, make sure the place was cleared of personal possessions and made ready for sale or auction.
As was her custom, she first walked the perimeter, looking for broken windows or other damage, assessing what yard work might need to be done, finding the easiest way in. That part of it turned out to be quite simple. When she tried the front doorknob it was unlocked.
The door swung open about twelve inches before it bumped against something and came to an abrupt stop.
Sam bit back a few choice words as she shoved against it and inched into the opening. Why hadn’t she worked a little harder to lose some of those extra pounds? She kicked at whatever was blocking the door and pressed harder to squeeze herself through.
Ohmygod, she thought, staring into the house.
Stacks of newspapers, magazines and boxes lined a narrow entryway forming a tunnel-like walkway. Sam pulled a small flashlight from the pocket of her jeans and aimed it toward the ceiling. The piles of paper to her left looked really precarious. She edged away. Yikes, if this mess starts to fall, there’s nowhere to go, she thought. Even with the unlocked front door, she began to see why thieves had not messed with this place.
Turning sideways, she sidestepped farther into the clutter. A break in the tall paper-stacks revealed a living room. A sofa had some crocheted afghans and a couple of small throw pillows on it, looking like someone had just gotten up from a nap. A cheap fake-wood stand, minus the TV, stood in one corner and little nests of afghans were bunched in front of it. In the corners were piles of plastic toys, the kind that seem to grow and multiply in so many American homes. On the south wall, they were literally stacked to the ceiling in plastic crates.
Paper sacks lined the walls of a dining area—Sam assumed that a table was somewhere under the collection of silk flowers, half-burned candles and cereal boxes. When she shone her light toward the latter, two spiders edged away. She gingerly poked into one of the paper sacks and pulled out three baby t-shirts, size six months. Another sack revealed size twelve months; another size four. Some items were new, in wrappers, while others were splotched with food stains, as if they’d been worn and stashed away dirty. What the heck?
She dropped the small clothing back into the bags and headed for the kitchen. The stench of old garbage filled the small space. Every counter top was covered in dirty dishes, with a conglomeration of pots and pans in the sink as well. The stove would have to be hauled away. No degreaser in the world would cut through that mess. Dreading it, Sam reached for the refrigerator door. Green fuzz coated several lumpy surfaces, but the odor of rotten meat nearly knocked her over. She slammed the door vowing to bring a respirator mask when she came back.
Why this week? With so much to do at the shop, why did she have to get this filthy assignment right now? She cursed her luck and debated calling Delbert Crow back and begging him to take her off the job. She sighed. Buck up, Sam. You can do it.
She’d seen a few things nearly this bad, but that was back when she had no choice but to take every job that came her way. She headed back toward the living room and blew out a sharp breath to get the kitchen-stink out of her nostrils.
There must be bedrooms. Could they be any worse? She edged along the magazine-lined hallway and discovered two. A master bedroom held a double bed and crib—both with rumpled bedding and scattered clothing. The smaller bedroom contained bunk beds, plus a single. At least three children had occupied it, with toys for seventeen. What on earth were these people thinking? They could have made their house payments for a hundred years with what they spent on all this . . . this debris. Sam shook her head, wondering at what led someone to live this way.
She’d often wondered what, aside from being unable to make their payments, would lead someone to abandon their home. Six weeks ago she’d encountered two situations where the homeowners had died. But standing here surrounded by junk, floor to ceiling in places, she could see the appeal of simply walking out with a toothbrush and the clothes on your back. Surely the overwhelming clutter could drive a person insane at some point.
She stared into the master bedroom closet. Aside from a few coats, slacks and a solitary dark suit, most of the clothing was for a female. Maybe the man of the house went crazy first and simply bolted, leaving his mate to cope with everything. Sam had been in here less than thirty minutes and she already felt the cloak of despair settling upon her.
Chapter 2
Before she could let it get to her, Sam pulled her cell phone from her pocket, dialed a number from her address book and ordered a roll-off. As much as she believed in recycling she simply couldn’t spare the time to go through everything in this house and separate it. Delbert Crow had been insistent that she finish the job quickly. She had to wonder if he’d actually seen the place.
She tapped her toe, debating.
At least someone could use the clothing. She grabbed an armload from the rail in the master closet, carrying the bulky burden carefully through the maze and out to her van. Several more trips and she’d filled the vehicle with clothes, nearly emptying the closets and taking most of the shopping bags from the dining room. It didn’t make a dent in the overall clutter but she felt better that the thrift shop would put it all to good use.
The autumn sun was low in the sky by the time she finished and with many of the windows blocked by junk, the rooms were becoming dim. She taped a sign-in sheet to an upper kitchen cupboard, afraid it would be completely lost if she laid it on any of the flat surfaces. She hadn’t come across a key to the front door and had no tools with her to drill the lock so she left it as she’d found it, closed but unlocked. She could only hope and pray that someone would come along in the meantime and rob the place of everything in sight. Doubtful she would get that lucky.
Out in her van Sam remembered that she needed to have the utilities turned on at her new shop. It would be too late to speak with the business offices this evening when she got home so she sat in her van and made the necessary calls for gas, water, electricity and telephone.
Two kids roared up on their bicycles, stopping beside her window, eyeing the stranger in the neighborhood. Sam gave them a quick smile while she talked on the phone, and they zipped away again when they discovered no other kids to play with.
It was nearly five o’clock when she pulled up at the back door of her favorite thrift shop, feeling a little guilty at leaving them such a huge donation at the last minute of the day. But Rose, the senior volunteer, took everything with good grace. The two of them unloaded the van, stacking the bags and loose items on a large worktable in the receiving area.
“Sorry to bombard you with all this,” Sam said after showing Rose which bags of clothing needed to be laundered.
“Hey, we can use it all,” Rose said. “With winter coming on, there are lots of people who need warm clothes. And most of this looks to be in great condition.”
“It really does. I noticed that, too. Some of these baby clothes were never worn.”
“I’ll go through it all tomorrow.” She gave Sam a hug and told her to go home. “You look tired.”
Sam caught herself yawning as she sat at the traffic light at Kit Carson Road. Long day. And not nearly finished. She had a torte to bake for a ladies luncheon tomorrow and she really ought to get better organized for both of her cleanup projects.
Kelly’s red Mustang sat in the driveway at the back of Sam’s property. Her daughter was home earlier than usual. When she’d showed up here in Taos nearly two months ago, jobless and homeless, Sam had given her a month to find work and get her own place. The job came quickly enough. Kelly became caregiver to the elderly mother of Sam’s new man, Deputy Sheriff Beau Cardwell. But finding herself another place to live was still up in the air, and Sam wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Kelly’s company was nice—they’d always gotten along well—and she often pitched in with the kitchen chores. It was just really awkward having Beau over with her grown daughter in the house. A lot of aspects of the new relationship were still working themselves out.
Sam parked beside Kelly’s car and groaned as she got out of the van. Rose was right—she was tired.
“Hey, Mom,” Kelly greeted. “I defrosted some steaks. I hope that’s okay?”
“Sounds yummy. Thanks.” She hung her backpack and keys in their usual spot just inside the kitchen door. “You’re home early. Everything okay with Iris?”
“She had a doctor appointment this afternoon and Beau wanted to take her. She’s getting more frail all the time.”
“I hope everything’s all right.” If it became necessary for Beau to put Iris in a nursing home Kelly would immediately be out of work again. But that was a selfish thought, Sam scolded herself. Iris was spunky and vivacious for a woman in her eighties and Sam knew that it was hard on Beau watching his mother become more helpless all the time.
“Shall I pour us some wine?” Kelly asked.
“Sounds great, but I want a shower first. I’m grubby.”
“Oh, right, the new shop! I want to hear all about it.”
“What you could do that would be a huge help would be to mix up this apple-cinnamon batter and get it into the oven.” Sam flipped through her recipe file and handed Kelly a card. “I’ll be out of the shower in ten minutes.”
In her bedroom, Sam began to peel off her clothes. She raised the lid of her wooden jewelry box to stash away her earrings and watch. When she touched the old box the wood warmed to her touch. She sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, holding it, watching as the lumpy wood surface took on a glowing patina and the small red, blue and green cabochon stones that were mounted in the carved grooves began to shine with light.
She’d told no one but Beau about the box—the fact that a dying woman who was known locally as a witch had given it to her, or the fact that every time Sam handled it she seemed affected in strange ways. Common sense told her not to believe in that stuff. She refused to even consider that Bertha Martinez might have passed along her weird and witchy legacy. But still . . .. Feeling a surge in her energy level, Sam set the box back on the dresser, donned her robe and went into the bathroom to run the shower as hot as she could stand it.
An hour later, Sam put the finishing touches on her special cinnamon-apple torte while Kelly cleared away the remains of their steak dinner and loaded the dishwasher. Sam carried the torte out to the spare refrigerator on her service porch, where several other deliveries awaited. Chocolate lava cupcakes for the Chocoholics Unanimous group at the bookstore, a pumpkin cheesecake with ginger crust for a customer’s business dinner, and four dozen decorated Halloween cookies. Sam checked everything, glad that the little rush in business had happened before she’d been assigned the new hoarder’s delight or realized how much cleanup was required at her new shop location.
As long as her revitalized energy held, Sam decided she would type up an email report to Delbert Crow, advising him of the condition of the property on Hickory Lane, letting him know that she’d ordered the extra expense of a roll off, and that she planned to hire some extra help for this one. Technically, she didn’t need his permission but it was better to avoid his typical “What the hell is this expense” later, when she submitted her bill.
The email sent, she phoned her best friend Zoë, who owned a B&B near the plaza, with her white-bearded teddy-bear husband, Darryl. Darryl always had a supply of young, muscular types on his crews and she hoped he could spare a few of them for a day or two if construction was slow.
“Sure, Sam. Just let me know when you need them,” he said when Zoë put him on the line.
“Wednesday morning? The roll-off folks said they’d deliver the dumpster Tuesday but you never know what time they’ll actually show up.”
“Perfect. Give me the address. I think I can spare three guys by then.”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief as she hung up. She would give the hired muscle a list of what to do at the southside property and then she could concentrate on her shop.
While she was feeling energetic, she gathered cleaning supplies and tools and loaded them into her big Silverado pickup truck. It was the better vehicle to use when hauling big loads, keeping her little van clean for bakery deliveries.
She dialed Beau to ask how Iris was doing.
“Pretty well. Doc says she’s about as expected for someone her age. It’s just that her bones aren’t strong and since she’s been in the chair these last few months . . . well, they aren’t going to get any stronger. She’ll . . . well, she’s doing okay.”
His optimism sounded forced. She told him about the signing of the lease on the shop this morning and that she would be taking the van in for its custom paint job tomorrow.
“Sounds like you’ll have your hands full for weeks. Any chance I’ll get to see you?”
“Want to offer me a ride in your cruiser? After I make a few bakery deliveries in the morning I’ll have to leave the van at the sign shop and I could sure use a ride back home to get my truck.” She had a feeling he wanted more time alone than fifteen minutes driving in traffic. But this week was already becoming impossible. Not a good time for a new romance to take hold.
“I can manage it,” he said. With Sheriff Orlando Padilla hot on the campaign trail for re-election in just a couple of weeks, Beau’s boss was rarely in the office to check on the deputies these days. Beau was usually the senior man on duty.
“If you get some emergency call, that’s fine. If it’s a problem I can ask Rupert or Zoë.”
“Don’t you worry. Call me when you get to the sign shop.”
Sam hung up and glanced at the clock. After ten. Kelly must have gone to bed already. She usually left to care for Iris well before sunrise these days. Sam checked the doors and turned out lights. Falling into bed, she wrestled the blankets, wondering if she really was up to the task of juggling all her jobs while she got her business going. She forced her eyes closed.
“The box holds many secrets.”
Sam raised up in bed, peering into the darkness. A glowing form stood beside her bed, a wizened face staring at her. “Use the powers of the box to help you, Samantha.” The mouth didn’t move but the words were clear. She stared at her surroundings. The walls were red, with strange white symbols painted on them. Then her bed was gone. She stood on a cold wood floor, surrounded by small white mounds that formed a pentagram. “Your strength will not fail you and many good things will come to you.” The glowing figure vanished.
Sam startled awake. She listened but heard only utter silence in the darkness. Her skin tingled with goose bumps and her hands felt like ice. She pulled a heavy comforter over her and gradually drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 3
Bright sunlight flooded the room and Sam came awake in a flash. She glanced around her bedroom. It was only a dream.
The wooden box sat on her dresser, slightly off-kilter from its usual spot. The carved, quilted pattern was its usual dull self. She wondered why she’d even kept the thing after the dying woman insisted she take it. Humoring her was one thing . . . holding on to the crudely carved box was another. Why hadn’t she just dropped it off at the thrift shop with all the other junk?
Because maybe Bertha Martinez was right. Maybe the box did hold special powers. When Sam handled it the wood began to glow and actually become attractive. And herself? People had commented that she looked younger, fresher, at times. Times when she’d handled that box. But what about the odd visions? Did she really—
Stop it! Sam ordered herself.
Flinging the covers aside, she got out of bed and stuffed the box into a dresser drawer and closed it, out of sight. No more of this.
She brushed her teeth and dressed, then headed for the kitchen where Kelly had left a carafe of coffee for her. Sam poured a mug and downed the searing brew, black. The nighttime cobwebs began to clear.
Silly. It was just a dream. And it was just a stupid box.
She grabbed the key for her van and opened the side door remotely. Planning her delivery route, she loaded the pumpkin cheesecake, the cookies and other finished pastries into the vehicle and headed out, scheduling the chocolate cupcake delivery at the bookstore for last.
Once she had her retail location open, most customers would probably opt to stop by and pick up their orders and Sam could concentrate on baking rather than delivering. Soon, she thought as she left the chocolate dessert with Ivan and headed for the paint shop.
Beau showed up as she was finalizing details, startling the artwork man who clearly was not accustomed to an armed law enforcement officer showing up in his place of business.
“He’s just my ride home,” Sam assured the guy, although that statement didn’t seem to come out right either.
Beau touched the brim of his Stetson and took a glance at the sketches the artist had prepared based on Kelly’s initial design.
“Looks good,” he said.
“I’m excited about it,” Sam told him as they walked out to his cruiser. “They’re using that technique which covers the whole vehicle with art. My plain little white van is going to look like a traveling bakery case, and it’ll have my purple logo very prominent on the sides and back.”
Beau complimented Sam on her business strategy, then he sneaked a little kiss on the back of her neck before opening the passenger door for her.
“Think we might get together tonight?” he asked, with a sultry tone.
She waited for him to walk around to the driver’s door and get in. “This week isn’t going to be good for me. There’s just so much—”
He looked away and concentrated on pulling out into traffic.
Sam chided herself. The sexual part of their relationship had been sporadic over the past month. It was always good between them, but their crazy schedules—his elderly mother, her concentration on the new business—everything seemed to be conspiring against their having much time alone. And now she’d probably hurt his feelings.
“I understand.” His voice was tight.
He’d always wanted the relationship to move along faster than she did. And although she’d initially wondered what a movie-star-handsome deputy saw in a graying, slightly chunky baker, the fact that they clicked couldn’t be denied. On the other hand, she’d been on her own her whole adult life. It would take a lot of convincing for her to allow a man completely into her life. She picked at a ragged cuticle while he watched the traffic.
“We’re nearly at the Plaza,” she said. “Want to swing by and see the shop? It isn’t much, right now. You’ll have to do a lot of visualization.”
His jaw was still tight. “Maybe later. I better just drop you off at home.”
Uh-oh. Worse than she’d thought.
Two minutes later, he pulled into her long driveway and brought the white-and-brown SUV to a halt. She leaned across the console full of computer and radio equipment and kissed his cheek.
“I’m not writing us off, Beau. It’s just that this bakery has been my dream for years. Do you understand what that means to me?”
He turned to face her. “I do.” He flashed her the smile that had initially gotten her attention, nearly two months ago. “I really do, Sam. Do you understand how much you mean to me?”
Yikes. Please don’t let this be the commitment speech, she thought.
She squeezed his hand and smiled back at him. Keep it light. “Let’s plan on a dinner out, just the two of us, later in the week.”
Sam hopped out of the cruiser, patted the roof of it and headed toward her pickup truck. As Beau backed expertly down her long driveway, she found her mind returning to business. With a quick call she verified that the roll-off was being delivered to Hickory Lane this morning. Next, she dialed Darryl’s number.
“We’re at the final stage of roofing-in on the current job,” he shouted, trying to combat the blasts of nail guns in the background. “Should be done around noon. Want me to send the guys over there for the afternoon?”
“Perfect.” She gave directions and told Darryl she would meet the crew to get them started. She could probably just instruct them to clear the place completely, but who knew how a construction crew would interpret that. She might come back to find that the house no longer had windows or doors. “Call me when you’re ready to let them go.”
Truthfully, her heart was nowhere near Hickory Lane.
Ten minutes later Sam unlocked the back door of her new place. Although she saw the shelves full of old dusty merchandise and the piles of brochures the previous tenant had left behind, her mind’s eye adjusted it, showing her how it would look when she was finished.
The wire racks would hold clean stacks of mixing bowls and her collection of specially shaped cake pans. A stainless steel work table would occupy the middle of the room, and Sam sighed contentedly at the vision of working here with ample room to roll out pastry and fondant, to have several cakes on turntables at once, awaiting her decorative touches. She’d ordered a new computer to be dedicated to design work and a printer that could replicate photos or graphics in edible ink on edible paper. She would have so much fun with this!
Energy surged through her as she propped the back door open and began hefting the first armloads of trash into the back of her truck. She’d carried two loads when she felt her cell phone vibrating inside her pocket.
“Sam? This is Rose at the thrift shop? Did I interrupt anything?”
Well, yeah. About two million things. “No, it’s fine. What can I do for you?” She wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her sweaty forehead, imagining that her short hair was probably now standing on end.
“Do you remember a dark green trench coat that you brought in yesterday? With all the other clothing?”
One item of hundreds? “Not specifically.”
“Um, I’m not sure what to do with this,” Rose said.
Sam rolled her hand in the air, as if that would speed the woman along with her question.
“It’s got a dark stain, like blood.”
“Well, would it just wash out if you used some pre-soak or something?”
“Uh . . . it’s more than that. I mean covered.”
“It should probably just be thrown away, then.”
“Sam, obviously you didn’t see this when you gathered up the clothes. This is a lot. It’s soaked.”
She gulped. “Rose, I think you better turn it over to the authorities.”
“I just didn’t know who to call.”
Sam debated for a second. “Here’s a direct number for Deputy Beau Cardwell. He’d be the best one to talk to.”
“Oh thank you, Sam.” Relief was evident in the older woman’s voice. “I was just so shocked about this. I didn’t know what to do first, and then I got worried about how something like this happened—”
“I understand, Rose. Just call Deputy Cardwell. He’ll take care of everything.”
Despite her outward calm Sam’s thoughts zipped all over the place. What on earth had happened out at that little house?
She couldn’t get the image of a blood-soaked trench coat out of her head as she stacked boxes and carried them out back. When Darryl called to say that his men were ready to meet her, Sam decided it was for the best. She needed to give the shop her full attention and it just wasn’t happening. She gave directions to the small white house on the south side then locked up her shop and headed there.
This time when she entered the forlorn little house the idea that something violent may have happened to the owner made the shadows seem deeper, the smells more pungent. She tiptoed through the tunnel of papers in the front hall and made her way to the larger of the two bedrooms. About the time she reached the closet where she assumed the stained trench coat had been, she heard a vehicle out front.
Three beefy young guys were climbing out of an old white pickup truck and eyeing the roll-off in the front yard when Sam reached the tiny porch.
“Hi,” she called out.
The guy in the lead introduced himself as Troy and the other two as Phillip and Gus. He addressed her as Miss Samantha. She smiled at the old-fashioned courtesy.
“I guess the simplest thing is to start at the front door and work your way back, she said, showing them inside. “Start with all these newspapers and magazines—toss them straight into the roll-off. If you come to any furniture, I’ll take a look and see if anything is worth leaving with the house. Any question about an item, save it for me to look at.”
The three men each grabbed an armload of stacked papers and headed out the door. Sam watched them for a couple minutes and then headed back into the master bedroom. The closet, which had held all the adult-sized clothing, was still cluttered with shoe boxes, hats, a bowling ball, three tennis racquets and a few wadded t-shirts and tangled belts that she’d not bothered to gather for the thrift shop. She began pulling things from the upper shelf and raking it all out into the center of the room.
In a far corner on the floor, a pair of men’s boots were crushed under the weight of a duffle bag that turned out to contain a collection of paperback romance novels. A pair of sneakers, old and stained, also looked to be the same male size. Otherwise, just about everything was for a female.
As she worked her way through the clutter she kept an eye open for any other bloodstained items, for any sign of blood on the walls or floor. She found absolutely no trace.
Chapter 4
“Miss Samantha?” Troy stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Want to take a look at the hall and tell us what to do next?”
That was quick. Maybe not. Sam glanced at her watch and saw that more than forty-five minutes had passed while she was buried in the closet clutter.
The home’s small entryway felt amazingly larger now. With the walls visible, Sam realized that the place might actually clean up pretty well.
She pointed the three workers toward the living room. “This room next, I guess. Strip out everything but the furniture and we’ll see how that goes. Then do the same in the dining area.”
She stepped into the kitchen, belatedly remembering what a disaster it was. Grabbing a box of extra-strength trash bags she dispensed with the disgusting contents of the fridge as well as the crusted dishes and pans. There were times Sam went to the effort to clean up a place and leave some of the household items for the new owner, but this wasn’t one of them. She opened the back door and a window to the fresh October air, and surveyed the room in hopes that she’d gotten most of the smelliest junk out of there.
The light was fading fast, and without power in the house they wouldn’t be able to work much longer, which was fine with Sam. Her body ached all over. She flopped onto one of the kitchen chairs, from which she’d just cleared a kid’s booster seat and a nasty-looking baby doll.
“It’s almost five, Miss Samantha.”
She glanced at her watch. “You’re right, Troy. What time do you guys normally knock off?”
“Just whenever.”
“Good enough for me.” She forced herself not to groan as she stood up.
The three guys had made good progress through the living room and partway into the dining area.
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock?” She directed the question at Troy.
What am I thinking. Do I want to be back here at eight? “Just a sec.” She pulled a new lockset from the toolbox in her truck, took one of the keys from the package and handed it to Troy. “This will open the front door. Do not lose it.”
“Yes ma’am.” She smiled as she watched them drive away. Troy seemed like a responsible guy, pretty good looking. Maybe she should introduce him to Kelly.
Forget it. I do not need one more thing to think about at this moment.
Ignoring her protesting muscles, she drilled the old lock and replaced it with the new lockset. Pocketed the remaining key, locked up the rest of the house. In the waning light she walked slowly through the rooms where walls and floors were now free of clutter. The condition of that old coat weighed on her mind, but she could see no sign of blood anywhere in the house. She would have to ask Beau if he’d taken a look at the garment.
As much as Sam yearned to work on her new shop, her body was simply telling her not to. She drove through town, stopping at the market for something ready-made for dinner, realizing that part of her energy slump might be because she’d entirely forgotten to eat lunch.
Her kitchen phone was ringing as she walked in but before she could reach for it, the cell phone in her pocket went off too. Sheesh. The readout on the cell told her it was Beau; the voice coming over her answering machine was a bakery customer. The woman won out. Sam felt around for pen and her order pad as she intercepted the call. A Chamber of Commerce breakfast. They wanted eight dozen pastries—assorted muffins, breads and coffee cakes. And if she could provide fruit platters and juice, that would be even better. Oh, and it all needed to be delivered by eight o’clock the next morning. Sam gritted her teeth but put a smile into her voice as she assured the woman she could handle it. Why did she have the feeling that someone who’d been assigned the job of organizing all this had completely forgotten until the last minute?
Sam immediately phoned Kelly and gave her a list of groceries to pick up on her way home from the Cardwells. Then she collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and seriously considered whether to scream or simply cry.
Bertha Martinez’s words came back to her: The box will give you immense power. Use it to your advantage and to help others.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. The dream she’d dismissed last night now seemed to offer hope for accomplishing all she needed to do in the next few hours. She eyed the bottle of ibuprofen sitting on the counter but got out of her chair and walked into the bedroom instead. The bottom dresser drawer where she’d shoved the wooden box this morning stood open a couple of inches. Sam came to a dead stop.
She stared around the room but nothing else was out of place. What the hell was going on? Could the damn box move?
She gingerly reached for the edge of the drawer and pulled it open. On top of a folded sweater lay the box, its dull red, blue and green stones catching the light from the overhead fixture. Sam picked it up and ran her hands over the quilt-shaped surface.
Immediately, the box began to warm to her touch. She wrapped her arms around it and held it close to her body. When she looked down at it, the sour yellow varnish had taken on a golden glow. The colored stones sparkled with life. Her hands warmed and she felt a new energy surge up her arms and through her chest. The aches in her body vanished.
The first time this had happened, more than a month ago, it frightened her. Farm girls from Texas did not buy into the idea of magical powers, brujas or the ability to see things that weren’t there. Yet here she was, turning to a charmed object to help her accomplish more than humanly possible. She deposited the box on the dresser and kicked the drawer shut. Rubbish!
She tried to put it out of her mind as she rushed back to the kitchen, washed her hands and got out her recipes. Assorted pastries. She would need at least three varieties of each item. And she better go with simple recipes and rely on little embellishments. Autumn flavors. Pumpkin, apple, cinnamon. Pulling ingredients from the pantry she mixed the first batters. As pans of muffins went into the oven, she mixed streusel for one of her favorite coffee cakes and a lemon glaze for another.
When Kelly got home Sam put her daughter to work cutting up fruit and arranging it on platters.
“Is there going to be any dinner tonight?” Kelly asked as she came in from the service porch after placing the fruit platters into the spare refrigerator.
Sam aimed her elbow toward the microwave. “Would you mind warming up that deli casserole I brought home?”
Fresh, homemade goodies for the clients; deli food for themselves. Sam vowed to stop that trend once the bakery opened and her own kitchen was once again reserved for home cooked meals. She set the pans of perfectly baked muffins out to cool and put the coffee cakes into the oven.
Sam’s chirping cell phone interrupted. Beau again. She’d forgotten all about returning his previous call. She set her dinner plate down and fished the phone out of her pocket.
“Hey there. Sorry I didn’t get right back to you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been pretty tied up today, too. It’s about a trench coat that Rose found at the thrift shop.”
“Ah, yes. Was it okay that I gave her your direct number?”
“No problem. She was right. It’s . . . well . . . a mess. She said you brought it in?”
Sam explained the circumstances and how she’d not found any other traces of blood at the house where she’d gotten the coat.
“I’ll need to come out there and take a look. Someone may have cleaned up the visible evidence, but there could be traces. Would tomorrow be good?”
She explained about the pastry delivery first and they made a plan to meet around nine o’clock. It wasn’t until she’d hung up that she realized he’d used the word ‘evidence.’
Chapter 5
Sam rolled over in bed and grumbled at the beeping alarm clock on her nightstand. Even with Kelly’s help, they’d been up until after one o’clock to finalize the pastry order for the Chamber breakfast, and now six o’clock was here way too quickly. She slapped at the button to shut off the annoying thing and flung the covers off. The room was too chilly to tolerate being coverless for long, so she pulled on her robe and headed for the shower.
By the time she’d finished slicing the breads and arranging everything on disposable platters, her delivery deadline was quickly approaching. At some point Kelly drifted through the kitchen, grabbed a mug of coffee and headed out for her job at the Cardwell’s. Sam felt a small flash of envy toward her daughter. Most likely Iris would still be in bed when she arrived, giving Kelly the luxury of time for another cup of caffeine. They would eat breakfast together at Beau’s sunny dining table which faced out over open pasture land, and it wouldn’t matter if the elderly lady wasn’t dressed and ready to face the world until well after mid-morning.
Sam loaded all the platters into her van and drove to the conference center where the breakfast was being hosted. Parking, as usual, was non-existent and she found herself in a red zone, hoping that she could get away with it. Luckily, the woman who had placed the last-minute order was waiting there for her and Sam informed the customer that she could use some help. Three volunteers stepped up and soon all the goodies were carried inside. Once Sam had the check in hand she was on her way.
She arrived at Hickory Lane to find Gus, Phillip and Troy already at work and looking far more chipper than she felt. She wandered inside, sipping from her travel mug of coffee and nibbling at the one slice of pumpkin bread she’d saved for herself.
The cleaning effort was going well. The living room was down to the furniture, a threadbare natty brown sofa, two end tables of peeling laminate and a recliner that wouldn’t go upright. She started to instruct the guys to toss everything, but decided to wait. Those might be the very things Beau would want to look at.
In the dining area, they’d revealed a table that was probably once a fine piece of furniture—someone might be able to refinish it—but the chairs were a mismatched conglomeration. Sam brushed pumpkin crumbs from her hands and braced herself for the kitchen.
It was exactly as she’d left it—darn it. No kindly gnomes had appeared in the night to finish off the work. The spoiled-food smell had begun to dissipate, at least until she opened the refrigerator door. She slammed it quickly and debated. An older model, not worth much, saturated with that odor. She called a man who’d previously disposed of used appliances for her and asked him to come get it. He knew, far better than she, all the rules and regulations. She’d just hung up when she heard Beau’s voice at the front of the house. She met him in the entry and directed Troy and his men to start clearing the kitchen.
“You aren’t having them throw away anything that might be evidence, are you?” he asked, first thing.
Sam bristled. “Good morning to you too.” She turned to go inside.
“Sorry. But seriously . . .”
“How would I know?” She led him toward the two untouched bedrooms and waved her arms wide to indicate the clutter in the children’s room. “This is how the whole house looked. Worse, in the living room and entryway. I literally could not open the front door when I first got here. And I didn’t have a clue that there might have been a crime until Rose took a close look at that coat.”
“You’re right. I didn’t mean to— Could we just start this conversation over?” He smiled at her, removed his Stetson and held it across his chest. “Good morning, Samantha Sweet, the light of my life. May I offer you a kiss first thing on this lovely day?”
She raised her eyebrows. “That might be taking it a little too far the other direction. But yes, a kiss would be nice.” She glanced toward the living room and, satisfied that the worker-guys were not nearby, went into Beau’s arms.
“Umm. Now I think I’m ready to show you the closet where the coat came from.”
He followed her into the master bedroom and peered into the now-empty closet.
“See? No sign of blood,” she said.
“I’ll bring in the lab kit and spray some Luminol around. Maybe we can dump some of the stuff off the bedding, and maybe clear the carpet too?”
“Let me get the helpers right on that. You just tell them what you want moved, and where.” She found the guys and told them to leave the kitchen for the moment and do whatever Beau asked.
Hey, this felt pretty good, having minions to order about. She wished she could get used to it, but the truth was that she did the majority of the labor on most of these properties herself. She took a sip from her coffee but discovered it had gone cold. She’d just come back inside after putting her travel mug in her truck when Beau caught her attention.
“No blood is showing up yet,” he said. “But do you want to see what I’m dealing with?” Without waiting for an answer he headed out to his cruiser.
Sam followed and watched as he retrieved a paper bag from the back seat. From that, he pulled a dark green trench coat and held it up by the shoulders. When he spread the lapels she saw what the fuss was about. The lining, which had originally been a tan plaid fabric was now stained a dark rust-brown over almost the entire torso area.
“That is a lot of blood,” she said, feeling a little queasy.
“Enough that the wearer probably bled out. This isn’t a little cut.”
“And yet there’s no real damage to the coat. No bullet holes, no rips or tears.”
“The waterproof fabric probably kept all the blood on the inside, and the dark color obscured whatever seeped to the outside. It will go to the state lab to see if we can get some answers.” He refolded it and placed it carefully back into the paper sack. “Who knows? It could be animal blood. Or maybe someone was hurt and grabbed this to wrap around a wound. That’s why I needed to see what additional evidence might be in the house.”
“But, geez, Beau. If it’s enough blood loss to kill a person . . .”
“Exactly. I don’t think they died inside this house. There would have to be spillage outside the coat.”
“So . . . where does that leave us with the house? I need to get the place cleared and ready for sale pretty quickly.”
“I know. I’d say it’s okay to keep removing the small stuff. Leave the furniture for now—beds, sofas and such might be places that a murder could occur. Once we’ve got a few test results from the lab, I’ll know whether I need to come back.”
Sam fumed. Getting this place finished up would free her to work on her shop and the delay chafed at her.
He seemed to sense her irritation. “I know. Just a few days. Meanwhile, maybe I can get some information on the homeowners? Names, current place of residence?”
“From my semi-experienced observation,” —she looked up and grinned at him—“it looks to me like there was a woman and three or four kids here.” She pointed to the crib and three smaller beds, along with the lack of male clothing and personal items, as her reasoning. “As for names, I wasn’t given any. Do you want to speak directly with my contracting officer, or shall I give him a call?”
Truthfully, she didn’t expect a lot of cooperation from the crusty old bureaucrat and her instincts proved correct. But he did provide a number for someone else, which led to a series of call transfers until she got a person who would talk. That man furnished the name and past employer of Cheryl Adams. Her loan application stated that she’d moved to New Mexico from Nevada. Place of birth was Connecticut, and she’d held jobs in Washington state, Colorado, and Kansas. She had three children at the time she applied for her home loan, but that was four years ago and Sam guessed that the occupant of the crib came along during her stay in Taos. The USDA had no records of Cheryl Adams’s current whereabouts, and he somewhat snidely reminded Sam that they would probably be pursuing Adams for past-due payments if they had a clue where she was or a prayer of getting the money. They had no record of a male co-owner and her minor children, he said, were not the concern of his department. Whomever Adams might have chosen to co-habit with didn’t show up on their radar.
Sam passed all this along to Beau, for whatever little help it might provide.
Meanwhile, Troy and crew had nearly finished hauling out the smaller junk and the rooms felt much larger and more open with their minimal furnishings. Sam directed the men to remove a few more things then noted their hours so she would know how much to reimburse Darryl for their time, and sent them on their way.
Until Beau gave the all-clear, she couldn’t really apply cleansers or vacuum up possible trace evidence or get a whole lot further along toward completing the cleanup. With work at a standstill, she updated her sign-in sheet, posted the required USDA notices out in the yard, secured the doors and windows, and placed the keys in a lockbox on the front doorknob.
The small tasks kept her hands occupied, but she couldn’t clear her head of all the questions that ricocheted around in there. Was Cheryl Adams one of those sad cases—single mother, four kids with four different fathers? Was the blood on the coat hers? Maybe the man who’d once lived here, the owner of those battered boots, had been abusive toward Adams and she’d done something to him? Or, heaven forbid, maybe he’d injured one of her children and wrapped the little body in the old coat as he removed it from the house.
No matter how much she puzzled over it, Sam found no answers and the questions only became more and more disturbing.
Suddenly free of her newest break-in job, Sam reveled in the idea that a whole evening loomed ahead—time that she could spend on her shop. She left a voice mail message telling Kelly where she would be, stopped at the first fast-food place with a drive-up and came away with a bag of greasy, meaty goodness that she would call dinner.
The alley behind her new shop was quiet and she parked the Silverado beside her new back door. Ivan Petrenko’s vehicle sat behind the bookstore. While it was comforting to know that there were others nearby, she hoped to avoid any interruptions to her evening’s work. She reached across the passenger seat for her fast-food sack and the mid-weight jacket she’d shed as the day warmed up. And under the jacket, her secret weapon.
Sam wasn’t sure what possessed her to bring the magical wooden box with her today. Before this week she’d avoided taking advantage of its powers. Was it the vivid dream in which the old bruja, Bertha Martinez, had appeared and encouraged her to use the box to her advantage? Or was it the fact that the recent workload had left her feeling overwhelmed, in need of any little help she could get? Sam brushed aside her nagging doubts and grabbed it up.
Indoors, she switched on the lights. The retail space echoed with a satisfying emptiness. Sam had made more headway yesterday than she’d thought. The front of the shop contained only the nicest of the display cases, the ones she planned to keep, and the back room needed just a bit more clearing before she would be able to start bringing in her own fixtures. She wiped off a space on an old table and set her dinner and the wooden box there.
Closing her eyes, she placed her hands on the box. As the warm glow began to spread up her arms she breathed contentedly. Alone in her own space, secure with the doors locked against the rest of the world, Sam fixed the vision of her finished pastry shop in her head. What if the box’s powers went far beyond anything she could imagine, as the vision of Bertha Martinez had suggested? What if she were to open her eyes and the shop would be there, real and finished, ready to open for customers? What if . . .
The tingle in Sam’s arms became intense. Her heart raced as if jolted by electricity. She yanked her hands away from the box.
Her eyes popped open and she stared around the storeroom. Everything was as before. Thank god. What would she have done had her vision actually manifested itself? The very idea scared her. Thrilled her. She couldn’t be sure which.
She stood up and shook her hands to relieve the prickling sensation.
Delving into the sack she grabbed two fries and gobbled them. The cheeseburger disappeared in a few bites. She couldn’t remember having lunch and there’d been only a slice of pumpkin bread for breakfast. That explained it. No wonder she’d been lightheaded, allowing her imagination to go all vivid on her. Crazy.
She wiped her hands on the napkin from the bag and tossed the wrappers into a trash bag. Furniture polish—that will make me feel better.
She went to work on the display cases in the sales room. The wood immediately began to gleam with new luster and the glass shone brilliantly. She’d been half worried that the old furnishings would be too battered and worn to do her any good, but they were turning out beautifully. She pushed them into the positions where she’d envisioned them. Nice.
The old hardwood floors didn’t seem nearly as scarred as she’d first thought. Just having the lights on made all the difference, she decided. She swept, mopped and applied a good coat of paste wax. The electric buffer that she’d left here yesterday made quick work of that task and when it was finished Sam stood back, gazing out at her showroom.
Really, with the addition of tables and chairs, a cash register and a few more odds and ends, she could begin making sales right away. She smiled at her handiwork.
Scarcely two hours had passed but Sam didn’t want to dwell upon the fact that she was obviously working under the influence of the box’s magic. She turned to the second room, the one that would be her kitchen. With the power of invincibility behind her she began shoving everything she didn’t plan to keep—every box, every old rickety shelf unit, every tacky bit of detritus that the old tenant had left behind—toward the back door. It made a good-sized stack but she piled it all up. Then she opened the back door and began heaving all the junk into the dumpster in the alley.
One by one, the trashy items became history. Sam didn’t give herself the chance to think about how her joints were going to feel in the morning, or the luxury of saying that she ought to quit and tackle it again tomorrow. She simply worked like a robot—reach, lift, turn, throw. And soon the big stack became a small stack and quickly even the small stack was gone. She gave a sigh and took a deep breath of the crisp night air.
Ivan’s vehicle was gone now. It must be after eight o’clock.
Sam still felt like she had energy to spare. Secretly glad that no one had stopped by to interrupt, she went back inside and began cleaning the floors in the back room. These were sealed concrete and the cleanup went quickly, as she filled and refilled her mop bucket, washing all traces of the former dust and grime down the drain in the little porcelain sink in one corner. Soon, stainless fixtures would replace the old ones. She assembled bakery racks in her new storage area, readying it for the stores of supplies and tools she now kept crowded into her meager service porch at home.
Stepping back, she surveyed the now-open work space. Last month when Sam first had the idea that this location would become hers, she’d come by with the landlord and measured the entire area. When the reality of having money in the bank finally sank in, she’d ordered custom fixtures from a commercial kitchen outfitter in Albuquerque and Darryl’s cabinetry man was making the rest of what she needed—a back counter for the sales area, window display shelves and special racks for cakes and other pastries.
She laughed aloud. What fun this was turning out to be!
Chapter 6
The luxury of sleeping late would no longer be a regular thing, Sam was beginning to realize. She awoke to a gray dawn, knowing that a million tasks awaited, but she rolled over and tugged the comforter up over her shoulders. Dimly, from the rest of the house, came the sounds of Kelly rising and showering and making her way to the kitchen. Sam ignored it all, telling herself that just thirty more minutes of sleep wouldn’t hurt anything.
When her bedside phone rang at eight o’clock, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes. Clearing her throat she picked up the receiver.
“Samantha Sweet,” she answered, hoping she didn’t sound as sleepy as she felt.
“I’m at my wits end,” the female voice said. “My niece’s birthday party is at four o’clock and I completely forgot that I was the one who volunteered to bring the cake.”
Groping for pen and paper, Sam privately wondered why the lady didn’t simply grab a generic cake at the grocery store.
“. . . princess theme and the cake has to be shaped like a castle.”
“A castle?” On less than a day’s notice?
“Pink. With lavender flowers and a pony in front of it.”
Sam opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t just happen to have a pony waiting around to grace this particular cake. But the woman uttered the magic words: “I’ll pay extra.”
Damn straight, you will.
“Give me just a second here,” Sam said, jotting instructions as fast as she could, taking information about how many guests there would be and trying to wrap her head around the logistics of putting this thing together on such short notice. As she calculated the number of layers and the amount of trimming she’d have to do, her call waiting signal came through. She excused herself to the distraught woman and clicked over to the other call.
“Ms. Sweet, it’s Maria at Signs R Us. Just wanted to let you know that your van will be ready to pick up anytime after noon today.”
Sam jotted a note on her hand. By noon it looked like she would be up to her elbows in pink frosting and cake crumbs.
Back to the lady with the emergency castle order. Sam thought of the most she’d ever charged for a special-shape cake and doubled it, half hoping the woman would call her crazy and hang up. But, no. She accepted without a second’s hesitation and gave the address where she wanted this miracle cake delivered.
“Be sure to be there by three-thirty,” she said.
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.” Sam bit back what she really wanted to say, glad she had doubled the price.
All this before I’ve even been to the bathroom, she thought, grabbing up some jeans and a clean work shirt. Thirty minutes later the first two cake pans were in the oven and she’d gathered ingredients for sponge cupcakes. Stacking them was the easiest way she could think of to create turrets. Rummaging through an upper cabinet in search of pink lace to line the cake board, she’d come across a plastic unicorn that she’d once ordered from her supplier, thinking it was cute.
The oven timer pinged, the layers came out, cupcakes went in. And Sam began piping a host of lavender and pink roses, setting them aside in the fridge to firm up before they could be placed on the cake. She stuck the cakes into the fridge, as well, pushing desperately to cool them a little faster.
Her cell phone vibrated on the kitchen table and then chirped out a couple of final tones. Beau. She picked it up and balanced it against her cheek while she scooped colored icing into a pastry bag.
“Hey there,” he said. “How’s things going?”
“No time whatsoever for conversation. Sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean . . . ”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t have much time either. Thought you might want to know that the preliminary blood test from that coat shows it to be male. So, it’s not your lady homeowner. But it’ll take awhile longer to get specific DNA.”
Sam felt a degree of relief that Cheryl Adams wasn’t the victim of whatever had happened. Still, Sam wondered . . . maybe one of the men in Cheryl’s life had pushed her too far.
“I’m working on a few leads that might tell us where Ms. Adams went when she left Taos,” Beau was saying. “She has relatives in Colorado, but I haven’t been able to make contact yet. And I won’t get to it today. Just got a call that Search and Rescue is recovering a body from the bottom of the gorge. Probably some bridge-jumper but I’m going to have to investigate. I was hoping to see you tonight, but . . .”
“It’s all right, really. Things are stacking up on me too. The shop—”
He was already saying goodbye and she let it go at that.
Thinking of her store reminded her that she intended to call the fixture manufacturer in Albuquerque very first thing this morning and had become sidetracked. She set aside the filled pastry bag and looked up their number.
“I’ve got four orders bigger than yours, lady,” the guy told her.
“My stuff was promised for this week, and it’s already Thursday.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes we just don’t get what we wish for. I’ll try for Monday.”
Sam felt her blood pressure rising and bit back a sharp retort. She hung up abruptly. No sense in pissing the guy off further; he already had enough issues and she certainly wouldn’t get her equipment faster by making him mad. She tossed the cell phone back onto the table and blew out a sharp breath.
The kitchen phone rang before she’d had the chance to turn around, and the timer on the cupcakes went off at the same instant. Sam reached for the phone with one hand, saying, “Please hold one moment” as she grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the door open with the other hand.
“Thank you for holding,” she said in the most businesslike tone she could muster.
“Mom? Busy day?”
“I can’t even describe—” The call-waiting beep came through again. “Can I put you on hold a second, Kelly?”
“I’ll let you go. Just wanted to say that I won’t be home for dinner. Fill you in later. Bye.”
I have to get some help with this, Sam thought as she clicked through to the other call.
“Is this the Sweet’s Sweets bakery?”
“Yes, ma’am, it certainly is.” Cool—the new call-forwarding is working and word is getting out!
“Can you handle a rather large order?”
Oh, god, not today. “What can we do for you?”
“My name is Elena Tafoya and my husband is running for governor. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Carlos Tafoya?”
Son of the crotchety landlord, Victor Tafoya. Oh yeah, she’d heard of him.
The woman went on. “We’ll be needing a large victory cake. Maybe several. I don’t know how to figure out that kind of thing.”
Sam sat down with her order pad and took a deep breath. Hand-holding was something she did all the time. “How many guests do you expect at the, uh, victory party?”
Elena Tafoya chuckled lightly. “Oh, you mean, what if Carlos doesn’t win? What if it’s not a victory after all?”
“I didn’t want to say that, but I guess one never knows really.”
“Well, that’s true. But there will be a party, either way. Something to thank the volunteers and everyone.”
Sam went into an explanation about how many people could be served from a tiered cake, a sheet cake, a half-sheet and so forth. “If you think the amount you order isn’t quite enough, I can always bake a second cake that day, as long as it’s a simple design.”
“Oh, I like that idea. Maybe we could do a main cake that’s two or three tiers high. And if we need more, just some regular sheet cakes to feed the extra people?”
Sam assured her that would work easily and proceeded to take the information about colors and style. “Thanks” seemed to be an appropriate message to put on the cake, win or lose. She was beginning to enjoy the conversation with Elena Tafoya when the clock in the living room chimed noon, reminding her that she had to figure out how to retrieve her van from the paint shop and finish the complicated castle cake in the next three hours.
She put on her most cordial voice as she said goodbye and assured the politician’s wife that she could meet their requirements. As she was quickly learning from Beau, politics in this county carried a lot of weight, and her fledgling business could use all the connections she could muster.
Sam looked at the mess all over her kitchen—dirty mixing bowls in the sink, pastry bags filled with white, pink and lavender icing, cupcakes cooling in the pans. She tipped them out onto a rack, then made a quick dash through the rest of it to clear some of the clutter—thinking all the while about how she would get to the paint shop.
Zoë. Sam dialed her friend, who would hopefully be finished checking out her guests at the B&B and perhaps able to break away for a few minutes.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll buy lunch if you want to do it now,” Zoë said.
“Lunch would be wonderful, but there’s no way I can manage it today.” Sam explained about the sudden push with her bakery business.
Zoë’s Subaru pulled into Sam’s driveway ten minutes later. “I’ll bet you can hardly wait to get your shop open. But won’t you be just as busy? And tied down to the hours of a retail shop?”
“Employees,” Sam said. “I’m so much looking forward to getting someone in to help with a lot of the workload. I’d hire somebody now but there is barely room for two bodies in my kitchen. Want a job?”
Zoë laughed as she steered toward the little neighborhood of industrial buildings where Signs R Us was located. “Like I have time for anything more than cooking and washing linens for those five bedrooms full of people. I’m counting the days until the end of this month so I’ll get a little breather before the holiday crowds and skiers start to show up.”
Zoë loved people, Sam knew, but it had to be hard having strangers in your home all the time. Zoë’s upbringing in a hippie commune in the ’60s might have prepared her for a large extended-family lifestyle, but Sam noticed that her friend cherished the time alone that she spent in her garden during the summer months. With autumn in its full glory now, she would be bedding down her plants for winter and then giving the large adobe house a thorough cleaning before the next round of tourists began.
They pulled up in front of the sign place and Sam nearly shouted. There sat her formerly plain white van, now covered in cakes, cookies and chocolates. Her logo and shop name, SWEET’S SWEETS, were perfectly framed in ovals on either side and across the back windows. She couldn’t have asked for a better traveling billboard to advertise her new business.
“Wow,” said Zoë. “I had no idea a vehicle could look so tasty.” Not quite the sugar addict that Sam and her customers were, Zoë nevertheless raved over the van’s new look. She gave Sam a hug and got back into her Subaru while Sam went inside to pay her bill.
Sam took the long way back through town, making a few extra turns and thrilling to the stares of people who were learning the name of her new shop for the first time. She noticed more than one person in nearby cars jotting notes as she sat beside them in traffic.
The upside of a new business was the excitement of having people discover it. The downside, Sam found, was when they discovered it before you were ready. The phone was ringing when she walked in the door.
Four dozen scones for a tea tomorrow? Sure, no problem. Two cheesecakes for a women’s Bunko group? Absolutely. Cider and cookies for the kids at the elementary school’s Halloween festival next week? Yikes—this was getting complicated.
Sam had barely enough time to answer the phone and write down the orders, and the castle birthday cake was nowhere near ready. She set the answering machine to handle the calls for the next two hours while she set about assembling the layers and making stacks of cupcakes into turrets. The unicorn finished off the piece better than a pony would have, she told herself as she sprinkled edible glitter over the banks of flowers, giving a magical sparkle to the finished piece.
She loaded the cake into the back of her van, securing the cake board with blocks she’d created for the purpose, and looked again at the address where she was to deliver it. With two minutes to spare, she pulled up at the house just off Kit Carson Road.
Party guests were already arriving and several of the mothers stopped her to ask about doing fancy cakes for them. Jumping through hoops to produce the rush order was going to prove profitable, Sam realized, in addition to the premium price she’d charged the customer for the tight deadline. She set the castle cake on the party table in the backyard and made sure that she’d left business cards with everyone who asked for one.
When Kelly walked in at eight p.m., Sam had just pulled a batch of cranberry-apple scones from the oven. She was pressing her lower back against the kitchen counter, seeking relief from the hours on her feet.
“I have to get some help with this,” she said when Kelly gave her a quizzical look. She held up the stack of order forms. “Seven more messages when I got home from delivering that birthday cake.”
Kelly put the tea kettle on and splashed a generous dollop of amaretto liqueur into Sam’s. “Be careful what you wish for?”
“Definitely.” Sam groaned and sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table while Kelly brewed the tea.
“How soon can you open the shop, Mom?”
Sam sipped the comforting warmth and thought about it. “It’s the kitchen fixtures I’m waiting on and that guy in Albuquerque—ugh—can’t promise any earlier than Monday.”
“So, let’s see how we might organize this,” Kelly said, taking a seat across from Sam. She picked up the stack of order forms and began sorting them by due dates. “Looks like some of these aren’t needed until later next week anyway. We’ll put them at the back of the stack and start with the most urgent.”
We? This was Sam’s first clue that Kelly cared to become involved.
“Mom, I think if we can get past these next few days, it’s all going to level off to a reasonable workload. Plus, once you get the shop open, people will come pick up their orders. You won’t have to dash all over town like you’re doing now.”
“True. Only the specialty cakes will actually need to be delivered and set up. I was thinking about that last night as I cleaned up the shop. The storefront is nearly ready now. But how will I fill it? I can’t open up shop with nothing in the cases.”
“I have an idea—if you’re interested.”
“Anything.”
“I reconnected with a couple of old friends today. Told you I’d fill you in. Well, remember Jennifer Baca? She’s looking for a job right now.”
Sam searched her memory, coming up with a skinny little girl that Kelly used to invite for sleepovers. She couldn’t think of any outstanding feature about the kid, but then how many middle schoolers really show a lot of impressive traits?
“Does she have any experience?”
“Not in a bakery, but she’s worked in retail a lot. Her current job, which she hates because whole days go by without a customer walking in the door, is at one of the galleries just off the plaza. Jen has all the right whatever-you-call-it to deal with a classy clientele.”
Sam thought about it. With someone up front, ringing up sales, taking orders, it would free her up to do nothing but bake. And if she could find a second person, someone to mix the recipes and take things in and out of the oven, leaving Sam to simply create and decorate . . . This was getting a lot closer to the ideal that she’d envisioned.
“If Jen and I pitched in, and you were able to keep baking at home until the ovens get there . . . think we might get the doors open by Monday?”
Sam took a deep gulp.
Chapter 7
Little Jennifer Baca was no longer the scrawny twelve-year-old that Sam had remembered. She’d driven over to the gallery where Kelly said Jen worked, hoping to catch her with a little free time for an informal interview and finding the place as devoid of customers as Kelly described. At thirty, Jen stood tall, slender and elegant in a broomstick skirt and silk tunic top that hugged her youthful curves and set off spectacular examples of turquoise and gold jewelry.
Briefed in advance, Jennifer greeted Sam warmly and laughed with her at the memory of the time the girls had tried to bake brownies at midnight and Sam awoke to the shriek of the smoke alarm.
“I’m a lot better at baking now,” Jen assured her. “But Kelly says that’s not what you need at the moment?”
“Actually, I can use help in just about any way. At first, a person behind the counter who knows the difference between an éclair and a scone will be helpful. Pitching in with the baking, eventually learning the decorating—all of it will be necessary as the business grows.”
Sam knew by the way Jen’s eyes lit up that she loved the idea.
“I don’t know how much I can afford to pay right now. I’m new at this employer thing.”
Jennifer named a figure that would cover her basic needs and Sam readily agreed.
“If the phone calls keep coming in as they have been, I feel certain I can raise that amount fairly soon.”
Jennifer glanced around the dead-quiet gallery. “Really, I’d probably pay you just to get me out of here. I thought I would enjoy working with a wealthy clientele, but they can be a real pain. If they actually show up. The gallery has been just like this all summer, and I’ll be surprised if the owners don’t shut it down soon.”
Sam nodded. How many high-class art stores could a town this size support anyway? She started to respond but her cell phone rang. She glanced at the readout and asked the caller to hold on just a second. “Is there any chance you could start Monday?”
Jennifer nodded agreement and Sam gave a little wave as she left the quiet building.
“Hey, Beau. Sorry about that. I was right in the middle of hiring my first employee.”
“I won’t keep you. Just thought I’d let you know that the DNA results came back on that blood. No match in any of the databases. I have the lab cross-checking it against a couple of Cheryl Adams’s family members that we located in Colorado. They don’t know where Cheryl is now but it’s possible the blood comes from one of her sons. I should have some results later today or tomorrow.”
Despite feeling as if she were standing in a whirlwind, Sam was still curious about whatever had happened at the property on the south side that was now officially under her care. She told Beau to let her know how the lab results turned out.
“Meanwhile, I’m back to working the case of that body SAR pulled from the gorge last night,” he said. “When the Medical Investigator’s office got to taking a closer look they found a wound. I don’t know details yet, but have to keep the possibility open that the guy didn’t just jump off the bridge.”
They made a tentative plan to have dinner together Saturday night, but both knew that everything was up in the air at this moment. Sam speed-walked back to her van, where she found a business card tucked under the wiper—‘call me re catering a banquet’ was penned on the back in a masculine hand. Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?
She sank into the van’s comfortable cushions as she dialed the number on the card. She left a voice message telling the man that she would be most happy to provide the pastries but really wasn’t set up for full catering services yet. Yet? she thought as she ended the call. What the Sam Hill was she thinking? She sighed but resisted calling the man back and revising the message. Take each thing as it comes, Sam.
Zoë and Darryl’s bed and breakfast was only a couple of blocks away so she headed that direction, hoping to catch them both at home. In her dreams, Zoë would offer a soothing cup of tea and Darryl would say that the cabinetry for her shop was ready. In reality she got half her wish. At least it was the more important half.
“If we can meet him there right now, the guy’s ready to deliver,” Darryl said. “I can give you about fifteen minutes, myself, then I have to meet the crew at one of my other jobs. Just tell Mack how you want the stuff.” He had his cell phone out and was already giving orders.
Sam drove along behind Darryl’s big pickup truck, parked her van at the back door of her place and unlocked everything for the workers. Ten minutes later a large panel truck showed up and took four parking spaces out front. Mack began shouting orders. Darryl watched long enough to be sure that the cabinetry was indeed what Sam had ordered and then he headed out to his other job. Sam watched in awe as four burly men hefted the huge pieces and got them through the front door and began setting them in place. The ways in which massive items were built and put into service had always mystified her.
“Oh, Samantha, it’s brilliant!”
Sam turned to see her neighbor Riki bustling over from her own shop. The petite Brit wore a plastic apron over bright pink capris and tank top, and she was in the process of wiping suds from her hands with a towel.
“I absolutely love it!” Her wild, dark curls sprung from a stretchy ponytail band and her green eyes sparkled.
Sam couldn’t deny the younger woman’s enthusiasm. “Thanks. They did a great job, didn’t they?”
“And your old pieces really fit with the new stuff, don’t they?”
It was the one part of the design that had Sam a little worried, blending old and new. How to do it without striving too hard to match the pieces or risk ending up with a hodge-podge. Somehow, though, it all came together and just worked.
“Well, back to the pooches,” Riki said. “I’ve got a sheepdog in the dryer and an unhappy spaniel who’s next up for the bath. Ta!”
She headed back to her shop with a perky step that Sam envied.
“Ms. Sweet?”
Sam turned to find Mack holding out an invoice. She gave a final appraisal of the arrangement of the cabinets and displays, making sure everything was as she wanted it before the muscle men got away. While she was writing the check, Ivan Petrenko wandered over from the bookshop.
“Is nice,” he commented as the panel truck pulled away. “I am liking your place, Samantha. I will to be sending customers to your way, I am certain.”
They’d talked about perhaps asking Victor Tafoya about the possibility of cutting a doorway to join their businesses, but hadn’t done so yet. Sam still felt a little intimidated by the crusty old landlord.
“I’ll return the favor,” she told Ivan. “But only when the customers don’t have sticky sugar on their hands.”
“Spaciba, this is being the best way, for sure.” He spotted a car pulling up in front of his shop and hurried off.
Sam smiled at his quirky thank-you. She stood in her doorway, staring into the shop, fixing the customers’ first impressions in her mind. Now she couldn’t wait to fill in the gaps and then see their reactions. In the weeks since she’d come into the money to open the shop she’d been buying and stashing away the smaller items. Her home, being an older one, had a small living room which was now crammed with all these extras. Aside from Kelly’s nightly addiction to the talk shows she’d recorded during the afternoons, the room wasn’t used all that much. Now, however, she could earnestly begin to move the business from her home to the shop. Finally.
Quickly locking up before anyone else might drop by, Sam hurried to her van and drove home. Her answering machine blinked furiously and she played the messages back, making notes, finding only a couple of calls that needed immediate attention.
She still had the order of scones to deliver, and she carefully placed them on the passenger seat of the vehicle. Then she began with the items portable enough to handle on her own—the coffee and tea equipment, trays for the smaller pastries on their display shelves, napkins, tissue paper, bags, boxes . . . it felt like there were a million things.
Soon the van was full enough. She delivered the scones, drove up to a nearby fast food window for some lunch, and headed back to the shop. By mid-afternoon she began questioning her decision not to harness some of the energy she invariably got from the wooden box. At five o’clock she admitted defeat and went home, tired and aching.
“Mom, are you okay?” Kelly asked, the minute she walked in the back door. “You look exhausted.”
“I am. But I’m hoping some of these yummy aspirin will help.”
“Don’t overdo it. How will the shop get going if you’ve killed yourself in the process?”
“I know.” Sam set down her water glass and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Do you mind if we just order a pizza for dinner tonight?”
Kelly placed the call and went out a few minutes later to pick it up. When she came back with a bottle of decent wine, Sam knew things were looking up. She filled her daughter in on the day’s activities.
“So, now that Jen works for you, get her to do some of this stuff.”
“I will. I will.” If I can ever get over this attitude that I have to do everything myself.
Kelly saw the crease in Sam’s forehead. “You won’t. So I’m calling her for you.”
It took all of two minutes and it was arranged that Jennifer would come to the house in the morning and spend the weekend with Sam, baking. They could surely produce enough cookies, muffins, éclairs and cheesecake to make a respectable showing in the bakery cases by Monday morning. Jen would man the register and work out the kinks in the system while Sam supervised installation of the commercial ovens and other equipment. They would consider this first week a soft opening, then plan a gala, a real full-fledged “introduce us to the world” opening the following weekend.
She told all of this to Beau over dinner the following night at a local place known for its hearty soups and generous sandwiches, after they’d stopped at the shop so he could see the progress.
“You’re amazing, you know,” he said. “I can’t believe the amount of work you’ve accomplished already.”
And I can’t really tell you how, she thought, knowing that much of the labor had happened under the influence of the box’s energy. She’d never mentioned to him that she thought Bertha Martinez was appearing in her dreams. It was just too woo-woo for this solid Southerner to believe.
“Thanks. Will you be able to come to our grand opening next Saturday night?”
“Absolutely. Nothing—” His phone interrupted with an insistent tone. He reached for it and shrugged. “Almost nothing . . . sorry, I have to take this.”
The downside of dating a deputy at a time when the department was short-handed and the sheriff was running for re-election, she supposed. She dunked a torn corner of her herb bread into her potato-leek soup and nibbled at it.
Beau’s side of the conversation consisted of yeses and no’s. At one point he pulled his small notebook from a pocket and began to scribble notes. Sam finished her soup and let the waiter take her bowl.
“Well,” he said, finally. “That was an interesting little piece of news.”
“Can you tell me?” She’d learned that while he usually didn’t mind discussing his cases, relying on her discretion, sometimes it was strictly off limits.
“No harm, I guess.” He stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket and spooned up some of his green chile stew. “The crime lab came back with an ID on that body, the one I told you about.”
“From the gorge?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around at the thinning dinner crowd and lowered his voice. “It was a local private investigator, Bram Fenton. He retired from police work in Arizona. I knew him. Not real well, but we’d consulted a few times over the years. Seemed like a straight arrow. Mostly insurance work, that kind of thing.”
“So, what do you think happened to him?”
“Don’t know. They’re faxing the full autopsy report. I should have it waiting for me at the office on Monday morning.”
Sam continued to tear little bits off the herb bread, eating some and dropping a few to the plate in front of her.
“This might sound really weird, but do you know the first thought that just came into my head?”
He looked straight at her.
“Private investigator. Trench coat.” She dropped the bread and dusted the crumbs off her hands. “I know, way too cliché, huh.”
“Could be. But it’s an interesting possibility.”
Chapter 8
Sunday morning Sam woke up with Beau’s conversation running through her head. What if the private investigator really was murdered? And what if the trench coat she’d found belonged to him? She rolled over in bed twice, willing the thoughts away, hoping to grab a little more sleep before Jen arrived.
Today would be their only chance to get enough product made up for the store’s soft opening and since it appeared that the guy in Albuquerque truly would deliver her ovens and the other kitchen equipment tomorrow, it was important that she accomplish a lot, not get herself distracted by one of Beau’s cases. Just because the coat had come from one of her properties didn’t mean she had to get involved.
Thinking of the Adams property again reminded her that she’d not submitted her invoice to Delbert Crow. It could easily get lost in the shuffle of everything else in her life right now. She threw off the blankets and dragged her aching bones out of bed. The lumpy wooden box sat benignly again on her dresser. She reached a hand out toward it, then pulled back. What if she were becoming addicted to its power?
Her hand wavered—closer, then away.
Finally, she picked it up. As warmth from the wood began to saturate her tired arms, she hugged it more tightly to her body. Soon the colored stones glowed and she felt the infusion of energy she always got from the strange artifact.
As soon as the bakery was open, she promised herself, she would put the box away forever.
She dressed quickly and went to her computer in the corner of the living room, which was gradually becoming clearer, where she figured up her hours and submitted the bill to her supervisor by email. There. Done.
“Morning, Mom,” Kelly said, moving sluggishly from her room to the open bathroom door.
Sam started a pot of coffee and looked around the kitchen. She’d not bothered to put away the large bins of flour, sugar and spices from yesterday’s baking spree. The dishwasher was full of clean utensils, ready for another round today. With her newfound energy Sam unloaded the mixing bowls and beaters and began to set up for the first batch of seasonal quick breads and cakes that were usually a hit in the fall.
Through the kitchen window she spotted Jennifer’s little Toyota just about the time Kelly emerged from her room, dressed and ready to help.
“If I can get you girls to start with these recipes,” Sam said, pulling out three cards and indicating which pans were to be used for each. “I’ve got Darryl and Zoë coming over in a few minutes with their truck and we’ll load both pickups with the tables and chairs I’ve stored in the garage. Meanwhile, I’m filling the van with everything from the service porch.”
Kelly gave her a little salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Sam answered with a flick of a dish towel aimed at her daughter’s rear end.
The service porch attached to the back of the kitchen contained a lot of stuff, Sam realized, as she began pulling things from the shelves. She didn’t remember buying half of these special-shaped cake pans and separators for the large tiers she used for wedding cakes. She found a whole box of disposable pastry bags and a plastic case of decorator tips she’d completely forgotten about. In the new place she would have space to organize all this, rather than simply cramming her tools into every cranny.
“Knock, knock.” The voice of Rupert Penrick, the friend who’d helped her recently discover the missing work of a famous artist, came through the screen door. Without that bit of fortunate luck she would not have the money to be opening Sweet’s Sweets now.
“Hey, come in,” Sam answered. “You’re just in time.”
“Aren’t I always?” Rupert offered a hug. “Ooh—you’re certainly tingling with energy! Myself, I’m just happy to take a day off from my writing.” Little-known to most locals, Rupert was a prolific writer who remained perennially on the bestseller lists under the pen name Victoria DeVane. He was usually very disciplined in his work, but Sam knew him to also look for frequent excuses to skip out on his writing duties in search of other diversions. He’d been one of her staunchest supporters of the bake shop plan, from the moment she first told him about the idea. Today, the large man had shown up for work in loose knit pants and a shirt with billowy sleeves--his trademark style in his trademark purple.
“The van is nearly full so maybe you could drive it over to the new shop? The rest of us should be along within a half hour or so and we’ll all pitch in to unload.” She handed him keys to the van and shop and he headed down her long driveway.
Kelly shouted from the kitchen, a small crisis when she couldn’t find the baking powder, and then Sam spotted Darryl’s pickup truck in the driveway. As helpers began piling from the truck, she was thrilled to see that Troy and Gus had come along. She gave each of them a hug and a thanks for coming to her aid. Within twenty minutes every bit of the extra furniture for the shop was loaded into the two pickup trucks.
Sunday morning traffic was light around the center of town and they arrived at the shop in under ten minutes. Another reason, Sam realized, that this was such a great location for her business. If you had to live half your life at work, at least having it close to home was a huge plus.
Rupert greeted them at the front door, propping it open so the boxes containing unassembled tables and the stacks of café chairs could be brought inside.
“Sam, let me know what you think about the back,” he said as the others hustled to unload the two trucks.
She followed his purple-clad back into the dimmer interior of the workroom.
“Rupe, I can’t believe it! You’ve organized everything!”
“Is it okay? I didn’t mean to presume . . . But I just felt so energetic this morning.”
Energetic? She gave him a long look, but his attention was elsewhere.
“These shelves seemed just the right spot for your pastry bags, tips, colors, and little items like cookie cutters—”
She stared around at the storage room that was now organized exactly as she would have done it herself.
“And over here . . .” Rupert showed racks containing all her cake pans, muffin tins, spring form pans.
“How did you—?”
He shrugged.
“The van is empty?”
Another shrug.
“I’m impressed.” He was going to start questioning this—real soon—if Sam didn’t cover. Although her mind was spinning at the possibility that somehow her own energy from the box had rubbed off on her friend, she hustled him into the front of the shop to see how the others were doing.
Darryl and Troy already had three tables assembled and were well on their way with the fourth. Gus carried a large box in and set it near the counter with a thump. Zoë had wiped all the chairs clean and was placing them along the wall opposite the display cases, just the way Sam had envisioned them. This was getting too spooky.
“Guys, this is so awesome!” Sam said. “I definitely owe you all lunch.”
She glanced at her watch while Darryl and Troy set the final table on its legs. It was only ten-thirty.
No one seemed to notice the time.
“Hello all,” came a female voice from behind Sam. Riki Davis-Jones appeared, carrying an insulated carafe and a paper sack. “I called your house and Kelly told me you were here. I wasn’t sure whether it was time for breakfast or lunch so I brought egg sandwiches and coffee.” She held up the bag.
Sam introduced Riki all around and as the others dug into the sack, she remembered that she hadn’t eaten any breakfast, herself. Looking around the shop, which only needed product in the display cases to be ready for business, she marveled at their accomplishment. The box? She tamped down the thought.
“May we christen your new tables?” Zoë asked with an impish grin.
The men had already taken seats and were in the process of unwrapping their sandwiches. Sam smiled at them and extended her arms wide. “Absolutely. Sit. Eat.”
Sam nearly had her own sandwich unwrapped when she felt her cell phone buzz inside her pocket. She carried the sandwich to the back room.
“Hey there,” Beau said. “Just thought I’d check to see how it’s going.”
“Amazingly,” she said, giving a quick overview. “I woke up thinking about that private investigator, though. Did you get a chance to read the report yet?”
“Too busy this morning with Mama,” he said. “It’ll keep for awhile. If my boss weren’t so busy hitting the campaign trail, taking the local important people out for breakfast and such, I might get more than one day off this week. But since I only have the one day, I decided to spend it with her, maybe take her out for a drive this afternoon. We might still catch some of the fall leaves. I wanted to ask you to come along, but this has to be a crazy day for you.”
“Well, actually, things are just about done here.”
“How’d you manage that?”
How, indeed? She didn’t want to get into her suspicions about the powers of the box. “We got an early start and everyone just pitched in.”
“So you might be able to break away for an afternoon drive?”
“It sounds wonderful, Beau, but I better not. I left Kelly and Jen baking at home today. They’re probably up to their ears in it by now. But thanks for the invite. Enjoy your day with Iris.”
She ended the call and walked back to the front of the shop to find the others readying to leave.
“I don’t know how to thank you, everyone.”
Zoë and Darryl needed to get back to their B&B—more guests arriving in a few hours. They took Troy and Gus with them. Rupert said he would take Sam’s van back to her house, trade it for his own car, and get back home where Victoria’s characters were in some kind of romantic mess that he needed to straighten out in the current manuscript. Riki offered to stay longer, but Sam couldn’t really think of much else that needed to be done. The dog groomer helped clear the remains of their impromptu brunch and then walked back to her car.
Sam locked the front door behind the rest of them and stood in her shop. Tomorrow the paper signs would come off the windows, to be replaced soon by her logo painted in purple and gold. Jen would be behind the counter, the shelves filled with all the new goodies, and Sam would actually ring up her first dollars in sales in her real shop. A lump formed in her throat at the realization that her dream was about to become reality. She quickly swallowed that lump as her phone rang again.
“Mom, help!”
Chapter 9
Sam’s heart raced. “Kelly, what’s wrong?”
“The oven quit on us. We had two pans of pumpkin bread in there and it’s just not baking. The oven is barely warm.”
Oh god, a baking disaster.
“I’m on my way.”
Sam rechecked the lock on the back door, switched off lights and headed out to her truck. She arrived at home to find Rupert in the kitchen with Kelly and Jen, staring into the oven at pans of flat pumpkin bread with a much too liquidy sheen on top.
“Call Zoë and see if we might get these into her oven. Quick! We might still be able to save them.”
While Kelly made the call, Sam fiddled with the buttons on the oven. These electronically controlled things had always spooked her.
“Zoë says yes. I’ll take the pans right over.” Kelly set both partially cooked loaves onto a tray and headed out the back door.
“Is there anything I can do?” Rupert asked, looking sort of helpless. Art, writing, cooking—he could handle those things. Electronics, forget it.
“No, we’ll sort it out,” Sam said. “Go on and get back to your book.”
He looked relieved as he practically dashed out the back door.
“Jen, looks like you’ve got the rest of the day off,” Sam said. “Get some rest and be ready for tomorrow. I’ll bring all the stuff we’ve already baked and we’ll get set up. Meet me there at six, we’ll open the doors at seven?”
Jen gave her a high-five and left.
Now what?
Sam stared at the blank readout on the oven where digital numbers normally gave the status of the appliance. Rats. She pulled the range away from the wall and reached behind to unplug and re-plug the cord, hoping that something might reboot and get it started again, but no such luck. A baker without an oven isn’t going to be very successful, she thought. She put all she could into praying, wishing, hoping that the guy from Albuquerque showed up as promised and installed her new ovens tomorrow.
Meanwhile, she surveyed the results of the past two days. Dozens of cookies and brownies waited in bakery boxes on the kitchen table. In the fridge, six cheesecakes in four flavors looked delicious with their crumb crusts of chocolate, vanilla and ginger. Sliced and arranged in the cases, she hoped they would entice the midday customers. For the early crowd (ha—she hoped), breakfast quiches, crumb cake, pumpkin bread and apple streusel should work. She closed the refrigerator door and hoped she’d guessed correctly on the quantities. Either too much or too little could spell disaster.
So far, all her bakery business had been custom order; now she was guessing at what it took to fill the needs of the walk-in trade. With Jen at the counter, she planned to work in the back and produce decorated cakes that could be ready for spur-of-the-moment purchases. Each day might be an adventure until she got this whole thing figured out.
She placed a call to an appliance repair shop and left a voice message to the effect that she needed to set up an appointment. So many other things needed to be addressed but a Sunday afternoon wasn’t the time to reach a lot of people. After a quick call to find out how the baking was going at Zoë’s and leaving Kelly with instructions for the finished pumpkin breads, Sam decided this might be her best chance to do what she could to finish the cleanup job at the Adams place.
For the first time in days Sam felt like the bakery wasn’t the top thing on her mind as she drove through town. Most of the golden leaves had fallen from the cottonwoods that normally shaded Paseo del Pueblo Sur. October would soon be gone and the grayer days of November would begin. Her birthday would be here in less than three weeks. She felt startled at that realization, that she’d not even remembered a date that used to be all-important. She supposed that birthdays and the passing years either became less important or more important to a person after fifty. She squeezed the steering wheel of the Silverado, reminding herself that some of the best times of her life had happened these past few years.
After a frankly boring childhood in small-town Texas, an adventure working in a pipeline camp in Alaska and then arriving in Taos—pregnant and single—more than thirty years ago, Sam’s life settled into the routine of raising a daughter and simply staying employed. Being a line cook in a restaurant, taking in sewing at home while Kelly was an infant, working at a family-owned insurance firm where the owner allowed her to bring her preschooler along. That lasted until old man Sanchez died and his wheeler-dealer son sold the agency to a big Albuquerque firm. Sam, then the mother of a teen, couldn’t ever seem to blend the stresses of corporate demands with those of teenaged hormones on the rage. She’d hung in there—barely—until Kelly graduated and then began baking and living off her savings until the job with the USDA came along. What the Department of Agriculture had to do with home mortgages, she never quite understood, but the money was good enough to see Sam past her days of complete frugality. Telling people that she broke into houses for a living elicited reactions from shock to laughter. What she didn’t tell them was about some of the weird, strange and awful things she learned about people in those houses.
Now she pulled into the driveway behind the coyote fence at the newest of her break-ins, wondering once more what had gone on here. The blood on the saturated trench coat didn’t belong to the female owner of the house, and Sam’s half-joking idea that the coat was tied to Beau’s dead PI had no proof to back it up.
Sam retrieved the key from the lockbox on the front door and opened it. Ever since the discovery of the bloody garment, a nagging doubt had hovered at the edges of her consciousness. Had she inadvertently thrown out some important clue that would help solve Beau’s newest case?
The house had the stale smell of dust and old food, of meals prepared a long time ago, of things that children had left behind, like dirty mouths wiped on a towel and the towel thrown into a corner and forgotten, of diapers and spit-up. Although Sam had spent hours working on the place already, there was still much to be done before it could hope to appeal to a buyer.
She sighed and wondered where to start. Beau probably wouldn’t want her to throw out anything more, now that he was actively looking for the homeowner’s whereabouts. Although he knew Cheryl Adams wasn’t the victim, he couldn’t exactly rule her out as a suspect.
Perhaps she could help. Sam summoned up residual energy from her morning encounter with the wooden box but the initial burst of energy had dissipated. Odd. Just when she thought she’d pegged the results; normally she got about twelve hours of vigor after handling the box. Had she somehow given it away? All her friends had certainly moved at top speed this morning. Maybe Sam had transferred power to them in some way. She wandered into the kitchen, frustrated with the uselessness of dwelling on it.
Jerking open the first of the kitchen drawers she rummaged through mismatched flatware and utensils. The next contained two rolls of plastic wrap and a wadded paper napkin and seventeen twist ties. Sam berated herself for actually counting them. The third drawer was the junk drawer.
She scooped the contents onto the countertop and began to poke around. A scrap of paper, business card, old mail . . . she hoped to come up with something that might provide a connection to wherever the Adams’s went. Delbert Crow had told her that Cheryl Adams skipped around a lot. But the drawer yielded nothing.
Undeterred, Sam closed that one and started on another promising drawer, crammed full. Her mother used to comment on her tenacity—picking at a thread, she called it. As in, “Samantha, set that problem aside—you’re always pickin’ at a thread.”
But this drawer, too, contained only kitchen stuff, the detritus of old bottle caps and plastic devices that only the inventor of such could name—was it an egg separator or a measuring spoon? No one seemed to ever go through these little rat-stashes and throw out any of it.
Giving up on the kitchen, Sam went into the master bedroom where a dresser showed promise. The top two drawers were empty—at least the lady had taken her necessaries along with her. The next drawer contained a collection of t-shirts and pullover tops, most of which were worn so threadbare it was easy to see why they’d not made Cheryl’s cut in the choosing up of which clothes to take with her. Sam rummaged through them but found nothing other than the battered clothing.
She hit the jackpot with the bottom drawer, apparently the place of Cheryl’s filing system, such as it was. A couple of envelopes with Final Notice stamped in red lay on top of the hodgepodge. Both were still sealed, one from the electric co-op and the other from the mortgage company. Beneath those were other notices from the same, each with increasingly dire warnings about how they better get some money, and soon. Obviously, Cheryl Adams had gotten her fill of being chewed out in writing and simply chose to ignore everything after a certain point. Sam stacked the pages neatly and set them aside.
Below the nasty past-due notices were a collection of pay stubs, which Sam gathered, noting that the most recent was dated back in June. If Adams had been out of work that long, it certainly explained why she couldn’t pay her bills and why she felt compelled to walk out on her mortgage.
The rest of the drawer’s contents consisted of important things like a two-year-old TV Guide and four restaurant takeout menus from Seattle along with random bits of memorabilia—a small diary like an adolescent might keep, birthday cards, news clippings, a Christmas ornament, a snowflake cut from paper and sprinkled with glitter and a blue baby bootie. Surprised that Adams hadn’t taken those things, Sam pushed the little items to one corner and picked up the diary.
As she might have guessed, the early pages of the book were filled with the looping handwriting of a teen and the entries consisted of things like “School was a drag today” and “Had a huge fight with Sandy. I hate her!!!” After twenty pages or so, the rest were blank. As Sam started to drop the book back into the drawer a small bit of newspaper slipped out of the back of it. She picked it up.
A marriage notice: Cheryl Tercel wed to Dan Adams. No photo or real write-up, just the simple announcement that probably came from the county records of some unnamed place.
Sam picked up the other two clippings that had been among the assortment of papers. One was an article about Hudson County Rodeo and the naming of that year’s queen and princesses. One of the princesses in the court was a Sally Tercel. There was no Hudson County in New Mexico, so this came from somewhere else. The other clipping also contained the name Tercel in a story about a man killed in a car accident, just outside a town called Andersonville. Sam had no idea where any of these places were but maybe Beau could use the information to track down the Tercel family and somehow find out Cheryl’s current location. She added the newspaper bits to the stack with the past due bills and closed the drawer on the rest of the clutter.
Another thirty minutes poking about the many cubbyholes in the house but nowhere did Sam come across the name Bram Fenton nor any mention of a private investigator, outside of one Sue Grafton novel, coated in dust, under a living room end table.
Gathering the small stack of envelopes and clippings she’d found in the bedroom, Sam locked the place up again and headed out to her truck. She speed-dialed Beau’s cell phone and filled him in on the findings at the house.
“I can bring you the papers I collected, if you like.”
“Any chance I could take you to dinner tonight?”
The hope in his voice tore at her. She’d certainly been the neglectful one in the relationship in recent weeks. But exhaustion was quickly overtaking her.
“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. First day for Sweet’s Sweets and all that.”
“How about I meet you at Michael’s Kitchen in fifteen minutes? Mama’s had her dinner already and she’ll be perfectly happy in front of the TV for an hour or so. You bring the papers and we’ll call it an early dinner.”
An image of the stuffed sopapillas at Michael’s came into her head and she could almost smell the green chile. Practically salivating, she agreed. Maybe it’s just what I need, she thought as she started her truck.
When Beau walked into the restaurant, two minutes behind her, she knew she’d made the right decision. He lit up when he saw her. When the model-handsome deputy sheriff first showed an interest in Sam she couldn’t understand the attraction on his part. Any woman under eighty would be drawn in by the ocean-blue eyes, the dark hair with touches of gray at the temples and the smile that tilted upward at one side. It had taken some sweet Southern talk for him to convince her that she—chubby, graying, and five years older than he—was attractive to him. Since they’d begun dating early this autumn she’d finally begun to believe his sincerity.
“Hey there,” he whispered as he leaned close to give her a kiss beside her left ear. He took a seat across from her and reached over to take her hand. “I’ve missed you.”
“We just had dinner the other night,” she reminded.
“It’s not the dining room where I’m missing you.” His eyebrows wiggled.
A young Hispanic waitress appeared and they placed orders without having to look at the menus.
“Busy week,” Sam said as the girl walked away. “But I can’t believe how much we’ve gotten done.” She told him how many friends had shown up this morning and how quickly the shop was shaping up.
“How is this being a retail baker going to affect your schedule?”
“Let’s just say that early dinners may become a way of life for awhile. I’ve hired an assistant who will work the sales counter, but most of the baking has to happen early in the mornings. If things go well, I’ll hire another baker—soon, I hope—and then I won’t have to put in the really early hours.”
He squeezed her hand again and let go as the waitress brought their glasses of iced tea.
“Oh, before I forget . . .” Sam rummaged in her pack and brought out the banded stack of papers she’d taken from Cheryl Adams’s house. “I don’t know if these small clues will help.”
“Anything’s better than nothing,” he said. “It could put us that much closer to finding her.”
Their plates arrived and a few minutes of silence passed as they cut into the steaming mixture of sopapilla, meat, beans, cheese and chile.
“How did anyone figure out that frying a little square of bread could turn out so delicious?” Sam mumbled through a bite.
Beau’s eyes actually rolled upward as he savored the heady blend of flavors.
“I have to stop to breathe,” Sam said, setting her fork down after a few minutes.
“I stopped by the office and read Bram Fenton’s autopsy report.” Beau had paused to take another sip of his tea. “The fatal wound wasn’t caused by his fall from the bridge. He had a nasty gash on the side of his neck that hit the carotid artery. He was bleeding heavily before he ever made the leap.”
“How could he . . .?”
“Get out to the middle of the bridge and jump off, when he was probably getting weaker by the second?”
She nodded.
“No idea. But the mystery gets deeper. I had them compare DNA in that trench coat with the vic’s DNA. It’s a match. So, a guy is bleeding out, but his coat manages to get hung up in a closet on the south side of town, while he’s standing on the gorge bridge on the northwest side of town.”
“He was wearing the coat when he got this fatal cut?”
“Almost certainly. It’s a lot of blood. But he didn’t have the coat on when he hit the bottom of the gorge. Obviously.”
“So there was someone else with him? Who?”
“That, darlin, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
Chapter 10
Sam took up her fork again and picked at her food. Suddenly, her appetite seemed to have waned.
“I went through the Adams house pretty thoroughly this afternoon. Didn’t find anything with Bram Fenton’s name on it, no papers referring to an investigator or a legal case or anything. How would his coat end up at her house if they had no ties whatsoever?”
“We don’t know that they didn’t,” Beau said. His own appetite seemed fine, Sam noticed. He was more than halfway through his meal. “They might have been friends or one-time neighbors . . . people can know each other in the most obscure ways.”
She gave that some thought. “Lovers, maybe? Remember, there were other items of male clothing in the house too.”
“And love relationships gone bad are always good motive for murder.”
“True.” Thinking of the many ways in which people who profess to love each other end up doing harm, she wondered if that was just one more reason she’d avoided falling in love, all these years.
Beau glanced at his watch. “Well, my unofficial dinner break has to come to an end. I don’t dare take the chance that Mama would try to get out of her wheelchair alone.”
“Me too. I’ve got a kitchen full of baked goods that have to be packed up and ready to arrive at the shop by six in the morning. And I have a feeling that our first day will reveal all the glitches and little forgotten items.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Come by for a cup of our signature coffee in the morning and have a pastry. It’ll look good to have some cars out front.”
“Even if it’s a sheriff’s department cruiser?”
“I think we can handle that.” In a town this size it had to be pretty common news that the baker was dating the deputy sheriff. And whoever didn’t know about it already would be in on the secret after the bakery had been open a week.
They walked out to the parking lot together and indulged in kisses that became longer and more intense by the minute. Just short of a full make-out session, and saying to hell with their other responsibilities, they came up for air.
“I really better be getting home,” Sam said.
“Maybe I could call you later? At this point even phone sex probably wouldn’t be half bad.”
She laughed and ran her hands down his chest. “Nope. I’m going to be sound asleep by the time it’s dark.”
Beau’s Explorer turned left and Sam watched him round the curve in the road in her rearview mirror. Darnit. He’d stirred up her hormones again.
A five o’clock alarm is an awful thing. Sam sat up in the dark and hit the button, going against every instinct in her body. What on earth was she thinking, getting into a business that required such ungodly hours?
Her feet dragged her toward the bathroom where she took the chilliest shower she could tolerate and then swished her mouth with the strongest mouthwash in the house. If that didn’t wake her up she didn’t know what would.
She began toting boxes of cookies and cheesecakes out to the van while coffee brewed. The new, fancy coffee machine at the bakery had not even been put through a trial run yet but she needed her vital first caffeine of the day, right now.
With the van loaded and a travel mug filled with French roast, Sam drove the few blocks and parked her traveling billboard right in front of the shop. Until her regular signage was installed this was the best way to attract attention. Within five minutes Jennifer arrived and the two women began carrying everything inside.
“Look in the back room,” Sam said as she began arranging pastries onto trays on the wire shelves inside her display cases. “I have some generic Grand Opening banners that we can put in the windows to replace those paper ones that say Coming Soon.”
Jen was back in two minutes and began switching the signs. Sam was glad to see her new assistant take the initiative, without further instruction. She started the coffee maker and set up more filters and beans for subsequent batches. Meanwhile, Sam cut a couple of slices of each cheesecake flavor into small sample-sized pieces and arranged them on a plate near the register. At seven, sharp, they were ready to turn on all the lights and open the doors.
Jen had no sooner hit the light switch than a woman appeared at the door. “Are you open for business yet?” she asked.
Sam and Jen exchanged smiles. “Absolutely!”
The lady came in and immediately asked for some of that heavenly coffee that she said she could smell from the street. While she browsed the muffins, Sam noticed that Beau had pulled up out front in his Department SUV. The woman took her coffee and a cranberry muffin to one of the tables, pulling out the morning newspaper and settling in.
Beau gave Sam a discreet thumbs-up when he saw that he wasn’t the first customer. He made a lot of noise over the cheesecakes, and another customer who’d just stepped inside immediately ordered a slice of each flavor, to go. While Jen boxed them up, Sam signaled Beau to step into the kitchen.
“So far, so good,” he said.
“Exciting! I hope it keeps up like this for awhile. Jen’s doing a great job at handling the counter and I need to start on the plans for the gala opening party on Saturday. You’ll be here?”
He nodded and reached out to squeeze her hand.
“And bring Iris.”
“Absolutely. She’s your biggest cookie fan out there.”
“Hang around awhile if you’d like,” she said. “Get some coffee—”
“I wish I could stay awhile, but duty calls.”
“Hey, take a box of those mini-muffins for the office. My treat. Just tell everyone where you got them.”
“Deal.”
They walked back into the shop and Sam loaded a box with muffins and cookies. Cheapest form of advertising, she thought, remembering that she still needed to give the ad rep at the radio station a call today. By the time Beau left, six more customers had come and gone, according to Jen. A muffin here, a croissant there—it was beginning to add up.
At nine, when Mysterious Happenings opened, Sam had made up a plate of cookie samples and taken them over to Ivan to hand out to his customers throughout the day. And she took another plate to Riki at Puppy Chic. “Just tell everyone where you got them,” she repeated to each of them.
By midmorning things settled a little out front and Sam went into the back room to make some follow-up calls. First to the fixture company where the man answering the phone assured her that his crew was on the way to Taos and should be arriving anytime. Fuming a little, Sam had no choice but to hope that was true. Her next call was to the radio station’s ad representative. He played the first take of her ad over the phone and she was pleased with the way it sounded. One small change of wording and she okayed it to begin running on Thursday before the Saturday gala.
She was jotting down names for a guest list when she heard a large truck drive up behind the building. At last!
Two hours and a few swear words later, after dealing with all the joys of installing modern appliances in an older building, the delivery men left. Now it was up to Darryl and his crew to plumb the water lines for the sinks and hook up the existing gas lines to the ovens. Technically, a town inspector had to check the work and sign off on everything before she could prepare food here, and Sam was beginning to fret over that since the death of her oven at home, but Darryl came to the rescue.
In true New Mexico tradition, the burly contractor phoned the uncle of a brother-in-law of one of his crew, who just happened to be the inspector they needed. Sam left the room, nearly in despair, when she overheard the part about the guy’s schedule being backed up for a minimum of two weeks. She absolutely could not deal with this!
She speed-walked around the block, letting the chill October air blast through her thin shirt, her reward for stomping out without remembering her jacket. The frigid air cleared her head enough to remind her that she better pursue repairs to her home oven.
When she got back to the shop, hands tingling and lips nearly blue, Darryl informed her that the inspector would be there in thirty minutes.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
She closed her gaping mouth and just let him proceed to direct his guys in the final few steps to complete the installation. A call to the appliance repair shop netted a vague promise that someone could probably get out to her house by the end of the week.
“Don’t stress over things you can’t change,” she muttered to herself.
“What?” Jen called from the front of the bakery.
Sam found her assistant wiping the tables with disinfectant spray, taking advantage of a small lull in the traffic.
“Nothing,” Sam said, placing an arm around Jen’s shoulders. “Thanks so much. You’ve been a real godsend to me today.”
The younger woman smiled. “I’m loving it here. Staying busy is so much better than what I was doing before.”
“Now if I could just find a clone of you, one with baking skills, I’d feel like I could take a deep breath without falling behind in my schedule.”
“Seriously? If you want more help right away, I know someone.”
“It would probably just be part time at first,” Sam said, realizing that she had no idea how many people she could afford to hire.
“I’m sure Becky could use whatever time you can offer.”
“Becky? Little Becky Gurule that you and Kelly were in Girl Scouts with?”
Jennifer laughed. “Well, she’s Becky Harper now and she has two kids in school. Her little boy just started first grade this year and Becky’s feeling kind of lost without the patter of little feet.”
Sam tended to forget that these little girls were now in their thirties and it made perfect sense that they could be wives and mothers. She’d had a school-aged child at that time in her own life. By now she could very well be a grandmother, herself. She stifled that thought and asked Jen to write down Becky’s phone number for her.
“Let me see when we’ll have our kitchen functioning before I make a commitment,” she said.
She ducked into the back room again and saw that the men were putting their tools away. The new stainless steel baking ovens fit perfectly into the space where she’d envisioned them. And the big double-capacity sinks would be such a help when large bowls and all the utensils began to pile up. She gave Darryl a huge grin as he dismissed his crew.
“What do I owe you?” she asked, looking around for his invoice.
“Consider it a house-warming present. Or maybe that’s a shop-warming present.”
“Oh, no, no, no. You can’t be giving away your services. You’ve got expenses,” she said, nodding toward the workers.
“It was a slow afternoon. We’re waiting on an inspection on that house before we can go to the next phase.” He shook his head wryly.
Sam laughed. “Call Gus’s brother-in-law again?”
“I wish it was the same guy.” He set a toolbox near the back door. “Hey, I’ll tell you what I will let you do. Maybe a cup of coffee and a cookie or something while we wait for the inspector to show up? No doubt he’ll give you some kind of little punch list of things to fix, an excuse to delay you until he can come back again. There shouldn’t be much and I’ll hang around and fix it as he goes. That way we can hope to get you signed off yet today.”
Sam grabbed his arm and led him into the front of the shop. “Your wish is my command. Take anything you want—everything you want! Jen, how fresh is that coffee?”
“I just brewed a new pot. It’s that time of afternoon when a lot of people want a little break.”
“Perfect. Pour the biggest mug we have for Darryl.”
She watched the white-haired bear of a man settle at one of the tables with a slice of pumpkin cheesecake.
“The place is looking great, Sam. Zoë better get over here to see it.”
“Send her anytime. But it’ll be better later in the week.” She told him about the new awning that would go across the front of the shop, the large sign for the front of the building and the smaller, painted signs on the windows. “You guys are coming to the big gala on Saturday night aren’t you?”
He mumbled through a mouthful of cheesecake, just as Sam looked up to see a man in dark slacks, white shirt, tie and leather jacket come through the front door. With a clipboard under his arm, this had to be the inspector. She smiled brightly.
“That was worse than a GYN exam,” she complained to Kelly on the phone. Six o’clock and Sam felt dead on her feet. Mr. Hernandez was one of those self-important bureaucrats who couched his claws behind a smile. Every comment was, “This little thing doesn’t look quite right” or “You can understand why I’ll have to red-tag that.”
All the while he put on a benevolent smile, as if he were presenting her with a gift. Which, in a way, she had to admit he was. He could have remained adamant about not even showing up for two more weeks.
Thank heaven for Darryl. He’d played the game as well as she could imagine it being done. Jumping when the inspector said jump, fixing each small item as it was pointed out (turning the soap dispenser to face forward instead of to the right, for pete’s sake!); knowing when the guy was being plain unreasonable and putting up a polite argument; knowing when the man was flat-out wrong and pointing to the rule book when necessary. Sam could have never done it without the contractor’s help. She made a mental note to think of a suitable thank-you gift.
“What can I do to help?” Kelly asked. “I could start something for dinner.”
“That would be wonderful—something light. Just look in the freezer and pantry and see what’s there. I can’t think right now. Just remember the oven’s on the fritz.”
Kelly assured her that she could find something. Sam hung up and then realized that she’d never gotten around to calling Becky Harper. At the moment she couldn’t imagine how she would manage to be open another day without some additional help. Jen had agreed, before leaving, to come in early again in the morning. But Sam just about despaired when she looked at the nearly empty display cases. She took a quick inventory and decided on the recipes she could make most quickly to assure that the store wasn’t bare by opening time at seven a.m.
How would she do this every day and manage to throw a big party just five days from now?
Chapter 11
It was time for the box. Sam lay in the bathtub, soaking the ache from her muscles, barely remembering the dinner Kelly had prepared—grilled chicken and fresh veggies. Where had those come from? She couldn’t remember shopping for food in at least a week. She closed her eyes, breathing the herbal scent of the bubbles that floated up to her neck.
I simply can not keep up at this pace without some help, she decided. Take it a day at a time, and you’ll get used to it, her other half said.
Sometime between leaving the shop and arriving here in this bathtub she’d phoned Becky Harper. The timing was bad—Becky no doubt in the middle of making dinner for her family, kids screeching in the background, a job offer that she knew nothing about. Sam should have taken Jen up on her offer to call her friend and present the idea first. She’d gotten a somewhat hesitant promise that the younger woman could start work on Wednesday but only during the hours her kids were in school.
I’ll use the energy from the box in the morning, Sam promised herself. Just this last time, no more. By mid-week I’ll have help. By the weekend the party will be done. By next week we’ll settle into a routine and it will all get easier. She really hoped it was true.
She abandoned the tub once the water began to cool and headed straight for bed. The beside clock told her it was 8:47 but she couldn’t keep her eyes open one more minute.
When the alarm went off at four-thirty Sam’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t remember setting it and wasn’t at all sure if it were morning or night. The bakery. If she didn’t get at least eight dozen things baked, she would have no product when the customers began to show up at seven. She sat up quickly, not allowing herself to get drowsy again. She might never get up if that happened.
She turned her bedside lamp three clicks, to the brightest setting the bulb could offer. Slamming her eyes shut against the assault, she felt her way across the room to her dresser. The lumps of the carved wooden box felt familiar and comforting in her hands. She gradually opened her eyes, accepting the light in the room and the warmth from the box.
Although the room was chilly with the household thermostats set low for the night, Sam felt quickly warmed by the glow from the box. As usual, energy traveled up her arms, through her body, to her core. When the tingle in her fingers became nearly painful she set the box back on the dresser.
Changing from her nightshirt to the black slacks and white shirt she wore under her baker’s jacket, she checked herself in the mirror. Her skin looked fresh and young, her hair fell perfectly into its short layers. She dashed a bit of lipstick across her mouth and found her favorite gold hoop earrings.
On the kitchen table lay a flyer announcing the gala party on Saturday and a note from Kelly: Bored last night after you went to bed, played around with design and came up with this. Let me know what you think. Oh, Beau called.
Sam scrawled a big smiley-face at the bottom of Kelly’s note and the words: Love the design! Print out a couple dozen!
By the time she’d loaded the heavy sacks of flour and sugar into the van, she was more than ready to fire up her new ovens and tackle the world.
The plaza was eerily empty in the glow of old-fashioned street lamps when Sam cruised through. Thick frost coated everything and only a few brown leaves straggled on the trees. She cut across to the next block and again parked the van in front of her shop. Jen had left the sales room clean and neat; everything was ready for the baked goodies to fill the cases and for the coffee maker to infuse the air with that enticing early-morning scent. She sighed contentedly.
An hour later four dozen muffins were ready and on display. Scones were in one oven, croissants in the other. She brought the remaining cheesecake slices out of the walk-in fridge and arranged them in paper cups, ready for individual sale. Once Jen arrived to handle the customers, Sam could continue to produce cookies, pies and a few cakes. She paged through her recipes—crumb cake, apple streusel, more cheesecake (the pumpkin had gone really well yesterday). She quickly wrote up a supply order and placed it online with her wholesaler for delivery by afternoon.
Sam was just pulling the last of the scones from the oven when she heard the bell over the shop door.
“Sam? What have you been doing?” Jen’s voice came through. “I thought I’d get here early to help, and look at this . . . the cases are nearly full.”
Uh-oh. She hadn’t thought about how her unlimited energy would appear to someone who’d not seen her in action before.
“Umm . . . well I couldn’t sleep,” she said as she placed the warm pastries onto the display trays. “You know, too excited I guess. Tossed and turned . . . So I gave up and came in.”
“It’s barely six o’clock. That’s amazing.”
Sam shrugged. “How about getting that coffee going and we’ll have ourselves a little breakfast before anyone else comes.”
Bless her, Jen didn’t question. She put on an apron and started right in. Working by the half light of the back counter she efficiently measured water for the coffee and pressed all the right series of buttons.
Sam stood by the windows, a blueberry scone in hand. “Winter’s coming on. The days are getting shorter, aren’t they?”
Jen murmured something about snow flurries in the forecast.
A tap at the window startled Sam and she nearly dropped her scone.
“Beau! What are you doing out so early?” She closed the door behind him, shutting out the chilly air.
“Once again, Padilla’s spending the day driving the far reaches of the county to campaign. Left me with two shifts. Is that coffee I smell?”
Jen rushed to get him a mug and Sam told him to pick something to eat if he wanted. He chose a crumb-topped muffin and joined Sam at one of the tables.
Jen quietly disappeared to the back, mumbling something about checking on the oven.
“I got a warrant to search Bram Fenton’s office over on Paseo Montaño,” he said, taking a careful sip of the steaming coffee. “Now I just have to find the time to carry it out. We’re short staffed—again.”
“I’m still curious about that,” Sam admitted. Even with the million and one things to think about at the shop, she couldn’t help but wonder about the connection between Cheryl Adams and the private investigator.
Beau’s radio crackled and he set down his muffin to answer. Sam couldn’t make out much of the scratchy voice and hadn’t a clue about the code numbers but Beau told her it was a bad traffic accident out north of Questa.
“Guess I’ll have to wrap this up to go,” he said. “I’ll try to stop by later, but this mess could take a few hours.”
Sam sent him on his way carrying fresh coffee in a foam cup with travel lid. She’d not even closed the door behind him when a woman in a Lexus pulled into the spot nearest the front door. The car jolted to a stop.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re open,” the lady said breathlessly, stepping onto the curb. “I have a slight emergency.”
“Well, uh—” Sam couldn’t very well afford to lose her first customer of the day by being picky about shop hours. “Certainly. Come on in. How can we help you?”
The woman pulled her wool coat around her and sidestepped through the partially open door. Slender and blond, wearing a slim skirt and angora sweater with supple leather boots and gold jewelry, she had that willowy grace and way of wearing upscale clothing that said she had money. She smiled at Sam with genuine gratitude.
“I’m afraid I’m in deep you-know-what if I don’t show up with pastries for the rally this morning.” She breezed over to the display cases and began perusing. After a moment she looked up. “You’re Samantha Sweet, aren’t you? We’ve spoken on the phone.”
A light came on. “Mrs. Tafoya? I’m sorry, I should have recog—”
“Elena. Please.” She held out her hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things about your pastries. My sister is conference coordinator at Casa de Tranquilidad in Santa Fe.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize—well it’s great to meet you. I’ve got everything planned for your husband’s victory cake next Tuesday. Would you like to see the sketches?”
Elena glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time now. I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to be at that rally in five minutes.” She looked almost panicky as she said it. “I’ll need about fifty items, just mix them up.”
Jen walked in with a tray of hot croissants that she’d just taken from the oven.
“Oh, yes, those would be nice,” Elena said. “And muffins, and some of the scones, too.”
Jen assembled boxes while Sam picked out the nicest of the pastries and began filling them. Elena Tafoya pulled out a credit card, signed the slip and Sam helped her carry her purchases to the Lexus.
“Thank you so much for your business,” she said as she slipped the two purple boxes onto the back seat.
“My pleasure. The shop is just delightful. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me.” She gave Sam a quick hug, got into the car and sped away.
I hope so, thought Sam as she walked back into the warm, fragrant building. A customer like that could provide a real boost to the business. She glanced at the decimated supply of pastries. However . . . now she had to hustle to be ready for the rest of her patrons.
“Rearrange everything so it doesn’t look so skimpy,” she told Jen. “I’m going to whip up some more muffins and scones real quick.”
When the doors officially opened thirty minutes later, four dozen muffins were awaiting, still warm and Sam was just pulling blueberry-almond scones from the oven. She’d also mixed up the secret recipe for her amaretto cheesecake so it would have time to bake and cool for the after-lunch crowd.
The next few hours disappeared, as Sam continued to mix and bake. She whipped up buttercream icing and decorated four trays of Halloween cookies and two dozen cupcakes for the holiday, now less than a week away. They brightened the display cases and quickly disappeared as parents remembered commitments to their kids’ classrooms.
At some point the delivery of supplies arrived and Sam worked like a stevedore to unload and stow the new ingredients. It was such a joy to actually have places for everything and to see her new shelves fully stocked—far better than the old days when every corner of her kitchen would be piled with sacks of flour and tubs of butter and shortening.
“You ought to take a break sometime, you know.” Jen appeared at the doorway, brushing her hands on her apron. “You were really tired yesterday. Don’t want to wear yourself out in the first two days.” She smiled to let Sam know she wasn’t being preachy.
“I know.” Sam peeked into the sales area. All the cases looked full and appealing. She’d put a few finishing touches on the design for candidate Tafoya’s victory cake, and had even begun sketching out ideas for her own gala cake. It wouldn’t do for a pastry shop to hold a grand opening without a spectacular cake of their own.
“What time is it, anyway?” she asked Jen.
“After four.” The younger woman was clearly amazed at how much her boss had produced in a day but the front door chime saved Sam from having to come up with an explanation.
“Yoohoo, it’s me again.” Elena Tafoya breezed in, much more relaxed now, dressed in a different outfit that managed to be both casual and chic.
Sam grabbed up the drawings of the celebration cake and walked out to greet her.
“You’ve been busy,” Elena remarked, turning in place to admire the shop.
Sam looked down at her apron and noticed smudges of orange frosting. “Sorry.” She whipped off the apron and folded it so the marks didn’t show.
“No apology, Samantha. The place is absolutely magical! I can only guess how much work this must be.”
You probably can’t, thought Sam, but she smiled at the compliment. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee and maybe some cheesecake? I was just about to take a break myself.”
“Thank you, Sam. That would be lovely.” Sam felt a rush of compassion toward the woman who seemed so grateful for the small act of kindness.
While they sat at a table with their desserts, Sam spread out the design ideas for the victory cake. Elena made a couple of suggestions, clearly things that her husband might pick out. Sam wondered—was Elena Tafoya truly happy with money and prestige? Or was she simply rushing through her days, living to please an overly-particular man?
Before she left, Elena bought a half-dozen Halloween cookies, “for my neighbor’s kids.” Sam detected a note of sadness but Elena made no further comment.
She shook off the feeling when Elena left the shop.
Jennifer locked up and left at five, as Sam was finishing the last of the cleanup in the kitchen. When she totaled her register she was thrilled to see that they’d had a second great day. Maybe this venture would be a success after all.
She hung her baker’s jacket on a hook in the storage area and headed for the van, finding herself thinking of Beau. Throughout the day, their discussion of the dead private investigator kept coming back to her.
Since Paseo Montaño was on her way home . . . on an impulse she made a couple of turns and cruised slowly down the street where the investigator’s office was. She didn’t know the exact address but it was a short road, and when she spotted Beau’s cruiser on the right, she pulled in beside it.
“Hey there,” she said, tapping on the door and opening it at the same time.
“How did you know I was just thinking about you?” he asked, looking up with a warm smile.
“Maybe because I was just thinking about you too?” She walked in and allowed herself to enjoy his embrace. “Want some help?”
“You have the energy to dig through dusty old files after putting in a long day at the bakery?”
“Sure.” Amazingly, she did. “What needs to be done?”
He gestured around the small room, obviously a one-man operation. There was a desk with a swivel chair behind it and two client chairs in front. A credenza behind the desk held a fax machine. Fenton’s framed license hung on the wall above it, along with a dated photo of a suited man presenting some kind of award to a tall, slim police officer.
“Fenton?” she asked, indicating the photo.
Beau nodded. “I think that was the governor of Arizona back in the seventies. Fenton served on the Flagstaff PD.”
Two four-drawer locking file cabinets stood to one side, with a coffee maker and the usual setup with creamer and sugar packets nearby. Everything was clean and well organized.
“His files are the same way,” Beau said, commenting on the neatness of it all. “I’ve just started looking through them. The warrant only allows me to gather information pertaining to Cheryl Adams, since that’s where his coat was located, or to a direct threat on his life. We can’t sit here reading about other people’s dirty little secrets, for our own enjoyment.”
“Well, dang. That would have been the fun part.” She squeezed his hand.
“Take a drawer, any drawer.” He handed her a pair of latex gloves.
“I assume you’ve already looked under ‘Adams’ and would have mentioned if you’d found anything with her name on it.”
“Right. Didn’t find anything.”
“Cheryl’s maiden name was Tercel. She might have used that if she hired Fenton for something.” Sam reached for the file drawer labeled T-Z.
“Check it out while I finish going through the desk.” He sat in the swivel chair and continued to pull items out, mostly pens and notepads and other office supplies.
Sam riffled her fingers through the manila folders. Each was labeled with a name, neatly printed by hand in block letters. Although the files varied in thickness, all were crisp and neat, as if he made up a new folder if one should become battered or began to slump down in its prescribed position.
Taos, Tafoya, Tapia, Tewa . . . “I’m not finding a Tercel in here,” Sam told him.
But Tafoya grabbed her attention. Carlos Tafoya, the label said. The gubernatorial candidate. What would he have hired Fenton for? Her fingers twitched at the edge of the folder.
“Sam?”
She jerked back.
“You weren’t about to pull a folder out of there, were you?”
“Nope.” She pushed the drawer closed, just to prove it.
“Anyway, look at this.” He was holding up a leather-bound book, about the size of a small ledger. “The whole thing is written in code.”
Chapter 12
Sam looked at the ledger’s pages. Beau was right. The columns were filled with letters and numbers. But they weren’t words and they weren’t dollar amounts, at least not in the normal two-decimal-place format.
“What do you suppose they mean?” she asked.
“No idea. I’m no cryptographer.” He thumbed through a few more pages. Each one seemed to represent one account, or maybe one transaction—hard to tell. “The State crime lab has one—a cryptographer. But like every other thing they have one of, I’d bet he or she is backed up with work for a year.”
“Look at the first column on each page. The numbers are written as decimals but they could easily be dates. See? 7.6, 8.29, 1.31. None of the first digits are higher than twelve and none of the second sets are more than thirty-one.”
“Good catch. And it makes sense that he would start each entry with a date.”
“Each date is followed by sets of letters that must be a sort of shorthand. Client names, billing codes or something?”
Sam took the book and turned to the last page that contained writing. “If this is the most recent entry, and if those numbers are dates, he last wrote in this book on October 19th.”
“Less than a week before his body was found.”
“More than a month after Cheryl Adams moved away. So, his coat being in her closet still makes no sense at all.”
Sam handed the book back to Beau. “So, what was he entering into this book, in code, right before he died?”
“The answer to that would win you top prize on one of those game shows, wouldn’t it?” He sighed and stood up. “I don’t know the answers, but I’ve been on duty since seven this morning, I’m starving and I still have five hours to go before this shift is over.”
“Fast food? Let’s take both of our cars and meet at Burger King.”
He picked up the mysterious journal, stuck it into an evidence bag and carried it with him as they left the PI’s office.
“Technically, that journal should be entered into evidence and turned over to the cryptographer at the state crime lab,” he said, between bites of hamburger. “But I can see that taking forever and then, even if it did lead us to some important clue, a defense attorney would get it disqualified in a New York minute because it isn’t written in English or some such thing.”
Sam shrugged. He was probably right.
“You did a good job of figuring out what the dates meant,” he said. “Would you want to give the rest of it a try?”
She stared at him.
“Seriously. If there’s anything in there that could lead to one of his cases, odds are good that there’s a file in that office corresponding to it. Maybe you’ll spot something we can use. The guy obviously kept thorough records. On the other hand, the book might just be his accounting system. Records of payments or some such.”
Sam pondered that. It could be exactly that. They hadn’t come across any financial ledgers, no computer. It wasn’t unheard of for a guy to keep a coded ledger or a second set of books, pocketing cash payments here and there.
She stared at the leather book in Beau’s hand. The idea of a secret code, mysterious entries, a guy who wanted to pull something over on the IRS . . . But doubts nagged at her when she thought of the straight-arrow Fenton in the photo, receiving the governor’s award.
“I’ll give it a try but you take it out of the evidence bag,” she said. “I’m not being responsible for that.”
He held it up. “I never sealed it.” The book slipped into his hand and he gave it to her.
The house was dark and cold when she got home. A note from Kelly explained that she was spending the night at the Cardwell’s since Beau had to work a double shift. She’d left a stack of the flyers announcing the gala opening of Sweet’s Sweets. Sam placed them near the back door so she wouldn’t forget them in the morning, then went to her computer and composed an email announcing the Saturday gala to her whole list of friends, as if there were any who hadn’t had an earful about Sweet’s Sweets, right from the beginning.
Twelve hours was about the limit of the box’s power, Sam had discovered, and it was quickly fading now. She glanced at the leather journal but couldn’t summon the energy to give it much thought. Five a.m. was going to come way too early. She stuck the book out of sight in her nightstand and prepared for bed.
Elena Tafoya came into Sweet’s Sweets again on Wednesday, shortly after noon. Sam had started Becky with muffins—they were simple enough—and found that her new assistant had a flair for coming up with ideas, mixing new combinations of flavors. Sam left her at the stove, making an autumn fruit medley of red pears, kumquats and cranberries as a topping for their plain cheesecake. It smelled heavenly as Sam left the kitchen, answering Jen’s summons. She had two visitors.
Sam offered Elena coffee and told her to take a table while she dealt with the other, the crew who chose this moment to install the new awning and signage. Once Sam consulted with the lead guy, she left them to their drilling and joined Elena with a mug of coffee. She wasn’t sure why the politician’s wife had taken such a liking to her, but she felt that the woman was—something—lonely?
At any rate, when they sampled Becky’s warm fruit compote over a shared slice of cheesecake, and when Elena raved over it, Sam knew she’d found a good friendship.
“Are you eager for the election to be done?” Sam asked, during a lull when the store was empty.
Elena sighed. “I guess it’s always going to be this way. I once dreamed we would have children and the family would be more important to him . . .” She bit at her lower lip. “But there were no kids, and this is what Carlos does. He’s a politician to the core.”
Sam wanted to ask if his political charisma was what attracted Elena to her husband in the first place, but another customer walked in just then. Jen had gone to the back so Sam got up and filled the man’s order for a dozen Frangelica chocolate chip cookies. He was dressed in business attire and she guessed that he was going back to the office with an after-lunch treat for the staff.
She slipped one of the Frangelica cookies to Elena, who took a bite and rolled her eyes. “Pure magic, Sam.”
“You can be my permanent taste-tester,” she joked.
“Absolutely. Call me anytime you’ve got something this good.” Elena’s mood had brightened in the past few minutes.
“You’ll come to our gala party Saturday, won’t you?” Sam asked Elena as the blond gathered her coat and purse to go.
“I’d love to, but Carlos always has such a full schedule. We will at least make an appearance and I’ll be sure he knows you are the one making the cake for his own victory party.”
“Thanks. I’ll take all the help I can get from high places.” Sam bagged a couple of decorated butter cookies for her new friend. “Be careful of those ladders as you go out.”
The workmen had nearly finished hanging her large sign and Sam had to go outside and take a look. The Sweet’s Sweets logo stood out, purple against a white background with touches of gold. With the new purple awning across the front of the shop, the effect would be stunning.
“Bob will be here himself tomorrow,” the lead guy told her. “Get the hand lettering done on the windows.”
“Perfect.” Sam smiled at the way the storefront was coming together. She still needed to make up a few dummy cakes for the front windows. Real cake and buttercream would wilt in a few hours with the sunshine, but foam bases worked well and she would make up decorations in hardier royal icing.
She went back inside, deciding to get started on the displays right away. As she pulled the fake forms from the latest shipment from her supplier, she got the idea for the gala cake. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She would do a large sheet cake base and then recreate the shop itself on top of it. The building would consist of stacked square cakes, coated in fondant with the brick pattern pressed into it. She could sculpt the awning and pipe images of the display cakes and the signs. The street outside would be represented in black fondant and a few evergreens and shrubs would be easy to create with sugar cones and frosting.
Quickly, she sketched out the new idea, roughing in measurements and making sure she had enough fondant and sugar. Made herself a note to cut a board large enough to hold the whole thing, from her stash of wood in the garage.
By three o’clock Sam had finished two wedding cakes. It made a huge difference when you didn’t actually have to bake or handle real cake. Jen and Becky helped her carry them to the front and place them in the windows on either side of the door. All three women stood outside to admire the finished picture.
Sam had decorated one in autumn colors—garlands of fall leaves trailed from one tier down to the next, while piles of chrysanthemums in yellow and burnt orange covered the top and lay in small clusters between tiers. The other cake was a confection of white on white—actually ivory on ivory, as it was easier on the eyes. She’d created draperies of same-color fondant so it appeared that wide ribbons of fabric flowed down the sides of the cake. She’d applied a quilted look to the center tier, with tiny pearls dotting the criss-crossed lines. Pearls also draped from the edges of the tiers, and a huge fondant bow topped the upper layer.
“They’re gorgeous!” Becky exclaimed. “I wish I’d had you make my wedding cake.”
Sam gave her a quick hug. “I would have, if I’d known. I’ll bet you were a beautiful bride.”
Although Becky had put on a bit of weight since the childhood days Sam remembered, she had the kind of flawless skin and glowing smile that made any woman lovely.
“You’ll do my cake, won’t you?” Jen asked. “Well, if I ever find the guy I want to marry.”
Becky left to pick her kids up from school, and the phone was ringing when Sam and Jen went back inside the shop. Jen answered and then handed it off to Sam.
“Hey there,” Beau said.
“Did you get any rest last night?” she asked.
“Finally. Got off at eleven, and I’m back on duty now.” He dropped his voice a notch. “Did you get a chance to look at that book?”
“Oh, sorry. Not yet. I was fading fast last night. And the shop has really been busy today. I’ll be leaving here soon and I’ll get right on it.”
“That’s fine. Look, don’t say anything about it.”
“I wouldn’t. You know that.”
“I mean, within the department. If, say, Padilla was to be in your shop or anything.”
Sam couldn’t imagine that Beau’s boss would question her about evidence in a case, but she agreed.
“I can’t say for sure,” Beau said, “but I get the feeling that Padilla is wanting to brush this case under the rug.”
“Why?”
“Why do I think that, or why would he do it?”
“Both.”
“Well, I think it because today he specifically told me to wrap the case up. It was probably a gang thing and will never be solved, according to him. Why he would say that?—anybody’s guess. My theory is that the election is coming up very soon and he doesn’t want there to be an unsolved murder hanging over him. He wants the electorate to think that Taos County is crime-free.”
“And chalking this death up to gang activity would do that? Pardon my skepticism.”
“I know, I know. I don’t get it either.” He paused a moment. “Sorry, another deputy just walked past my car and I thought he was going to stop. Look, between you and me, I’ll stick with this until I get the answers. We probably won’t have an arrest, and definitely won’t have a prosecution, before the election so Padilla can rest easy. He’ll be re-elected—it’s a given in this county. I don’t know why he’s concerned. But I plan to do my investigation quietly, and I need for you to do the same.”
Sam wondered about the politics of it all as she drove home. Once again, Kelly was staying over with Iris Cardwell, and Sam had the house to herself. It felt good. Even though she and her daughter got along really well, she liked having time alone. And since Jen and Becky had offered to open the shop, giving Sam a morning to sleep in, well that was just the icing on the cake—so to speak.
She made a sandwich for dinner and brought out the little coded journal. Now that she’d figured out Fenton’s method of writing dates, those were easy to figure out. She noticed that each page began with a set of letters, perhaps the initials of a client or the person Fenton was checking out. Columns contained sets of letters and numbers, a shorthand system of sorts.
Assuming that each page represented a different client, it appeared that the records belonged to about two dozen different people. Remembering back to the manila files in Fenton’s office, there had been a lot more than that. Maybe the folders contained cases dating back for years, while the ledger contained only the business he’d done this year. It was a theory but again she had no way to prove it without comparing the files. And Beau’s warrant didn’t allow them to take anything that wasn’t related directly to the PI’s connection to Cheryl Adams. As she scanned through she found nothing in the book with Adams’s initials or her address or anything Sam could definitely tie to her. The answers were probably here somewhere but Sam’s exhausted brain wasn’t grasping them.
She carried the journal to bed with her but drifted off without breaking the code.
“Listen to your instincts . . .”
Sam felt as if she were swimming up through the darkness.
“The blood will tell the story. The lady is very worried.”
Sam recognized the frail voice of Bertha Martinez, the old woman who’d given her the wooden box. She turned toward the voice. “Bertha?” Silence. “Bertha, is the lady Cheryl Adams? Why is she worried? How can we find her?”
“The lady will come to you. Listen to her.”
“Where is Cheryl Adams?” Sam asked. “Is she all right?”
The dream ended and Sam woke with a start, her own whispers echoing in the dark room.
“Bertha?” Her voice came out loudly, startling her.
She sat up in bed, fully awake now. What the heck? She rubbed at her eyes, but aside from a faint light at the windows from faraway street lamps, Sam could see nothing. There was certainly no ghost or apparition or phantom spirit of Bertha Martinez.
She struggled to remember the exact words from the dream. Something about a lady and some blood and being worried. Had Bertha given Sam a clue to finding Cheryl Adams? She just couldn’t remember.
She looked at her bedside clock. Nearly midnight. If Beau had worked the evening shift he might still be awake. She got out of bed and put the tea kettle on as she dialed his cell number.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No, I’ve only been home for a half hour or so. Just unwinding with some TV. Kelly’s asleep in the guest room and Mama’s probably been in bed for hours. What’s up?”
“This is going to sound ridiculous,” she said, reaching for a mug and teabag. She told him as much as she could remember about the dream, without mentioning that she suspected the ghost of Bertha Martinez was speaking to her. That part of it was still way too hinky.
“Strange that you would dream about the case, especially the mention of a woman who is worried,” he said. “We had a little quiet spell at the office this evening and I did some more research on Cheryl Tercel’s family in Colorado. Turns out her brother heard from her recently, said she was really worried about her ex finding her. When I told him this was an official investigation, not connected with anyone’s ex-husband, he told me she’s living in Alamosa now.”
“So, are you going to be able to question her about Fenton?”
“Officially, I can’t. Padilla would have a fit. If I ever get a day off, I’d like to. Alamosa’s not that far—it would make an easy half-day trip, up there and back.”
“I could break away tomorrow. If you would want me to go instead.”
“I really need to be there. If she killed Fenton, stashed the coat in her closet, then got to thinking about what she’d done and just bolted . . . well, she might be dangerous.”
Sam hadn’t thought about that, but it made sense. Although why Cheryl Adams didn’t just chuck the trench coat in the nearest dumpster, that didn’t add up. And if Bertha was right about the lady being worried, well, it could go a lot further than that—Adams might be desperate.
“—first thing in the morning?”
“Sorry, my mind went elsewhere for a minute.”
“I don’t have to be at work tomorrow until mid-afternoon. If we got an early start, and assuming that Kelly wouldn’t mind staying over again with Mama . . .”
“Did you say ‘we’ could get an early start?”
“Only if you want to. We’re kind of going rogue on this anyway.”
“I can be ready by five in the morning.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that, as she put away the tea and turned off the kettle. Her one morning to sleep late and she’d just given it away.
Chapter 13
When the alarm went off at four-thirty, Sam felt even more frustrated with herself for giving up her free morning. What was she thinking? She brushed her teeth with the idea that maybe it was just an excuse to spend time with Beau, but by the time she’d started the coffee maker and found a Thermos to take with them, she’d concluded that it was really more about solving the murder because the key piece of evidence had come from one of her break-in houses. If she’d accidentally thrown away some other important evidence, she could never live with that. She needed to learn the truth.
Beau looked a little rough around the edges when he picked her up in his blue Explorer. He was in civilian clothes but she noticed that his badge was pinned to his belt and he carried his service weapon.
“Only if necessary,” he explained. “The badge should work to get us in the door, and I’ll make her think we’ve got a subpoena.”
“Jurisdiction?”
“Yeah, that’s definitely fuzzy. Technically, I should get Alamosa PD to work with us, but that would probably get back to Sheriff Padilla. Plus, it seems like overkill when we just want answers to a few questions. It’s not like we’re planning to arrest the lady.”
Sam poured them each a cup of coffee once he’d reached the open highway, and got out the bag of day-old apple cinnamon scones she’d brought from her shop last night.
“I think if I ever get used to being up at these atrocious hours, I might actually like it,” she said between bites. The inky sky filled with billions of pinpoints had a certain mystical appeal, she had to admit.
The plan, loosely, was to arrive at Cheryl’s house around seven, heading her off before she left for the day. The brother who had spoken with Beau didn’t know if she had a job yet. Her normal pattern was to live off unemployment from the last one until it was about to run out. With job skills limited to waiting tables or being a motel maid, the good news was that somebody, somewhere was always hiring. The bad news, for Cheryl, was finding daycare for an infant and keeping the others in school when she moved around so much.
As Sam got bits and pieces of the woman’s life story, she began to see why attempting to fit into the role of homeowner probably wasn’t something Cheryl Adams was cut out for.
The sun glowed slightly above the hills to the east as they pulled into Alamosa. Beau steered to the side of the road and stopped, pulling out a map.
“It shouldn’t be far,” he said, tracing the lines with his finger to show Sam the road they were looking for. “A trailer park. Those aren’t usually in the choice downtown locations.”
He was sure right about that, Sam thought as they drove down a narrow, rutted dirt lane and came upon a cluster of old-style single mobile homes. Signs warned to watch for “Slow Children Playing” and Beau, accordingly, took it easy. Cheryl Adams’s rented trailer was in the fourth row, third space on the right. Crispy dry weed stalks bordered the skirt of the metal shell and a dented blue Chevy Malibu was parked out front. An amazing number of plastic tricycles were scattered about the small area they used as a yard.
“Looks like she’s already begun collecting stuff again,” Sam commented. “There’s no way she brought all this from the old place in that car.”
Beau rolled his eyes but continued picking his way through the mess, heading toward the front door. Sam followed, noting the sounds of high-pitched kid voices from within. After the third, increasingly hard knock the door opened.
A toddler with wide blue eyes stared out at them.
“Is your mommy here?” Beau asked.
The pajama-clad kid continued to stare.
“Billy, you’re letting the cold air in!” The woman looked just like Sam would have imagined—blond hair up in a hasty ponytail at the top of her head, loose shirt hanging off one shoulder, obvious signs of baby spit on one leg of her less-than-clean jeans. Four little ones didn’t allow a mom much time for personal grooming.
“Cheryl Adams?” Beau asked.
“Yeah . . .” She scooted the kid out of the way and placed herself solidly between the door and the jamb.
Beau opened his jacket to reveal his badge. “I have a few questions about someone you knew in Taos. Would you rather we came inside so we don’t waste your warm air?”
“Here’s fine,” Adams said, her eyes narrowing.
“Okay. We’re looking into the death of a man named Bram Fenton. Some of his personal items were found at your house.”
“Who?” She genuinely looked puzzled.
“Bram Fenton. He was a private investigator.”
“Never heard of him.”
“There were some articles of male clothing at your house, the place you abandoned on the south side of Taos.”
Cheryl’s features twisted into a mask of thought. “Well, my ex left some of his stuff behind. I probably never threw it out.”
Sam nearly burst out laughing. This woman had never thrown anything out.
“Was there a dark green trench coat?” Beau asked.
“Trench coat? Oh, the private eye thing. I get it. Uh, no. No way Doug woulda worn nothing like that. Strictly a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Wore a suit for our wedding but that’s the most dressed-up I ever seen him.” She shook a clinging kid off her leg and tightened the closure on the door. “Look, I got kids to get ready for school.”
“We believe the coat belonged to the private investigator. Any idea how it got into your closet?”
“Not really. I mean, I buy a lot at garage sales and stuff, but I never seen a coat like that.” She raised her voice to be heard over the increasing clamor inside the trailer.
Beau handed her his card. “Call me if anything comes to mind. Maybe you’ll remember someone giving you the coat . . . maybe a visitor left it behind . . .”
“Whatever.” She bit onto the card as she used both hands to grab at another kid who tried to make a break for it between her legs. The door closed and the volume of whining voices diminished a little.
“Any bets on whether you’ll hear from her?” Sam commented as they walked toward Beau’s SUV.
“About a million to one against.” He started the engine and backed out into the narrow road. “She genuinely seemed clueless. Well, maybe that wasn’t the right word. Clueless about life, maybe. But not connected to our case. I didn’t see any signs of deception when we talked to her.”
“So we still have our central question: How did Fenton’s bloody coat get out to Cheryl’s house?”
“There has to be some tie-in. The medical investigator said his artery was cut by a thin-bladed object, probably a small knife. If we could locate that, we might be able to get some kind of trace evidence that would lead us to the killer.”
“I didn’t come across anything like that when I was cleaning.”
“There were a few dull kitchen knives at Cheryl’s place, but I sprayed them and found no blood traces.”
“Plus, she’d moved away at least a month before Fenton’s death, right?” Sam raised her coffee cup but it was stone cold.
“So if Sheriff Padilla’s theory is correct and it was a gang killing, what are the odds of finding either the knife or the person it belonged to? Wouldn’t it have to be a very distinctive knife to tie it to any certain guy?”
“Pretty much. And what are the odds of us ever finding it? You’ve seen that gorge. Miles and miles of boulders, the river running down the middle, eight hundred feet below. There’s an altercation, bad guy whips out a knife, slices the other guy, realizes how bad it is, throws both the vic and the knife over the edge.”
“After going to the trouble to remove his coat?”
“Doesn’t seem likely, does it?” He turned back onto the highway and headed south toward the New Mexico border. “Maybe Padilla is right—we just don’t have the manpower to follow up on this. It would take a dozen searchers to comb the area under the bridge, and a little knife might never be found. Assuming it was thrown over that bridge. There are a zillion places to get rid of a small weapon like that.”
“But a man was murdered. You can’t simply let it go,” Sam said. “Doesn’t he have relatives, someone who would keep pushing at the sheriff to get this solved?”
“We didn’t find any next of kin. Sam, I’m not going to give up on this, even though the case is getting colder by the day. I’ll get another warrant for Fenton’s office and home, go through everything more closely if I can get some additional manpower. But I really doubt that’s going to happen until Padilla is feeling securely re-elected.”
Sam fumed over it for the next fifty miles but didn’t come to any better conclusion, herself.
“I’d say it’s safe for you to go back to the Adams place and do the rest of your cleanup, whenever you want,” Beau told her as he dropped her off at her house.
At least it appeared that Cheryl Adams was alive, unharmed, and in the clear, and Sam felt relieved about that. She stood in her driveway as Beau pulled away, debating whether to devote the remaining half-day to the cleanup or to get back to Sweet’s Sweets and see how things were going there. A big head-slap later she was on her way to the bakery. What was she thinking, leaving her brand new business in the hands of two even-newer employees?
Her concern turned out to be for nothing. Jen was wiping tables that had obviously been filled with customers shortly before, and the half-empty cases attested to strong sales all morning. Becky had, per Sam’s instructions, mixed and baked the sheets and layers for the big gala cake. All were cooling on the work table when she walked in. Sam would apply the ‘dirty icing’ and get them into the fridge this afternoon. Tomorrow she would assemble and decorate her masterpiece.
She showed Becky how to make small shrubs and pine trees out of sugar cones, modeling chocolate and royal icing.
“This is fun,” Becky said after a couple of aborted attempts and then discovering the secret of holding the pastry bag at the correct angle.
“You’re showing a natural knack for it. I’ll show you some of the other techniques soon.”
Sam decorated more Halloween cookies and told Jennifer how she wanted them arranged in the front windows—might as well pull in all the holiday business she could get. Her mind raced forward to Thanksgiving and then Christmas, knowing that unique pastries and plenty of variety in her made-from-scratch recipes would be what set her apart from the mundane offerings in the supermarkets. This first holiday season could very well get the business launched for all time.
“Will this be enough shrubs?” Becky asked from her end of the work table.
Sam glanced up to see about two dozen little bushes. “I think so. We’ll probably only use eighteen or twenty of them, but it’s always good to have extras in case of breakage.”
“Got it.” The two women lifted the board with the heavy sheet cake and carefully carried it into the walk-in fridge.
“Thank goodness for this thing,” Sam said as she closed the door. “Would you believe that I used to have to bake all my sheet cakes in quarters and store them in a normal-sized fridge until the day of assembly. Then I’d put the whole thing together and get it delivered as fast as I could.”
“You’re loving the bakery, aren’t you?” Becky commented.
Both phone lines rang at once. “I’ll get one,” shouted Jen. “Can you get two?”
“Yep, loving it,” Sam said.
She picked up the second line and listened as the customer requested a special dessert for a family dinner on Sunday. Sam suggested an apple-pear tart that she’d recently tested at home. Seasonal fruit, easy to bake large enough for any number of people.
She’d no sooner hung up from taking that order than her cell phone buzzed inside her pocket.
“How are you doing with the property I gave you last week?” Delbert Crow asked. “Can we get real estate agents in there soon?”
She hedged and asked for another week. If she could just get her gala party done and those special orders for the election, she could budget an entire day for the Adams house.
Five o’clock. Jen closed out the register, handing Sam the tape showing the total and a bank bag with the cash, before leaving for the day. Becky had already gone, needing to be home for her kids.
Sam moved the few cookies and cupcakes from the window displays to the glass cases, covered the remaining product with clean white towels to keep them fresh, and turned out the lights in the front. In the kitchen she washed a couple of mixing bowls that hadn’t been done earlier.
Outside, it was nearly dark. She called home and found that Kelly was already there.
“If you haven’t started anything yet, I’ll bring dinner home with me,” Sam said.
“Pizza? I’ll call it in.” Kelly was a confirmed pizza-holic so the request came as no surprise. Sam could even guess what would be on it—everything. The large supreme pizza wouldn’t do a lot for her own dieting plans, but then running a bakery wasn’t exactly helping in that department either.
Thinking of food addictions reminded her that the weekly meeting of the book group, Chocoholics Unanimous, was coming up again soon. Last week, she had been so busy with the store opening that she’d only supplied them with some hastily baked cookies. This week she should strive for something more dramatic but at the moment she was fresh out of ideas.
Sam mulled over the idea of getting some help with her caretaking properties as she drove to Kelly’s favorite pizza place, paid for their order and headed home. She’d thought of asking Kelly, but with Beau working so many extra hours these days, her daughter was tied up caring for his mother. Sam couldn’t ask either of them to cut back on Iris’s supervision. She’d already borrowed Darryl’s crew several times, plus paying their rates would quickly eat up any income from the property. Mowing and trimming flowerbeds didn’t quite fall into the same category as the heavy lifting that she physically couldn’t do herself. She’d just have to make time for everything.
Sam found herself almost nodding off at the dinner table. She nibbled her way through one slice of the thick pizza. At least sleeping through meals would help her keep her diet on track, she thought.
“Mom, you’re pooped! You should just go to bed early.”
“Probably. But there’s so much to do.” She yawned. “At least I better get the menu finalized for the gala. We’re doing a lot of free samples all day.”
She told Kelly about the plan for the cake that replicated the shop. “If Beau can’t get away to bring Iris to the party, will you do it?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been telling her about it and she’s so excited. She wouldn’t stay away on a bet.”
“Good. Now, if I can just find the energy to get to the grocery store tonight for the special ingredients it’ll be that much less I have to do tomorrow.” She reached for a pen and notepad and began writing the list from memory. Cheeses, herbs, wines. Her head nodded but she kept writing. “Okay,” she said finally.
“Mom, I’m not letting you drive anywhere tonight. You’d probably fall asleep, even though it’s only a few blocks to the store.” Kelly held out her hand. “Here. List.” She wiggled her fingers.
Sam reluctantly pushed the page toward her daughter. “Okay. Just choose some decent wines.”
“I can handle it.”
Sam hardly remembered getting ready for bed. She rolled over and yawned the moment the bedroom lamp was out.
Chapter 14
Grocery bags waited on the kitchen table and Sam rummaged through them to be sure Kelly had found everything on her list. She scribbled a quick thank-you note and carried the bags out to the van.
The shop was quiet when she arrived and the clock told her it was still an hour or so before Jen and Becky would arrive. Sam got the first batches of breakfast pastries into the ovens before she took a break and found her coffee mug. The dark brew brought her out of the last of her morning fog. Each day got a little better, but Sam still wasn’t sure how she—the original late sleeper—functioned before sunrise.
She was in the process of organizing ingredients for the savory treats for the party, matching them with the recipes to keep everything straight, when the phone rang.
Uh-oh, this can’t be good, she thought as she reached for it. Any call before six a.m. had to be bad news.
“Samantha Sweet,” she said.
“Is this, um, the bakery—Sweet’s Sweets?” a female voice asked. Assured that it was, she continued. “Elena Tafoya gave me your number. I’m in a bit of a bind, I’m afraid. I’m holding a little political fundraiser for our Senate candidate and need a dinner catered for thirty. It’s this coming Sunday night.”
Thanks a lot, Elena. Sam backed up against a storage shelf, hoping she hadn’t actually said the words aloud. “We’re just a pastry shop,” was what she said, “not at all set up for dinner catering.”
“I know, I’m sorry I didn’t explain myself better. Elena thought you might know someone who caters. She said you have a friend who does breakfasts?”
Zoë? Sheesh. Asking her to make dinner for thirty people was a pretty far stretch from breakfast burritos for a dozen at the B&B. Plus, they were closed for the off season right now, not planning to start up again until skiers began to arrive in December.
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Please hear me out. This is very important. The candidate gave us very little notice and the other place, uh, well, the dinner party will be held in my home. I can even provide staff to serve. I only need the food and desserts delivered sometime on Sunday.”
Only. Why was it that people who wanted a huge favor usually thought of it as only one little thing?
“I’ll pay double your usual rate.” The voice was getting desperate.
Sam took a deep breath. “Let me check on it. Now, tell me a little more about what you had in mind for the food and for the desserts.” Why am I even talking to her? The week was crazy enough without this.
She hung up the phone and looked at the clock. Zoë would normally be awake by now, getting her contractor husband off to his job. During the summer months she was easily up, with coffee brewing and something in the oven for her early-riser guests. Sam decided to take a chance.
“Sam? Everything okay?” Zoë sounded concerned, as she might well be under normal circumstances.
Sam gave her the gist of the desperate woman’s phone call. “I got the feeling that some caterer backed out on her at the last minute. I don’t know. Anyway, I talked her into a decorated cake for dessert. I should be able to feed thirty with a half-sheet. But I didn’t have a clue what you could do for dinner, if you even want to do this.”
“Well, things are slow now and I could use the extra money, with the B&B closed. How about Mexican food? Something different from the rubber chicken circuit that these politicians usually get, something I can make up in advance and deliver pretty easily?”
“I’ll let you work that out with her. And make sure you let her know that I told you about the double-your-normal-price offer. Now that she’s got us hooked, don’t let her back out.”
Zoë laughed. “Will do. I’ll keep you posted.”
Sam mixed up the batter for the half-sheet and was just pouring it into the pans when Becky came in.
“Hey there,” she said. “Hard at it already?”
“You wouldn’t believe. Can you get this into the oven and set the timer? Then maybe I can teach you how to make roses?”
While the cake baked, Sam whipped up some buttercream frosting and tinted it in the candidate’s colors. She pulled out decorating tips and wide-topped flower nails and had Becky follow along as she demonstrated how to form a small center cone, then add the petals in rows, building until the full-blown rose was finished. Becky botched a few but they got progressively better until she had a few keepers.
“Stay with it. If you mess one up, just scrape the icing back into the bowl. Put the good ones on this baking sheet and we’ll refrigerate them so they set up firm.”
While Becky continued making flowers, Sam piped out dozens of miniature versions of her butter cookies, which they would hand out as samples during the day Saturday. With the gala opening spanning the entire day, she had to think of things to make it special. Her signature blend coffee would be free all day, plus the sample-sized cookies and mini cupcakes. By happy hour they would switch to wine, with cheese and herb nibbles. And the gala cake shaped like the store would come out in the evening, to be served with a selection of coffees, teas, chai, and a hot mulled cider.
Her ads were due to start on the radio today and run every hour for two days. That, plus the editor of the newspaper had promised to send someone out to take photos and do a little write-up for the business section. If all that didn’t bring the people in, she didn’t know what would.
Beau called at some point but when Jen poked her head into the kitchen to tell Sam, her boss was putting some very delicate touches on the gala cake. Jen told Beau that Sam would have to call back, then tucked a message slip near the extension phone before dashing back to the front as the door chimes sounded.
By that evening, the two younger women had hung fairy lights and set fresh flowers on all the tables, making sure there were plenty of coffee cups ready and that the display cases were full.
“Get a little extra rest,” Sam told them before they left. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“But worth it,” Jen said. “Look how beautiful everything looks.”
Sam had to agree. The shop had become everything she wanted it to be. She carried that thought with her, all the way home and up to the moment she crashed into bed. She’d completely forgotten to return Beau’s call.
At five o’clock on Saturday they switched off the daytime overhead lights and Jen plugged in the strands of tiny white lights they had strung around the walls of the store. It gave the whole place a feeling of intimacy, with a party flair. The gala cake, the reproduction of the shop itself, sat near the front windows—clearly the showpiece of the party.
While Sam greeted her guests, Becky poured wine and Jen offered platters of miniature cheese biscuits, flaky herb twists and elegant hors d’oeuvres fashioned from their signature items.
The first to arrive were Ivan from Mysterious Happenings and Riki from Puppy Chic.
“Is tres magnifique!” Ivan exclaimed, taking the first glass of wine. “Your shop, she is the topping of neighborhood.”
Sam thought something must have been lost in translation, but understood the sentiment. She gave him a hug.
“Samantha, it’s just brilliant!” Riki stood near the gala cake, pointing and exclaiming over the details. “I must have you do one for my shop sometime.”
Before Sam could thank her for the compliment, she saw Beau’s Explorer outside. Kelly was climbing out of the backseat and the two of them brought out Iris’s chair and helped her into it.
“I’m so glad you made it!” Sam said, bending to give Beau’s mother a kiss on the cheek.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” the white-haired lady said, wheeling herself toward the gala cake. “The shop looks positively magical!”
Beau slipped an arm around Sam’s waist and kissed her ear. “Kelly explained about how busy you’ve been. The call wasn’t that important anyway.”
“Oh, Beau, last night! I totally forgot!”
“Don’t you worry. Have a good time tonight and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
She started to give him a kiss but the door opened again, bringing a chill breeze and more guests. Elena looked elegant as ever in a turquoise silk blouse and skirt with a multicolored woven scarf—surely cashmere—draped over one shoulder. Sam recognized the man beside her as the former mayor, now running for governor.
“Sam, have you met my husband?”
Carlos Tafoya did the politician’s handshake. Automatic smile, strong eye contact, his left hand cupping her elbow. Sam felt herself pulling back a fraction of a second before he let go. A dark feeling touched her, then was gone in a flash. Well, who wouldn’t get a touch of the creeps from a politician?
Two of the Tafoya entourage introduced themselves: Martin Delgado, the campaign manager, and Kevin Calendar, a young campaign volunteer. Sam noted the dark suits and red ties that were de rigueur in the politico dress code.
“Carlos can’t stay long,” Elena was saying. “He has a speech in Albuquerque and a stop in Santa Fe. I just wanted him to see what a great job you’ve done with the shop.” She turned to her husband, whose gaze had zipped around the room just short of the speed of light. “Isn’t it a lovely place, darling?”
“Nice,” he murmured.
“A real asset to the town, don’t you think? Did I tell you that Sam makes absolutely everything from scratch. No mixes, nothing pre-made?”
He took a cheese twist from the platter Jen offered, but Sam noticed that he was paying more attention to Jen’s behind as she moved on. “Uh, oh yes. You’ve done a great job with your place, Ms. Sweet.” He munched the flaky pastry down in one bite, then moved around the room to shake hands and introduce himself to the dozen or more people who’d arrived since he came in. He quickly tired of that and after circling the room once, stepped over to Sam and thanked her for the invitation, wished her well with the business.
“I’ll see you later,” he said to Elena. Clearly his other event was a wives-not-included type.
Elena dropped her scarf across a chair and accepted a glass of wine from Becky. When Beau stopped by to tell Sam that he ought to be taking his mother home, she noticed that Elena excused herself to get another glass of wine.
The Cardwells said their goodbyes after awhile. Kelly offered to stay and help with the party if Sam would give her a ride out to Beau’s place to retrieve her car later.
“That’s okay, hon. We’re doing fine here, and Beau can probably use your help with Iris. I’ll see you at home later.”
Orlando Padilla and his wife walked in about a minute after Beau drove away. Sam remembered being introduced to Margaret Padilla at another event recently. The sheriff’s wife was attractive in a matronly way. Although Padilla was in his early fifties, and she assumed Margaret was as well, the wife dressed and acted older. Maybe just the traditional Spanish influence, Sam thought, smiling and shaking hands with both of them.
“Help yourselves to whatever you’d like. Coffee is set up on the back table, and there’s tea or wine. We’ll be cutting the cake about seven.”
Padilla gave Sam that same politician’s smile. “We can’t stay too long. This time of year . . . well, you know next Tuesday is a pretty important day.”
Sam nodded and wished him well. At that moment the reporter from the newspaper showed up and Sam went to greet her. The college-aged girl asked a few questions about the business and snapped several pictures of the displays and, finally, the gala cake.
“Can we get a shot of you cutting the cake and serving it to someone?”
Sam stepped to the cake table and posed making the first cut. As she placed the slice on a plate, Orlando Padilla stepped forward to receive it and smile for the camera. His grandstanding would have been especially funny, Sam thought, if Carlos Tafoya had stayed around. The two men would have probably started an elbow battle in order to get in the newspaper’s photo. Padilla and his wife left a couple of minutes later.
Sam served several more slices of the cake. By now the room was full; probably at least fifty people were here. She looked around the room but didn’t see Elena. Her beautiful scarf was still draped over the chair, though.
Sam turned the cake service over to Becky while she walked to the back to check the supply of coffee and teas. The hot mulled cider seemed to be going well.
Just then Elena came out of the back room. “Visited your little-girl’s room. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Everything okay?”
Elena’s smile seemed tight. “Just peachy.”
Something wasn’t right and Sam put a hand on Elena’s arm. “It’s crazy here right now but if you want to hang around awhile . . . maybe we could talk?”
Elena nodded. “I really don’t want to go home alone right now.”
“Stay then. How about some coffee and cake?”
Elena held up her wine glass. “I think I’ll just top this off. I’ll be fine. Get back to your guests.”
By seven, the crowd had thinned considerably and when the last of the guests left at seven-thirty, Sam suggested that Jen and Becky go home too. “It’s been a long day. I’ll put a few things away, and then we can do a real clean-up tomorrow.” Elena was the only one left.
“Whew! What a day,” Sam said, settling into the chair across from Elena with a cup of hot chai. “I’m so glad we had a good turnout for the party.”
“It was lovely, Sam, really, such a beautiful evening.” Tears glistened in Elena’s eyes.
Too much wine for you, girl. Sam eyed the other woman’s half-empty glass. “Let me get you some tea. That cinnamon-orange one was really nice. Or cake. Did you get any of the cake?”
Elena’s blond hair hung limply to her shoulders. “It’s okay, Sam. I’m not really in the mood for cake.”
“You do look pretty tired. I imagine the pace of the campaign is catching up. Bet you’ll be glad when it’s over, huh.”
Elena picked up her glass and drained it in one gulp, then stood up and started unsteadily for the beverage table. Sam started to follow but sat down again. None of her suggestions had taken hold so far. At this point all she could do was insist on driving Elena home. She touched her friend’s handbag, which was lying on the table. While Elena poured herself more wine, Sam lifted the clasp and slid her keys out, closing the bag and pocketing the keys before the other woman noticed.
“Oh, Sam, it’s been . . . so . . . I can’t explain it. You can’t imagine.”
Sam made some there-there noises, assurances that it would be over soon and life could settle into a new normality.
Elena set her glass on the table with a rattle. She paced to the front door and back, then sat down heavily, as if all the bones in her body had just withered.
“Sam, this will never be over. I have a terrible secret that will never go away.”
Sam had a sudden vision of blood. The hairs on her neck rose.
“What, Elena? Who died?”
“I didn’t say—” Her face had gone ghostly pale.
Sam stared at her, trying to piece together her own forceful vision and Elena’s reaction. As she watched, her friend’s face crumpled into agony.
“I’ve killed a man, Sam.”
Chapter 15
Sam gave a halfhearted heh-heh chuckle. Then she caught Elena’s expression. “You’re serious?” Her blood rushed through her veins. Her hands, cupped around the mug of hot chai, felt icy. “Elena? What are you saying?”
Tears flowed down Elena’s face and her nose was running. Sam unconsciously grabbed for a paper napkin and handed it to her.
“I did it. I didn’t mean to, but I killed him.”
“Slow down. Who do you think you killed?” Sam could not wrap her mind around the idea of her elegant friend killing anyone, not even accidentally.
Elena balled up the paper napkin, kneading it with fingers that could not stay still. “Carlos has become so cold, so distant to me. His career is everything. I just felt so . . . ugly. Like he doesn’t want me anymore.”
Sam struggled to comprehend what Elena was saying.
“I started seeing another man. I don’t know why.” A sob ripped out of her. “It was stupid. Carlos became suspicious. I had to be so careful, but I couldn’t stop seeing this man.”
“You killed your lover?”
“No, it was a stranger. I’d been with my lover. I was walking to where I’d parked my car. The footsteps . . . someone was following me. I got so scared. I thought . . . well, it was dark and not the best part of town. I could only think of protecting myself and I had this little knife in my purse and I just thought that maybe if he saw it he would back away. I slashed at him but I didn’t know it would—” She choked and dissolved in tears. “The man was grabbing at his neck, holding the collar of his coat up to it . . . I think he tried to yell. I don’t know.”
Bram Fenton. No wonder the investigator’s notes were encrypted. Among his clients had been the former mayor.
Then Sam remembered the trench coat. The picture confused her—where was Elena’s car parked? Where did the knife incident take place? “Did he follow you out to the gorge bridge?” Sam asked.
Elena’s sob turned into a hiccup and she stared at Sam. “No . . . why would you think that?”
“Never mind. What did you do next?”
Elena took a breath, blew her nose on the napkin. “I panicked. All I could think of was getting away . . . I ran.”
Tears continued to run down Elena’s cheeks and she looked drained.
“Elena, you need to tell the authorities about this. I’m sure they’ll see that it was self-defense. An accident that the cut was fatal.”
Her red-rimmed eyes went wide. “No! Sam, that’s not an option. I—Carlos—the election is everything to him. He would—”
She reached for her purse and scarf. “I have to get going.”
“Elena, calm down. We’ll give it some thought. Meanwhile, you’re not driving. You’ve had a lot to drink and you are way too upset.” Sam pulled Elena’s keys from her pocket. “I’ll drive you home and give these back to you when we get there. You can come back for your car tomorrow.”
Elena looked like she wanted to argue the point but she submitted. She gave Sam her address.
During the drive, Elena sat slumped in the passenger seat. The ordeal of telling her awful secret had clearly drained every ounce of her energy. Sam concentrated on the drive, on getting Elena into her house. Her mind couldn’t yet wrap itself around the deed and the implications for her friend.
“Please don’t tell Deputy Cardwell,” Elena whispered to Sam. “It won’t solve anything.”
“Get some sleep,” Sam said. “We’ll decide what to do, later.”
Fine advice Sam thought as she fought for sleep, hours later. Elena, a killer? The woman’s distraught face appeared to Sam at every turn. She would roll over in bed, there would be Elena. She puzzled over the logistics. Elena, walking toward her car parked on a side street in town. It must have been fairly near one of the hotels. Nowhere near the isolated gorge bridge, miles outside town on the west side. The only question with an answer was the part about how Fenton’s trench coat had become saturated with his blood. But how had that coat ended up in Cheryl Adams’s closet? Did Cheryl and Elena know each other? The elegant mayor’s wife, acquaintance of the young trailer park mother? If Cheryl Adams had offered to hide the bloody evidence, she’d certainly pulled a good bluff on Beau when they interviewed her.
Sam rolled over in bed for the hundredth time, wrestling with the dilemma about how much to tell Beau versus leaving it up to Elena. When she looked at her bedside clock, it showed four-fifty in the morning and she didn’t feel like she’d had a wink of sleep.
I could at least be doing something with my time, she decided, fumbling about in the dark room for some clothes. The mess from the party still needed to be dealt with, and even though Sweet’s Sweets would be closed today, Sunday, there was plenty of work to be done.
By nine o’clock Sam had managed to put much of last night’s drama behind her. Amazing what a few hours of vigorous cleaning will do for an unsettled mind. She’d tossed out the scraps of snacks, which didn’t look nearly as appetizing in the pre-dawn as they had last night, trashed paper plates and plastic wine glasses, washed platters and coffee makers and reassembled the remains of the gala cake—the square tier replica of the shop itself—presenting it on a fresh cake board and putting it on display in the front window.
The half-sheet cake for tonight’s catered dinner was simple to whip up and she felt herself relaxing as the scent filled the bakery. Mopping floors to the accompaniment of warm cake batter offered a soothing respite. After stashing the cleaning gear and decorating the sheetcake, Sam headed home.
“Hey, Mom.” Kelly was busy in the kitchen. “How about if I make us a nice breakfast in honor of the first time we’ve both had a day off in ages? Eggs benedict?”
“I’d love that,” Sam said. “Is there time for me to grab a quick shower?”
She emerged from the steamy bathroom ten minutes later, cogitating on the idea of eating Kelly’s nice breakfast and then sleeping the day away. She could do it as long as she awoke in time to deliver the cake for the senate candidate’s dinner that night.
“Nearly ready,” Kelly said. Eighties music came from the radio on the counter and she swayed in time to it as she topped the poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.
Sam found silverware and napkins and hastily set the table. Aside from two pilfered cookies at her shop, she’d eaten nothing since the previous night—and very little then. Thinking of the evening brought back her dilemma about how much of Elena’s confession to tell Beau.
“Here we go,” Kelly said, setting their plates on the table and pulling out her chair. Belatedly, she remembered the salt and pepper and as she was rising to get them, the music stopped and the voice of the news announcer came on.
Sam paid little attention until a familiar name grabbed her. “. . . Elena Tafoya, wife of the former mayor and gubernatorial candidate Carlos Tafoya, found dead in the couple’s home this morning, an apparent suicide.”
Her fork dropped with a clatter. She felt the blood drain from her face.
“Mom? What’s the matter?” Kelly mumbled through a mouthful of egg.
“Shh, I need to hear this.” Sam leaned toward the radio, but the announcer had already gone on to other stories.
“No, no, no . . . I can’t believe it—”
“What, Mom?” Kelly had set aside her own fork and was staring at Sam.
“Elena—I think you met her last night. Pretty blond, wearing a turquoise silk blouse . . . the wife of Carlos Tafoya. They just said that she’s died.”
“Mom, ohmygod, how awful.”
Sam’s head buzzed, like a swarm of insects drilling at her brain with a terrible drone. Impossible. She’d just seen Elena, just talked with her. She’d been upset but not suicidal. Surely not. There had to be a mistake.
The ringing in her head began to coalesce, and Sam realized it was the phone. Kelly had already jumped up to answer it.
“We just heard,” she was saying.
Sam waited, numb, not wanting to talk to anyone.
“Sure. No problem. Twenty minutes? You’re sure?” Kelly’s side of the conversation made no sense until she held the phone out to Sam.
“It’s Beau,” she told her mother. “He’s been called out to the Tafoya’s home and wants to know if I can come over and stay with Iris. I told him I would. Now he wants to speak with you.”
He gave her the bare facts—yes, it was true that Elena was dead. Until he got to the scene he wouldn’t know for sure, but the call indicated that she’d hung herself with a long piece of woven material.
“Beau, I need to talk to you about this. Can you call me the minute you are finished at the scene?”
“What do you know, Sam?”
What did she know? Nothing, really. And everything. At least protecting Elena’s privacy over the affair and the death of Bram Fenton were no longer a priority. It was all bound to come out now. “I don’t think she killed herself,” Sam told Beau.
“Darlin,’ everyone feels that way when it’s a friend or relative. It’s just so hard to accept. Eventually you’ll get used to the idea.”
“Elena and I had a long talk last night, after the rest of the guests left the shop. I need to tell you about it.”
“Okay . . .” The word dragged out as he considered the possibilities. “I can’t let you near the scene.”
“I couldn’t handle it.”
“Good. I mean, it’s good that you aren’t going to fight me on that. I’ll call you when I can get away.”
“Beau? Take good care of her. She was just so—” Sam choked on a sob.
“I will, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” She hung onto the phone long after his call clicked off and the dial tone began buzzing in her ear.
Kelly hurriedly jammed down a few more bites of her breakfast. “Sorry that I need to leave so fast,” she said. “Would you like to come with me out to the Cardwell’s? It might be better if you didn’t stay here alone.”
Sam took a deep breath and forced a weak smile. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I could really use some sleep.”
She watched as Kelly grabbed up her jacket and purse, and stood leaning against the kitchen counter as her daughter’s red car pulled out of the long driveway.
Sleep. Like that would be possible.
Her brain swirled with a million thoughts, reliving last night’s conversation, seeing Elena with her multicolored scarf around her shoulders. The secret she revealed was a terrible one, granted. But Fenton’s dying had been an accident, Elena’s strike against him she believed to be self defense. Sam tried to remember what she’d said to her friend, how they’d left things. Elena’s state of mind—frightened, worried, secretive. She clearly didn’t want her husband to know the truth. But was she scared enough to kill herself?
A chill settled over Sam and didn’t go away even when she crawled back under the thick quilts on her bed. She’d insisted that Elena go to the authorities.
And that, she feared, was the thing that pushed the poor woman over the edge.
Chapter 16
The bedroom was dim with late afternoon light when Sam awoke with a start. Despite her whirling thoughts and ragged emotions, exhaustion won out and she’d drifted off to sleep for several hours. She stared at the clock, uncomprehending, until it hit her that the thing she had to remember was to deliver the cake for the Senator’s dinner, which started at six.
She dragged herself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, combing her hair into a semblance of order and then wandering back to her closet for fresh clothes. Thank goodness she didn’t have to play hostess tonight. No way she could have handled that. She checked her appearance in the mirror; with puffy eyes and ghostlike skin she was barely presentable.
She’d obviously slept more soundly than she imagined. In the kitchen three messages blinked on her machine: one from Zoë asking whether they might want to drive to the party together to deliver the food and dessert; one from Kelly saying that she would be staying with Iris past dinnertime; the final one from Beau to inform her that they’d nearly finished processing the scene and that he’d try her cell. On the cell, he’d said that he would call her again when he actually got away. He could either come by her house or they could meet somewhere. When she returned Zoë’s call, Darryl informed her that Zoë had already left. Sam erased the messages then got in the van and drove to the shop.
Sweet’s Sweets was quiet, as was the street at this time of day. Most of the small retail businesses along here were closed on Sundays, one main reason that Sam had decided to take the day off as well. She pulled to the alley behind and went inside.
Wrestling the large cake board from the walk-in fridge, she admired her handiwork. Good thing I did this one before I learned about Elena—my hands wouldn’t have been nearly this steady, she thought. She felt the telltale prickle of tears again and forced herself to think of something else. Reviewing the directions to the hostess’s home, she secured the cake in the back of the van and started out.
The large house sat perched on a steep hillside with views of the town, the river and the far-off volcanoes in the west. The sun was well below the horizon, leaving the sky in brilliant crimson, as Sam followed the winding drive.
Guest cars filled two pullout areas and she bypassed them, hoping there was a separate service entrance. When she spotted Zoë’s little Subaru wagon, she headed that direction.
The kitchen bustled with activity. A housekeeper seemed to be in charge, a thin reed of a woman who was speaking urgently with a lady in full Taoseña regalia, brushed silk skirt and top with loads of turquoise jewelry.
“Ah, the cake,” the dressy lady said. “We were beginning to worry.” She said it in a tone that really meant ‘it’s about time.’ She turned her back and left it to the housekeeper to organize and instruct Sam where to put it.
“The cake can go on that table,” the other woman said. She, too, turned around and began directing others. Sam spotted Zoë in a corner of the large kitchen, checking something under foil in a large chafing dish. She gave a quick nod toward her friend and headed out to the van to get the cake.
“Now I know why I don’t often cater meals for rich people,” Zoë said as they walked out to their vehicles together after assuring that the serving staff were ready to handle the actual interaction with guests. “Too many bosses and too many opinions.”
Zoë had grown up in a hippie commune in the sixties where food consisted of whatever someone cooked at whatever time they cooked it. No whining unless you wanted to do it yourself.
“So, what’s up with you? You were beaming all over last night, and now you look like something that’s been run over and left by the road.” Zoë looked at her suspiciously. “Have a little too much fun last night?”
“Not that kind,” Sam assured her. “I just found out this morning that a friend died.” She still had a hard time saying the words.
“Oh, god, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so flippant.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
“Come home with me. We’re having the same dinner as all these snooty political donors, minus the speeches and the groveling. I made extra.” Zoë took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. “You look like you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Sam hesitated. Being alone probably wasn’t the best thing for her, but she couldn’t imagine coming up with dinner conversation either. “I, uh—” Her cell buzzed inside her pocket and she pulled it out to look. “It’s Beau. I, um, I may have some information about his current case and he wants to talk to me.”
“If you didn’t look as if you were about to go to a dental appointment, I’d think that was just an excuse to see Mr. Gorgeous.” She gave a half wink. “Go—get the interview done. If you want to talk later, I’ll be home.”
Sam caught the call just before it went to voice mail, and she waved bye to Zoë.
“Hey there. Glad I caught you,” Beau said.
“Yeah, sorry I managed to sleep through all the other messages.”
“You needed the rest. So. I need to hear about this final conversation between you and Elena Tafoya. Is it something that needs to be done at my office, with a stenographer and all?”
Sam hadn’t considered that. She fumbled an answer.
“How about if we meet somewhere private. You tell me about it. If it’s the kind of thing that needs to go into the record we’ll re-do it, officially.”
“Thank you. I . . . I guess I’m . . .”
“Still shaken up. I know. Since Kelly’s at my house with Mama, how about if I come to your place? Have you eaten?”
Less than a bite of egg at breakfast, Sam realized. Nothing since. “I don’t feel hungry.”
“By that answer, I’m guessing you’ve had nothing all day. I can’t have you wasting away to nothing. I’ll bring a bucket of chicken.”
Wasting away to nothing was not going to happen in this century, Sam thought, but it was nice of him to offer. They agreed to meet at her house in thirty minutes.
Beau was sensitive enough not to bring up the subject of Elena’s death right away. Despite believing she couldn’t eat a bite, the smell of the spicy chicken captured Sam and she surprised herself by eating three pieces, along with coleslaw and a biscuit.
“I’ll never lose these extra pounds if you keep treating me this way,” she told Beau as they cleared the paper plates away and put coffee on to brew.
“Have I ever asked you to? I’ve told you, I like you just the way you are.” He pulled her close and she tried to relax against him. But the upcoming conversation was eating at her.
“Let’s take our coffee into the living room and sit down. This may take awhile.”
Suddenly she felt nervous about what she knew. But she laid it all out, everything Elena had said about her affair and how someone was following her down a dark street. The knife, the blood. How she’d run away as the man gripped at the collar of his coat.
“Don’t you see? It was Bram Fenton,” Sam said. “Carlos Tafoya must have been his last client, the man who hired him to watch Elena and catch her in the affair.”
“She mentioned the trench coat?”
“She said he held his coat collar against his neck, where the knife caught him.”
“But she left him on the street, nowhere near the gorge bridge?”
“I mentioned the gorge and she was really puzzled. She wasn’t out there.”
Beau stood up and paced to the far end of the room. “So how did Bram Fenton end up at the bottom of the gorge? Someone took the coat off him and moved the body.”
“Cheryl Adams? The coat was at her house.”
“You saw her, Sam. She’s about ninety pounds soaking wet. How’d she pick up a lifeless man and move him? Much less get him up and over the railing on the bridge?”
“With help?”
His eyes squinted nearly closed as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I sure didn’t get the feeling she knew anything about Fenton or his coat.”
Sam sipped at her coffee but it tasted bitter in her mouth. “Even though she admitted to the killing, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Elena in all this. After she told me the story, I suggested that she needed to report it. That the case was surely self defense. She got panicky when I told her that.”
She set the nearly full mug on an end table. “Beau, I feel like I might have pushed her too hard. Maybe she was so scared that—”
“Sam, you can’t start thinking that way. You did not make Elena Tafoya kill herself.” He sat beside her on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. “She admitted that she was really unhappy in her marriage. That was the whole reason for the affair, right?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“She might have done this anyway, even if she’d never talked to you about it.” He kissed her hair. Then her temple. Then her mouth.
After his kisses had worked their magic for a few more minutes they found themselves in the bedroom, and an hour later Sam felt a lot better. She snuggled against his solid chest, wishing he could stay right in this spot all night. But it was not to be.
“Poor Kelly,” he said after awhile. “She was supposed to get the day off. I’m sure she’s got other things she’d rather do than care for an old woman.”
“She loves Iris,” Sam assured him. “I know my daughter. She wouldn’t have taken the job if she wasn’t happy to do it.”
“But still . . .”
“Yeah, still. She probably would like to get out with some of her friends now and then.”
Beau pulled himself away, leaving the warm quilt tucked around Sam. She stretched luxuriously and watched him put his uniform back on, admiring the way the fitted shirt hugged his shoulders, the way his jeans fit just right. She stifled that line of thinking before she could reach out and drag him back into her bed.
Grabbing a robe, Sam walked him to the back door and watched as his cruiser pulled away. As the languor of great sex began to fade, Sam found herself thinking about Elena again. She switched on the TV set in the living room and tucked herself into one corner of the sofa.
The nightly news was just coming on and, even on the Albuquerque channels, Elena’s death was the top story. Cameras focused on Carlos Tafoya and reporters gathered around him at the little impromptu news conference on the steps of the county courthouse. After a few of the usual absurd “how do you feel” questions, the press got to the meat of what they really wanted to know.
“Mr. Tafoya, does this mean that you’ll be dropping out of the race?” “Do you feel that you can still serve in office at this point?”
Carlos looked solemnly out over the gathering, waiting for a pause in the rush of questions. “My beloved wife’s death has deeply shaken our family. We are understandably distraught. But my entire life has been devoted to public service and I shall press on and continue with my duty. Pain subsides with time and I can make it through this. So, yes, my name will still be on the ballot next Tuesday.”
In a display of utter bad taste, someone asked how soon the funeral services would take place. Less than eighteen hours after Elena’s death—Sam cringed at the tactlessness.
Carlos had the good grace to duck his head and say that a private memorial would be scheduled.
Sam hoped to go, to honor Elena’s memory. She could surely find out what the plans were from Beau. She flipped among the four local stations, wondering if there was any additional information but they all had identical film and no new questions.
When Kelly came in, Sam was nodding off.
“Mom, you okay?” Kelly leaned over the back of the couch and landed a gentle kiss on Sam’s cheek.
“Yeah, I will be. Eventually.” She groaned her way to her feet and switched off the TV. “I better be getting some sleep. The bakery opens pretty early in the morning.”
It was hard to imagine getting back into a normal routine, but Sam moved on autopilot through her nightly ritual for bedtime.
When she arrived at Sweet’s Sweets at five-thirty a.m. it was to find Jen and Becky already at work.
“We thought you might want to sleep a little late this morning,” Jen said, taking a tray of cinnamon scones from the oven. She turned to slide three pans of muffins inside.
“I would have loved that,” Sam said, “if I’d actually been sleeping.”
“We heard about Mrs. Tafoya,” Becky said. “It was so shocking, her just being at our party the night before.”
“I took her home,” Sam said. “I was worried that she’d had too much to drink and might have an accident.”
Little did I know.
“Is it true, what they’re saying on the news?” asked Jen. “That she killed herself?”
“I don’t know. Deputy Cardwell is investigating. He seems to think that’s what happened.” Sam walked absentmindedly to the tray where she placed orders to be filled. “It’s—well, it’s complicated.”
She caught a glance at their inquisitive faces. No way would she spread stories of Elena’s troubles. “Okay, let’s get this place organized. We need a chocolate creation for the Chocoholics group at the bookstore. Becky, can I turn that one over to you? Put your imagination to work, as long as everything on the dessert is chocolate.”
She came to the form she’d filled out for Elena’s order—the victory cake for her husband’s celebration. They’d first talked about it almost two weeks ago. Now, although everything had changed, it had also stayed the same. Carlos was still on the ballot, the election would take place in a few days . . . and Elena wouldn’t be there. A tear dropped onto the sheet of paper.
Sam hastily wiped it away. She took a deep breath. Cleared her head. Elena had paid for the cake and it was up to Sam to deliver it. She filed the order form and sketches so she would come back to them the day before the election.
Sam took a look at the creation on which Becky was working, a chocolate headstone over a chocolate grave, complete with cookie-crumb dirt and a rising ghost of white chocolate.
“I hope it’s—I didn’t mean to be morbid,” Becky said. “Mr. Petrenko said they’re reading a ghost story this week, and with Halloween and all . . .”
“It’s perfect,” Sam said. “Business must go on, and I’m happy to see how well you’ve captured their theme. And I love the little sculpted spiders and bats. Great job.”
She walked out to the sales floor, where Jen was doing a brisk business in breakfast pastries and coffee, the Monday crowd needing a little something extra to wake them up on the way to their jobs in nearby shops and offices. Sam recognized quite a few faces from the Saturday night gala, happy to see that people were returning.
The goodwill created by the party was definitely paying off. She mingled, said hello to several, made sure the coffee was plentiful and the plate of samples filled with variety. The phone had been ringing all morning and Jen clearly could use a break from it, as she waited on customers.
“I’ll grab that in the back,” Sam said, hurrying to the other extension. “Sweet’s Sweets.”
“Hi, darlin’, it’s me.”
“Beau. Have you found out anything new?”
“One thing you might be interested in. There’s a memorial for Elena tomorrow afternoon at the funeral home chapel. Carlos is skipping a church funeral mass and has arranged for cremation.”
“Already?” Sam felt a rock fall to the pit of her stomach.
“Seems rushed to me, too. But with the election coming up . . . well, I don’t know if he’s just overwhelmed with things to do right now, or if he’s trying to jump while the sympathy factor is high.” He paused. “I’m sorry, that was not a kind thing to say.”
“It might be true, though.” Sam remembered her own uncharitable thoughts about whether she wanted to bake a victory cake for Carlos. “I don’t know, Beau. I’m kind of numb about it. Guess I’m just moving through the day as best I can.”
“I know. Look, maybe we could go together? There’s a wake at his campaign manager’s house after. At least he understood what poor taste it would be to invite people to the very rooms in which . . . it happened.”
“Are we invited, to the wake?”
“I don’t much care. I want to watch Carlos Tafoya in action, to see if I can judge the level of his grief. Because I have a real hinky feeling about this, especially with all the things Elena told you on her last night.”
“I’ll bake a memorial cake and we’ll take it. They’d have a hard time turning us away.”
Chapter 17
The pain was still too raw. It revealed itself on the faces of every person in the chapel. Elena’s portrait depicted a calm and polished woman. It was the official, candidate’s-wife shot that had been widely circulated along with Carlos’s own photos during the campaign. The flowers were large and showy and impersonal. The actual cremation probably hadn’t taken place yet, Beau told Sam, since the medical investigator’s office only released the body this afternoon. It was just as well, she thought, that they didn’t all have to stare at some metal urn up there.
Sam and Beau sat in the back row, the better to watch the crowd, he said. A law enforcement habit, she supposed. But why was he thinking along those lines?
From what Beau had told her about the circumstances of Elena’s death, he’d concluded it had happened at her own hands. The office of the medical examiner agreed, finding elevated levels of alcohol and sleeping pills in her system, but not fatal amounts. Sam herself could attest to the amount of wine her friend had drunk. And after her shocking revelation about killing a man, it wouldn’t come as a big surprise if she’d taken a little sleep aid before going to bed. But then she hadn’t gone to bed.
Had she been depressed enough to end her life?
Sam couldn’t quite rest easily with that theory.
The speaker’s words droned on, a blur to Sam. Carlos Tafoya sat in the front pew beside his father, Sam’s landlord, Victor Tafoya. The next several rows were reserved for family but most of the chapel seemed to be filled with Carlos’s political entourage and a selection of the curious and morbid. Sam found herself hoping that no one thought that of her.
With no graveside service to end the observance, goodbyes were said in the form of a reception line at the front of the chapel. Sam noticed that Carlos handed some of the people a small card, presumably the address of the wake.
“I already know where it is,” Beau whispered to her. “Go forward if you want, but I can skip this part.”
Sam decided that she could, as well.
“I took the cake to my house,” Sam told him as they left. “We need to stop by and pick it up on the way.”
In her kitchen she handed Beau the half-sheet, decorated in white-on-white with Elena’s portrait reproduced in edible color on top and touches of her favorite turquoise woven into the decorations.
“I’ll be right there,” she said. She went into her bedroom, slipped into more comfortable shoes and glanced at the wooden box.
The lumpy old thing, which had once seemed almost grotesque to her, warmed her with comfort when she picked it up. She hugged it to her and let her pain over Elena’s death retreat. Like a tangible thing, the dark feeling left her heart, traveled down her arms, through her fingertips and—unbelievably—into the box. Sam held it out, balanced on the palms of her hands, and stared at it.
Elena, I will find out what happened, I promise.
The red stones winked back at her, brighter this time than their green and blue counterparts. Puzzled, Sam set the box on her dresser and backed out of the room.
“Everything okay?” Beau asked, reaching out to give her a hug.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Actually, she felt better than fine. For the first time in days she had a feeling that everything would turn out all right. They would figure out what really happened to both Bram Fenton and Elena and how to set her spirit free.
They rode silently for a few minutes in Beau’s Explorer, headed for the wake at the home of Carlos Tafoya’s campaign manager. No one, it seemed, could face a visit to the house where Elena’s death had happened, barely thirty-six hours earlier.
“You know, there’s a lot about this that still bothers me,” Sam said, finally. “Aside from the fact that I don’t believe Elena killed herself over it.”
Beau stared steadily at the road ahead. “It bothers me too. I’ve told Sheriff Padilla that we need to launch a more thorough search for the knife and I want a warrant to search Elena’s possessions for clues, before Carlos clears out her stuff and moves into the governor’s mansion.”
“And?”
“And I have a feeling he’s shuffled the request to the bottom of the stack.”
“But why?” Sam had never especially warmed up to Beau’s boss, the sheriff who seemed more show than substance.
“Politics? Well, everything’s about politics this time of year. He’s so overly conscious of getting re-elected right now . . . and it probably wouldn’t be a good move for him to drag the Tafoya name through the mud right now either. If—I should say, when—Carlos Tafoya is elected governor, he’ll have power to sign a lot of funding for the county. If we’re ever to get our own crime lab, or even an extra assistant or two to help at crime scenes . . . well, the funding has to come from higher up.”
“So you think that Padilla and Tafoya are buddies, kind of helping each other’s campaigns, for that reason?”
He shrugged.
“Aren’t there internal investigations for this sort of thing? To discover whether a law officer isn’t playing by the rules?”
“I’ll push harder for the warrant after the election. It’s only a few more days. It’s just that evidence can disappear or be tampered with . . . oh, hell, what am I saying? Fenton’s death happened weeks ago. If something was going to vanish, it probably already did.” He slowed as they reached the road they were looking for. “Plus, selfishly, I’ll take a lot less flack from Padilla if I wait awhile. The guy’s been jumping down everyone’s throats recently. Pre-election PMS or something, I guess.”
Sam snickered at the image of the squat Padilla storming around the office like a wild woman on hormone overload.
“Control that grin of yours,” Beau cautioned. “He’s here.”
Sure enough, Padilla’s county car was parked among the dozen or so in front of the traditional adobe that sat overlooking the Rio Fernando from a bluff lined with brilliant yellow cottonwoods. Sam retrieved the cake from the back of Beau’s vehicle and they walked through an entry gate, past plantings of flowers and shrubs that looked as if they received daily tending by a master gardener.
The first person they encountered, just inside the front door, was Orlando Padilla’s wife, Margaret. She greeted them warmly and suggested that they place the cake on the dining table where a buffet of catered food interspersed with homemade dishes was set up.
“This is beautiful,” Margaret said. “Such a nice tribute to Elena’s memory.” She moved a couple of casseroles around, making space for the cake. “I didn’t know her very well, myself, but my husband says she was a classy lady.”
“Yes, she was,” Sam agreed. “I’d only recently gotten to know her.”
The sheriff approached just then, greeting Beau and Sam in his offhand manner. He turned to his wife and steered her toward the kitchen. “Excuse us a minute,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
Beau raised an eyebrow toward Sam. “See what I mean about his total self-absorption,” he murmured.
Another couple came into the dining room just then; Beau took Sam’s elbow and they turned toward the large living room where most of the crowd were standing around chatting in small groups. She recognized the publisher of the local newspaper and the wife of a town council member as two of the important people in the gathering. She also spotted Martin Delgado and Kevin Calendar from the Tafoya campaign among the guests. For the most part, it wasn’t her usual social set at all.
The recent widower mingled with the guests. With friends he seemed to be genuinely grieving. But Sam noticed that with others he immediately went into a low-key version of campaign mode. She caught herself watching him, remembering things Elena had said—the difficulty of life in the limelight, the stresses her husband’s career placed upon her. The affair. Sam felt her throat tighten. So sad. Maybe the lifestyle, as much as Elena’s guilt over the affair and Fenton’s death, had driven her to desperation.
Orlando and Margaret Padilla stepped into the room just then. Tafoya’s voice trailed off momentarily and he stared toward the sheriff. Sam felt a hum begin in her ears. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. Beau had turned to speak to someone else. She glanced back toward Padilla who was intent on filling a plate. Tafoya’s conversation had resumed and everyone seemed unaware of the strange current that Sam felt.
She shook her head and the hum faded away.
What was that all about?
Her arms were covered in goose bumps. Her scalp itched from them, as if her hair were standing on end. In a split second, the bumps disappeared and her hands felt on fire.
“Beau—” But he didn’t hear her. She gave him a vague wave to indicate that she was going to step outside.
A set of French doors stood open to a patio, letting in the mild autumn afternoon. She edged her way through the crowded room and took a deep breath of chrysanthemum-scented air. A waist-high adobe wall enclosed the free-form flagstone patio, providing a safety barrier from the drop-off behind the house. Sam stood at the wall, soaking up the views of the ravine beyond, placing her hands against the cool mud surface.
“It was a little close in there, wasn’t it?”
Sam’s hand flew to her chest at the sound of the male voice behind her. Orlando Padilla stood less than three feet away, trying to stick a fork into an olive on his plate.
“Sam, isn’t it?” he said. “Beau talks about you a lot.”
She nodded, trying to force her heartbeat back to normal.
“Good man. I’m glad to have him in the department.” Padilla continued speaking around a tortilla chip. “With the election and everything, life has been pretty busy these last few months.”
She mumbled something in acknowledgment but couldn’t concentrate on his words. A dark blue haze began to form around his head, snaking around him until it engulfed his shoulders and sent tendrils toward his feet.
“Are you feeling okay, Ms. Sweet?”
The blue deepened, turned muddy gray, became more solid-looking.
Sam’s mouth opened, then closed again. Padilla’s face was nearly obscured now.
“Sam? Ms. Sweet?”
The colored haze vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Sam blinked hard. What on earth?
“Hey you,” Beau said, slipping an arm around Sam’s waist. “I thought you’d gone missing.”
She sent a vague smile his direction.
“What’s up?” Beau asked, trying to keep it casual.
“I . . .”
Margaret Padilla called out from the doorway to let her husband know that they would be late if they didn’t get going. She smiled apologetically. “Another day, another speech,” she said.
Orlando Padilla gave Sam a long, hard stare. She squirmed just a little. Then he drew a deep breath and walked toward the house.
“What was that all about?” Beau asked.
“I had . . .” She wanted to tell him about the nearly-painful sound that had pierced her ears earlier and the bizarre colors that had appeared around Padilla, but something held her back. Until she had some clue what all the weird signals were about it was better to keep it to herself. “Nothing really. Maybe it’s a migraine coming on.”
Two women stepped outside, an older lady that Sam thought had been introduced as someone’s aunt and a middle-aged woman in a deep burgundy dress with a delicate lace collar. Beau stood a little straighter and sent a polite nod their direction.
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
She waved off the suggestion. “I’ll be fine.”
Another group had discovered the patio by now, Carlos Tafoya among them. Someone snagged Beau with a question and Sam let her attention wander. As her gaze drifted toward Tafoya, she felt her breath catch. Obscuring his handsome face and ready political smile was a blue haze.
Oh god, not another one.
She blinked hard and looked away, out to the open land beyond the adobe house. When she looked back at Tafoya the aura was gone.
Chapter 18
“I can’t help it, Beau. I got the weirdest feelings around both Carlos Tafoya and Orlando Padilla. I felt such tension in the room.” It was the only explanation she could offer when he quizzed her about her reaction at the wake. They were in his SUV on their way downtown. Sam had asked Beau to drop her off at her shop so she could see how the girls had done without her there all afternoon.
“Did you get the feeling that Tafoya might have guessed about his wife’s affair?”
“Maybe. But if he did, I don’t think he confronted Elena. She would have told me.”
She rubbed her temples, although she felt no pain. The whole thing was just so confusing.
“Dinner later?” he asked. “I put some stew in the cooker this morning. It’ll be real easy.”
“Would it be okay if I beg off? It was an early morning.”
He looked disappointed. “Tomorrow then? Stew is even better the next night.”
She didn’t have the heart to turn him down for the second invitation.
At Sweet’s Sweets, Jen was in the process of closing out the register and Becky had gone home for the day, leaving a supply of tea cookies and cakes ready for sale the next day. Sam would come in early and get the breakfast pastries done in time for the early coffee crowd and Halloween cookies baked for the trick-or-treat promotion they’d been advertising. Two new custom orders had come in—a wedding cake for the end of the month (at least some customers planned ahead!) and a baby shower cake which reminded Sam that new life always came along to offer comfort over the loss of another.
She made up a quick sketch for a three-dimensional cake, a baby carriage surrounded by large toy blocks, all frosted in pastel buttercream, with a set of life-size yellow booties made of sugar. She could do the basics in the morning and put it all together the next day. She rechecked the window displays and left the night lights on before going out to her van, parked behind the shop.
Kelly’s car sat in the driveway at home when Sam arrived.
“Beau came straight home after the funeral,” Kelly said, “so I started dinner early. Hope that’s okay.”
“I’m not very hungry,” Sam said. She had to admit, though, that when Kelly lifted the lid on a simmering skillet of chicken and mushrooms in some kind of savory sauce she might rethink that. “Okay, maybe just a little.”
Kelly chatted while they ate, but Sam found her mind wandering to Elena, specifically their last conversation. Granted, they’d consumed a fair amount of wine but Sam found herself racking her brain to remember anything at all that might have been her clue as to what Elena would do later that evening.
On the surface perhaps Elena did have reason to end her life. Her unhappy marriage, the disappointment of the affair, and the crime she’d committed—accidentally or not—all of it had eaten at her until she obviously could not bear it.
“I’m going to bed early,” Sam told Kelly as they put the dishes into the dishwasher. The energy boost that she normally got from the wooden box seemed to have vanished after her experiences with the oddly colored auras and the piercing buzz in her head.
She summoned up enough energy to brush her teeth and slip into her nightshirt before crashing. Elena’s final words to Sam echoed through her head: “Telling Deputy Cardwell won’t solve anything.” She fell asleep.
Uneasy dreams filled the night. Elena arriving at Sam’s gala opening party, looking chic as ever in the turquoise that set off her blond hair so beautifully, draping the cashmere scarf over her chair, responding to someone’s inquiry about how it was made. The scene shifted to the Tafoya home as Sam dropped Elena off, worried about how much wine her friend had consumed. Elena wrapping the warm scarf around her neck as she got out of Sam’s car. The scene shifting rapidly, the scarf tightening around the slender throat, Elena’s frantic attempts to scream for help. Sam stretching, reaching to save her, unable to quite do it.
She awoke in a tangle of sheets and blankets, panting.
“Wha—” Her breath came in gasps.
She sat up in bed and hugged her knees. The dream was clearly telling her that Elena needed her help. Her friend was reaching out and it was up to Sam to do something.
She switched on the lamp on her nightstand and picked up the phone. “Answer, answer,” she pleaded, noticing for the first time that the readout on her clock said it was 1:47 in the morning.
Beau’s mumbled hello was full of sleep.
“Elena Tafoya didn’t kill herself,” Sam blurted out. How could she convey the urgency of the dream?
“Sam?” He yawned hugely. “What’s this about Elena? How would you know—?”
“Don’t ask me how I know, please. Just trust me on this.”
“Darlin’, you do realize it’s the middle of the night, don’t you?”
“Sorry.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “I just had this feeling that it couldn’t wait. Do funeral directors work at night?”
“What?”
“You told me yesterday afternoon that Elena’s body probably hadn’t been cremated yet. But what if they work at night? What if they’re doing it right now?”
She heard rustling in the background, the heavy comforter on his bed, perhaps. His hands running over a stubbly face.
“I don’t know, Sam. They might be working tonight.”
“Can you stop them? If they’re about to cremate her? Please, Beau?”
“Let me make a call. I’ll find out.”
“Call me right back.”
“Obviously, you’re awake.”
“I won’t sleep until I hear from you.” I probably won’t sleep anyway.
“I’ll let you know, no matter what’s happening.”
The dial tone hummed for nearly a full minute before Sam set the receiver down. She got up, wrapped her warmest robe around herself and found her sheepskin slippers. Pacing the floor seemed so cliché, but it was all she could do with sleep impossible and being completely at a loss for whom to call, other than Beau. She hovered within two strides of the phone until it rang. Eight minutes had passed as if they were eight hours.
“Okay,” Beau said. “I had to call my office and find out which funeral home had her body. Turned out to be one in Albuquerque. I did reach someone there and I did get them to stop . . . working . . . on this until I get back to them. Now you want to tell me why the big panic?”
She took a deep breath and sat on the edge of her bed. If she were wrong about this, she was about to look like a huge fool.
“The scarf that Elena supposedly hung herself with—it was the same one she’d worn to the party at my shop, wasn’t it?”
“Um . . . yeah, I believe so. It’s in an evidence bag at the office. I could actually describe it to you if this call were taking place during my shift.”
Oops, he sounded just a little ticked. “That’s okay.” She reminded him that he’d already told her it was the same scarf. “I just remembered something Elena told me about it, about how much she loved the scarf.”
“She loved the scarf.”
“Right. Don’t you see? A woman wouldn’t use one of her most prized possessions to kill herself.”
“And why not? Maybe she wanted it to be the last thing that touched her skin.”
Sam hadn’t thought of that. “But—” In a dream Elena had called out to her . . . That wasn’t going to fly, not in a murder investigation.
“How carefully did the medical investigator examine her body and the scarf?” she asked.
“Well, he would have examined the body pretty thoroughly. As far as I know, though, he didn’t have the scarf. We bagged it and kept it here.”
“But mainly, he just wanted to be sure she really died by strangling, right?”
“Yeah . . .”
“But I’m just not convinced. Elena was upset that night, yes, but I will never believe that she was so upset that she went right home and killed herself, Beau, especially not with her favorite scarf. I just—”
“Sam, with anyone else, I’d suggest that they get some counseling and work through the grieving process. Denial is always the first stage.”
She started to sputter but he interrupted.
“But—listen for a second—you have good instincts. You’ve already proven that to me, and it’s the only reason we’re having this conversation.” He paused for a moment. “I will get the wheels in motion for a revisit to the autopsy. I have to be specific in the request, based on some kind of evidence. I’ll send the scarf to Albuquerque and ask the crime lab to do strength tests and . . . well, you don’t need all the details.”
She felt a tightening in her throat. “Thanks, Beau. Thanks for believing me.”
“I’m also stepping up the pace on the Bram Fenton investigation,” he said. “And I can’t promise that Elena’s name won’t suffer in the process. You have to be ready for that, hon. And you have to be ready, just in case it’s proven that she did kill herself. Remorse is a powerful thing, Sam. It could be that she either felt guilty over the investigator’s death or she might have panicked at the thought of being caught.”
“I know.” Sam felt the earlier burst of adrenaline drain out of her. Despite wanting to save her friend’s reputation and memory, she might just be opening a whole new can of worms. She hung up the phone wondering if she shouldn’t have left well-enough alone.
She switched out the light and crawled back under the covers but realized the futility of trying to sleep when she rolled over for the fourth time, only to stare at the red numerals on the clock that told her it was after three.
She pulled herself out of bed and moved quietly, dressing and leaving for her shop. She’d told Jen she would come in early but three o’clock was ridiculous. But, no matter. There was work to be done and lying in bed staring at the ceiling was pointless.
Yesterday’s unseasonably mild weather had taken a complete turn sometime during the night. A frigid wind blew down Sam’s lane, whipping tiny granules of sleet across her windshield. She tried to remember whether there was snow in the forecast. She pressed the button for the local station on the van’s radio but they weren’t on the air at this hour. No point, anyway. The weather would do whatever it would, no matter what some forecaster said about it.
By the time Jen and Becky arrived at six, Sam had finished eight dozen orange-frosted pumpkin shaped cookies, a crumb cake, two cinnamon streusel coffee cakes and a batch of blueberry muffins. Becky took over with more muffins and some apple tarts, while Sam started creating the baby shower cake she’d sketched out yesterday. Soon she was lost in the decorating.
When Beau walked in the front door, Jen went into a fluster, as always happened when that six and a half feet of lean, hunky guy in uniform spoke to her. Sam couldn’t believe it was already after ten; it seemed almost impossible that she’d awakened him after dreaming about Elena. Most of the coffee-and-croissant crowd had already come and gone.
“Maybe we should talk somewhere else?” Beau suggested.
For the first time in hours Sam looked out the front windows. The breeze still bent the bare tree limbs but the sleet had vanished. “A short walk might keep me alert,” she said. She grabbed her jacket from its hook near the back door.
The thirty degree air nearly took her breath away after the warmth of the kitchen but she picked up her pace and kept up with Beau easily enough.
“So, is there any news?” she asked, almost the moment the shop door closed behind them.
“Actually, yes. I guess an early morning call, even from a county sheriff’s deputy, carries some weight. The funeral home put the cremation on hold immediately. Then the MI’s office got my message and collected the remains shortly after their office opened at eight.”
It felt awful to hear Elena referred to as ‘the remains’ but Sam bit back a reply and tamped down her emotions.
“I don’t know whether it’s because of Carlos Tafoya’s political prominence or if they just felt pushed to clear the case, but the medical investigator got right on it.”
“And . . .?”
“And I sent one of our other deputies down to Albuquerque with the scarf. The guy wasn’t especially happy to make the trip right at the end of his shift. But he left here about four a.m. and will probably be happy for the overtime.”
“Beau! Get on with it. What did they find?”
“I quote: ‘Upon closer examination of the ligature marks on the victim’s neck, it appears that there are signs of strangulation aside from any marks made by the wool scarf.’”
Sam stopped in a crosswalk, ignoring the squeal of brakes from a car that almost didn’t stop. Beau took her elbow and steered her toward the safety of the sidewalk before he spoke again.
“Yes, you heard that right. In the report they faxed to me, it seems that there were some bruising patterns. There was also a thin line, perhaps a cord of some kind. Overlying all that were the wider, softer marks made by the wool scarf. It was most likely grabbed up as an afterthought, a way to disguise the previous markings and to make it look like a suicide.”
Sam stopped and looked up at him.
“So, you were right,” Beau said. “She didn’t choose her favorite scarf to, uh, do this.”
Sam stifled her fleeting feeling of triumph. She didn’t need to be right about this. She’d have given anything to have Elena back, alive and well.
“So, does this mean that the investigation will continue?”
“You bet. Now that we know that someone else killed her, we have to pursue it as a murder.”
They had reached the plaza now. The sidewalks were nearly deserted, in sharp contrast to the summer months when crowds of tourists packed the quaint shops and fought over parking spaces. Beau instinctively steered Sam toward the side that would keep them out of the harsh wind.
“Beau, I hate to think this but I have to say it. I think you’ll have to look at our possible new governor as a suspect.”
Chapter 19
His mouth formed a tight line. “How sure are you about . . . well, about the affair?”
“Elena told me. She wouldn’t confess if she hadn’t done anything.” Sam pulled her coat tighter around herself. “I think Carlos found out. Maybe he grabbed her in a rage.”
“There’s just one big, giant hitch with that. Carlos Tafoya had an airtight alibi. Remember, he was giving a speech in Albuquerque. I’m pretty sure it ran late and he planned to stay over. I’ll check it out, but when he’s out campaigning he’s got a whole slew of people around him. I will question them all but it’s not likely that he could just leave without someone knowing it.”
“Hm.” Sam chewed at her lip. “Who else would have easy access to their house? Maids, gardeners, that sort of person?”
“Yeah, but what motive does a maid or gardener have to kill the person who’s writing their paychecks?”
She gave him a look that basically said get real. Employees always hate their bosses. But he was right. Nothing had been reported stolen. And the crime just didn’t have the feel of an angry person who was lashing out. Another reason to discount either the husband or the lover.
“Maybe they had a houseguest?” she suggested halfheartedly.
“We’ll be looking into it.”
They’d circled the plaza now and Sam could see a half-dozen cars in front of her shop.
“I better get back,” she said. “Hey, thanks for filling me in. I promise I’ll sleep better tonight and I won’t call you in the wee hours.”
He pulled her close and stepped into a tiny alcove where two old buildings came together. The kiss was brief but nice.
Sam walked back into the warm, sugary air inside Sweet’s Sweets, puzzling over the implications of the MI’s findings and the increasing complicatedness of Elena’s life. Sadly, she realized that she really didn’t know much about her new friend despite the fact that they had hit it off so quickly. Elena’s startling confession to an affair and a murder might well be just the tip of the iceberg.
Those thoughts continued to plague her as she handed out frosted cookies to the costumed kids who bombarded the store.
“Aren’t they cute?” Jen whispered as a tiny ballerina left with her older brother, a ferocious vampire.
“No kidding—I remember being so excited over Halloween as a kid,” Sam said. “Look at this next group.”
She handed cookies to a space alien, a teddy bear, a clown and a cowboy. As that bunch filed out a taller girl stepped in, replete with flowing black robes and a rubber witch face, including a green complexion and warts.
“Ooh, you look pretty scary,” Sam teased.
The witch came in close, holding her hand out for the cookie. Her husky voice came out in a ragged whisper. “The signs . . . will fall into place . . . Give them heed. The evil ones must pay but the seekers are in danger.”
“What—?” Sam leaped back and stared, her heart pounding as the witch accepted the cookie.
“Thank you,” said the little witch in a completely normal child’s voice.
Sam opened her mouth, but the witch had spun around and disappeared out on the sidewalk. Her hands shook as she noticed a fresh group of kids waiting for their treats. She handed out cookies absently. Warnings from ten-year-olds?
“Jen!” she called out the moment she had a break. “Did you notice that witch? The girl with the scary costume?”
“Sorry, no, Sam. I’d stepped into the back and the phone rang. We just got another order.” She waved a printed form she’d carried from the kitchen. “Birthday cake for a ten year old, princess theme. I guess she’s a princess until the price goes over thirty-five dollars.”
Sam shook off the eerie feeling and took the form Jen handed her.
“One of the little princess’s friends had the Cinderella cake, wide skirt with lots of flouncing . . . I guess ours wants the same thing. By five o’clock, if possible.”
“Take over Halloween detail?” Sam gave Jen the cookie tray and walked into the kitchen, her mind still reeling. The warning voice had sounded uncannily like Bertha Martinez’s.
She stared at the princess order, pulled the cone-shaped pan from the shelf, and told Becky to mix up chocolate batter and get it in the oven. She had pink and lavender buttercream already made for the baby carriage cake and she could easily use part of it to do Cinderella’s ball gown at the same time.
“Becky, while you’re at it, we better bake up some new fabulous thing for the Chocoholics group. If you have any brilliant ideas on that, I’ll let you run with it. I’m a little stumped for them this week.”
Focus, Sam. You can’t take a kid’s prank seriously.
“Sam? Earth to Sam . . . I was thinking—instead of cake,” Becky said, “what about a triple chocolate cheesecake? Dark chocolate crust, creamy chocolate filling, mocha drizzle over the top . . . I saw something similar in a magazine and I think I could tweak it a bit, add some special touches . . .”
Sam forced her attention to focus. The Chocoholics. “Go for it. They’ll love it.”
Sam left Becky to that creation while she turned her attention to locating a doll form that would sit atop the elaborately draped skirt-cake. She made sure to include a few full-blown roses around the base of the cake as she put the finishing touches on it—what kid didn’t love to pop a big old frosting rose into her mouth and swallow it down? And what mom didn’t regret all that sugar, when bedtime found the little tykes still bouncing off the walls? The image brightened her mood considerably.
“What do you think, Sam?” Becky asked. “I practiced my roses earlier today. I think a big chocolate one in the middle of the cheesecake would kind of balance it nicely.”
“Beautiful—you, kid, have a knack for this!”
Becky beamed at the praise.
“You can go ahead and deliver it to Ivan next door as soon as it’s done. Their meeting isn’t until tomorrow but I’m sure he would accept it today. Our fridge space is getting a little tight right now with the carriage, and I have to leave room for the Tafoya victory cake in there too.”
The reminder of Elena caused Sam’s smile to fade as she watched Becky working at the oven. She would have to ask Beau how the renewed investigation was coming along.
She got the chance to bring it up at dinner that night. She always loved driving out to Beau’s small ranch on the north side of Taos. The open fields, green during the summer, were now fallow and dry, the view quickly dimming now at dusk. The two horses grazed in the distance; Sam had noticed that they normally stayed nearer the barn in the early mornings, awaiting the feed Beau scooped out for them. She still didn’t make staying overnight at his house a regular routine, feeling a little strange about facing his mother clad only in one of Beau’s shirts. And she definitely wasn’t ready to call the relationship permanent enough to move some of her own clothes to his place.
This evening, he’d promised the stew that he’d made yesterday, along with cornbread and honey from a neighbor’s hives. Anything she didn’t have to bake, herself, was always appealing to Sam.
Ranger, the black Labrador retriever, and Nellie the border collie greeted Sam at the gates, trailing along behind her van as she negotiated the driveway up to Beau’s impressive log house. He waved from the kitchen window and she walked in.
“Umm, smells good in here,” she said.
He reached around her waist and pulled her close, savoring a long kiss. “Don’t worry, Mama and Kelly are in the den, finishing a heated game of gin rummy,” he whispered. She let herself enjoy the second kiss even more.
Voices from the living room distracted them. Sam took the basket of cornbread and Beau lifted the heavy tureen of stew.
At the dining table, Iris greeted Sam warmly and Kelly headed toward the kitchen to bring a green salad she’d made earlier. Sam noticed that Iris ate only a few bites of the hearty beef stew and her earlier vitality seemed to fade as full darkness set in. The elderly woman held out for a slice of apple pie but began yawning as the dishes were cleared.
“I’ll get her set for the night,” Kelly offered.
“Any news on the investigation?” Sam asked Beau, once they were alone in the kitchen again, loading the dishwasher.
“I finally got the judge to issue the search warrant I need on the Tafoya home,” he said. “I’ll tell you, maybe it’s just my last name being so damned Anglo but it’s not easy to get around the politics in this county.”
“In this entire state.”
“True.” He handed her another dessert plate and she bent to put it in the dishwasher rack. “Anyway, after some real teeth-pulling I got the warrant signed. In the morning I think I’ll have enough officers to properly execute the thing. I need at least two besides myself, three would be better.
“Can I help somehow?” she asked.
“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea. The house is a crime scene now. We have to be careful with everything. I don’t know why I’m saying that. Tafoya has had time to remove anything he wanted to, after all.”
“Yeah, but would he? As far as he knows, everyone has bought into the story that Elena’s death was a suicide, right?”
“That’s all I can hope. We’ll get an early start—hope to catch him in that pre-dawn defenses-down time of the day. I heard that he was in Roswell today—speeches and all that. And we know he was busy with the memorial service yesterday. With any luck, he’ll be off guard.”
“So he’s definitely a suspect then?”
“No more than anyone else. I have to keep an open mind to everything I might find there. I just don’t think it’s really likely that he did it. Why would he risk his career right at this moment? He wants to be governor so bad he can taste it.”
“Maybe he went into a rage. Struck out when he found out about the affair.”
“But he was in Albuquerque that night. To sneak away and drive home and back is very premeditated.”
Sam chewed her lower lip.
“His wife’s affair would be a whole lot smaller scandal than her murder, wouldn’t it?”
“And I guess her suicide almost works in his favor, right? Man hit by tragedy, the sympathy factor and all that?”
“Probably. Who knows what goes through the minds of the voters this week?”
Sam shook her head. She’d always wondered what went through the minds of the voters in this state—governors with horrible reputations for corruption, state legislators who had multiple drunk driving offenses, towns with local embezzlers and outright cheats—and they all managed to get reelected over and over again.
“We’ll be looking for clues about Elena’s state of mind. Who she might have been in contact with during her last days, anyone who might have threatened her, someone angry enough that they would have killed her.” He looked at Sam. “She didn’t say anything to you along those lines?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot,” she said. “And I can’t come up with anything specific. But I have to admit that I was so shocked by her confession to killing the man who’d followed her that I probably missed other things. My mind was racing all over the place, knowing that it was Fenton she was talking about. Remembering the book with the coded pages we’d found at his place, thinking about the tests you’d ordered on the blood-stained coat.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I really hope I didn’t miss something important.”
“Hey, it’s fine. The conversation probably wouldn’t be admissible in court anyway. I’m just looking for someplace to start. I still have to come up with evidence.”
Kelly peeked into the kitchen. “Hey you guys. I’m going to head home now. Iris is in bed, reading a large-print Agatha Christie. What time do you want me to come in tomorrow, Beau?”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to leave before dawn but I don’t see any reason for you to be here that early. Mama will sleep until eight or so. Just come at your regular time and make her breakfast like you usually do.”
Kelly gave a little salute and left.
“I better get out of here, too,” Sam said. “You need to make an early night of it.”
He agreed reluctantly and saw her to the door. “I’d sure like more time with you. Maybe after the election my boss will actually put in some time in the office, and we can convince Kelly to stay a whole weekend so we can get away somewhere.”
“Sounds nice.” Sam kissed him and then pulled her fleece jacket tightly together in front against the bitter breeze that came down from Taos Mountain. He watched as she got into her van and gave a little wave as she drove out.
Kelly sat in front of the TV with a reality show blasting away as the contestants traded foul-mouthed quips with each other. Sam made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table to total her day’s receipts and write up a bank deposit slip. She intended to browse her recipe files for new ideas but after nearly nodding off for the third time she gave up and headed for bed.
Darkness enveloped Sam and a stiff breeze howled upward, coming off the river at the bottom of the Rio Grande Gorge, carrying a sickly smell. She looked down and saw that she was wearing a dark green trench coat. She struggled vainly to shrug it off but the garment felt sticky. Her hands came away coated in blood.
Chapter 20
Sam woke from the dream in a sweat, although her bedroom felt freezing cold when she flung off the covers. She padded to the hall and checked the thermostat. It seemed all right and a quick touch on the baseboard register told her the heater was running just fine. A full moon lit the living room and kitchen, revealing dark lumps of furniture in all the right places. Sam gave it a glance and returned to her bedroom. Now, the temperature seemed fine.
On her dresser small dots of light winked in the darkness. Blue, red, green. They sparkled a few times and gradually blinked out. Odd. She’d never noticed the stones on the old wood box glowing, except for the times when Sam herself had picked up the object and held it. Had some unearthly spirit been in the room with her?
Goose flesh prickled at her bare arms.
The moon dimmed, throwing the room into complete darkness. A shiver coursed through her and she dashed for her bed. Silly, she told herself. A bad dream, a hot flash, a trick of the moonlight. It was cloudy outside. That accounted for the moon glowing brightly and then disappearing. There are no ghosts, no visiting spirits, no brujas. She repeated it twice more before she relaxed. Calm, perhaps, but not tranquil enough to fall asleep for a long time.
Sam stood behind the counter when the first of the customers came in the next morning.
“I don’t know what you put in those cookies yesterday,” said a young woman with a baby on her hip.
“What?”
“My five-year-old, Damon. I tell you, he was bouncing off the walls after school. All that Halloween candy. I didn’t want him to have more sweets but he got his cookie here and had half of it eaten before I could jump on him.”
Sam held her breath. Oh, shit, what kind of lawsuit was coming her way?
“He calmed right down. At dinner he ate all his veggies, went to bed without a fight . . . So could I get a dozen more of those cookies?”
Sam gave a nervous chuckle. “I really didn’t do anything special with them.”
“I don’t care. Whatever it was, it worked a miracle.” The woman pulled out her wallet and pointed to the display.
“I only have three left.”
“That’s fine—I’ll take them!”
Sam bagged the cookies and told the woman they were complimentary. The lady smiled widely and turned toward the door.
“I’ll definitely be back!” she said.
After the fourth parent who commented on remarkable changes in their kids behavior, Sam called a staff meeting. Becky and Jen looked at their boss with wide eyes.
“Did either of you put anything—”
“Sam, no!” Becky protested vehemently. “I have kids. I would never—”
Sam held up her hands. “I’m not accusing. I just can’t figure it out.”
“We used all our standard recipes,” Becky said. “Flour, sugar, butter . . . there was not one unusual ingredient in those cookies.”
“And the food coloring came from a bottle we’ve used before,” Sam mused, remembering that she’d tinted the frosting herself.
“I’m baffled,” Jen said. “But, hey, maybe it was something else. Maybe the kids just had a fun day at school.”
Sam didn’t believe for a second that a school Halloween party explained a streak of sudden good behavior, but she wasn’t about to voice her real suspicions. The mystical happenings that had surrounded some of her caretaking jobs now seemed to be spilling over into the bakery.
She let the girls know she wasn’t upset with them and sent them back to their work. The Halloween cookies were gone now and there was nothing she could do to change the facts. She would distract herself by trying a new recipe.
She had come up with a pumpkin cake recipe and she would use a cream cheese filling and a glossy chocolate ganache icing. Today, she wanted to see how her regular customers liked it. Meanwhile, the ovens were full of cupcakes and muffins and cheesecakes. She chafed at having to wait for oven space. She really needed to work on test projects at home, in the evenings. The repairman was supposed to come this afternoon and Sam hoped that this time he really would show up.
The entire time she was trying to concentrate on accurate measurements and proper pan size, her mind echoed the warning from yesterday. The mask of the child-witch kept intruding into her thoughts. The seekers are in danger. That might refer to herself, but it surely meant Beau.
He was out at Tafoya’s house today with his warrant, searching for the clues that would tell him what happened. Now that the medical examiner had found evidence that Elena’s scarf had not killed her, Beau was intent on finding out who and what did. Some other person and some other device committed that crime. Not suicide. Murder.
She finally got the pumpkin layers into the oven, then managed to botch the ganache. Too distracted, she set the baked layers in the fridge and vowed to get back to it later. She dialed Beau’s cell number.
“Hey there,” he said. “What’s up?”
Oh ,a pint-sized witch spooked me yesterday and now I’m worrying that you’re in danger, so much so that I can’t even blend up a decent frosting. “Just thought I’d check and see how the search was going.”
“Interesting . . .”
“Someone else is listening?”
“Exactly.”
“How about if I meet you later? I just . . . it sounds silly, I know, but I need to know that you’re safe.”
“So far, so good,” he said cheerfully. “I should be back in my office in another hour or so. I’m hoping to get out of there by five. No guarantees, though.”
“I know you can’t really talk. I’ll catch up with you at some point. Maybe you can give me a call when you’re free?”
He mumbled a half response, obviously distracted by someone else who was talking to him. They barely said goodbye before the line went dead.
Not exactly what I wanted to hear from him, Sam thought. But at least he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. See there, you little witch. He’s fine.
She went back to the ganache, turning out a perfect batch on the second try. She gave the cream cheese filling another stir, then quickly filled and stacked the layers. The ganache spread over the top, shiny and sleek, giving the cake a sophisticated appearance.
“This needs to chill for at least an hour,” she told Becky, “but then I want to get it out for sampling. Can you help me keep an eye on the time, not let the whole day get away from me?”
Her assistant looked up from the tray she was filling with yellow and red roses, pre-making them for Tafoya’s victory cake. “Sure. No problem. Are you going out?”
The idea took hold. Maybe if she just happened to be out for lunch . . . Beau’s office wasn’t that far away . . . And maybe if she happened to see his vehicle there . . .
As it turned out, he was just getting out of his patrol SUV when Sam cruised by and he spotted her. She whipped into a parking space and joined him at the sidewalk.
“So? I’m dying of curiosity since you described the search as ‘interesting.’ Can you tell me about it?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Okay. Does it involve the bloody trench coat that was found at one of my properties? Doesn’t that make me involved, just a little?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” He grinned and flicked at her chin.
“I can make it a hundred questions if you’ll let me.”
“Uh-huh. Well . . . no.”
“Beau! At least tell me whether you have a suspect. I already know what the MI said.” She looked around, realized that they were standing right in front of the sheriff’s office. People were coming and going, although most were scurrying along to get out of the chilly November wind. “Can I take you to lunch?”
He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have much time. There’s a lot of evidence to process.”
Another car pulled in beside Beau’s in the spots reserved for Sheriff’s Department vehicles. Lisa, the technician who always helped gather evidence at crime scenes. She had the knowledge and basic equipment for performing a few limited tests locally, but more complicated tests such as DNA and tissue matching were always sent to the state crime lab in Santa Fe. She greeted Sam as she walked to the back of her large SUV and began to pull boxes and bags from the back. Beau walked over and spoke to her for a moment.
“Okay,” he said, turning back to Sam. “Let’s take a quick lunch break.”
They headed for a place two blocks over, a spot known for its hearty soups, which seemed perfect for a day like this. On the way, Beau began to talk.
“I found a heavy nylon bootlace that I think might be the murder weapon,” he said. “Came across a pair of boots at the bottom of a hall closet, one is missing the lace but the other one indicates that the laces are pretty new, in good condition, thick and strong. So, I ask myself where’s the other one? If someone used it to strangle Elena, what did they do with it? Didn’t take too long to find it in a garbage bag out at the curb. Funny how people don’t think things through.”
“And you’re pretty sure it’s the one?”
“Without getting too graphic about it, let’s just say that there’s evidence of that, yes.”
Sam pictured blood or tissue, but she stopped her thoughts right there. “So, you’re thinking Carlos Tafoya?”
“The boots were a man’s size nine, which fits with the other shoes in the home that belong to him. But—” he held up an index finger. “We don’t yet have any proof that someone else didn’t pull that lace and use it. A defense attorney would point out that anyone entering that house could have access to boots in the front hall closet.”
“And Carlos wasn’t home that night so it probably was someone else.”
“Only the evidence will say for sure. A killer could have easily left his own DNA on the cord. Even with gloves there might be some traces of fibers or something like that.”
Sam puzzled over that as they walked.
“There were a lot of different fingerprints in the master bedroom and bath, places you would normally only associate with the owner of the house. We finally got the maid to agree to being printed, for elimination purposes. The woman is Tewa, from the Pueblo, and I guess she believed that somehow the ink pad was going to read her spirit or some such thing. Lisa soft-talked her and took the prints right there at the house. We can find Tafoya’s from our databases because all public employees have prints on file.”
“What about other items? I’m still trying to work out how Fenton’s coat got to Cheryl Adams’s house on the south side of town.”
“In one of Carlos’s coat pockets, I did find Fenton’s business card. It’s the first real proof that the two men had contact, although it’s a far cry from showing that Carlos actually hired Fenton to track Elena. I gathered up most of the bills and other paperwork from his desk, just to see what we come across.” He held the door to the restaurant for Sam. “Oh, one other thing you might find interesting. Elena kept a journal.”
They stepped into the crowded room and a hostess immediately greeted them. Sam fidgeted, wanting to question him about the journal. Their table in a back corner afforded some privacy and people at the adjacent tables were engrossed in their own conversations.
“Could I see her journal?” Sam asked, shrugging off her winter coat. “I might be able to spot a clue in it, something that stands out because of the conversation we had, that final night.”
He chewed at his lip, debating. “Normally, I’d say no way. Letting a civilian handle evidence can get into some sticky issues.”
“But you deputized me, remember? Way back when . . .”
“I know.” He stared at the menu without really seeing it. “We’ve already dusted it for prints. And I’m really short-handed this week. Would you promise not to bend, fold or mutilate—or jot notes in it? And wear gloves while you handle it.”
She sent him a look to let him know she wasn’t that stupid.
“It’s in my cruiser, unless Lisa finished carrying all the stuff we collected inside. I’ll get it for you after lunch.”
She smiled at him. “I really hope I can help.”
Their server stopped by again, order pad at the ready, and they both chose the homemade vegetable soup.
“So, do you think there’s any chance you’ll have answers before the election?” she asked, once the server walked away.
“Not really. Anything going to the state crime lab will probably take weeks. I can always hope that we can match some fingerprints from our local databases.”
“Maybe somebody will just show up and confess.”
“I’d give better chances to a snowball in hell, Sam. Those things don’t happen except on television. Especially if it involves somebody like Tafoya—no way a guy like that isn’t going to lawyer up immediately.”
Sam caught a sharp glance from one of the women at the next table, late twenties, dark hair cut in a sleek page, an oversized handbag on her lap where she was rummaging for something. Suddenly, their conversation felt a little too public. She tapped Beau’s boot under the table. They started talking about the weather, and the dark-haired woman and her companion left a few minutes later. Sam watched them go outside and get into a blue sedan parked at the curb.
Their bowls of soup arrived just then and Sam gave her attention to eating, still mulling over what Beau had told her. She couldn’t believe a married woman—a smart married woman—would actually reveal anything in writing, but there was always the chance of some little clue that would lead the investigation somewhere in a new direction.
Once they stepped back out on the street, Sam brought up the subject that had brought her to Beau’s office in the first place.
“I’m worried about you on this investigation, Beau.” Although I can’t really admit that a whispered message from a Halloween kid is the reason why.
He draped an arm around her shoulders and brought her close to him. “So far, I haven’t gotten any real sense of danger, Sam. Heck, this is a whole lot tamer than patrolling back streets where the drug gangs hang out.”
“I know. But be careful. Please.”
They walked the two blocks back to his office, pulling their coats tight against the increasing wind. Gray clouds sat low over the face of the mountains and tiny grains of sleet spat down in gusts. Beau located Elena’s journal and handed it to Sam, extracting another promise that it would remain safe and intact. At her car, he paused and kissed her lightly.
“If this little sleet turns to snow, I want you to go home early. No sense being out in it.”
“You too. You’ve got a lot farther to drive than I do.”
His expression told her that leaving early was a dream. “If I get home late I’ll call ahead and just tell Kelly to stay in our guestroom. It wouldn’t be good for her to be out on bad roads either.”
“Not for a girl who’s spent the last ten years in southern California. Thanks, Beau.”
Sam started her van and pulled onto the street, giving Beau a quick wave as he headed into the county building. She was nearly a block away when she spotted the blue sedan with the young, dark haired woman who had been sitting near them in the restaurant.
Chapter 21
The blue sedan sat at the curb and the woman was sticking coins into a parking meter, struggling to keep her dark green wool coat from flying open and shrugging her oversized bag onto her shoulder at the same time. Her neatly cut page was whipping across her face, obscuring her vision and making the job twice as difficult. It didn’t appear that she had seen Sam.
Curious coincidence, Sam thought. Same restaurant, same street as Beau’s office. She shook off the sense of worry. Taos is a small town. A lot of people plan their errands to get several things done in the same part of town at once. Silly to give it a second thought. But she couldn’t help remembering how the woman had appeared to be listening to their conversation at the table.
At Sweet’s Sweets Jen assured Sam that all was well. They’d had a larger than normal rush on cupcakes and cookies right after lunch, people stocking up with bags of goodies to take home for a quiet evening in front of the fire. The cheesecakes were all gone, too, she noted, as were the apple tarts and most of the cinnamon crumb cake.
Luckily, Becky had noticed the shortages. Four cheesecakes had just come out of the oven—their signature amaretto, a chocolate to be topped with raspberries, a pumpkin spice, and of course a plain one. She told Sam she’d also just put a crumb cake in to bake.
“You’re wonderful,” Sam said, admiring her new assistant’s meticulous work.
Becky blushed slightly. “I’ve mixed up the dough for tomorrow’s cookies and put it in the refrigerator. And the dry ingredients for muffins and scones—they’re mixed and stored in those tubs. All we have to do in the morning is add the liquids and bake them.”
“Great idea. That will save quite a bit of time. Especially if the roads are snowy and I’m a little late getting here.” Sam surveyed the kitchen and made up a supply list, which she faxed to her wholesaler. “Ladies, if it stays slow this afternoon, or if the weather gets bad, feel free to close a little early. I have to meet a repairman at home, but you can reach me there if you need to.”
She didn’t mention that while she waited she intended to read Elena’s diary, which was burning a hole through her backpack at this moment. Fifteen minutes later, she’d pulled the small book from her pack and was putting the kettle on for tea. Snuggled into a corner of the sofa, she opened the leather-bound book.
Familiar writing covered the pages. Sam felt a catch in her throat as she remembered her friend’s written instructions for the cake that was to celebrate her husband’s election. A decision soon to be made by voters. Sam tuned out those thoughts and concentrated on the pages.
The first entry was dated earlier in the summer. The initial entry seemed to indicate that this was Elena’s first attempt at keeping a journal.
I don’t normally put personal things into writing. But this summer has become too . . . what shall I say . . . too emotional, too revealing, too strange to ignore. I feel like I must talk about it with someone and yet I cannot. I feel as if my head will burst with this new knowledge. If not my head, my heart will surely break.
After that first one, the entries were more traditional, dated, beginning the first week of July.
Despite knowing it’s wrong, I’m still seeing him, the man I shall refer to in these pages by the initial D. The first few pages discussed the very things Elena had told Sam on what was to be her final night. She was seeing a man, believed herself to be in love with him. D? The name didn’t fit anyone Sam could think of but she read on. In spite of the fact that both were married, they wanted to be together, to leave their unhappy marriages and start a new life together. Then came the part that frightened Elena.
Someone may have seen me. I’m so afraid that I may be caught out at night in the wrong neighborhood. That the person might reveal my affair to Carlos. Or worse, to the media. Carlos’s life revolves around becoming governor. The next few months will be crucial. If only he would lose the election and give up. Then I could leave and start my own life. But he won’t. He’ll never give up.
Another entry, three weeks later: I’m now sure someone is spying on me. I might try to get a small gun for protection. I could probably ask for bodyguards, like Carlos has, because I’m the wife of the candidate. But that would only complicate things further. I would have to give up seeing my real love, and that is also impossible. It’s better that I be ready to defend myself.
Apparently the idea of the gun hadn’t worked out, since Elena ended up with only the small knife. Two weeks went by with mundane entries about everyday life. Almost as if the fears and intrigues of Elena’s life had disappeared. But Sam knew better.
In the second week of August came the entry she expected. Elena’s normally elegant script was jagged and off-kilter.
Horror!!! I had the most—absolutely most—awful experience. The stalker caught up with me. I swung. I ran. I don’t know what to do now.
Couched in vague language that didn’t admit to the murder, nevertheless Sam knew what Elena meant.
The next entry was calmer: It’s been taken care of. D assures me that the awful deed will be noted as an accident. I don’t know how—I’m just thankful to put this behind me. We have agreed to take a break, to see each other less often until November. I don’t know how I will survive this but I shall.
Sam found a yellow pad and jotted notes to discuss with Beau. Apparently the lover had disposed of Fenton’s body, which explained a lot. No one of Elena’s size could have lifted a grown man over the railing at the gorge bridge and dumped him. But another man . . . it made sense. It also made sense that the lover would now want some distance between them, and if Elena hadn’t seen him in a few weeks it could very well be the reason that she broke down and confided in Sam. But Sam’s sense of tidiness ended abruptly when she read the next entry.
The gross unfairness of it!!!! I hate him!!! My loving husband – he is lower than scum. I’ve always suspected his affairs but now I learn this new fact. There is a child—a little boy!!!! He told me so, himself. The BASTARD! As if to rub my face in it!! He wants me to ignore his indiscretions while I am so tortured about mine??
Sam found herself reading faster, needing to know Elena’s state of mind as this revelation had surely rocked her world. A child by someone else. Elena’s own heartbreak over not having any children of her own, and now learning that he’d fathered a son, secretly. She turned to the next entry.
I cannot keep still about this. We screamed at each other half the night. He swears he has not seen the other woman in years—he finally tells me that she died in a car accident more than two years ago. He says the child has no idea who his father is, that he is now being raised by an aunt. Isn’t that convenient for him?? I want to scream, to scratch his eyes out! I should tell that reporter about it, the one who interviewed me last year about our happy home life. That would teach Carlos a lesson. What would the voters think of him then?
The rest of the pages were blank. Sam’s heart thudded.
What better motive for Carlos Tafoya to kill his wife? She’d confronted him and threatened to ruin his career. A bombshell like this, practically on the eve of the election? Oh, Elena, what did you do?
Sam dialed Beau’s cell phone and read him the last two pages. “Do you suppose she actually confronted him and threatened to expose his secret?”
“Certainly points us to a motive, doesn’t it?”
“But he has a pretty good alibi, doesn’t he? Giving a speech in Albuquerque the night she died, a few hundred people witnessed that, didn’t they?”
“I’d be surprised if a guy like Tafoya actually did the deed himself, Sam. He’s got connections and bodyguards and henchmen who would do that sort of thing for him.”
“True. But, geez, Beau. That sure opens him up to a greater risk, doesn’t it? People like that wouldn’t be exactly trustworthy in keeping a guy’s secrets.”
“You’d be surprised. If the money’s right, a man can buy just about any kind of loyalty.”
Sam grumbled but let it go. He was right.
“Have you looked outside recently?” he asked, changing the subject. “There’s already an inch or more on the ground.”
Sam peered around the edge of the living room drape. Sure enough, the ground was white.
“It’ll probably start sticking to the roads pretty soon,” Beau said. “Unless you want Kelly home with you tonight I think I’ll suggest that she stay with Mama. I could get called out to handle traffic problems or something.”
That seemed like the best plan. They ended the call with a few suggestive ideas but Sam knew they both had more on their minds besides getting romantic.
She’d no sooner hung up the phone than there was a tap at her front door. Oven guy. With a quick comment about the encroaching weather, he bustled into the kitchen.
“Got the part for your oven right here,” he said, applying a screwdriver to the control panel. “Should just take a minute.”
It was longer than a minute, but not by much. Three hundred dollars later, he was on his way. Sam made the entry in her checkbook absentmindedly, thoughts still bouncing around in her head, puzzling over what had really happened to Elena Tafoya.
At eight o’clock she peered out the window and noticed that it was, indeed, a white world out there. She went to bed wondering how much snow might possibly accumulate overnight, remembering that she’d not been out to check the Adams property in nearly a week and making a mental note to do that. She had two other properties under her care right now, but she’d thoroughly winterized them when the first of the cold weather came along.
By four a.m. she’d come to the conclusion that sleep was not coming back. A glance out the window showed that about four inches had fallen. The silent sky was black with pinpoint dots of light. In the distance she heard the grind of a snowplow, blocks away, probably clearing the intersections and major roads. If she left soon and took the back streets she could get to the shop before anyone else was out. The fresh snow and her four-wheel-drive pickup truck should make for easy traveling. Once the sun came out everything would clear by noon. She dressed quickly and reached into the wooden box for her watch and earrings.
Sweet’s Sweets looked like something from a Kincaid painting with its softly glowing nightlights, snow sprinkling the awning like powdered sugar. Along the roadway and parking area the trees and shrubs stood as frosty sentinels with white icing mounded upon their branches. She cruised past them, circled the building and cut a path through the alley with the truck’s wide tires.
Inside, she preheated the ovens and adjusted the salesroom’s thermostat so it would feel cozy for the early customers. Becky’s planning paid off—Sam added eggs and milk to the dry ingredients for muffins, divided batches and added spices and fruit, and soon had four dozen little golden pastries ready for the front room. Scones followed. Napoleons, chocolate cream puffs, apple strudel, and fruit tarts. She stayed in her own zone and relished the enjoyment of pure creation.
By the time Jen arrived at six, the place was filled with the scents of sugar, fruits and spices.
“Looks like all I have to do is add the coffee,” she said. “Too bad we don’t have a giant vent fan to send this heavenly smell all over town. We’d have customers lined up out the door.”
As it turned out, they nearly did. It seemed that everyone who worked in the center of town and the plaza area had the same thoughts: warm, comfort food for breakfast on a day like this. The coffee, chai, hot chocolate and cider went out by the gallons. Office staff came in with orders and left with boxes neatly tied in purple ribbon and stuffed with dozens of assorted pastries. Riki walked over from her grooming shop.
“Hi luv, the scent of this place is driving me crazy over there, you know.”
She browsed the cases and chose a blueberry tart and a hearty square of Becky’s Pennsylvania Dutch crumb cake. Sam poured her a large latte and said, “On the house. Just send your customers our way, while they wait for their dogs.”
“I’m already doing that, Sam. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are the favorite spot on the block now.”
Sam gave the slender British transplant a quick hug before she departed. She stayed in the front long enough to rearrange the displays and neaten things up before heading to the kitchen again to see how Becky was doing.
“Got it under control here, I think,” Becky told her. “I’ll have more muffins ready in a jiff.”
“Okay. That’s great. If you can handle things here, I need to get out to one of my properties and check it over.”
As she’d assumed, in the midmorning sunlight the streets had quickly cleared, with brownish runoff in the gutters the only sign of the nighttime winter wonderland. The final spots of white were on the shady sides of buildings and shrubs. Sam climbed into her truck and headed south on Paseo del Pueblo Sur.
When she reached the turnoff to the narrow lane where Cheryl Adams’s house stood, she remembered the downside of life on the edges of town. Hickory Lane showed deep, muddy ruts that threatened to be slick. She shifted the truck into four-wheel mode and steered carefully. At the Adams house a set of tracks veered into the driveway behind the coyote fence. Sam tensed. Someone had already been here.
But there was no vehicle in sight. Maybe they’d just chosen this spot to turn around. Pulled in and backed out again. She aimed her truck at the center of the small parking area and firmly established dominance of the space.
No footprints crossed the snow on this shady side of the house, no sign of disturbance in the frozen crystals that remained on the small porch. Sam crunched across them and unlocked the door.
Inside, the house felt cold, empty, and stale. She walked through to the kitchen at the back, surveying the living and dining rooms, checking the sign-in sheet that she’d left on the kitchen counter. No one else had logged in. Sometimes her contracting officer, Delbert Crow, checked the houses where she’d worked. Occasionally a Realtor showed a place. But no one had been here.
She went to the utility room where she verified that she had drained and turned off the hot water heater. The home’s heating system was electric baseboard heat and each thermostat Sam checked showed that those were turned off. She remembered shutting off the main water valve, and now she poured a little antifreeze into each drain as she walked through, a little extra insurance against the pipes freezing as temperatures began dipping toward zero in December and January.
A peek into each of the bedrooms. Checking latches on windows as she went, she came first to the smaller room, the one which had housed the Adams children. All was neat and clean here. Then she heard a sound.
She froze.
There it was again, the faint scrape of something metallic. She edged toward the master bedroom door, realizing the only weapon at her disposal was the plastic jug of antifreeze that she’d used in the kitchen and bathroom. A gallon jug, roughly half full of liquid—well, it might effectively clobber an intruder in the head. She gripped it tighter and nudged the bedroom door with her left hand.
Mini blinds at the windows cast thin stripes of sunlight across the brown carpet. The squeak sounded again, tiny, as if a wire hanger were slid along a metal rod. Her eyes darted to the closet.
A man stood at the open bi-fold doors, reaching into the closet as if he were hanging up a garment.
“Sir? What are you doing?”
The figure ignored her, just continued his perusal of the closet.
“Sir, you can’t be in here. This house is under the care of the USDA.”
He slowly began to turn. Then he simply vanished.
Chapter 22
Sam’s heart stopped.
“What the hell—” She held up the plastic jug, a last-defense battering ram. But there was simply nothing there.
Her gaze sped around the room. Nothing.
She looked behind her, wondering if he could have possibly gotten past her. But how could that be? She’d never left the doorway.
She set the jug on the floor and edged her way into the bedroom. The closet was completely empty. What had made the metallic sound, what she’d taken to be a hanger on the rail? She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, realizing how cartoonish that move would seem to anyone observing.
Taking several deep breaths, she worked to steady her heart. I know what I saw. A man. Standing right there. Putting something in the closet—or looking for something. He looked absolutely real. About my height, sort of round in the middle, dark clothing . . . a cap . . . She struggled to recapture the vision but it was fading quickly, just as the man himself had vanished.
She strode to the window and pulled the cord to raise the mini-blinds. Dust motes drifted through the air as the room flooded with light. A perfectly ordinary room. An empty room. She lowered the shade.
Sam edged toward the door, keeping her eyes on the open closet doors, switching to stare out into the hallway as she neared it. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a sound, not a breath. She rushed down the short hall and out the front door, locking it and stashing the key in the lockbox.
Inside her truck, she locked the doors and blew out her pent-up breath. Okay, Sam, think this through.
There’d been one other time when she saw something strange—another time after she’d handled the magical wooden box—a greenish plant residue that provided an important clue in one of Beau’s cases. And now she’d spotted this strange man near the place where the bloodied trench coat had once hung. So, that’s what I’ll do, she thought. I’ll tell Beau about this and see if it has any bearing.
The truck started with a roar, the wheels losing traction as Sam gunned it too hard on the muddy road. She slowed, deciding it would be stupid to slide off the road because of a vision that she couldn’t even really explain.
As she drove slowly through town she began to question herself. What had she actually seen; how would she explain it to Beau? At the street where she would normally turn to go to her shop, she almost did. Almost convinced herself that simply going back to work, ignoring ephemeral visions, creating visions instead in sugar—that would be far better than bringing this up to anyone else.
But then she looked down at the seat beside her, at the plastic bag holding Elena’s journal. Her friend’s words came back to her, the desperation in Elena’s voice when she’d told Sam how she’d slashed out at the man following her. How panicky she’d felt when the knife connected with his skin, when he began to bleed all over his coat. And then Elena’s final words, words of hatred for the husband who’d betrayed her with another woman, the husband who had likely hired that man to stalk his wife. If Sam could offer any assistance at all, any small clue that could help Beau find the answers, then she owed it to him and to Elena’s memory to offer it.
She drove past the square and turned left on Civic Plaza Drive. Beau’s cruiser sat near the entrance, as if he’d been the first to arrive this morning and had managed to snag the best parking slot. Sam didn’t get quite that lucky; the closest spot was more than a block away.
Crunching through little patches of ice in the shady spots, she hugged the plastic-clad journal to her chest and entered the sheriff’s department. The clerk at the front desk recognized her and nodded toward the long hall that led to the offices and small lab.
“He’s in Sheriff Padilla’s office,” the dark haired Hispanic girl said.
Sam took that as permission to go searching for Beau so she followed the hall toward the back of the building. Beau’s own desk sat in an open room where several deputies normally took care of paperwork and did whatever computer research necessary for their current cases. The room was unoccupied at the moment.
Voices came from an open doorway on her right.
“. . . for the record,” said Beau’s voice.
Sam moved closer
“For the record, Deputy Cardwell, I want no record of this.”
“Sheriff—”
Sam paused outside the door, blatantly eavesdropping but ready to dash to the safety of one of the visitor’s chairs if either man made a move.
“It’s nothing, Deputy. I’ve visited the Tafoya home on several occasions. My prints could have been there for months. You know those Indian maids don’t clean thoroughly.”
Beau shuffled uncomfortably. “In the bedroom? It doesn’t look right. If you’re refusing to make this part of the record, Sheriff, it has to be reported to I.A.”
“I’m not worried about Internal Affairs,” Padilla said. “I’ve been in this town and in this department a lot longer than you.”
Was he threatening Beau’s job because of incriminating evidence against himself? Sam held her breath.
“Listen to me, Cardwell. I have an excellent track record as sheriff of this county. I clear my cases quickly and cleanly. And I’m not answering to you!”
“You have to answer to the voters of the county,” Beau responded. “And I think they’d rather know their sheriff is an upright man, somebody they can trust.”
Padilla seethed. “They do trust me. You’re going to find that out when they go to the polls. This meeting is done.”
Beau came stomping out the door and jolted to a halt when he saw Sam. He didn’t speak but motioned with his head for her to follow him. She trotted along behind as he strode through the squad room and out a back door to the parking lot.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his color high.
She held out the bag containing Elena’s journal. “I brought this back.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head off.” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled sharply. “Did you hear much in there?”
“Some of it. I gathered that you found the sheriff’s fingerprints in the Tafoya’s bedroom. He didn’t have any explanation for that?”
“Said he’d been there once for a party and probably walked through the master bedroom in search of a bathroom.”
“Once. As in, a long time ago? Would fingerprints be there after a long time?”
“Depends. On certain surfaces, under the right temperature and humidity conditions . . . yeah, we can sometimes get latent prints. Might expect them on a light switch, doorknob, bathroom fixtures . . . okay, that might fit the sheriff’s story. What I didn’t tell him is that these came from the cover of that journal you’re holding. Which we found taped to the underside of a nightstand drawer on Elena’s side of the bed.”
“So he’s held this book.”
“Maybe in the bedroom, maybe somewhere else. I didn’t tell him everything; I was hoping he’d come up with a logical explanation. But you heard how he was.”
“Kind of it’s-you-or-me, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”
“Yeah.”
Maybe this was what the warning had been about. Sam thought about it, but she didn’t say it. She changed the subject.
“Did you read any of the entries in this?” she said, holding up the journal.
He shook his head. “Lisa found it, printed it and bagged it.”
“The final entry is dated the day before she died. In it, she’s thinking of going to the press with Carlos’s threats, revealing that he was having her followed and that he’d had a child by another woman. Elena rants about the unfairness of his double standard and it looks like she seriously considered wrecking his career because of it.”
“Whoa.” Beau stared at her.
“Motive enough?”
“It sure helps to establish it. I’ll push the state crime lab to get any evidence they can off that boot lace.” He glanced toward the building. “Quietly though. I can’t risk Padilla pulling me off the case. For now, I think I better just keep my mouth shut and work around him.”
“Be careful. Please?”
He gave her a light kiss. “I will. You know that, darlin’. I’d better get back inside.”
Sam watched him go in, and it wasn’t until she was in her truck, halfway back to Sweet’s Sweets, that she remembered she’d hadn’t told him about the ghostly image she’d seen in Cheryl Adams’s house.
She debated whether to call him right back or to wait until this evening and talk to him at home. The latter won out, as she figured he was already in enough hot water with Padilla that he didn’t need her adding more fuel to his boss’s fire. Instead, she stopped in at the bakery and was pleased to see that everything was going smoothly there. Her final job for the day was to finish Tafoya’s victory cake. The big party was to be held tomorrow night in the ballroom of the Arroyo Grande Lodge and as long as she had the cake there by five p.m. her duties would be done.
Becky helped her bring the large tiered cake out of the fridge and Sam set to work piping borders, creating a New Mexico zia symbol of gel and then surrounding it with the red and yellow roses Becky had made yesterday. She finished it with Elena’s chosen wording “Tafoya, THE Answer for New Mexico,” glad that she didn’t have to write Congratulations.
Elena. How could anyone have known that the woman who ordered this cake such a short time ago would never live to eat a slice of it, to be at the very party at which the beautiful cake would serve as centerpiece? Sam worked with the frosting carefully, giving the confection her special touch, in memory of her friend.
“That’s amazing,” Jen said, standing back to look at the cake as Sam put her tools away.
“Very New Mexican, isn’t it?” Sam said.
“Just what the customer wanted.”
“I hope so.” Sam considered the finished cake. “I really hope she would have liked it.”
Jen put an arm around Sam’s shoulder. “She would have loved it.”
Beau called as Sam was pulling into her driveway at home.
“Hey there,” she said. “I was thinking of calling you tonight. What’s up?”
“Just saying hi. And, uh, wanting to apologize for being kinda short earlier in the day.”
“What—a guy can’t be grumpy when his boss is crawling up his rear?”
“Well, you know.”
“It’s fine, Beau. Really.” She unclipped her seat belt and gathered her pack. “Did you get a chance to look over those journal entries that I mentioned?”
“Yeah, briefly. I’d have to agree with you. Carlos Tafoya’s political career could have been toast if Elena had followed through on her threat.”
“So, does that give you enough evidence to question him?”
“Probably. But there’s no way Padilla is going to let me do that right now. Election’s tomorrow. If Tafoya loses, it’ll be no problem. I’m sure we can bring him in and there would hardly be a flicker of interest. If he wins, that’s going to be a whole other story. The new governor . . . a murder investigation . . . hell, at this point Padilla isn’t even letting us release the news that Elena was murdered. He’s letting the press and the rest of the world believe the original suicide story.”
Sam set her pack on the kitchen table and shrugged out of her jacket, maneuvering the cell phone from one ear to the other.
“Beau, there’s something else I forgot to tell you earlier.” While she filled the tea kettle, one handed, she told him about the phantom man she’d seen in the Adams house that morning. Bless him, he didn’t laugh.
“You said he was standing in front of the closet in the master bedroom?”
“I heard the scrape of hangers against the rod. That’s what made me look into the room in the first place.”
She could hear him take a deep breath and imagined that he was wrestling his unfailing common sense against the fact that he knew from the past that she sometimes saw things other people couldn’t see.
“And he just vanished, right before your eyes?”
“I didn’t believe it either. I rechecked the whole house.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. I only saw him from the back. He was about my height, kind of pudgy, wearing dark clothing and some kind of cap. Just when he started to turn toward me is when he disappeared.”
Again, a long pause. “I’m not quite sure what to do with this information, Sam. I can’t very well put a bunch of people in a lineup based on this, can I?”
She laughed. “I guess not.”
“At least you still have your sense of humor about it.”
“At least you’re not calling me a nutcase or sending the psych ward folks after me. Are you?”
This time he laughed. Turning serious again, he said, “I just wish we had some idea how the evidence—the bootlace, the journal, the bloody coat—ties together.”
“And how to build the case against Carlos Tafoya.”
“As much as I think that’s how it’s going to go, remember, Sam, we can’t pick our suspect and then make the evidence fit.”
“But who else could it be?”
“Elena admitted to you that she’d had an affair. What about the lover? A jealous rage because she wouldn’t leave Carlos? We still don’t know who this mysterious D is. We just don’t have a lot to go on.”
Sam pondered that after Beau hung up. Clearly, no matter how closely he might be tied to Elena’s or the private investigator’s deaths, making a strong case against the leading candidate for governor wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 23
Kelly brought dinner home that night, leftover stew from Beau’s house. “They’d eaten it three nights in a row over there,” she explained. “Iris practically begged me to take the rest of it away.”
Sam checked her email and found two new bakery orders from the website that Kelly had designed for Sweet’s Sweets. She sent them to the printer queue and the little machine was chugging away when her phone rang again.
“Sam, please take me seriously on this,” Beau said. His earlier playful tone was completely gone. “I know I should not be giving you inside information, but someone has to know and impartial people in this department are scarcer than hen’s teeth, as I discovered when I tossed Tafoya’s name into the suspect pool today. Looks like everyone in the this office is planning to vote for the man.”
“Beau, what’s going on? What aren’t you supposed to tell me?”
“I got a call from the technician I’ve been talking to at the state crime lab, the one who said he would expedite the DNA test on the bootlace. The markers are very close to Carlos Tafoya’s.”
“So that’s the evidence you need! That’s a good thing.”
“They’re close. But not an exact match. It’s someone related to him.”
“And you don’t want to make a huge issue of this because of the timing?”
“Well, yeah. Plus, I think the evidence is right. It’s not Carlos. I’ll probably have to start looking at his extended family. It’s male, so a brother or his father . . .”
Sam flashed on an image of Victor Tafoya, her landlord. The crusty old man was known for being fairly ruthless in business, but he had to be in his seventies. She couldn’t picture him strangling Elena and then managing to hang her body to look like a suicide. Maybe he helped, though. Handled the bootlace or something.
“Beau, that’s not all though, is it?”
“No, it’s not. I got a threat.”
“What! Personally? Who’s threatening you?”
“I don’t know. An anonymous call.”
“Because of the call from the crime lab?”
“Probably. I told the guy to call me on my cell, not the office line. But he forgot. Called the office first. He admitted that he’d left a message for me there before he reached me on my cell.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yeah.”
“What did the anonymous caller say?”
“Just that I better back off and stay out of this.”
“Isn’t that essentially what Sheriff Padilla said earlier today?”
“Yeah, but not exactly in the same words. And it definitely wasn’t his voice.”
“Beau, remember how I told you to be careful? Well, that wasn’t just idle conversation. I had a warning.” She didn’t mention the source. “It was a warning to ‘the seekers’. In this case, I think that might mean anyone who is trying to solve this crime.”
“Maybe the warning was meant for you, Sam.” He paused. “Damn it, I shouldn’t be involving you in this thing at all.”
“Don’t think that way, Beau. You’re the visible one on the case. And now you’ve gotten this threat.”
He assured her that he would take extra precautions, but she hung up uneasily. It felt like something bad was about to happen but she had no idea what. And she didn’t have the benefit of a fresh dream from the old bruja to give new insight at the moment.
No portent came to her during the night, only a series of anxious dream vignettes, punctuated by twisted blankets and thrashing limbs. She woke at dawn with a headache and no answers. The wooden box glowed softly when she picked it up, easing her headache and warming her hands.
Her spice-scented shop was quiet in the light of the Taos sunrise, a little oasis of peace before Sam began the day. She brewed a pot of her signature coffee and helped herself to one of the first cranberry scones to come out of the oven. She relaxed and realized that her headache was completely gone. Worrying was not going to help Beau and it certainly wouldn’t solve his case for him. Everything in its own time, she reminded herself.
Jen arrived at six. “Whew, traffic is already picking up. Election day and the early risers are out.” She set right to work making more coffee and readying the display cases with the new day’s wares, and before she’d unlocked the front door people were pulling up in front of the shop.
“Let’s make the most of it,” Sam said. “Go ahead and open early.”
Becky had taken the day off; with her kids out of school she needed to be at home. But Sam had the kitchen under control with fresh, hot pastries coming out every half hour or so. When a short lull came just before noon, she called Jen away from the counter to help load the victory cake into the back of her van. Sam called ahead to the hotel to be sure she could deliver it early and promised to get back to help Jen with the lunch and early afternoon crowds.
Jen was right about the traffic, Sam decided as she negotiated her way along the narrow streets near the plaza. Her destination was off Kit Carson Road, down a skinny lane that seemed an unlikely place for one of the town’s more upscale hotels. Luckily, the weather had warmed and all traces of yesterday’s snow were gone. She wouldn’t have wanted to drive this route if it were icy. The roadway became wider, opening to reveal a tall, stately adobe building with an arched portico at the front, surrounded by ancient cottonwoods that still held a few of their golden leaves. The ground had already been raked clear of the thousands that must have fallen with the storm, revealing neat planters of brilliant chrysanthemums and dark evergreens.
She bypassed the sweeping entry and found a service entrance at the back, parked the van and went inside to find out where the cake would be set up.
The ballroom teemed with activity. Hotel staff had already set up tables and chairs for the guests, a podium for Tafoya’s expected victory speech, and long buffet tables that would later accommodate a hefty spread. Campaign volunteers were busily hanging huge posters that sported the now-familiar slogans and Carlos’s smiling face. A compressor hissed air into red and yellow balloons which were then gathered into massive nets. Two of the filled nets already hung from the twenty foot ceiling.
Sam spotted Martin Delgado, the Tafoya campaign manager, and Kevin Calendar, the young campaign worker who seemed to be everywhere Carlos Tafoya went these days. Both of them would probably land plum jobs in Santa Fe when this was all over.
A woman with a clipboard noticed Sam’s bewildered expression and approached.
“I need to know where the cake will be placed,” Sam said after introducing herself and handing the woman her card. “Preferably where it won’t be disturbed once I’ve set it up, and out of harm’s way.” She glanced at the balloons and nets and ladders a little uneasily.
The woman led her to the back of the room, where the decorating seemed to be finished. “Coffee and dessert will be served from this table. It should be safe here.”
“And I need a hand, just for a minute, to lift the cake from my van.”
“Sure.” The woman scanned the room and raised an index finger. “Kevin! Need you here for a moment.”
He spun at the sound of his name, sending her a look that Sam couldn’t quite read. Dressed in dark slacks, white shirt and tie, maybe he thought he was above doing the heavy lifting. Sorry, kid, she thought. You can’t be more than twenty, so you don’t have a whole lot of seniority here. Too bad for you.
Kevin walked with Sam back through the kitchen and out the delivery door as she briefed him quickly on what they needed to do. He followed her directions as they placed the large cake on a rolling cart from the hotel kitchen. Negotiating their way through the maze of kitchen equipment proved a little tricky but they soon had it in place on its draped table at the back of the ballroom. Kevin wandered off, on to more important-looking tasks. Sam surveyed the cake placement, deemed it good, and set off to find the clipboard lady so she could get a signature.
A stir rippled through the room, grabbing her attention.
Carlos Tafoya swept in, looking very gubernatorial in a designer suit. The young workers tended to blush and lower their gazes as he passed. The clipboard woman approached him with a brief question which he seemed to answer with one word. She slinked off and Kevin Calendar approached the candidate in her place. Tafoya bent and whispered something to the young man, who tensed visibly. With hands clenched he stomped off to the opposite side of the room, glaring at the oblivious woman with the clipboard.
All at once, a wave of energy roared toward Sam like a riptide. She swayed backward at the force of it. What the—?
She straightened and took quick stock of the others in the room. No one else seemed to have noticed the nearly-visible energy field. Tafoya was still standing near the doorway, surveying the room, smiling at the sight. Clipboard-lady was speaking to two young women who were sticking posters to the walls with tape. Two reporters with shoulder bags full of recording gear were hanging close to Tafoya, apparently getting background to use for the evening newscasts. Something seemed familiar about one of them, but Sam didn’t immediately make a connection. Before her brain could click, her attention wandered across the room again.
Kevin, the young campaign worker, had a reddish glow around him. Oh, no. Not this again. Sam watched as the redness deepened and became murky. The guy’s face was nearly obscured by the intensity of it. What on earth—? As she watched, the glow faded slowly to nothing. She searched his face for a sign of strong emotion but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He was merely watching Tafoya, but then so was everyone else in the room.
Sam shook off the feeling. She’d promised Jen that she’d get back to the shop right away and this errand had already taken longer than planned. She swung through the room, tapping the woman on the shoulder, getting her signature and handing over a copy to add to the stack of pages on her clipboard.
“Mrs. Tafoya paid for the cake in advance,” she said. “This is for your records.”
The woman gave her a harried smile, instantly distracted by someone else. As she walked past Carlos Tafoya, he reached out to shake her hand. “The cake looks very nice,” he said. “I thank you for doing it, and for being Elena’s friend.”
Flattery always worked and Sam found herself automatically smiling back at him.
“I hope you can attend the party tonight,” Tafoya said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slip of heavy paper. “A VIP ticket. Bring someone if you’d like.” He pressed it into her hand and bestowed another of the well-known political smiles. Then his attention was off to the next person who walked by.
Sam slipped past his little entourage, glad to be leaving the bustling room. She’d reached Kit Carson Road again before she remembered that she really ought to do her own civic duty by voting. The day probably wasn’t going to get any less busy. She called the shop to check on Jen, who assured Sam she could handle it on her own for awhile longer. Sam drove the back streets to the high school, her neighborhood polling place.
As she stood in the voting booth awhile later she stared at the names on the ballot. Despite her fondness for Elena she would never trust Carlos. She marked her ballot for his opponent.
She was halfway to her van in the parking lot before she realized that the vehicle parked beside it was Beau’s cruiser.
“Sorry, officer, I didn’t mean to overstay my parking time,” she said, approaching the window that he lowered as she walked toward him.
“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cite you anyway. The charge is being way too beautiful for a weekday and working far too hard for your own good.” He grinned at her and reached out to run his index finger over her hand.
“Ha! Beautiful?” She glanced down at her black slacks and white baker’s jacket. “This outfit hardly qualifies as glam.”
“No, but the lady wearing it does.”
“Why is it that I suspect you of being more than just a little horny?”
“Because you have some kind of psychic intuition and you are exactly correct. Maybe tonight we should . . .” His radio squawked.
Sam drummed her fingers on the edge of the open window, wishing he’d had the chance to finish the thought.
A static-filled voice came at him and Beau answered with, “I’m there. Ten minutes.” When he turned back to Sam it was with a rueful expression. “I’m wanted at the office.”
“More hassle with the sheriff?”
“Not today. He’s out glad-handing the blue-hairs at the senior center. Right now it appears that I have a visitor from Albuquerque.”
“Really?”
“It’s an intern from the crime lab. They ask each of them to ride along with law enforcement first responders as part of their training. Usually they get a city officer, somewhere like Albuquerque or Santa Fe, but then it’s also good to observe a more rural setting. So, our department gets them now and then. When I talked with the lab yesterday they warned me the new kid was coming up here.”
“Ah. Well, good luck with it.”
“Which reminds me—remember that odd DNA match I told you about? The evidence on the bootlace showing that someone related to Carlos Tafoya handled it? And remember the entry in Elena’s journal, saying that her husband had a child with a former lover?”
Sam nodded.
“The office rumor is that the kid is now grown. A grown son with the DNA markers that point to Carlos Tafoya as his father . . .”
Sam felt her eyes widen. “Carlos Tafoya’s son might have been in their home? Might have—”
“You got it. It still seems farfetched to think he would go after Elena. It’s not as if he knew her.”
Sam’s head swam, trying to piece together the bits of information floating around in there. “Can you just question him?”
“If we knew who it was, we most surely would.”
“The diary didn’t name the lover or her child, did it?”
He shook his head. “And I can’t get my stubborn boss to let me question Tafoya.”
Sam thought of the mammoth party being set up at the Arroyo Grande right now. A lot of people firmly believed that Tafoya would be the next governor of the state. “Time really isn’t on your side here, is it? I mean, once Tafoya wins the election—if he does—he’ll make himself so bulletproof that it’ll be impossible to force him . . .”
“Exactly.”
“Well, there have to be other ways to find the mother and the son, right?”
“Oh sure. It’s just that it’s pretty labor intensive to track down friends and neighbors who may have heard rumors, which may or may not check out, all from twenty years ago or more. We just don’t have the manpower right now.”
“Let me give it some thought,” she offered. “Maybe something will come to me.”
“I plan to review Elena’s journal again. There might be a name or location that I overlooked before.” He turned the key in the ignition. “Meanwhile, I guess I’m off to escort a rookie lab technician around.”
Sam watched him drive away, feeling his frustration at being under budget and out of the loop with information his boss clearly didn’t want uncovered. She pondered that idea as she got into her van and pulled away from the crowded parking lot. What if Orlando Padilla knew a whole lot more about this whole thing?
The idea took hold and when Sam spotted a Padilla For Sheriff mini-bus turning at the plaza, she followed. Sure enough, a little rally seemed to be forming up, with banners strung between the trees and people waving placards. They got excited as the bus rolled to a stop; the candidate must be aboard. Knowing she’d never get a parking spot anywhere near the busy plaza, she cruised past it and parked in front of her shop.
Sticking her head in the door she called out to Jen. “Can you spare me for a few more minutes?”
Her assistant looked startled. “Uh, sure. It’s pretty quiet right now.”
Sam speed-walked back to the site of the rally, which was now gathering momentum and becoming quite the noisy little fiesta. Standing on top of an impromptu platform that was actually a plywood box, Orlando Padilla in his felt Stetson was grinning hugely and waving at the crowd, announcing his thanks over a portable PA system of some kind.
Two reporters shouted questions and held microphones out toward the sheriff. Sam had to admit that the man could put on a show. His entire demeanor was different than when she’d met him on other occasions, times when he was actually performing his job instead of being dramatic for a crowd.
He handed off the microphone to a helper and stepped down from his little stage. Shaking hands and smiling, he worked the crowd until it began to disperse. Just before he could open the door to his bus, Sam stepped forward.
“Sheriff Padilla, could I have a moment?”
He turned with a smile, which went a little south when he recognized her. She forced herself to smile at him, not letting her true feelings show.
“Could we talk privately? Just for a minute.”
He started to make an excuse but she’d placed her hand around his elbow making it awkward for him to brush her off. They walked a few steps, looking to anyone who might observe, like two old friends taking a stroll.
“Elena Tafoya was a friend of mine,” she said.
Padilla stiffened, coming to a halt in mid-stride.
“I want her murder solved and I think you are deliberately leaving your deputies out of the loop.”
His public smile had become a grimace. “Ms. Sweet, you’re out of line.”
“Am I? I think you have information that could help solve two murders that your department hasn’t been able to close. You haven’t talked much about them during your campaign, but this election day isn’t over yet.”
“Is that a threat? Because I assure you—”
“Threat, Sheriff? Of course not. It’s a request for information.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of information do you want?”
“Um, let’s start with truthful information. Like the name of the woman Carlos Tafoya had the affair with. This would be some years back, but I believe you and he were very chummy, even back then. Somehow, I get the feeling that you helped him sneak around, provided him with alibis, that kind of thing . . .”
She could practically see the wheels in his head turning.
“Say that I did—what of it?”
“How would it affect you? Probably not at all. I just need the name of his lover, please. Where she lived, how to get in touch with her now.”
His eyes narrowed, trying to figure out whether the conversation could backfire on him. Apparently he decided that he was safe; the information wouldn’t get very far before the polls closed this evening.
“She lived in Tres Piedras twenty years ago, moved to Albuquerque after the relationship ended.”
“And her name . . .”
“Jean. Jean Calendar.”
It took Sam a few seconds to process the fact that it was the same last name as the young man she’d just spoken to at the Arroyo Grande Lodge. Kevin Calendar was Carlos Tafoya’s son.
Chapter 24
Orlando Padilla had turned away and was walking across the shady square in the center of the plaza, headed back to his campaign bus, by the time Sam gathered her wits. She spun around, another question on her lips, but his retreat sent a spear of ice down her spine.
“Sheriff! Wait!”
He slowly turned, disdain on his face. “You said one question, Ms. Sweet. I believe I answered it.”
“But—”
He’d already continued walking resolutely toward the waiting bus. Sam watched as a young man with ingratiating manners held the door for the sheriff. Padilla stepped up into the mini-bus and it started moving the minute he’d taken his seat. She saw his eyes following her as the bus drove out.
“Whatever you said to him certainly got his attention,” said a voice behind Sam.
She started. When she turned, she saw a dark page haircut and billowing dark green wool coat. The young woman was standing at the curb, about twenty feet away, her hand on the handle of a blue sedan.
Sam stepped toward her. “I’ve seen you around. Who are you?”
The woman reached into a pocket of the coat and pulled out a business card. “Sandy Greene. Santa Fe Times.”
Sam’s eyes squinted as she stared at the card. “Why has a Santa Fe newspaper sent a reporter here to Taos?”
“Shouldn’t that be pretty obvious? It’s an election year. We cover all the races in the northern part of the state.” She smiled prettily. “Well, I’m off to get a few more pictures.” She patted the side of a camera case that hung from a shoulder strap.
Sandy Greene got into her car and Sam watched her drive away.
Itching to fill Beau in on her new findings, Sam dialed his cell as she walked slowly back to the bakery. She fumed when it went to voice mail but realized that his day was undoubtedly running on task overload. She left a message: “Gotta talk to you. Call me when you get a minute.”
Sweet’s Sweets was bustling with after-lunch customers wanting cake or pie to satisfy their need for sugar and boost them into their afternoon work world. Sam joined Jen behind the counter, boxing up chocolate nut drop cookies, macadamia nut wafers, amaretto cheesecake, and the new pumpkin spice cake with the ganache icing which they’d had trouble keeping in stock ever since they introduced it.
By five o’clock Sam felt dead on her feet and Jen remembered that she’d never eaten any lunch.
“You go,” Sam told her. “Get something to eat and rest up. I’ll get the kitchen in order and head out of here shortly, myself.”
She locked the front door behind her assistant and turned on the night lights. Daylight was fading quickly by the time Sam walked out and got in her van. A voicemail symbol showed on the front of her cell, obviously something that had come in while she was buzzing around the bakery at such a pace that she’d never noticed it. Beau. She dialed him back.
“Hey,” he said. “I just got my rookie back on the road to Albuquerque. Your message sounded kind of urgent. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I got so busy at the shop today that I almost forgot I’d called you.” She filled him in on the fact that she’d learned the name of Carlos Tafoya’s lover from all those years ago, and the name of his illegitimate son. “Kevin Calendar is working for the campaign. I’ve seen him around several times and I’m not sure why I never noticed the resemblance to his father.”
“But then, why would you?” he said. “Why would anyone? I’m guessing the son never lived around here until recently.”
“That’s what I’m interested in knowing, too. When did he show up on the scene in Taos? And is his mother also here? Maybe Elena’s fears were justified. Maybe part of the reason Carlos had begun to treat her so badly was because his old lover was back.”
“It certainly bears asking him some more questions, I’d say. Not to mention that I’d like to get Kevin’s DNA and see what he has to say about it showing up on the bootlace that killed Elena, assuming it’s a match.”
“Questioning Carlos is going to get nearly impossible, don’t you think? I had the radio on in the kitchen awhile ago and the exit polls are making it sound like he’s pretty sure to go to Santa Fe. Once he’s sworn in as governor he’ll find ways to make himself legally bulletproof, won’t he?”
“Seems to be that way with these guys, doesn’t it?”
“I have an idea how you could get to him right away. I happen to have a personal invitation from the candidate himself to attend his victory party tonight. He’s at the Arroyo Grande Lodge.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes,” Beau said, clicking off the call before Sam had a chance to utter another word.
She drove like a bat, skidding the van to a stop in her driveway and dashing into the house, hitting her closet with a vengeance to find something to wear to a party. She settled on black slacks—a dressier pair than her normal work pants—and a sequined top. As she sat at her dresser, rummaging through her jewelry box for a fancier pair of earrings, she took a few seconds to let the wooden box send a nudge of additional energy her way. By the time Beau arrived, still in uniform, she’d run a brush through her hair and managed to slap on a little blusher.
“Hey, you sure look delectable,” he said, giving her a smile that made her wish they were just staying in, alone and undisturbed by murders and such.
“Probably too much, huh. I just thought they might not let me in the door in a batter-stained baker’s jacket.”
“I like it.” He pulled her close for a kiss. “Well, let’s go interview a killer.”
The Arroyo Grande Lodge’s parking lot was filling quickly. The polls would be closed in another thirty minutes and the excitement was evident in people’s posture as Sam watched them rushing toward the lobby entrance.
Beau, in his cruiser, ignored the whole protocol of parking and pulled up to the curb out front. While the crowd flowed down a central corridor toward the ballroom, Beau and Sam approached the front desk. He flashed his badge and said that he needed Carlos Tafoya’s room number.
The young clerk, clearly briefed to never give out a guest’s information, much less that of the future governor, looked bewildered at the sight of the badge.
“Please get your supervisor,” Beau requested, with just the right amount of charm.
A little back and forth, and the manager passed a small slip of paper across the desk. They took the elevator, even though there were only three floors in the hotel. Beau tapped gently at the door of Suite A and it was opened almost immediately by none other than Kevin Calendar. The young man looked at Sam, trying to place her. Beau stepped forward, not giving him the opportunity to deny them entry.
The suite, probably the hotel’s largest, featured a spacious living room decorated in traditional Mexican furniture and brightly patterned Indian rugs. A large flat-screen TV set was tuned to a news channel, where the anchors were making small talk until actual precincts could begin sending their results. Doors, presumably leading to bedrooms, stood closed on either side of the living area.
Carlos Tafoya sat on a leather sofa beside a thin woman with chin-length yellow hair. She stared at Beau’s uniform, clearly concerned about why the law might be showing up. Tafoya jumped to his feet and started toward Beau.
“Is there anyone else in the suite?” Beau asked, his right hand hovering near his handgun.
“No!” said Carlos.
Beau peeked quickly into each of the bedrooms and then lowered his hand.
When Kevin circled to stand behind the sofa where the other two had been seated, Sam immediately noticed his resemblance to both parents. With his mother’s fair coloring and his father’s dark eyes and full lips, there was no denying the origin of his genetics.
“This is really cozy, but sort of bad form, don’t you think?” said Sam. “Your wife died less than a week ago.”
Jean Calendar flinched, her gaze flicking warily toward Carlos. Kevin glanced toward the door but Sam and Beau stood between him and the escape route.
“What do you want?” Carlos demanded.
“I need to ask your son a few questions,” Beau said. “And I’ll need a sample of his DNA.” He pulled one of those little self-contained swab kits from his pocket.
Carlos looked over at Kevin. “He should have a lawyer.” Sam noticed that Tafoya didn’t bother to deny the statement about Kevin being his son.
“He’s not a minor, so he gets to make that decision himself. You’re not under arrest,” Beau said to Kevin. “I can do this quickly, right here, or we can take it downtown.” He met the politician’s gaze with a level stare.
Kevin shifted from one foot to the other. “What’s this about?” He tried to ask it with a show of bravado but everyone noticed that his voice was pretty shaky.
“We’ve found familial DNA markers on a piece of evidence. We’re simply taking samples to eliminate non-suspects.” The way he phrased it seemed to make Carlos relax a bit. He gave his son a nod and Kevin opened his mouth so Beau could swab it. He clipped the container shut and put it in his pocket.
“Would you rather answer my questions privately?” he asked Kevin, giving a nod toward one of the closed doors.
“He can speak in front of us,” Carlos said. Jean had not uttered a sound so far, Sam noticed. Kevin nodded agreement.
Convenient, she thought, that Kevin wouldn’t be able to say anything that his influential father wouldn’t know about.
“Okay then,” Beau said. “Shall we sit down?” He ushered Kevin toward the other end of the large room, to a dining table of heavy, carved pine. Pulling out one of the four chairs he didn’t give the dark-suited young man much choice but to sit down. Carlos began pacing the floor, glancing now and then at the TV set which was muted now. Jean had begun to chew at her nails, Sam noticed as she parked herself in a side chair near a large armoire-bar setup.
“Now, Kevin, I need to ask you where you were a week ago Saturday, the night Elena Tafoya died.”
Kevin stared at the grain on the wooden table. “Uh, I think I was out with friends.”
“I’ll need their names.” Beau pulled out a small notebook and pen, poised to write.
“Uh, I really don’t remember who all was there.”
“Just a name or two?” Silence. “Okay, then, where did you go? A bar, restaurant?”
“A restaurant. I don’t remember which one.” As Sam watched, a dark blue haze formed around Kevin’s face.
“You know for sure that you went out that night, but you don’t remember anyone you were with or where you went?” Beau laid the notebook on the table and tapped his pen against it.
“No! I don’t!” Kevin’s voice rose in agitation. The blue haze became murky, then began to turn red. “I don’t have to explain anything to you! And I don’t give a shit what you think!”
His eyes were wild now, as he stared at the faces around the room.
His mother bit furiously at her thumbnail, tears forming in her eyes. She glanced up at Carlos—quick, nervous little pointed looks—but he didn’t notice.
The politician’s attention darted between the numbers rolling along at the bottom of the television screen and the situation with Kevin.
“I am not a bad person!” Kevin screamed. He jumped up, sending his chair flying.
Beau was on his feet, almost in a blur, facing down his suspect with a firm stance. But Kevin was quick, too. He bolted toward his father.
“You promised! You said we would be a family. You and me and Mom, and we were going to move to Santa Fe—together. But you had her! Nothing was going to work right as long as she was around.”
“Kevin, I—” Carlos stepped forward, reaching toward his son.
Kevin shook him off, continuing his rant. “You told me you were filing for divorce. You said you had some kind of evidence on your wife and that she would let you go without a fight. But when I got there that night, she was there, all cozy and comfy in her robe. She wasn’t moving out—she wasn’t leaving you! You liar!”
“You went to their house that night?” Beau asked. His stance was alert as he watched Kevin shaking his fists at Carlos.
Spittle formed on his lips as he shouted. “I went to get some papers for the campaign. She wasn’t even supposed to be there. She’d been at that bakery thing, that party. Then I thought she would go to somewhere . . . wherever she was supposed to be living because you were divorcing her. But she was there!” His skin had turned the same muddy red as the aura Sam had seen when his mood began to turn.
“Kevin, what did you do?” Beau’s voice was icy calm.
The young man turned on him, staring with crazed eyes. “She said she would get the campaign papers, and then she went into the study. I saw some hiking boots near the front door . . .”
Sam saw the whole ugly picture unfolding. The bootlace around Elena’s neck as she bent over a desk, her body being dragged into the bedroom, her lovely cashmere scarf around her neck and then draped over a heavy beam at the ceiling.
Kevin suddenly turned his attention on Sam. “How do you know that?” he hissed.
Had she spoken aloud? She glanced at Beau and saw that he seemed just as bewildered by the comment as she.
Movement caught her attention and she turned just in time to see Kevin lunge at her.
Chapter 25
In a flash, Beau leapt across the open space and threw an arm around Kevin’s neck. Sam watched, amazed, as he did some kind of kick that took Kevin’s legs out from under him. Pinned to the floor, Kevin flailed until Beau got handcuffs on him. Without a glance at anyone else in the room, Beau keyed his shoulder mike and called for backup.
Keeping a knee in the middle of Kevin’s back, Beau looked up at Sam. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Her voice came out a little on the shaky side, but Kevin hadn’t actually touched her.
Beau kept an eye on Carlos, watchful in case the older man should attempt to free his son, but the politician seemed to be more concerned with himself.
“I didn’t know anything about any of this,” he swore to Beau.
Jean was openly crying, sobbing into her hands, her body a limp blubbering mass on the sofa.
Carlos turned to face his son. “I can’t believe—” he stammered. “Kevin? Why would you— Elena?”
Beau recited Kevin his rights, finally eliciting agreement that the young man understood what he was being told, even as he continued to spew invectives at both Beau and Carlos.
Sam stood with her back to the wall, stunned at the show going on before her. Kevin’s red aura was fading to a dull burnt orange now; Jean was surrounded by a white fog; Carlos’s was a bright lemon yellow. She didn’t know what any of it meant and was glad when a deputy arrived to take Kevin away. Jean followed quietly, hardly speaking to Carlos, murmuring something about being with her son.
Carlos continued to plead ignorance of the whole thing, even as he watched his son being hauled away in handcuffs and his former lover nearly becoming a zombie in her own confusion. He poured himself a half-glass of scotch at the bar and stood at the window, gazing down at the parking lot as he downed it in three gulps.
Beau pulled Sam aside. “I’ll be tied up with the paperwork for awhile . . .” He glanced at Carlos on the other side of the room.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Sam said. “This hotel, the victory party downstairs . . . it’s exactly where he wants to be right now. I’ll call down to the ballroom and get some more of his entourage to come up. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
“I wonder how many other people know anything at all about what happened,” he said as he left.
Indeed, Sam thought, looking toward the politician who was now sitting on the sofa in front of the television set, cupping a fresh glass of scotch in both hands.
“Look at those numbers,” he said, smiling widely, looking around the room as if he were only now realizing that everyone else had left.
Before his little group gets here, Sam thought, maybe I can get some more information out of him.
“Carlos,” she said gently, waiting for a commercial break on the TV. “Kevin said that you’d promised that you and he and Jean would be a family. I guess that was pretty important to him.”
He shrugged. “Kids need to hear certain things. It’s what I do, Sam. I tell people what they want to hear. I had no idea Kevin would ever take his desire that far.”
Voices sounded at the door just then and Sam opened it.
An hour later, with the election a certainty. Tafoya’s campaign manager suggested that it was time for him to go down to the ballroom and give his speech. Sam stayed behind in the suite as the rest of them left. She needed a few minutes of silence before being overtaken by the tidal wave of excitement downstairs.
A bright yellow banner across the television screen caught her attention and she un-muted the sound.
“Shocking news from Taos County this evening . . .” The newscaster’s voice held a somber tone as the pictures began to flash on screen. Beau leading Kevin Calendar out of the hotel in handcuffs. How had the media gotten hold of this so quickly? She watched until the story had run out of facts and the journalist began to repeat himself. So far, all they had for sure was that a young volunteer in the Tafoya campaign had been arrested.
The picture switched again and the voiceover promised live coverage of the governor-elect’s speech, right after the break.
Sam turned it off and left the suite.
In the ballroom the mood was frenetic. A band played rock music with a heavy beat and the mesmerized crowd were waving their arms overhead, swaying and chanting to the tempo. She stood to the side, near one of the massive carved doors.
From the front of the room, a cheer went up, moving through the huge ballroom like a tsunami. Carlos Tafoya stepped from behind a curtain, waving widely and smiling his familiar grin. He took the podium and let the cheers go on for a full three minutes.
When he finally raised his hands, signaling for silence, Sam was likely the only one in the room who noticed the faint whiteness around his mouth, the haunted look in his eyes. If anyone else noticed it was undoubtedly, after all, because the man had just lost his loving wife this past week, the woman with whom he’d planned to share this moment.
“Good evening, New Mexico!” Carlos shouted, and the speech was on.
Sam watched, amazed that he pulled it off. His wife dead, his son going away in handcuffs less than an hour ago, and himself in danger of being pulled into the whole mess. Somehow, she knew the man before this room tonight would come away unscathed, although his unsuspecting son might very well never be free again. A plea bargain—Kevin’s life for an admission of manslaughter—it wouldn’t be the first time something like had happened in northern New Mexico.
As Carlos went on, reiterating his promises for the state, Sam closed her eyes, working to regain a bit of the energy that had flowed out of her during the evening. When she opened them again, she saw Sandy Greene, the reporter, watching her.
An image popped into Sam’s head—Sandy standing near a door, listening. On the door, some lettering: Suite A. The reporter’s rapt attention to the male voice ranting behind the closed barrier of wood. Suddenly Sam knew exactly how the story had become the startling ‘news flash’ heard round the wires.
A chill crept over her arms and she wanted nothing more than to be out of there. During one of the louder outbursts from the crowd, Sam opened the tall, heavy door beside her and stepped out into the corridor. At the front desk she asked them to call a taxi.
By nine o’clock Sam was drifting off, wrapped in her fleece robe with a mug of hot chocolate on the table beside the sofa. She’d switched on the television to catch the results of a few other races—congressional seats were at stake, along with some legislators. The Albuquerque station continued to rehash the little bit they knew about the arrest of Kevin Calendar but it wasn’t much and even the newscasters were tiring of saying the same things and showing a picture of the outside of the Taos jail, quiet and dark this time of night. Across the bottom of the screen, they ran results of the county races and she noticed that Orlando Padilla had, indeed, been re-elected sheriff by a landslide.
She heard the kitchen door close and Kelly called out.
“Beau isn’t home yet,” she told Sam, “but Iris is snug in her bed and I wasn’t needed so I decided to come home. What was the story on the radio about Taos County and the new governor? I only caught a bit of it.”
Sam filled her in on the basics, leaving out everything having to do with witchy predictions, colored auras and the fact that Kevin had tried to attack her before Beau brought him down. There are some things a daughter doesn’t need to know.
Kelly said goodnight and Sam headed for her own room, after checking the doors and turning out the lights. She had no idea how much time had passed, only that she was in a complete blackout sleep, when the phone rang.
She felt around for the bedside phone and mumbled a sleepy hello.
“You meddling bitch!”
Chapter 26
Sam came instantly awake.
“Can’t believe how you, you slimy bitch . . . how you messed me up.” The words were slurred and the voice was definitely Orlando Padilla’s.
“Sheriff, what’s going on?”
“You know, you—”
“No. Stop just a minute. I don’t know. What are you talking about?” Her thoughts tried to wrap themselves around his accusation. He’d been nowhere near the Tafoya victory party tonight.
“Marg . . . Margaret is going to leave me, and it’s all your fault.”
Ah, the affair with Elena Tafoya was about to come to light. “How is it my fault, Orlando?”
“You just . . . just . . . I don’t know what you said to her.”
His words became more sloppy and rambling as he went. Her denials that she’d said anything at all to his wife went unheeded. Sam couldn’t make any sense of how he thought she was involved and she finally gave him a quick goodbye and hung up the phone.
It rang again almost instantly but she hung up again when she realized that Padilla wouldn’t give up. She left the receiver off the hook and tried hard to get back to sleep, but she couldn’t get her mind to settle down. Would he come to her house? Would he take out his anger on Beau? Might he even become abusive with Margaret?
Obviously, his brief affair with Elena was about to come to light and here was a guy who didn’t want to face the consequences. Sam grumbled a little and rolled over once more, falling asleep—finally—sometime near dawn.
Wednesday morning she gave herself over to the luxury of burrowing into the quilts for an extra hour. With Becky back at the bakery today, both of the younger women had persuaded Sam not to come in early. After the drama of last evening and the interruption to her sleep, it didn’t take a lot of willpower to let herself sleep in.
Somewhere around nine she began to feel hungry. She pulled on a robe and placed the receiver back on the phone, then went to the kitchen for cereal. The morning television shows were full of talk about the election results, with more and more connections between Carlos Tafoya and Kevin Calendar coming out by the hour. Sam planted herself in a corner of the sofa and crunched on her breakfast as she watched.
The newly elected governor stood before a blue background in some office somewhere, taking questions from the press. In short, it looked like he was taking the tired old “It was inappropriate behavior” line, admitting that he’d once (he made it sound like sometime in a previous life) had an extramarital affair and that there was a child with this other woman. About the time he was getting into the equally tired line about “getting on with the business of the state” Sam’s phone rang.
“Hey you,” said Beau. “You doing okay this morning?”
He sounded haggard, and admitted that he’d not slept all night when Sam asked how he was.
“Kevin actually admitted quite a bit before Carlos showed up with a lawyer for the kid.”
“I’ve just been watching the spin version on TV,” she said. “No doubt he’ll not lose his public support, once he’s fed them the old boys-will-be-boys routine and expressed just enough remorse.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. When we questioned him, Carlos actually did seem horrified that Kevin took it as far as he did. Apparently, Jean had kept her son in the dark all these years—made up some story about a father who left when he was an infant. She finally broke down last year and told him the truth. Once he found out who his real father was, Kevin really wanted them to be a family. Showing Carlos what a good son he’d turned out to be was the whole reason he volunteered with the campaign.”
“Seriously? At twenty, this young man thinks they’ll just go back in time and become a happy little trio?”
“Well, no one ever said the kid didn’t have issues. A lot of them. And it didn’t help that Carlos played along, letting Kevin believe that he would leave Elena and marry Jean.”
Sam shook her head. What a mess.
“So, one down and one to go,” Beau said.
“That’s right—Bram Fenton’s death. Did Kevin also have something to do with that?”
“Not as far as I can tell. But when I ran the name past Carlos, he sure clammed up.”
“What? He didn’t hire Fenton after all?”
“I’m still pretty sure he did. Jean Calendar said something weird. She claimed that a man—whom she described very well as Fenton—had been following her for days. She thought Carlos had something do to with it because it started just a couple days after she’d contacted him and told him she was in town.”
“Wait a second. Now I’m really confused,” Sam said. “Did he hire the investigator to follow Elena or to follow Jean?”
“Well, that’s part of what I’m calling you about. You still have Fenton’s notebook. Can you go through and re-read, now that we know more about all the players in this case? See if you can find information in Fenton’s own notes?”
With a new mission for the day, Sam got out the notebook and set to work on it as soon as they’d ended the phone call. The dates, described with decimal points, were easy to spot now and she quickly located the timeframe for the past few months. As she perused the sets of letters, it all began to fall into place. An hour later she thought she had the answers.
A quick shower, fresh clothes, and she was on her way to Beau’s office. She found him with his head on his desk, catching a quick snooze. He raised bloodshot eyes when he heard her approach.
“Sorry. I should have called first,” she said.
“I’m glad you’re here. I have to stay until the next shift starts and it’s gonna take a lot to keep me awake that long.”
“Maybe this will help.” She set the notebook down on his desk. “See this? JC is Jean Calendar. Look: ‘9.15flwdjc’ and ‘9.30pusrvljc@hm.fl2intm’. On September 15, Fenton followed Jean. On the 30th he meant to pick up surveillance at her home and follow to intimidate her. I found instances of these same codes used throughout the book—srvl for surveil, flw meaning to follow someone.
“This proves that Carlos hired Fenton to follow Jean and if possible to frighten her away from Taos and from him. Carlos couldn’t afford for her to be revealing his old secrets before the election. I guess he thought that if Jean left town, Kevin would too. Naïve thinking, yes. But people do stupid things under pressure.
“Here . . .” she flipped a page, “are Fenton’s notes when he began the surveillance, about Jean’s appearance. He describes her in terms that could easily describe Elena, too. Think about it, Beau. Both women have blond hair cut in similar styles, and were very close in height and build . . . I think the night Fenton died, he’d accidentally followed the wrong woman.”
“Oh, god, that fits.” Beau rummaged through his interview notes. “Last night, Jean told me that Elena once came to her house, sometime in September, to confront her and say that there would be no split with Carlos during the campaign. That he couldn’t afford the scandal of a second family at that time, that Jean should just leave town. Elena suggested that Jean stay low-key for a year or so and then there could be a quiet, civilized divorce.”
“So . . . Fenton was watching the house. Maybe he didn’t see Elena arrive but he did see her leave. Thought it was Jean, followed, intentionally putting her into a panic. But then Elena had a knife in her purse . . . He wasn’t ready for that.”
“But Elena told you that she’d been to see her lover that night.”
“Maybe she had. She might have come from seeing him, decided to take care of Carlos’s little indiscretion herself by reasoning with Jean . . .”
“Like a scandal about her own affair wouldn’t cause just as much havoc as Carlos’s old affair?”
Sam sighed. “Who knows what she was thinking. She admitted to me that she’d tried to break it off but just couldn’t help herself. She needed this man.”
“What’s up?” The male voice intruded sharply. Sam looked up to see that Orlando Padilla had entered the squad room from a side door.
Beau gestured toward his stacks of notes. “Just putting a few loose ends together on the Tafoya case. Trying to piece together what happened with that private investigator case, Bram Fenton.”
The sheriff gave him a sharp look. “The suicide off the bridge?”
Beau’s eyes narrowed warily. “It wasn’t a suicide, remember? The MI found a slashed artery. Guy bled out all over his trench coat.”
Sam watched closely. Padilla’s outwardly smooth manner couched a vibrating bundle of nerves. The man fairly jangled with tension. The pieces fell neatly into place.
“You were Elena’s lover.” She stated it simply.
Words of denial automatically surfaced. He shuffled a little.
“No,” Sam said. “It’s true. Everything fits with what Elena told me herself.”
His face went white. “She didn’t tell you anything.”
“She did. She was practically addicted to you, willing to risk everything just to be with you.” Even as she uttered the words, Sam had a hard time accepting the fact. This pudgy, lazy man . . . the comparison with the sleek demeanor of Carlos Tafoya didn’t even bear mentioning. But things were usually deeper than they seemed, and in matters of the heart who knew what went on.
“And now I know what happened to Bram Fenton, too. Elena must have panicked. She slashed out at a man who’d been following her, just thinking she could make him back off. But when she actually hit him, got the carotid artery and he began to bleed and then to die right there on the street, she needed help, fast. She called the one person she thought she could count on. You. I’ll bet the records show that you were on duty that night, so you came to her location, bundled up the body, and carried him to the bridge.”
Padilla began looking around for an exit, but Beau quietly disarmed him and stood ready to get physical if need be.
“You couldn’t take the risk of dumping the body with the trench coat on it because it would be very evident that blood all around the neck area wasn’t consistent with a fall from the bridge. You even added a few more cuts, thinking the medical investigator would probably mistake them for injuries from the rocks below.” Sam paused to let the images catch up with her.
“Sam, what about the coat?” Beau asked. “How did it get out to Cheryl Adams’s house?”
“I saw him, Beau. Remember the vision I had that day? I told you I’d seen a man in dark clothing putting something into the closet? Check the dates. I’ll bet the sheriff was supposed to deliver the eviction notice to Cheryl Adams, and it probably happened within a day or so after Fenton’s death. Cheryl’s house was left unlocked—I found it that way myself. I’m betting that when Sheriff Padilla got there Cheryl had already moved out, but the house was unlocked. He saw the perfect chance to get rid of the coat in all that clutter. Just hang it in a closet and someone would eventually come along to clean out the place and the coat could never be tied to him.”
She turned to the sheriff. “You would have been better off to burn it.”
Padilla looked chagrined.
Beau piped up. “You would have been better off to turn it in. If you’d reported the death as an accident, you wouldn’t be facing charges of tampering with evidence, concealing a murder, aiding and abetting . . . we can probably think of a few more.”
Padilla’s eyes were searching the room, looking for a way out of his troubles. His gaze landed on the pistol which Beau had taken from him minutes earlier.
“Don’t even think about it,” Beau warned.
Padilla spun and dashed for the back door, flinging papers off of desks and tipping chairs over as he ran. But Beau was quicker. With one leap he tackled the sheriff and brought him to the floor. From the dispatch area a secretary and another deputy came running.
By the time they reached the tangle of arms and legs, Beau had latched his cuffs onto Padilla’s wrists.
Chapter 27
Chocolate buttercream frosting plopped onto the top of the quarter-sheet that Sam had promised for the chocoholics book group this afternoon. She smoothed it with a spatula, creating a flat backdrop for the molded chocolate decorations she and Becky had created yesterday. They’d made a miniature vignette of the bookshop itself, with rows of books—all done in dark, milk and white chocolate—the sales counter with a small chocolate Ivan at the desk, the deep chairs where customers curled up to read sample chapters—Sam’s raspberry chocolate almost looked like the plush burgundy upholstery on the real ones.
It had been two weeks since the election, a very interesting two weeks. Details of the bizarre story continued to come out, as national media descended upon their small town to poke and prod and ask questions. Beau withheld a lot of the particulars that would have to come out later, in court but Sam, privy to the dead private investigator’s notes, had accumulated more proof against both the new governor and the sheriff. Although Padilla had won re-election to his office, for the moment he was on suspension and being investigated by the internal affairs division of the department.
Sandy Greene, the reporter who’d been first to break the story at the state level, was immediately fired from her job. A fine thanks, Sam thought, but no doubt sparked by the fact that the newspaper’s owner was a close friend and large contributor to Carlos Tafoya. He gained nothing by trying to quash the spunky young reporter. The firing made the news headlines even larger, and Sandy was quickly snapped up by a television network affiliate in Denver. She’d called Sam to tell her about the advancement in her career and the increase in pay. Some things do end up being all right.
Meanwhile, as Sam set tiny chocolate figurines of Ivan’s bookstore customers—including herself and Riki and Zoë—in place, she reflected on the way in which Carlos Tafoya was coming out of the whole thing amazingly unscathed. But then, wasn’t that the way with politicians?
She heard voices out in the sales area and looked up from her work to see Victor Tafoya pushing his way through to the kitchen. Her wizened, old landlord had already expressed his displeasure over her role in disgracing his son, as if Sam had actually committed some crime, herself. He shuffled over to her work table, not bothering to remove the battered straw hat that glistened with melting snowflakes.
“Here,” he grumbled, shoving a folded sheet of paper at her.
“What’s this, Victor?” She set down her pastry bag and wiped her hands on a damp towel before reaching out to take the page.
“You’re evicted.”
“What!” Her heart crashed. “You can’t do that! I have a lease.”
“Not anymore.” He jammed his hands against his skinny hips. “I don’t need troublemakers like you around.”
“Mr. Taf—”
“Be out by Friday!”
Sam stood frozen to the spot as he stomped out.
“Whoa.” Becky looked just as immovable as Sam.
Sam shook herself and dashed after him. “Wait, you’ve got no real cause to throw me out.”
“So, sue me!” He yanked the front door open, sending the bells into a clamor.
Jen stood behind the counter, wide-eyed. “Can he do that?”
Sam’s veins felt like ice. She’d worked so hard to get the shop open and build her clientele. She could find another location but she loved being here, next to the bookstore and so close to the plaza. Tears threatened to spill.
Outside, fine sleet pelted the elder Tafoya as he jerked open the door to his ratty old pickup truck. Why the father of the new governor didn’t at least drive a decent vehicle was always the subject of speculation, but at this point Sam couldn’t even give it a thought. The engine cranked and cranked in the blustery November day, but it wouldn’t start. She could see him cursing it. He pounded a fist against the steering wheel. Then his face went very pale and he clutched at his chest.
“Uh-oh.” Sam watched as he slumped over the wheel, setting off the horn. “Call an ambulance.”
She dashed out the door, hit by a blast of cold air, but she didn’t pause. She reached the door of the truck about the same time as three other people who’d heard the blast of the old horn.
“Sam, what’s up?” Riki asked, wiping her hands on a towel. She still had shampoo suds on her plastic apron.
“He must be having a heart attack. Jen’s calling for help.”
“I also have dialed the 911,” said Ivan Petrenko, emerging from the bookstore.
Sirens sounded nearby, coming from the fire station that was only two blocks away. Within a minute, paramedics were at work on Victor Tafoya and the neighbors huddled under the purple awning at Sweet’s Sweets. The awning that would have to be fitted to a new window. Sam felt her eyes begin to prickle again.
“Miss Samantha, is all right. See? Is breathing with the mask thing.”
“Oh, Ivan, I know. It’s not that.”
Riki, too, hovered near Sam and with her friends nearby, the emotion let go. She waved them inside her shop where Jen was already pouring lattes all around.
“Mr. Tafoya just gave us an eviction notice,” Jen told Riki and Ivan, as they all took seats at one of the tables.
“Eviction! Well, that is just not going to happen,” Riki said, the Americanism sounding cute with her accent. “Is it, now, Ivan?”
“Certainement pas. Fight this we shall do!”
“How?” Sam moaned. “I can’t afford to take him to court and drag this out. Plus, now that his son will be in the governor’s office, there’s no way I’d win.”
“Let me work on it,” Riki said. “The old man is a branch of the same tree as his son. He’s been hitting on me ever since I moved into this building. Well, as they say, two can play at that game.”
Sam laughed at the image of petite, twenty-something Riki flirting with the seventy-five year old Tafoya and the tension was broken.
“I’ve got to finish Ivan’s cake,” she said, picking up her mug. “You stay and finish your coffee.”
Riki stood, as well. “I shall be visiting our landlord in hospital, right after I finish bathing Toodles—oh no, I left Rasper under the dryer!” She abandoned her latte and dashed out.
By four o’clock Sam had put Tafoya’s threat into perspective. Between momentary bouts of tears, she decided that if she were forced to move she could do it.
Meanwhile, she’d been too busy to dwell on it. Most of the ambulance watchers had migrated into the shop for pastries and coffee, so the morning had passed quickly. Working on auto-pilot, Sam finished three more custom orders and mixed up dough for afternoon cookies which always came out of the oven as the school kids began walking by on their way home. The chocoholics cake had turned out beautifully and she carried it to the front when Ivan walked into her shop.
Riki came in just as Ivan had finished giving lengthy praise of the way Sam and Becky had duplicated the layout of his store in chocolate. “Is too beautiful to eat,” he kept saying.
“I must say, I think he’s right,” Riki said.
“Well, you decide what you want to do. It won’t keep forever,” Sam told them.
“Oh, Sam, by the way, I think I have news that will make you happy.”
“You talked to Mr. Tafoya?” Sam held her breath.
“In a way.”
“Ohmygod, you didn’t . . .”
Riki’s face screwed up in a grimace. “Get physical? As you Yanks would say, yuk!! I can’t imagine it.”
Sam chuckled out loud.
“No. Basically, I threatened him. Sort of told him that if he evicts you, he might as well put up three ‘To Let’ signs because Ivan and I would move out as well.”
Ivan looked a bit panicky at that news.
“And he caved?” Sam asked.
“Indeed. In this economy he can’t exactly afford to lose three tenants in one day. And it’s not like he would put any of us out of business—there are plenty of empty retail spaces in this town at the moment.” She gave a smug smile. “I might have also mentioned that we have a connection or two in the media these days.”
“So I’m staying?” Sam still couldn’t quite believe it.
“We’re all staying.” Riki gave her a long hug and Ivan murmured something in Russian that involved making the sign of the cross. He took his cake and scooted out the door.
Sam hugged Riki again as the younger woman headed back to her dogs. She held the door for a customer who had her arms full with a boxed sheet cake.
“Have a magical day!” Jen called out to the woman.
Sam raised an eyebrow as the door closed. “Magical?”
“Absolutely. People always mention the special feeling they get in here, the ‘magic.’ I just pass it along.”
Jen polished the rounded glass on the antique display case. “Think about it, Sam. Magic is everywhere. I feel so lucky to stand here and watch the sun rise over the mountain every morning. There’s magic in those big fat snowflakes out there or in golden leaves against a brilliant blue sky.”
“And in that freshest of greens when the trees leaf out in spring?”
“You got it. People just have to look for the magic—I’m only reminding them.”
Sam looked around her shop, taking in the display cases, the smell of fresh rich coffee and spicy chai, the café tables and chairs where customers often lingered with their morning papers and indulged in a second pastry. The windows showcased her latest creations and the beveled glass door and purple awning in front gave the shop the ambiance she’d envisioned for years before it actually opened. Her vision had manifested itself with every bit of the special feeling for which she’d hoped.
Beau walked in, to find her dabbing at her eyes. “What’s this?”
After Sam gave the condensed version of the day’s drama, he smiled. “Well, I have a little good news, myself.” He straightened and pointed at the badge on his chest.
“Sheriff?” Sam said. “They’ve made you sheriff?”
“Acting, temporary sheriff. Somebody has to run things until Padilla’s done facing the music.”
“So, can I hug the sheriff?” She put her arms around his neck before he answered.
Outside, the snowflakes had grown fatter, falling like downy feathers, giving the shrubs a powdered sugar feel. Jen was right. Magic.
More stories with Samantha and Friends!
Samantha Sweet breaks into houses for a living.
But she’s really a baker with a magical touch, who invites you to her delightful pastry shop—Sweet’s Sweets.
Don’t miss the next book in this series!
Sweet Holidays
It’s the Christmas season and a chocolatier shows up at Sam’s shop, offering to create a special line of hand-dipped chocolates for her customers. He is willing to work for no pay, just to prove himself.
But when she learns that he has connections to the wooden box that seems to give Sam her mystical powers, she learns that dark forces may do just about anything to take it away from her.
Sign up for Connie’s free email mystery newsletter at www.connieshelton.com
Contact by email: connie@connieshelton.com
Also by Connie Shelton
The Charlie Parker Series
Deadly Gamble
Vacations Can Be Murder
Partnerships Can Be Murder
Small Towns Can Be Murder
Memories Can Be Murder
Honeymoons Can Be Murder
Reunion s Can Be Murder
Competition Can Be Murder
Balloons Can Be Murder
Obsessions Can Be Murder
Gossip Can Be Murder
Stardom Can Be Murder
Phantoms Can Be Murder
Buried Secrets Can Be Murder
Legends Can Be Murder
Holidays Can Be Murder - a Christmas novella
The Samantha Sweet Series
Sweet Masterpiece
Sweet’s Sweets
Sweet Holidays
Sweet Hearts
Bitter Sweet
Sweets Galore
Sweets, Begorra
Sweet Payback
Sweet Somethings
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BEAT UP A COOKIE
A Diet Club Mystery
by Denise Dietz
“Eating is self-punishment; punish the food instead. Strangle a loaf of Italian bread. Throw darts at a cheesecake. Chain a lamb chop to the bed. Beat up a cookie.” Gilda Radner
Electronic copyright 2013
Original copyright 1994
Cover design by Karen McCullough
Dedicated to Alan Alda for Free To Be You And Me and M*A*S*H
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For more information about the author, please visit www.denisedietz.com
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
Prologue
The soldiers appeared fatigued.
For eleven days straight their unit had been served liver and fish for lunch.
“If I eat one more fish, I’ll develop gills,” said the tall, handsome captain. “I’ve had so much liver I can only make love if I’m smothered in bacon and onions.” He began to speculate about the perfect lunch. “There was a place in Chicago, near the Dearborn Street Station, can’t even think of its name, but the ribs … the best in the world.”
Haunted by his vision, the captain discovered that the restaurant was called Adam’s Ribs. He managed to phone stateside and arrange for his order to be delivered by plane. The food was sent overnight to Korea and within 24 hours the officers of the 4077 M*A*S*H unit were feasting on ribs and…
Hawkeye forgot to order the coleslaw! As Ellie Bernstein pictured the vivid scene from her favorite TV show, she very nearly drove past the Dew Drop Inn. But she caught herself in time and, instead, slowly maneuvered across a couple of entrance tittie-bumps.
As she parked her Continental between a Chevy pickup and three listing motorcycles, she heard her stomach growl, even though she’d just finished her own feast of veal saltimbocca, ravioli a la pesto, and chocolate cheesecake.
“A slip of the lips is a pound on the hips,” she said to her car radio, where Neil Diamond was singing “Love on the Rocks.” Then she heaved a deep sigh and said, “Hey, Neil, did you know that calories and cheating both begin with the letter C?”
Her husband Tony was cheating at this very moment.
So Ellie had cheated with food. To heck with her diet! She’d start a new one next Monday. She always started her diets on Mondays. Sometimes she even lasted — and fasted — until Tuesday.
She turned off Neil in the middle of his “you’ve got to leave, just get away” imploration, and glanced through her car window at the congested parking lot. The Dew Drop Inn had to be crammed—lock, stock and beer kegs—with bodies. What a great location for a gangland massacre. Thugs would be sitting ducks, dead ducks, pressed duck (saturated with rosemary-garlic sauce).
Conversely, one person could commit the perfect murder and then fraternize with the chaotic crowd; even wear a disguise/costume, rendering him indistinguishable from other revelers. The only thing Ellie devoured more avidly than food was a scintillating mystery.
Okay, let’s hypothesize the perfect murder.
Time of day? Night. Tonight’s moon was a mere sliver of lemon cake, so its glow wouldn’t give the perpetrator away.
Victim? Rats! Perfect crimes were fun, victims were not. Unless the victim was fictitious. Or already dead. Yes, already dead was good. Tennessee Williams had died last month. Although she admired his work, especially Cat On a Hot Tin Roof, she didn’t know Tennessee Williams personally. He’d do just fine.
Motive? A psychopathic actor auditions for the Marlon Brando role in Streetcar Named Desire. Rejected, he blames it all on Tennessee Williams and furtively follows the famous playwright to Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Scene of the crime? The Dew Drop Inn, of course. The Dew Drop’s rectangular gray cement building was sandwiched between a defunct Catholic school and a newly constructed souvenir shop, and had once been a family restaurant called Costilla de Adam.
Plot? The killer stalks Tennessee Williams and knifes him—
No. Too much blood. A dead giveaway if the killer mingled with members of the crowd.
Okay, the killer stalks Tennessee Williams, strangles him … unnoticed? … or furtively jabs him with a deadly hypodermic needle, then merges into the crowd and—
And what?
And then the police would discover the motive, the perpetrator, and what the heck was Tennessee Williams doing in Colorado Springs anyway?
Enough fictitious mystery, Ellie. Time for reality.
She pulled the key from her ignition. Reality was her husband Tony, a real estate broker, who at this very moment was screwing his new client. Ellie had overheard a phone conversation between Tony and his friend Dave, a journalist. “She’s young, slender, and hot to trot,” Tony had said. “You should see the carpet burns on my butt.”
Hurt and furious, Ellie had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies, Tony’s favorite. Then she’d hidden them in the laundry room. Tony would never step foot inside the laundry room. That was her domain.
Tonight her practically newborn son Michael was with Tony’s mother, leaving Ellie free to indulge in her high-caloric, albeit lonely, meal. However, the food-equals-revenge ritual at Uncle Vinnie’s Gourmet Italian Restaurant had lasted too long and she’d never make it home before the start of the eleventh-season finale of M*A*S*H. So, impulsively, she had decided to detour and watch the show at the Dew Drop Inn. The Dew Drop’s owner, Charley Aaronson, had several televisions suspended from the ceiling. Ellie thought they looked like black spiders with bloated bellies, but Tony, who had no imagination, laughed in his nasty way and said spiders didn’t have TV screens in their bellies.
Inside, the Dew Drop Inn looked like a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit. Most men and women wore olive-drab tee shirts and matching pants. Ellie felt alien in low-heeled pumps, a black A-line skirt, and a silk overblouse one shade brighter than her auburn hair.
Charley Aaronson had advertised a Mash-Bash party, offering “cash prize money” for the best 4077 look-alikes, and the public had responded enthusiastically.
Charley must be breaking every fire law, Ellie thought, just before she saw the fire chief and what looked like the entire fire department, minus Bonnie and Clyde, their two Dalmatians.
“Hi, Charley.” Ellie pressed her body against the mahogany bar and rested one foot on the rail. “Business is booming!”
“Ellie, can you believe this crowd already? All these meshuga pipples.” Standing behind the bar, Charlie dabbed at his perspiring face with the hem of his white chef’s apron. The apron anchored a Hawaiian shirt garnished with parrots and multi-colored palm fronds. “The Dew Drop looks like Yankee Stadium on a doubleheaded afternoon.”
“An afternoon with two heads? You sound like Casey Stengel. It’s called a doubleheader, Charley.”
Ellie smiled fondly at her friend. Charley’s bald pate sported an ill-fitting toupee, styled after his hero JFK’s hair. Every night Charley patrolled the Dew Drop, a benevolent vulture, his magnificent hooked nose sniffing out underage invaders. Ellie surmised that Charley’s mind was as sharp as the knife he used to slice his fruit garnishes. And yet customers tended to relax in his presence, lulled by his seemingly inane remarks. There was no drug dealing at the Dew Drop, and except for the inevitable Sunday football pools, no betting, legal or otherwise. There had never been one hint of trouble inside Charley’s establishment.
“So why ain’t you in costume, Ellie?”
“I didn’t have time to change clothes, Charley.”
“You shoulda come as Hot Mouth.” Framed by a shelf of liquor bottles, he leaned across the bar’s surface. “You know, that fercockteh nurse played by what’s-her-face.”
“Loretta Swit and it’s Hot Lips, Charley.”
“So with the right clothes and white hair, you’d be a dead ringer.”
“Yellow hair, Charley. Hot Lips is a blonde. And first I’d have to lose fifty pounds.”
“I think you look fine.”
“That’s because you have to lose weight, too. Maybe we should join one of those groups, Overeaters Anonymous or Weight Winners.”
“I tried Weight Winners. It didn’t work. So I’m a dropout, so sue me.” Charley patted his enormous belly. “More of me to love,” he said, then reached behind his back for a cushioned barstool. “Here’s an extra seat, bubala. Rest your tush next to the screen. Have a drink on me. Toasted Almonds? White Russian?”
“Holy cow, Charley, you have a memory like a sponge. White Russian, please.” Ellie plopped her tush down on the stool and dipped her hand into a bowl of pretzels. “Why didn’t Weight Winners work, Charley?”
“Who wants to give up food just because it’s fattening?” His eyes widened. “Mein Gott, the tables and chairs are pushed together. My waitresses have to schlep on air. S’cuse me, Ellie.” Scooting out from behind the bar, he was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of new arrivals.
Where on earth will he put them? Ellie sipped her White Russian while she studied the room. Frazzled cocktail waitresses wore black shorts and yellow halter tops. They looked like bumblebees swarming in a confused, zigzag pattern. Spilled drinks and popcorn made slushy snowcaps beneath Charley’s utilitarian furniture.
An elbow dented Ellie’s left shoulder.
“Sorry me.” The young owner of the elbow smiled impishly. Her blonde wig had loosened and she was attempting to secure it with black bobby pins. Her motion was off balance, her hazel eyes unfocused.
Ellie said, “Are you all right?”
“Sure, fine.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Nope, thanks. My name’s Ginny, but tonight I’m Hot Lips Hoo … Hool … Hool’gan.” She belched triumphantly and very nearly knocked over a tall glass with four cherries swimming amidst rapidly melting ice cubes. “Rum punch,” she said, picking up the glass. “Had myself teensy bit lots to drink. Add cherry to each new glass so’s I can keep count.”
“Maybe you should slow down?”
“Can’t. I gotta get the taste of K-r-a-f-c-h-e-k outa’ my mouth.”
“Krafchek?”
“Yeah. Over there … near ladies room. Gotta spell his name so he can’t hear me. He’s pissed. Works in restaurant where I waitress.”
Oh, a guy. Ellie had thought the girl meant Krafchek was some kind of cheese. “Why is he pissed off?”
“He likes to cop a feel an’ kiss with his spitty tongue. At work, too. What’s it called? Sex something … hair-ass-ment? I told him I’d tell the manager and they’d fire his ass. Now he’s mad.” She staggered a few steps away and bumped into a “soldier” with a mustache, who stopped her progress by caressing her breasts. Snuggling against him, she said, “You like gin, mister? Order me a rum punch an’ I’ll let’cha’ drink Gin.”
Embarrassed, Ellie swiveled her stool and glanced toward the nearest ceiling-mounted TV. More often than not Charley’s multiple screens screamed forth Denver Broncos football, NBA play-offs, Avalanche hockey, the World Series, and CU football. Tonight’s presentation was unusual but very shrewd.
As the M*A*S*H theme began, she saw Charley approach a man seated at a table close to the bar. Trying to be heard above the crowd, Charley yelled, “I’m blocking the screen,” and the man yelled back, “Not to worry. Nancy’s taping it. Sit down.”
“Ellie!” Charley shouted. “When you finish that drink, tell the fercockteh bartender to give you another Russian! Okay? Good. Rest your tush.”
The voices at the table, now indistinguishable, became a background drone as Ellie’s gaze returned to the TV screen
* * *
“Thanks, Mr. Trask.” Charley Aaronson spared one more glance at pretty Ellie Bernstein, then procured an empty seat. “My wife would thank you if she’d stuck around instead of flying the coop. My son at the MIT college-school would thank you if he knew how to talk instead of saying everything with a seesaw ruler.”
“Slide rule, Charley.”
“Slide, seesaw, swings, so the Dew Drop is a crowded playground because of you, Kenneth Trask.” Charley peered through a haze of cigarette smoke at the man who had proposed tonight’s party. Trask was costumed as Hawkeye Pierce. Except Trask didn’t really look like Hawkeye. His hair was too tidy, combed into an Elvis pompadour, and his Hawaiian shirt and fatigue trousers had been starch-pressed with a hot iron. “Tonight’s profits,” Charley said, “will pay my son’s intuition.”
“Tuition, Charley. I knew our Mash-Bash would be successful. And profitable. It proves that nobody wants the show to end.”
It proves that people will use any excuse for a party! Charley ordered a seltzer from one of his waitresses as he watched customers parade along the bar’s surface, hoping to win his advertised look-alike contest. Too bad pretty Ellie Bernstein didn’t come as Hot Lips. Even overweight she’d be a dead ringer. But so was that skinny girl stumbling across the bar with her shirt open so that everybody, including God, could ogle. Charley knew the girl. She’d been at the Dew Drop before. Ginny-something. Her nickname was “Gin and Sin,” the name of a drink made with one and a half ounces of gin, three-quarters of an ounce of orange juice, three quarters of an ounce of lemon juice and one half a teaspoon of grenadine. Usually he cut Ginny-something off early.
Charley was a bogus M*A*S*H fan. He’d watched maybe a dozen shows during the eleven seasons. But he was familiar with the characters. Even if he wasn’t, recent publicity about the finale had been plastered all over the newspapers. Meshuga!
The contest judges were local celebrities. They eliminated several contestants, including a couple of men who returned to Kenneth Trask’s table.
“Charley Aaronson, meet Fred Remming and Howie Silverman,” Trask said. “Fred’s pretending to be Radar and Howie thinks he’s Klinger.”
Radar was something the police used to trap you speeding, thought Charley, but what was a Klinger? Someone who klung?
Fred/Radar was short and plump, with clipped poodle curls. One hand clutched a brown teddy-bear. Howie/Klinger sported a beard and wore a dress. Excusing himself, Howie/Klinger headed for the restrooms.
Bringing his attention back to the contest, Charley fingered the cash prize money in his trouser pocket while Trask pointed to a figure standing on top of the bar and said, “That’s my best friend, Sean McCarthy. Isn’t he the spitting image of Father Mulcahy?”
Charley followed Trask’s finger and squinted at silver hair partially covered by a straw hat. A cross on a chain rested against a black turtleneck, and two tiny crosses decorated the collar of Sean McCarthy’s fatigue shirt. Even from a distance, Charley could see blue eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.
Applause was deafening when Sean captured first place.
Trask’s table was close enough to the bar so that Charley could hear Ginny-something swear like a sailor. A fellow with a Wyatt Earp mustache comforted Ginny-something with a kiss so deep he swallowed her tonsils, and Charley shook his head. In his youth, couples kissed privately, under the table.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising from his seat.
While paying off the winners, he noticed a man dressed as a cowboy, complete with a toy sheriff’s badge. Mr. Sheriff must have wandered into the lounge by mistake. Charley marveled at the Marshal Dillon hat. Now that was a fine TV show. Gunsmoke. Good clean fun. Schmucks died and they didn’t bleed all over the place. Maybe they wore Kevlar vests.
Charley maneuvered his belly close to Ellie’s stool and told her his Kevlar joke. She had a pretty laugh. Then he said, “Having fun, bubala?”
“You bet. I don’t know why I love this show so much. I guess it’s because M*A*S*H is funny, but it doesn’t idealize war or poke fun at the bad guys like Hogan’s Heroes does. Instead, it satirizes military hypocrisy and—” She shook her head. “Sorry, Charley. My husband says I have a tendency to soapbox, while my mother says I rationalize everything.”
“That’s okay, bubala. Drink another Russian.”
“Thanks, but I haven’t finished this one.”
On the mounted TV screen, the final episode of M*A*S*H continued. Inside the familiar operating room, doctors were talking about what they’d eat when they left the 4077 and returned home. Hawkeye wanted a piece of chocolate cake. Colonel Potter wanted fresh corn on the cob. B.J. sighed over a glass of ice-cold milk.
“I’d like some hot you-know-what,” said a sly male voice.
Ellie heard and glanced down the bar at Ginny’s partner. His mustache dripped with foam and his hand cupped a breast inside the girl’s olive-drab shirt, but his gaze zeroed in on the fatigued vee between her thighs and there was no doubt what you-know-what meant.
Ginny bounced up and down on the barstool like an orgasmic Tigger. Then she placed the soldier’s hand between her thighs and bent backwards, across the bar’s surface. “First you spread your Limbo feet,” she sang, spreading her legs. “Limbo ankle, Limbo knee.”
Grasping her wrists, the soldier pulled her upright on the stool and guided her hands toward the salute inside his fatigues.
She molded her hands around his salute and sang, “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick—”
“My name’s Bob.”
“Bob be nimble, Bob be … uh-oh!”
“Don’t stop!”
“Sorry me.” Cradling her mouth with her palm, she lurched toward the restrooms.
Ellie started to rise, but Charley shook his head. “She’s done this before,” he said. “I’m gonna rip her off.”
“Don’t you mean cut her off?”
“Rip, cut, she’s kaput.”
“I wonder how she knew the words to ‘Limbo Rock’ It’s an old song and—”
“It’s on my fercockteh juke box.” Catching the bartender’s eye, Charley nodded toward Ginny and sliced the air in front of his throat with his first finger.
“I should follow, hold her head,” Ellie said.
Charley shrugged. “Why get involved? I’ll give Miss Hot Mouth some time to urp. Then I’ll send one of my waitresses to feel her up.”
“See how she’s feeling,” Ellie amended with a smile.
“Yeah, that. Meanwhile, Mr. Mustache over there can pay her bar tab. If he don’t, he’s kaput too.”
Ellie sighed. “I feel like a square peg in a round hole, Charley. I really should go home.”
He patted her red silk shoulder. “Stay, bubala, the show’s just started.”
She watched Charley wend his way over to the man with the mustache. Even without words, she could follow their dialogue. “Bob” shook his head. Charley thrust his hand out, palm up. Bob raised a fist, aimed it at Charley, then re-aimed toward the restrooms. Then, apparently, he had second thoughts and reached for his wallet. But he still looked furious as Charley pocketed the money for the bar tab.
When Charley returned to her stool, Ellie said, “I’ve really got to go. Thanks for the Russian.”
* * *
Charley watched Ellie weave her way through the crowd. Then he filled a pitcher with draft beer and carried it to the same table where he’d sat before.
Kenneth Trask smiled his thanks and turned toward Fred/Radar. “Did you write the letters, Freddy?”
“You bet. I ran off a hundred-plus copies.”
“I specifically told you no copies.”
“Don’t worry, Ken. I signed different names.”
“You idiot! It has to sound as if a hundred-plus people are bitching about the series ending. If you ran off copies, it doesn’t matter if you signed different names.”
“But Ken,” Fred/Radar whined, “it cost me fifty bucks in postage.”
Trask leaned forward in his chair and glowered.
Charley saw Fred/Radar’s plump cheeks turn red, like giant maraschino cherries atop a strawberry daiquiri.
Then the man wearing a dress — Howie-something — returned to their table. He carried the limp form of Ginny-something. She nestled against the chest hair that escaped from between the buttons on his bodice. Hefting the girl a few inches toward the ceiling, he drawled, “Lookee what I found while I was takin’ a whiz.”
“Just because you’re wearing a dress, you shouldn’t go into the ladies’,” Fred admonished.
“I didn’t go into the ladies. I found this sweet thang across from my urinal. She was in a stall, door open, ridin’ the porcelain pony, pukin’ up a storm, prayin’ for some buckaroo to come along and brand her with his hot, sizzlin’ iron. I cleaned her up and sprayed her mouth.”
As Howie-something paused to brandish a pocket-size breath spray, Ginny-something klung like a Klinger, or maybe a koala bear. “What’cha say, Freddy?” Howie-Something added. “Wanna’ play cowboy?”
Charley watched Howie-something deposit Ginny-something in Fred/Radar’s lap.
“How many letters did you write, Howie?” Mr. Trask asked, ignoring the shenanigans.
“None, Ken. The series wasn’t canceled by CBS. The stars decided to end it themselves.”
“I spent fifty bucks on postage,” Fred whined, trying to ignore the girl who sprawled across his lap, her koala-bear arms dangling.
Twirling his strand of pearls, Howie-something leaned forward and nudged Ginny-something, whose brown hair was slicked back, her wig resting on her shoulders like a dead yellow cat “What’s your name, sweetcakes?”
“M’name’s Ginny. Lost my punch. Order me ‘nother, an’ I’ll let’cha drink Gin.”
“Radar’s gonna drive you home, sugar britches.”
“No, no, can’t go home. Lost my cherry.”
“Jeeze, she’s blotto.” Howie snickered. “She should be worth more than fifty bucks postage, Freddy, if she doesn’t pass out first.”
Fred gulped his beer, his hand shaking so hard that drops from the mug spattered over Ginny-something’s shirt.
“Ish raining,” she slurred, grabbing Fred’s teddy-bear and kissing its button nose. “I once had a Poop bear named Winnie. Winnie the Poop. Hey, did I winnie the look-like contest?”
“No, sugar britches,” Howie said, his voice oozing fake sympathy. “You lost.”
“Oh shoot, I promised to meet someone here.”
“Lucky someone, darlin’. What’s his name?”
“Ant … Ant … think I’m gonna whoops again.”
“What’s Mr. Ant wearing? Maybe I can help you find him.”
“Not TV show costume. I forget. Don’t feel good, mister. Dizzy. Puke city.”
“You already puked, so you don’t need to puke no more. Right?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, come to think of it,” Howie said, “I’m Mr. Ant.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a liar. Liar, liar, pants on fire!”
Her indignation caused her to wriggle deeper into Fred’s lap. “Got to visit the men’s,” he said, shifting Ginny so that she slumped in his chair. Teddy’s ear invaded her mouth like a baby’s pacifier.
Charley watched Fred/Radar twist through the crowd toward the back of the tavern as the man clothed as a priest — Sean McCarthy — hunkered down next to Mr. Trask.
“Thanks for the prize money, Charley. Drinks on me, boys,” Sean croaked, his voice hoarse from the blessings he’d bestowed during his victorious march around the tables.
Charley watched Mr. Trask carefully cross one leg over the other. “How many letters did you write, Sean?” he asked. “Or should we call you Father Mac?”
“Letters? Shoot, I forgot all about the letters. Errare humanum est. To err is human.” Sean winked. “How many did you write, boy-o?”
“Two hundred and seventy-five.” Mr. Trask looked at Fred/Radar. “They were all penned by hand, with names culled from the telephone book.”
Sean said, “How the hell did you find the time to—”
“My wife took care of it.”
“That wasn’t fair,” Sean said. “Nancy couldn’t care less about the show. Ken’s wife isn’t a fan, Charley.”
Good for her! One less crazy in this world.
“Nancy didn’t mind.” Mr. Trask gestured toward the girl huddled in Fred’s chair. “Father Mac, I’d like you to meet Ginny. Gin, Father Mac.”
Sean bowed gravely.
Ginny-something’s teeth had punctured the teddy’s fur ruff and white stuffing drifted onto her shirt like huge dandelion puffs. “Father Mac?” Her fingers made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
Sean leaned over and repeated her genuflection, his thumb lingering on each of her breast nipples. “Ego te absolvo. You are forgiven,” he said in the last remnants of his Mulcahy mimic. “Errare humanum est.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” The teddy-bear became a fuzzy bra as she pressed it against her chest. “You felt me up. You ain’t no priest.” Dropping the teddy, she adjusted her blonde wig and staggered to her feet. “Kiss my ass, Father,” she said, then wobbled toward the man with the foamy mustache, the soldier who’d argued over the bar tab.
“If you kiss my ass,” Sean yelled, waving his prize money, “I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll even buy you a new teddy.”
Ginny raised her middle finger. The soldier with the mustache captured her hand and pulled her up against him.
“With that yella’ wig hidin’ her brown hair,” Howie-something drawled, “our Gin looks a lot like Hot Lips.”
Mr. Trask whistled. “She sure does. She’s a real beaut, Howie.”
“Glad we didn’t waste her on Fred.”
“Where the hell is Fred? By the way, Howie, did you make a pass at our Gin in the can?”
“Me ‘do’ a lady in the men’s? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Haven’t you ever done it there before?”
“Not in Charley’s tavern.” Strumming an imaginary guitar, Howie sang, “Oh there’s a tavern in the town, in the town, and there my true love laid me down, laid me down.”
“Did you get laid in the men’s?” Sean asked.
“Nope. If our Gin hadn’t been so drunk—”
“A drunk’s fun.” Mr. Trask winked. “She’ll do things she wouldn’t dare try sober. Isn’t that true, Charley?”
Charley shrugged then watched Sean McCarthy slide onto the chair where the girl had sat. Sean’s foot kicked Fred/Radar’s teddy-bear, and Charley thought the fercockteh bear looked like a corpse, with stuffing instead of blood escaping from its terminal wound.
On M*A*S*H there was lots of blood. On Gunsmoke Marshal Dillon drew from the hip, shot, and the bad guy fell. End of story. Marshall Dillon loved Miss Kitty, who had a heart of gold. She never got drunk or wandered into the men’s room. You knew Miss Kitty wasn’t a virgin, but she did it privately, under the table. Marshal Dillon must have used rubbers, or maybe he pulled out in time, because Miss Kitty didn’t get pregnant, not like Charley’s wife had the first time they’d done it. She’d lost that baby, but it was too late because they were already married. Come to think of it, Ginny-something was a dead ringer for Charley’s goyishe wife.
Ginny-something was pressing both hands against her mouth and staggering toward the restrooms again, and people were parting like the Red Sea. Charley even found himself looking around for that fercockteh actor, Charlton Heston, who’d played a goyishe Moses.
Mr. Trask stood and stretched, his eyes following Ginny-something’s every lurch. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “Nature calls.”
Charley watched Sean McCarthy bend forward, scoop up the teddy-bear corpse, and finger a cross across its severed ruff.
“Ego te absolvo, bear,” Sean said gravely.
* * *
The Mash-Bash turned out to be the most successful night in the history of the Dew Drop Inn. An exhausted Charley Aaronson didn’t even total receipts until the following morning.
While Charley counted profits, Ellie Bernstein sipped from a mug of coffee, munched her fifth Danish, and read the newspaper. She learned that the final M*A*S*H episode, “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen,” was viewed by approximately 125 million Americans. The show earned CBS a 60.3 rating and a 77 share, which meant that 77 percent of the people watching TV were turned in to the show.
She wondered if she was a statistic. Maybe, maybe not, because Tony had arrived home prior to the “Amen.” Drunk and angry, he’d charged into the family room and insisted — no, demanded — they make love. Maybe the new client wasn’t so hot to trot, after all.
Tony had turned off M*A*S*H and played a John Wayne video, The Searchers, and without any foreplay whatsoever, he had ridden her until he climaxed.
Ellie groped for another Danish, her eyes blurred by discreet tears. She heard Tony making bathroom noises. Dollars to doughnuts he’d left the seat up. Soon he’d enter the kitchen. Hiding her blotchy face behind the raised newspaper, she tried to focus on a high school graduation photo directly above a column that reported a young woman’s untimely death.
As she stared at the photo of the beautiful brunette, she felt her stomach tighten. Holy cow! This wasn’t fiction. Chewing her pastry, she recalled their brief conversation.
Are you all right? Sure, fine. Tonight I’m Hot Lips Hoo … Hool … Hool’ gan.
The woman, identified as Virginia Whitley, had been found in the Dew Drop’s parking lot, the victim of a hit-and-run accident. Although her face beneath a blonde wig was unmarked, her body had been crushed. During the autopsy, the doctor had determined that Virginia’s bloodstream contained .327 % alcohol. The article quoted a soldier from Fort Carson: “I wanted to drive Ginny home, but she ran into the latrine and never came back.”
Ellie felt her heartbeat accelerate as she heard Tony’s footsteps stomp toward the kitchen. His feet sounded angry. I’m sorry, she thought, even though she didn’t know what she’d done wrong. She had to please him. Oh, God, she had to make him happy. She had a new baby, no job, no job skills. An American Lit major, she had quit college to marry Tony.
Tony said he liked a woman “with meat on her bones,” a Marilyn Monroe rather than an Audrey Hepburn, but Ellie had a feeling he’d like her a lot better if she lost weight. Today was Tuesday. She’d start her diet, for sure, next Monday. That gave her five days — six if today counted — to eat everything she loved before giving it up, for good.
Maybe she should retreat to the bathroom. Or even better, the laundry room. Until Tony’s temper cooled. Hidden behind a box of giant detergent and a stack of fluffy towels was her new gym bag, ready and waiting for the day she joined a gym, filled to the brim with bottles of water, deodorant, black tights, black leotard, Three Musketeers, Little Debbie, and the chocolate chip cookies she’d baked yesterday.
Her stomach growled ominously.
Oh, God, she had to throw up. Maybe she’d caught a virus last night from so many “pipples.” Or maybe it was delayed reaction from reading about poor dead Ginny.
Oh, God, if she threw up, it would make Tony even madder. He’d even complained during her pregnancy; told her it was all in her head.
Why had she eaten so many pastries? They were playing trampoline inside her belly and she couldn’t even remember what they tasted like. And she hadn’t trashed the bakery box, so Tony would know she’d eaten the Danishes she’d bought for his weekly poker game.
She could imagine herself saying, “I have a Swede tooth, honey.” A year ago Tony would have laughed. Not today.
Safely ensconced inside the laundry room, she locked the door, turned on the portable radio, opened the top of the washing machine, and tossed her cookies.
On the radio the Monkees sang “Daydream Believer.”
Chapter 1
“I wish I was making love smothered in bacon and onions,” Ellie Bernstein said as her fingers tweaked her fat cat behind his ears.
Unfortunately, bacon wasn’t allowed on her diet.
“A slip of the lips is a pound on the hips,” she added.
That particular aphorism, along with the bacon-and-onions bit, caused her to remember a long-ago Mash-Bash when she had parked her Continental outside the Dew Drop Inn, shortly after avidly consuming a high-caloric feast that included chocolate cheesecake.
She didn’t eat chocolate cheesecake anymore, even though she was, and always would be, a chocoholic.
At least she was a divorced chocoholic. Following her divorce from Tony, she had traded in her Continental for a Honda Civic, joined Weight Winners and lost fifty-five (and a half) pounds. Then she’d evolved into a certified group leader for the Weight Winners organization.
Whereupon, she’d met homicide detective Peter Miller.
Peter would love making love smothered by bacon. And ribs. And thighs. And breasts. He could eat anything.
Holy cow, she had to stop daydreaming. Especially when her daydreams embraced sexual innuendos. With a pensive smile, she emptied the contents from a second manila envelope onto her family room floor. Sunlight emerged between the leaves of her plant-curtained window and bounced off walls filled with reproductions of Chagall prints, a poster of Daniel Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans, an autographed photo of Marlo Thomas, and a framed caricature of Jerry Garcia, painted by Coloradoan Wylie Jamestone. The bubble above Garcia stated: “Truth is something you stumble into when you think you’re going someplace else.”
The sunbeams finally landed on several Polaroid snapshots and a phone shaped like a duck decoy. Peter had given her the phone last Christmas because, he said, she had begged to play decoy during the diet-club murders. Ellie shuddered. She didn’t care to dwell on those bloody homicides, even though the killer had been caught, tried and convicted.
Strange how Tony had always given her sexy nightgowns while Peter had given her a quacking phone. On the other hand, she thought with a blush, she didn’t wear nighties, sexy or otherwise, when she and Peter shared her waterbed.
And, to be perfectly honest, even with her weight loss she wasn’t exactly a Victoria’s Secret kind of gal. If they ever held auditions for “America’s Top Model Over Age 40,” she wouldn’t make it past the first interview.
Sitting cross-legged on the beige carpet, she studied pictures of her Weight Winners members. Her regal black Persian, Jackie Robinson, wandered amidst the piles of stacked photos, searching for a possible kitty tidbit.
Ellie rescued a diet-club member from Jackie Robinson’s sharp claws. “Hey, puss, I’ll swat your furry rump if I have to start all over again. I’m arranging these by months and dumping the ones that are outdated. Be patient. Peter will come home tonight with a bribe. He spoils you rotten.”
The duck quacked and Ellie answered.
“Hi,” said Peter.
“Holy cow, Peter. I was just talking about you.”
“You were? To who? Or is it whom?”
“Jackie Robinson.”
“Sweetheart, you really must stop reprimanding your cat or you’ll have no voice left to lecture dieters.”
“What makes you think I was scolding Jackie Robinson?”
“He was begging for food, right?”
“Food junkies run in my family,” she said.
“I’m not a junkie.”
“You’re not family.”
“I could be if you—”
“There’s no diet-club meeting tonight, so I can safely lose my voice. How are you, honey? Tired of grateful heroines and exciting car chases à la Popeye—’’
“The Sailor Man?”
“No. Doyle. Popeye Doyle. Gene Hackman.”
“Ah, the famous car chase. Did you know that the Gene Hackman’s character is based on real life New York City detective Eddie Egan?”
“Yes.”
“And that Eddie Egan appeared in the movie as Popeye’s supervisor?”
“Yes.”
“Can you connect Gene Hackman to Kevin Bacon?”
“Yes. Give me a minute.” Ellie grinned. She had tried to teach Peter the Kevin Bacon game, where one could connect Kevin Bacon to just about any actor or actress, but Peter couldn’t connect. “Okay, Gene Hackman was in Banning with Robert Wagner, who was in Wild Things with Kevin Bacon.”
“How do you remember things like that?”
“Mick says I have a mind like a sponge.”
“Your son is spot-on.”
“My son has a spongy mind, too,” she bragged. “So, at the risk of repeating myself, are you tired of exciting car chases?”
“No. Just tired.” He yawned. “I probably need a spinach pick-me-up.”
“You hate spinach. You hate all vegetables.”
“Not true. I like corn on the cob and fried okra.
“Corn is a starch … you like fried okra? I didn’t know that.”
“There are lots of things you don’t know about me. Lots of things we haven’t … experienced.”
She pictured his eyebrow doing its Groucho thing and felt her cheeks flush. “So, I take it nothing is happing at the precinct.”
“All is quiet. Too quiet. The good news is, I’ll be home in time for Monday night football. Damn, I just jinxed myself. There goes my other line. Hold on.”
This time she pictured Peter bustling about his office. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, black-and-silver mustache, slim body. He was sweet as cotton candy, tender as a marinade-drenched T-bone, slightly chauvinistic, and sensational between her waterbed sheets. It was his occasional chauvinism that kept Ellie from saying yes to his let’s-get-hitched, even though she loved him with all her heart.
Because a hitch was a noose in a line. Because a hitch temporarily secured that line to an object. Because—
“Are you still there, sweetheart?”
“Peter, do you realize I’m talking into a duck’s butt? This is the most ridiculous phone I’ve ever seen in my—”
“See you later. I now have two calls on hold.”
“I love,” she started to say, but Peter had hung up.
Returning to her chore, hoping she could finish quickly and catch a few late-afternoon Indian summer rays, she alphabetized three photographs and placed them inside her file box behind an index card marked NOVEMBER.
She stopped to examine a recent Polaroid. The woman in the photo had introduced herself as Mrs. Franklin Harrison Burns. An anachronism who preferred her husband’s name to her own, Mrs. Burns — first name Magnolia — looked like the Liberty Bell and sported a boned-corset-with-bra that failed to slim her waist or rib cage. Ellie had sensed the wheels turning inside Magnolia’s head while the southern belle mentally determined how she could change diet ingredients to fit her own recipes. Ellie knew all the signs and was determined to work extra hard with this new member.
Anybody could lose weight if they stuck to the Weight Winners food program, even Mrs. Franklin Harrison Burns.
As Ellie let Jackie Robinson outside, she heard loud music from an open window next door; Tim McGraw singing “Live Like You Were Dying.”
Chapter 2
It took a while, but Franklin Harrison Burns finally noticed the message anchored by miniature food magnets, clinging to the door of his double-door refrigerator.
DEER HARRY, I’M SHOPING AT THE MAUL. MAY BEE A MOOVEE TO. FOOD IN FRIG. LUV, MAGNOLIA
At least she hadn’t misspelled the word “food.” Nobody could. F-o-o-d, just like it sounded. Foood.
Burns pushed aside the eight take-out menus, anchored by a faux Crackerjacks magnet, and grasped the handle of his “frig.” Almost immediately he spotted a casserole dish filled with spaghetti and Magnolia’s own homemade sauce of ketchup, margarine and tuna fish. Ignoring the casserole, he pulled a can of his wife’s Diet Coke free from its cardboard box. He poured half the can into a glass with a Daffy Duck decal, filled the remaining space with Jim Beam Rye, drained his drink, belched, and placed the newly-opened Jim Beam bottle on the kitchen table.
“If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck,” he sang off-key, “I’d dive to the bottom to get one more suck. But the ocean ain’t whiskey and I ain’t a duck…” Shoot, heck, what’s the next line?
“Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry,” he sang, launching into the chorus. “If the whiskey don’t kill me I’ll live till I die.”
He belched. “Can’t remember the next line … where’s Tex Ritter when you really need him? Something about a bridle, I think. Oh shoot, give it up Frank. I mean Harry.”
Harry had been called Frank until 1973. It was during the second season of M*A*S*H that people began noting his resemblance to Frank Burns, and to avoid the inevitable comments, Frank had reluctantly switched to his middle name. He had been christened Franklin Harrison Burns and he liked being a Frank. Frank was masculine. Frank was Sinatra. Frank was Lovejoy, a two-fisted, square-jawed actor whom nobody seemed to remember anymore.
Harry looked even less like a Harrison than a Franklin, so like it or not, Harry would be his name until the day he died.
He turned away from the table and met the cold eyes of Robert E. Lee. Although numerous etched photos of gray-draped soldiers dominated every wall, this particular portrait was his wife’s favorite. So she kept it close to the refrigerator, her favorite appliance, except for her chest freezer, filled with ice cream, bakery items and a side of beef. But the freezer was in the garage and the garage was a virtual tomb and, according to Magnolia, General Lee didn’t belong inside a tomb.
Grant, of course, did.
When Harry wed Magnolia Smithers, she’d been the epitome of a twentieth-century Scarlett O’Hara. Little did he know that her charming southern drawl masked an illiteracy that, over long duration, had turned from amusing faux pas to irritating boredom. Somehow Magnolia had managed to graduate from high school, despite her inability to read or spell, and she had met Harry during an AMA convention.
Representing a medical supply house, Harry, then known as Frank, had extolled the benefits of a new lightweight enema bag. Magnolia, one of several hoop-skirted hostesses at the Atlanta hotel, had lured the dazzled Burns to a deserted room. She’d been a virgin, or as she blushingly confessed, “half a virgin,” and he’d been flattered that she’d chosen him for her full blown (pun intended) initiation ritual.
F-o-o-l. Foo-ool.
During their incessant years of marriage, Harry had developed a nervous stomach and ulcers to go along with his thin frame. He could never adjust to his wife’s heaping plates of hominy grits. Her grits, and everything else she cooked, tasted like the cotton Magnolia said the happy, harmonious slaves had picked on her Tara-style plantation until the Civil War stripped her family of wealth and power. “Oh, Lordy,” she often sang, “pick a bale of cotton. Oh, Lordy, pick a bale of hay.”
Year by year Harry had grown thinner, perpetual worry lines making a deep dent between his sparse eyebrows. Meanwhile, Magnolia bloomed. Her body swayed as though hoops and crinolines dominated the space beneath the summer dresses she wore during every season. She bought corsets in a dismal effort to slim her waist and plump her tiny breasts. Recently she’d joined a diet club.
Better she should have joined a Basic English class!
In any case, it was too late. Harry had already met Iris Maria of the long dark hair, black eyes, and a melodic Spanish accent that made Magnolia’s southern drawl sound obscene. Iris Maria had three children, who, like a litter of friendly puppies, attacked Harry’s knees when he came to visit. A fourth child was on the way, Iris Maria had said from her soft mattress, where Harry never knew if his orgasmic shrieks were the result of their hot sex or the burritos that burned holes in his ulcerous stomach.
Iris Maria had offered to take a paternity test, leaving no doubt that the child was his, not that he had doubts. He just wanted ammunition when he faced his mother-in-law, the old battleaxe, who told everybody — even her dead husband, whom she conversed with via monthly séances — that Harry’s sperm count was too low.
He had taken off early today from his job at the medical supply center in order to confront Magnolia with the bad news. A divorce would have to be negotiated. Harry squared his ferret face, fidgeted with the buttons on his acrylic sweater-vest, and settled down to read the newspaper.
He scanned the real estate section, trying to assess what his small home was worth. On the west side of Colorado Springs, not far from Colorado College, it had a paid mortgage, was carefully patched and painted, and might bring enough money to appease his illiterate wife and provide her with financial security. He sincerely doubted she had the smarts to flip burgers. Or flip houses.
Maggie could use the money to open a southern-style restaurant, he thought with a chuckle. She could call it OH LORDY and serve ketchup casseroles and her “secret ingredient lemonade.”
Early this morning he had phoned real estate offices to inquire about listing his property. Magnolia had been in the kitchen, cooking their gritty breakfast.
Burns sighed with pleasure. On the few occasions he had come home after the lunch hour, Magnolia had been glued to the TV, watching her soap operas. Shopping, foo-ood, and soaps, her reasons for living. He was delighted that today she had opted to visit the “maul.” In the peace and quiet of his living room, he considered and rejected several opening lines. Maybe the best way was simply to say, “I want a divorce.” On soap operas people seemed to get divorced weekly. Or they got separated. Or killed. It all depended on the ratings.
Magnolia’s ratings had slipped lower than her saggy panty hose. Iris Maria wore a black garter belt and—
The doorbell rang with the first ten notes of “Dixie.”
“What can I do for you?” Harry asked, cracking open the front door.
“I’m from the real estate company. I’ve come to make an appraisal on your house.”
“That was quick. I only called this morning.”
“The early bird gets the worm.”
“That’s what I always say. Come inside. Heck, you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“Possibly. It’s a small world. You look like Frank Burns. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, but I don’t see the resemblance myself.”
“Could be the spittin’ double.”
“Yes, well, that’s not really important, is it? As you can see, my house is small, but it has three bedrooms and two bathroo—”
“He’s a sanctimonious prick.”
Oh, Lordy! Harry now wished Magnolia was on hand. She could always get rid of visitors with her confusing, illogical remarks and embarrassing attempts at southern hospitality. Harry had already decided he wouldn’t deal with a company whose rep used the word “prick.”
“Who’s a sanctimonious what you just said?”
“Frank Burns. Screwing Hot Lips, promising marriage and respectability. Giving her cheap presents like you’ve been doing with your trashy Mexican whore.”
“Now just … just a … just a minute,” Harry sputtered.
How the heck did this stranger know about Iris Maria? He had made two phone calls, both from the privacy of his home during Magnolia’s absence. Did his wife have enough intelligence to hire a private detective? Harry doubted it. Yet the face of this real estate agent did look familiar.
“I think you’d better leave. I don’t want to do business with your company.” Harry hoped his angry eyes made up for his lack of chin as he jutted his face forward like a furious turtle.
The agent strolled over to the fireplace, reached up, and unsheathed a saber from its crossed scabbard.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry screeched. “That’s my wife’s Civil War saber. You put that down.”
Weapon extended, the agent walked toward Harry. “Show me your garage.”
“Sure, no problem, you don’t need to threaten me with a sword. What real estate office did you say you were from?”
“Move!”
Harry decided he’d better humor this nut. He’d pretend to list the house and sign forms. Then, later, he’d call the police. He’d report it to the real estate board, too. What reputable company would hire someone who accumulated listings with threats?
And how the heck did this stranger know about Iris Maria?
“Garage is attached to the house, so you can enter through the kitchen,” Harry said, walking in front of his unwelcome guest at saber’s length. “Watch out for the steps,” he cautioned automatically.
“Nice garage, very few cracks or openings,” said the agent, tugging on the electric cord that snaked from an outlet to the chest freezer.
“Hey, why’d you pull the cord out? The food will defrost.”
“I want to prove I mean business, Burns. Because I intend to do business with your company.” The agent laughed, then slashed the freezer’s white enamel exterior with the saber.
I never realized Magnolia’s heirloom was so sharp, thought Harry, swallowing saliva-seasoned fear that tasted like lemon-pepper.
Nevertheless, he tried to maintain his composure. “As you can see, there’s plenty of room for a washer, dryer, freezer and two cars. That’s mine over there.” With a shaky hand he pointed toward a compact Escort.
“Get in the car, Burns.”
“Now just a minute. This has gone far enough.”
“Get in the damn car! Or would you prefer the freezer? If you choose the freezer, you can rot with all the other dead meat.”
Harry felt the sharp tip of the saber pierce through his sweater, all the way to his undershirt. Picturing the scarred freezer, he broke into a cold sweat. Then he slid behind the wheel of his Ford and burped and giggled; Magnolia would say gurped. “My car doesn’t come with the house,” he said.
Surprisingly, the agent laughed. “That’s just what Frank Burns would say. Damn, you’ve sure collected lots of stuff in the back of your car.”
“Medical supplies. I sell medical supplies. I could make you a really good deal—”
“Perfect.” The agent reached into a pocket, retrieved a pair of rubber gloves, and nodded toward the freezer. “If you try to escape, I’ll slice your head off. Understand?” Rooting among the supplies, the agent separated a package of surgical tape.
The agent taped Harry’s wrists and drawn-up knees to the steering wheel. Harry twisted his neck and somehow managed to swallow his ouch at the painful wrench. He saw the agent place Magnolia’s freshly laundered towels along the bottom of the garage’s double doors.
Lowering his face, Harry attempted to bite the tape that bound his wrists.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Swiftly wrapping a towel around the saber’s hilt, the agent aimed it toward Harry’s stomach.
Harry felt the cushioned hilt wallop hard, but not hard enough to bruise or crack a rib. “Oomph,” he gasped once, then again, as the weapon found its target a second time.
He tried to say, “Why are you giving me owies?” but didn’t have enough breath.
While he attempted to regain his breath, the agent scurried into the kitchen and returned with the Jim Beam bottle.
Harry felt fingers pry his lips and teeth apart. He tasted warm whiskey. He tried to close his mouth and couldn’t. He vowed not to swallow but his reflexes failed. The liquor began to taste good. Oh, Lordy, his head sang, pick a bale of rye.
The garage blurred. The agent muttered, “I’d better hurry, what if the wife comes home?” and poured faster. Harry gagged and mucus squirted from his nose. He peed his pants, then felt his sphincter muscle give up the ghost.
Oh please, God, let me toss my cookies was his last thought before the garage went black.
The agent wrapped Harry’s fingers around the empty Jim Beam bottle, then tossed the bottle onto the passenger seat. “Needed a little courage to do it, huh Burns? That’s what they’ll say. And just in case I forgot to mention it, thanks for leaving your keys in the ignition.”
The engine roared into life while the radio DJ announced the leading news story.
“Tomorrow they’ll sadly trumpet the untimely suicide of Frank Burns. What a shame! Mr. Burns had everything to live for. A nice house, a good business, a loyal wife and a devoted mistress.”
Chanting “Watch out for the steps, watch out for the steps,” the agent strolled inside, wiped fingerprints from Magnolia’s saber, and replaced it above the fireplace. Still wearing rubber gloves, humming the “Suicide Is Painless” theme from M*A*S*H, the agent walked over to the telephone, unscrewed the round-holed disk end of its receiver, and collected a tiny bugging device from its nest of wires.
Then the agent picked up Harry’s Daffy Duck glass and said, “Souvenir.”
Finally, the agent reentered the garage and carefully removed Harry’s surgical tape.
Franklin Harrison Burns slumped over the steering wheel. Exhaust fumes thickened the air. On the car radio the Beatles sang “Help, I need somebody.”
Chapter 3
Ellie secured her plump rump with string. She preferred prime rib to rump roast, but she’d overextended her food budget, and anyway, Peter wouldn’t care. Didn’t he avidly consume those awful sausage doohickeys?
Speaking of hickeys—
With a blush, she fingered her triple-strand pearl choke collar. She wasn’t ashamed of Peter’s enthusiastic neck nibbles, but the kids would arrive soon and her son Mick noticed everything.
Maybe she could blame it on vampires, Ellie mused, as she spiced her rump with garlic powder.
Her oven was preheated, her fresh veggies waited to be steamed, and an uncorked bottle of cabernet sauvignon breathed on the countertop. It was time to click her remote and watch the news, followed by M*A*S*H. According to Ellie’s TV listings, her local NBC affiliate was rerunning the first years again. And although she despised the laugh tracks, each show still seemed fresh, original.
She didn’t think the M*A*S*H reruns were as popular as Star Trek reruns. There were no Mashies like, say, Trekkies — Trekkers? — but the reruns must be very popular. Why else would they be televised every night at 6:00 and 10:30?
Ellie entered her family room, walked over to the window, parted the fronds of a plant, and peered outside. Indian summer had given way to a winter wonderland. Should she light her first fire of the season? There was dry wood stacked near the fireplace. Yes, a cozy blaze would mellow what might be a volatile situation.
Especially if both men arrived at the same time.
She lit a fire and turned on the TV.
Rats! She’d missed the first ten or so minutes of the newscast, the part where they capsulated world and local events. Oh, well, after the weather report came sports.
She might be a M*A*S*H fan, but she was a Denver Broncos fanatic.
Channel Ten’s meteorologist looked into the camera and emitted a perfidious smile as he aimed a wooden pointer toward snowflake asterisks on a Colorado-shaped map.
* * *
Kenneth Trask settled into his comfortable armchair and ran the numbers on his remote control.
“Why don’t you just hit five?” Jacques Hansen asked, his brow creased in its perpetual scowl.
Trask had once heard somebody describe Hansen’s face as “donning the hate-mug.” Jacques worked at the Office of Special Investigations on the Air Force Academy base, and he loved his job.
“Patience, my friend,” Trask said. “Tenacity is a virtue, along with faith and hope. Screw charity! You of all people should understand the art of anticipation. Don’t you lick your chops over the thought of accumulating unsuspecting suspects, whom you then con into signing confessions?”
“I don’t con them, I shame them.” Hansen’s chapped lips stretched into a grin. “And if they give me the identities of their fellow offenders—”
“Isn’t that McCarthyism?”
“Joe McCarthy was a saint.”
“Joseph McCarthy was an asshole.”
“Wait a minute, Ken. He was tenacious.”
“Only in the beginning. Then he found fame, lost his cool, and jumped the gun. Success, my friend, is not spur-of-the-moment. One must plan very carefully. Anticipate.”
Trask purposely allowed his thumb to hover above the remote control buttons. With a grin, he watched Hansen flinch when the static merry-go-round began again. Trask knew that Hansen wanted nothing more than to look away, but the OSI officer stared, mesmerized, at the screen.
Images blurred then slowed. A gaggle of game-show enthusiasts screamed “Wheel of FOR-CHUN!” The second or third season’s L&O team of cops and lawyers marched to the doink doink music of Dick Wolf (Richard Beltzer called it “the Dick Wolf Cash Register Sound”), and on the umpteenth rerun of Cheers, everybody knew everybody’s name. Finally, the theme music “Suicide Is Painless” clashed with the chime of Trask’s front doorbell.
“It’s open!” he shouted.
An accompanying gust of wind rippled the folds of the American flag mounted above the fireplace mantel as four men bustled into the living room.
Nancy Trask appeared, as if she were a genie summoned from a lamp. From long practice she balanced a lacquered tray that held defrosted Sara Lee chocolate cake, sliced into small squares, ears of Green Giant corn, cut in half, and shot glasses with cold milk, the traditional weekly homage inspired by the wishes expressed in the final M*A*S*H episode.
Standing directly beneath the flag, Nancy Trask could have posed for a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover as the girl next door welcoming home her errant soldier. Except at fifty-five, Nancy wasn’t a “girl” and, anyway, she was a shade too severe, with close-cropped brownish hair, sienna-tinted eyes, and a mouth that was always on the verge of smiling.
Trask’s buddies knew that she was a piece of clay, molded by her husband. She talked in questions, glancing toward Ken after almost every sentence for his nod of approval or negation. “I’m going to the bathroom?” she would say, or “I’m answering the phone?” She had borne Trask one son (God forbid she squeeze out a daughter) christened Kenneth Junior — KJ — who had grown and flown from his parents’ art deco-embellished nest.
Nancy placed her ceremonial tray of food on top of a rectilinear coffee table, circa 1930, and drifted silently, like a Charles de Lint wraith, from the room. Trask surmised that his wife was preparing a cookie batter from scratch, folding laundry, or in the sewing room, pinning a new pattern. Nancy had sewn the blue drapes that covered the living room window, patiently stitching complicated valance, pleats, and an almost invisible hem at the bottom. This evening Nancy’s drapes were open, framing the snowy landscape.
It felt warm and cozy inside, even without a fire. Trask had long ago determined that a fireplace blaze would have initiated intimate conversation and detracted from his show.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Dickie Dorack, nicknamed The Dork by other group members, “but Fred’s car ran out of gas.”
“Almost ran out of gas,” whined Fred Remming, placing his round buttocks against the meshed fireplace screen.
For a moment Trask wished he had built a fire as he visualized flames licking at Fred’s pressed Levi’s. Tonight Fred’s face was bright crimson instead of its usual pink, an upshot of the icy wind.
“Almost ran out of gas?” exclaimed The Dork. “Almost? What do you call pushing a Jeep three blocks to the gas station if that’s not out of gas?”
Fred blew his nose into a bandanna-style handkerchief. “There was some gas left in the tank. I didn’t want to hurt the engine or get stuck in an intersection. Besides, I pushed too. Probably caught my death from that stupid wind. Howie insisted on steering, and he weighs more than my Jeep. Father Mac watched out for other cars. I think he blessed them. It was so embarrassing. People assumed Father Mac wanted to wash their windshields, you know, for money? I thought I’d die from embarrass—”
“How much gas is some gas?” Jacques Hansen turned his bristly crew cut and wire-rimmed glasses toward Fred’s flushed face. “Was the gauge on empty? Below empty? Did the motor sputter and die?”
“I don’t know. I guess it was below empty. So I ran out of gas. So what? This is America. It could happen to anybody, even snipers.”
Trask grimaced. Fred Remming had an inordinate, one could almost say extravagant, fear of snipers. Why he thought he’d be their target, Trask hadn’t figured out yet. Nancy, in one of her few perceptive moments, said it was because Fred had an inordinate desire to snipe.
Howie Silverman guffawed. “Give Hansen the names of three other people who’ve run out of gas, Freddie my boy, and he’ll probably let you off the hook.”
“Oh, I see. Jacques was joking. Interrogating me like he does his homosexual cadets.”
“I never joke.” Behind his glasses, Hansen’s eyes were icy gray. In some lights they looked colorless, which had never bothered Trask before, but tonight, for some reason, did.
Trask watched his best friend, Sean McCarthy, smile at the little drama. Sean wore his usual black turtleneck tucked into khaki pants. Slight in appearance, he had a deceptive wiry strength. Trask had arm wrestled with him many times. And always lost.
“Ego te absolvo,” Sean announced to the group, although he stared directly at Jacques Hansen. “You are forgiven.”
“Up yours, Father Mac.” Howie shed his wool topcoat. Melting snow clung to its brown fur collar. Under the coat, he wore a plaid shirt, western-style pants cinched by an enormous turquoise-and-silver belt buckle, and Tony Lama lizard-skin boots. Just an old cowhand from the Rio Jersey. Trenton, New Jersey.
“Ego te absolvo,” Sean repeated.
“You always do that.” Fred sniffled then sneezed. “Ever since the Dew Drop’s Mash-Bash. You’d think you were a real priest instead of a telephone repairman.”
“How could you run out of gas, Fred?” Dickie Dorack was unable to relinquish a conversation until it had reached its conclusion. “I fill my tank when the needle hits half.”
Sean said, “Half full or half empty?”
Trask watched The Dork peel off earflap hat, scarf, mackinaw jacket and heavy cardigan, leaving a University of Colorado sweatshirt over a turtleneck tunic. At six feet tall, fully clothed, Dickie Dorack looked like the Oz scarecrow.
The Dork wove his fingers through his straw-yellow hair. “Well, I guess I buy gas when it’s half—”
“Shut up, the commercial’s ending.” Trask raised his hand like a school crossing guard.
“Ken, we must have seen this episode a million times,” Fred whined. “They’re rerunning the first years again.”
“If you don’t like it, go home.”
Fred glanced toward the window, whose panes reflected the swirling snow. Then he shrugged.
Silently, all four men piled their outer clothing on top of a corner table. Howie Silverman appropriated a bentwood rocker. Dickie Dorack and Fred Remming deflated the plush cushions of a sectional couch. Sean McCarthy sat cross-legged on the floor, crushing orange strands of shag carpeting. Jacques Hansen, already seated, kept his body ramrod straight, inches away from the slats of a ladder-back chair. Each man, including Trask, munched cake and corn, then downed the milk. Dorack took a token bite from his wedge of chocolate cake.
On the TV screen, Hawkeye was greeting a friend he had known since the fifth grade, Tommy Gillis, who was writing a book called You Never Hear the Bullet. “There was a young blond kid in my outfit,” says Tommy. “I looked at him one day and half of him was gone, and you know what he said? He said, ‘I never heard no bullet.’ ”
The doorbell chimed.
“Let it ring,” said Trask. “Nobody interrupts my show.” Nobody would dare!
“Gosh darn it,” Fred said with a snivel.
“Shut up!”
“But Ken, it’s Melody.”
“Who the hell is Melody?”
“My cousin. She’s meeting me here tonight.”
The doorbell chimed again.
Sean unfolded his body from the carpet and opened the front door.
With a sigh, Trask turned away from the screen and focused on a bulky, snow-shrouded figure.
“Come in, my child,” said Sean in his Father Mulcahy voice.
Melody Remming entered the room. She was a female replica, almost a photocopy of her cousin Fred. Her brown poodle curls were scissor-cut just below her ears, her balloon cheeks flashed bright red, and her lips were tinged with blue. Snow nearly camouflaged a thick, blue-quilted jacket, and melting drops dripped onto her white ski pants. Knotted around her throat was a red silk scarf.
I pledge allegiance to the flag, thought Trask.
“What were you doing standing outside in the snow?” The Dork leapt to his feet, removed Melody’s jacket, tossed it on top of the table, and steered her toward the couch.
“Freddie said to meet him around six. To wait outside and not come in.” She plopped her butt on the couch, between The Dork and her cousin. “You said you had to check with Mr. Trask, Freddie, and see if it was okay for me to join his group.”
Melody’s inflection was the antithesis of her name — high and squeaky, like fingernails across a chalkboard. Instinctively, she snuggled her shivering body closer to Dickie Dorack’s thin frame.
An aspirin commercial interrupted the action on the TV screen. Rising from his chair, Trask shook Melody’s frozen fingers. “Welcome to my home, young lady.”
Not my type, he thought, noting the small bumps beneath her blue sweater. Anyway, I prefer blondes.
Melody smiled timidly. “We’ve been introduced before, Mr. Trask, but you wouldn’t remember me.”
“My wife Nancy’s in the kitchen,” he said.
“I need some aspirin, Ken,” Fred whined, his gaze riveted to the TV advertisement. “I’ve caught a gosh-darn cold.”
“There’s medicine in the kitchen cabinet. If Melanie would be so kind—”
“Melody,” the girl said in her high scratchy voice, still sitting on the couch like some patriotic sculpture. She glanced longingly toward Dickie Dorack’s leftover cake. “Do you mind if I finish your cake?”
“That’s for group members only, young lady.” Trask returned his gaze to the screen as the M*A*S*H rerun reran.
“Hey, I’m sorry I told you to wait and forgot, Mel,” Fred whispered.
“Ego te absolvo,” said Sean.
The show reached its conclusion. “I’d give you a kiss, Hawk, but I can’t lift my head,” murmurs a mortally wounded Tommy Gillis.
“You’d just get my mask icky,” Hawkeye says.
“I heard the bullet,” says Tommy, dying.
Credits were superimposed over Hawkeye, Hot Lips, Trapper, and—
The doorbell chimed again. This time a young man handed Trask three pizza boxes.
Trask paid the delivery boy, turned off the TV, and led the way into his tidy kitchen. Seated at the head of a butcher-block table, he surveyed his guests and saw Melody surreptitiously spit pieces of limp green pepper into her cupped palm.
“I understand you’ve been meeting like this for years,” she said, reaching toward a white linen napkin.
“Most of us watch the reruns every day, but we get together on Mondays,” Sean said. He smiled at Nancy as she removed a Moosehead from the refrigerator.
Melody’s face scrunched and her freckles merged. “Why Mondays?”
“Because that was when they used to televise the actual show?” Nancy handed the Moosehead to Sean while, at the same time, she glanced toward her husband.
Trask nodded.
Nancy looks nice tonight, he thought. She’s working out at the health club like I told her to, changing some of that flab into muscle again. If she could only grow breasts.
He felt an erection begin to build, a spur-of-the-moment hard-on. He glanced toward the wall phone. I’ll call later, after the ten-thirty rerun.
“Ken started the group so we could get our weekly Mash-at-six-fix,” Sean said.
“Otherwise we’d break out in a Mash-rash,” said Howie.
“Our weekly fix of Hawkeye, Hot Lips, Radar, Klinger and Frank Burns,” The Dork concluded.
“And Father Mulcahy,” Sean added.
“If you say ‘a-go-tay-absolvo’ again, I’ll tape your mouth shut,” Fred whined.
“I just love Alan Alda,” Melody said with a sigh. “He reminds me of Abraham Lincoln.”
“He does not!” exclaimed an indignant Fred.
“He does too, Freddie. Not so much in appearance. Hawkeye’s better looking. I meant his personality. I’d vote for Alan Alda for president. And I happen to adore tall men.”
Trask grinned when Melody glanced up at Dorack from beneath her lowered lashes.
She’s not my type, but she’s perfect for The Dork.
“I understand Alda’s queer. Abe Lincoln was, too,” Jacques Hansen said with a scowl.
Those were his first words since his accusatory exchange with Fred, and Trask wished the man had kept his trap shut.
“What did you say?” Melody’s freckles merged again.
Trask watched her glare at the OSI officer as though Hansen were a giant green pepper who’d risen from the cardboard pizza box.
“Jacques thinks anybody who ain’t a Republican is a closet homosexual,” drawled Howie, accepting a bottle of Bud from Nancy Trask. “What’cha’ call ‘em, Jacques? Oh, yeah, ‘Swishy Liberals.’ ”
“But Lincoln was a Republican … Lincoln was … Jacques’s crazy,” Melody sputtered. “Alan Alda has a wife and daughters and he’s ever so … so virile … not the least bit ‘swishy’ and, well, if he was gay, he’d admit it.”
“He’d appear on Oprah,” The Dork said.
“He isn’t gay, is he, dear?” Nancy turned her face toward her husband.
“No.” Trask counted silently to ten. It wouldn’t do to exhibit anger in front of his guests, even though he felt like removing one of Nancy’s heavy frying pans from its peg on the wall and bashing Jacques Hansen’s head in.
Alan Alda, as Hawkeye Pierce, was Trask’s hero.
“He’s a fruit!” Hansen yelled. “The wife and daughter thing is a cover. You can tell by all his feminist activities.”
Howie guffawed. “Jacques, you’re an asshole. Feminism is an ideology. I don’t buy everything those radical, bra-burning, gimme-gimme broads have to say, but feminists advocate political and economic equality. It’s not a state of being feminine.”
Hansen’s face flushed red to the roots of his bristly crew cut. “Give me ten minutes alone with Hawkeye and I’d make him admit it. He’s a traitor, too.”
“A traitor?” Trask eyed Nancy’s frying pans again.
“He’s always putting down the war, the enemy, U.S. involvement in foreign affairs—”
“Why do you watch the show?” Melody interrupted. “And why did you join Mr. Trask’s club if you’re so gung-ho war?”
“I like war movies. Duke Wayne and Robert Ryan. Cliff what’cha’macallit, you know, the guy who starred in that movie about the Green Berets.”
“You honestly believe M*A*S*H is a war show?” Melody asked incredulously.
“Damn straight!”
Voices rose in an indignant chorus. When there was a pause, Trask saw The Dork smile at Melody, then turn toward Hansen. “The show is antiwar, you jerk.”
“It is not! Some of the stories … the characters … Margaret and Frank are very patriotic.”
“If you ask me, Frank’s queer,” Howie drawled. “Not to mention swishy.”
“Now who’s the asshole?” Hansen’s face turned beet red. “Frank Burns is married and he’s always chasing Margaret Hou—”
“That’s just a cover.” Howie grinned.
“If there was an election, the American people would choose Frank Burns for president.” Hansen’s voice was now as cold and gray as his eyes.
Melody’s pug nose scrunched. “I don’t like Frank, and no woman would vote for him. Would you, Mrs. Trask?”
“I don’t think so. Would I, dear?” Nancy glanced toward her husband.
“No.”
“I do think he’s handsome,” Nancy said, the first sentence she’d uttered without a question mark.
Melody said, “Who? Frank Burns?”
“Yes. No. The actor, Larry Linville, may he rest in peace. He majored in engineering at the University of Colorado. Did you know that, Melody?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes I forget that the characters on the show aren’t real.”
“Real or imaginary, I wouldn’t vote for Frank Burns,” Nancy said, looking at Jacques Hansen. “Because of his morals. You know, messing around with Hot Lips when he’s already married?”
“Frank Burns reminds me of Richard Nixon,” Melody said.
“Would you buy a used car from Frank Burns?” Howie grinned at Dickie Dorack, who sold used cars, then shifted his gaze to Sean. “You haven’t said anything, Father Mac.”
“He’s forgiving us,” Fred said.
Melody said, “For what?”
“I don’t know. Hey, if there was an election and all the Mash people were on the ballot, who’d you vote for? I’d vote for Radar. He’s good and kind and—”
“A virgin,” Melody teased. “I’d vote for Alan Alda, of course. Maybe Margaret Houlihan for veep.”
“Hot Lips would never make it. She’d be nailed for morals,” said Sean.
Fred sneezed. “You’d vote for Father Mulcahy, right?”
“Wrong,” Sean replied. “A priest couldn’t win and I don’t like losers. I’d vote for Colonel Potter. The Eisenhower image.”
“Who would I vote for, dear?” Nancy glanced toward her husband.
“Hawkeye.”
“Who would you vote for, Mr. Trask?” Melody followed Nancy’s gaze.
“Hawkeye.”
“Frank Burns,” shouted Hansen, “would win in a walk!”
“Frank Burns doesn’t walk, he slinks,” said Melody with disgust. “Frank Burns is a sanctimonious A-hole. Hawkeye is worth ten Franks. Hawkeye’s my hero.”
For the first time, Trask smiled sincerely at Fred’s cousin. “ ‘The pains that are withheld for me,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘I realize that I can see.’ ”
“ ‘That suicide is painless, it brings so many changes,’ ” Melody sang in her raspy voice. “Oh, God, I love that song.”
“Nancy,” Trask said, “next Monday, when you phone in the order for our pizzas, kill the green peppers.”
* * *
Outside Kenneth Trask’s house the temperature continued to drop and the falling snow stuck to lawns and pavements like Elmer’s glue.
Franklin Harrison Burns was cold, too. However, his ulcers no longer complained, and he would never have to eat hominy grits or spicy burritos again.
Outside Harry’s garage, a man furtively backpedaled toward the sidewalk.
Parked curbside was a silver BMW with the name of his real estate company tastefully stenciled on each of the front doors.
Should he drive away? But what if somebody had seen his car? Despite its snowy shroud, it would be easy to describe, even easier to distinguish from other BMWs. Should he call the police? An innocent person would call the cops.
But then, he wasn’t exactly innocent. Not since the age of thirteen when he’d celebrated his manhood by sleeping with his mother’s mahjong partner.
Undecided, he sat in his car, inserted a CD into his expensive CD player, and listened to Britney Spears sing “Toxic.”
Chapter 4
I heard the bullet.
Tears trickled down Ellie’s cheeks.
Beneath faded jeans, her knees flattened the family room’s carpet while her tush rested comfortably upon her bare heels. Her gaze had been riveted on the TV screen, and yet she was delightfully aware that Sandra Connors, her favorite Weight Winners protégée, had moved farther down the couch toward her son Michael, who insisted on being called Mick after his idol, Mick Jagger. Of course Mick’s dad, Tony, had refused to go along with the name change.
From the corner of her eye, Ellie saw a small boot nudge an oversize Reebok.
Sandra, with her wheat-colored hair and blue eyes, resembled Lewis Carroll’s original Alice, except Sandra’s rabbit hole was nearby Colorado College and “Wonderland” was any part of the planet Mick occupied.
Mick was a conglomeration of parental genes. He had his dad’s tall, slender frame, thank goodness. Also, Tony’s mop of blond-streaked Robert Redford hair. But Mick’s blue-green eyes were Ellie’s. The diamond studs in his ears were hers too, “borrowed’’ from her jewelry box.
Due to his homogenized pedigree, Mick sometimes displayed both Jewish and Catholic guilt, an endearing quality. That same trait could be attractive in Tony, but it wasn’t. Because Tony’s contrition made Ellie feel defensive.
Take the Mash-Bash, for example. She’d never forget Tony’s actions that night, or the next day, when he’d pulled her from the laundry room, spooned copious amounts of Kaopectate down her sore throat, and said no, he wasn’t mad, what made her think he was? Then he escorted her to their bedroom, poured her a brandy, filling her snifter to the brim, then another, and when she dizzily said “I have a Swede tooth” for the umpteenth time, he gave a fake laugh, kneaded her breasts like dough, mistook her moan of pain for a moan of passion, and mounted her.
Later he insisted that his “accidental mishaps” were due to her weight problem. So in the end she had apologized to him and promised to diet — a promise she’d kept, broken, kept and broken for years, until she realized that manipulative Tony always blamed everything, including his infidelity, on her. It was always her fault.
With a sigh, she buried her memories, rose from the floor, turned off the TV, and headed toward the kitchen, planning to baste her roasting rump with pan drippings.
“I could watch M*A*S*H reruns over and over,” said Sandra. “It makes all those macho clone movies look like comic books. Oh, gosh, Tommy Gillis. Every time that episode is resurrected, I can’t help crying.”
“You cry at everything,” Mick teased, even though a suspicious moisture had gathered at the corners of his own eyes during the show’s conclusion. Pointing toward the snow-crusted window, he recited, “ ‘Lay him low, lay him low. In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know. Lay him low!’ ”
“Are those the lyrics for a new folk-rock song?” Sandra asked with a smile.
Closing his eyes, Mick said, “ ‘Dirge for a Soldier.’ G. H. Boker. Born 1823, died 1890. English Lit.”
“You sound like your mother.”
Mick’s eyes blinked open. “Is that a compliment?”
“Of course. Your mom has more quotes than Keebler has chips.” Sandra paused, looking thoughtful. Then she said, “I don’t cry at everything, Mick, though I freely admit I weep buckets when I hear your band play.”
“Because the ballads are so sad?”
“Not even close, Mr. Piano Man. If you must know, it’s because your lead singer makes my ears bleed.”
“You’re just mad because you haven’t been invited to sing with my group.”
“You promised—”
“I know, but Belinda’s really hot.”
“Miss Belly,” scoffed Sandra, picturing the beautiful entertainer, who had a low, throaty voice and a slender body, all legs. “Belly-up, if you ask me. Anyway, I prefer to sing with John Russell at the Dew Drop Inn, right here in Colorado Springs.”
“Fine,” Mick said. Lead guitarist of his own band, Rocky Mountain High, he also played piano and harmonica. He attended UC in Boulder and constantly pressured Sandra, a music major, to transfer her credits there. “Sing anywhere you like, but you’re mad just the same.”
That truthful remark silenced Sandra, but not a small child in a playpen who awoke when electronic TV voices changed to live conversation. The little girl had been asleep on her stomach, her Pampered rump pointed toward the ceiling. Now she sat up and wailed.
Mick’s eyes narrowed as his mother returned, carrying a plastic bottle shaped like a clown. “I don’t know how you can baby-sit Annie Laurie for Tony,” he said.
“It’s not li’l pumpkin’s fault.” Ellie placed the bottle on an end table next to an authentic reproduction Tiffany lamp, scooped up the child, stripped her diaper, then clothed Annie Laurie in training pants and orange pajamas with a bunny appliquéd on what would one day become a breast.
The little girl settled herself trustingly in Ellie’s lap and reached for the bottle. “Gimme, Errie,” she said. Twenty months old, she had trouble pronouncing the letter L.
Mick tried to hide an exasperated sigh. After the divorce, his dad had married an ex-Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Eight months later, Annie Laurie popped out. Literally. Mick’s dad and his new wife had been jazzing it up at a rock concert.
Recently, Mick’s stepmother had abandoned mate and maternal instincts to seek stardom in Hollywood. Dad, whom Mick now called Tony, had sold his Denver house, moved back to Colorado Springs, sublet a condo, and rejoined his real estate firm. He had hired a housekeeper who doubled as babysitter, but the woman was susceptible to mysterious illnesses, so Annie Laurie often ended up on his mom’s doorstep.
A bright, inquisitive child, Annie Laurie responded with a shrug to life’s unexpected rollercoaster loops, accepting “Errie’s” bountiful affection as her due. Mick hated himself for feeling the way he did, but he was unable to deal with Tony and Annie Laurie, even though his stepsister adored him and called him “Mymick.”
Settled back inside the playpen, Annie Laurie was content with cloth building blocks, her clown bottle, and a frozen bagel.
“Why do you give Annie frozen bagels?” Sandra asked.
“It’s better than a teething ring,” Ellie said. “She can gum it to death, and at the same time it tastes good.”
Mick burst out laughing. Ellie blushed. Embarrassed by the innuendo, Sandra stretched a denim-clad leg toward the three-globed ceiling light fixture.
Mick watched admiringly then turned toward his mom again. She wore pearls and a yellow cardigan sweater that zipped to her, well, cleavage. There was no other word for it. A guy couldn’t say “breasts” or “boobs” when talking about his mom. On the other hand, a mom didn’t talk about gumming things.
“When’s Peter due?” he asked.
“About the same time as your father. They both called. Tony’s planning to appraise a house. Peter’s checking out a bank robbery that he says is county rather than city, so his department shouldn’t be involved. I expect both men will ring my chimes around seven-thirty.”
Disturbed by his mother’s casual acceptance of an awkward situation, Mick decided to change the subject. “You know what, Mom? If your hair was blonde instead of red, you’d look a lot like Hot Lips.”
Mick’s compliment was no exaggeration, thought Sandra. Only a light web of smile lines radiating from the corners of her blue-green eyes indicated that Ellie could have produced an offspring who’d crossed the threshold from teen to twenty. Ellie had a tapered nose, a generous mouth and a determined chin. If her hair had been platinum, she could easily play a stand-in for Loretta Swit.
“They say that everyone looks like somebody else,” Sandra said, “and you could be Hot Lips’ twin sister.”
“I’m perfectly happy to be me,” said Ellie. Unless I could be Eleanor Bernstein, bestselling author. During her separation from Tony, she had tried to write a mystery about a cheerleader who murders members of a football team and is exposed by an average housewife.
She hadn’t finished her cheerful blockbuster; had, in fact, barely begun. Steven Spielberg once said, “People have forgotten how to tell a story. Stories don’t have a middle or an end anymore. They usually have a beginning that never stops beginning.” Her book had a beginning that never stopped beginning, so she’d hidden the unfinished manuscript behind her childhood Nancy Drew mysteries.
And yet life was exciting and fulfilling, despite Mick’s attitude toward his stepsister, Tony’s return, and—
There was a loud knock on the front door.
“Peter? Tony? Come in!” she shouted. “It’s unlocked.”
Tony entered. He appeared tired and visibly shaken, even though he greeted his tall son with a sugary smile. The sugar dissolved as he said, “What’s with the earrings, Michael?”
Ellie could see that Mick was holding back an explosive It’s Mick!
Instead he said, “Everybody wears earrings, including famous athletes. Several Denver Broncos—”
“Have you suddenly decided to play football? If I recall, you struck out in Little League, and you cried when a soccer ball hit your chest.”
“Sign Annie Laurie up for Little League. And soccer. Her mother can lead the cheering at home games, assuming she ever comes back home.”
“Mick! Tony! Stop it!” Ellie stepped between them.
“Sorry, Mom.” Mick retrieved two jackets from the hall closet, returned to the family room, and mumbled something about escorting Sandra to the dorm before the snow became impossible to navigate.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ellie said. “Sandra doesn’t live that far away and you haven’t had dinner yet.”
“See you later, Mom. C’mon, Muffin.”
Ellie watched Sandra grin at the pet nickname, then lean over the playpen and give Annie Laurie several kisses. Her waist-length hair swept forward, tickling the little girl’s chin.
Ignoring Sandra, Annie Laurie scrunched up her face and wailed, “Mymick, Mymick.”
He responded with a quick hug, and the child seemed satisfied, although her lower lip quivered as she waved her tiny fingers bye-bye.
“Would you care to join Peter and me for breakfast, Sandra?” Ellie said. “I could serve leftover rump,” she added somewhat caustically.
“Sure. Thanks. Sorry. Mick! Wait! Rats!”
“Sit down, Tony,” Ellie said, after the front door slammed shut. Jackie Robinson had slipped inside through the brief opening, and he sauntered somewhat furtively toward the fireplace. Tongue-toweling snow from his black fur, the cat, who didn’t like Tony, hissed loudly in between licks. His sibilant sound matched the sizzle of flames consuming pine.
“Just for the record, Tony,” Ellie continued, “your Little League remark was totally uncalled for. Mick skis like an Olympic champ.”
“It was the earrings.” Tony unwound his Saint Laurent mohair scarf, took off his camel-hair coat, then his London-tailored suit jacket, finally his Hermės tie. Ellie knew it was a Hermės tie because Tony had told her so. More than once. And it had H printed all over it.
Ellie admired everything except the tie, which she felt was too self-aggrandizing with its motifs built around the letter H. She carefully folded scarf, coat, jacket and tie across the playpen while Tony bent forward, pinched Annie Laurie’s cheek, straightened up, and said, “Michael’s earrings looked awfully familiar. Didn’t I give them to you for our tenth wedding anniversary?”
“Yes and no. On my twenty-ninth birthday, which would have been the same month as our anniversary, you handed me a hundred-dollar bill and told me to buy something nice.”
“That would make Michael’s earlobes worth fifty bucks each. I hope he doesn’t pawn them.”
“His earlobes?”
“No, the diamonds.”
“You’ve lost your sense of humor, Tony. Please sit down.”
Despite their bumpy past and potholed present, Ellie took a moment to admire her ex-husband. His blond-streaked hair was exactly the right length. Half Italian mafia, half Jewish prince, he was tall and lean. His chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, dark eyes, Semitic nose, wicked grin, and uncanny resemblance to Charlton Heston in Ben Hur, assured financial success. Women, he often boasted, made the final decision on purchasing a home.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “You look unglued.”
“Would you make me a whisper martini?”
“Sure.” She walked into the kitchen, poured gin over ice cubes, and whispered the word “vermouth.” How many times had she done this during their marriage?
Tony followed her, eyed the wine, sniffed the roast, and said, “When does Michael return to school?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Is he on vacation?”
“No. His band was booked into the Springs Saturday night and he only has one class on Monday, English Lit, solid A-plus, so he decided to stretch the weekend. Besides, he’s crazy about Sandra Connors. You can tell because they argue all the time.”
“We never argued.”
“That’s right, Tony. I used to say ‘sorry’ before I discovered what it was I’d done wrong. Let’s go back to the family room. I’ll stoke the fire.”
“You look great,” he said, sinking onto the couch and gulping his drink down. “I like what you’re wearing, even though you should zip the front. Your breasts are showing.”
“My cleavage, not my breasts.’’ Ellie scooped up her bristling black cat and sat across from her ex-husband on a plump love seat. “Funny, you never noticed this old sweater before.”
“You look different. Maybe it’s because you’ve lost so much weight. I do think you should zip—”
“Okay, Tony, tell me what’s bothering you.”
“How do you know something’s bothering me?”
“We were married for more years than I care to count. Is it your wife? Annie Laurie? The hypochondriac housekeeper?”
“I fired the housekeeper. My mother has offered to board Annie Laurie, at least temporarily.”
“Oh.” She glanced toward the happy child, who was making faces at the cat. “I had hoped … well, never mind. I guess that’s best.”
“Ellie, you won’t believe what happened tonight. This man, Franklin H. Burns, phoned my office early this morning, asking for an appraisal on his house. I tried to call back around four. No answer. I was driving here to pick up Annie Laurie and the Burns home was on my way — he lives only a couple of miles from you — so I figured I’d take a chance and stop by. I knocked and rang the bell. No one came to the door, so I decided to look around and appraise the property.”
“What happened? A dog attacked?” An irate husband attacked?
“Dog? No. I was circling the garage when I heard something. Car engine. I smelled exhaust fumes and called nine-one-one. Can you believe it? That stupid man killed himself in his car — an American car!”
Holy cow, thought Ellie, if that stupid man had killed himself in a Japanese car, would it be okay? Tony’s voice gave every indication of honest indignation, but it also had the earmarks of honest angst. Well, after all, he had lost a potential client.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Burns called for an appraisal then committed suicide? How did he sound?”
“What do you mean how did he sound? He was dead!”
“Not tonight, Tony, this morning. Did he sound resigned? Upset?”
“My secretary took the call.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to sell his house. Maybe he had financial difficulties and couldn’t see a way out. That happens. Was he old?”
“How the hell do I know? I didn’t go inside the garage. The car’s engine was running and the man was dead! By the way, an Escort sure gets good mileage. The needle was on half.”
“I thought you didn’t go inside the garage.”
“The, um, police mentioned it.”
“My Honda gets great mileage.”
Tony scowled. “The next time you trade in a car, Ellie, a Lincoln Continental no less, think American.”
“Good grief, Tony, you drive a German…” She paused, took a deep breath and said, “I wonder why he called your office.”
“Who?”
“Burns.”
“There you go again, breaking everything down, analyzing. I imagine he called my office because it has the biggest Yellow Pages ad. What’s your theory? Do you honestly believe Harry Burns called early this morning, trusting I’d arrive in time to abort his suicide attempt?’’
“I thought his name was Franklin.”
“Tom, Dick, Harry, what’s the difference?”
“How do you know his name’s Harry?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m not. I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Tony, glancing toward Jackie Robinson.
“And satisfaction brought it back. Anyway, I think curiosity was framed.”
“You’re impossible, Ellie. Why aren’t you more compassionate? Burns is dead. He can’t feel anything, but I’ve had a shock. If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the bathroom.”
“Of course. It’s the second door on the—”
“I know where the bathroom is.” For the first time, Tony’s mouth quirked at the corners. “I used to live here, remember?”
As her ex-husband strolled toward the hallway, Ellie recalled a conversation with Peter. She had offered to play decoy during the diet club murders and he had responded with anger. “You’d be dead,” Peter had said. “You wouldn’t feel anything at all. It’s always the one who has to go on living who suffers.”
But Tony made himself the victim in any unpleasant situation. It was hard to feel compassion. Besides, something didn’t ring true. Could she have imagined his reaction? Way out of proportion, since Tony hadn’t actually known Burns. Why was Tony so scared? Was the suicide’s death a reminder that mortality was inevitable? Or was Tony simply annoyed over the loss of a listing?
“When did you get the waterbed?” he asked, reentering the room, sitting on the couch.
“After our divor—”
“I can understand your concern for a stupid suicide, Ellie, but can’t you spare some sympathy for me? After all, I found the dead body.”
“You didn’t find the body. You smelled exhaust fumes.”
“Same thing. I was involved.”
“How were you involved?”
“Are you being dense on purpose? I was there. I was grilled by the cops.”
“Peter says cops don’t grill people like cheese sandwiches. They merely question—”
“Damn it, Ellie, I was grilled royally.”
Maybe Tony was messing around with the wife, she mused. Maybe Burns found them together and — and what? Could Tony kill somebody and make it look like a suicide?
No way! In any case, what would be Tony’s motive? If he was screwing the wife, he’d merely zip up his Armani twill slacks, flash his wolfish grin, and hightail it out of there.
“I’m sorry for my lack of sensitivity,” she said, “but I’ve seen dead bodies too.”
“That’s different. You’ve always been into corpses.”
“Really, Tony. Into? How 60s and 70s. I think it’s ‘let’s do corpses’ now.”
“Very funny. You’re into a cop, aren’t you? Or is it the other way around?”
“Another martini?” she asked, and heard the ice in her voice.
“I don’t want to drink and drive with Annie Laurie. Besides, isn’t he coming for dinner? I smelled a roast.”
“I smell a rat.”
“Is your cop planning to marry you?”
“Sorry, but that’s none of your business.”
“Okay, you’re right.”
“Do you know what Mick said?” Ellie said, hoping to change the subject and lighten the atmosphere. “Your son said I look like Hot Lips.”
“Who?”
“Loretta Swit, the M*A*S*H star. Hot Lips.”
“I suppose so, if you changed the color of your hair. Does he like hot lips?”
“He has a name. I just remembered, Tony. You hardly ever watched the show. You didn’t care for it.”
“I didn’t care for it because you were obsessed by it. For the record, you sound bitter.”
“If I’m bitter, it’s because … never mind. Oh, to hell with it. I am bitter. Don’t forget, Tony, it was you who brought about our divorce. You broke our vows. You had your cheerleader on the side, turning cartwheels, showing off her panties, spreading her legs into convenient splits. I remember a cheer from high school that always made us giggle, even though the nuns never knew why.” She chanted, “Let’s get physical, get down, get hard—”
“Ellie!”
“Well then, how about ‘Pump, Pump, Pump it up’?”
“Jeeze, you never used to be so crude. Or vindictive. My wife’s gone, probably forever.”
“Sorry,” she said automatically, thinking how Tony could still push buttons. Was that her second, third or fourth sorry?
“Guess I’d better be gone, too,” he said. “Where’s Annie Laurie’s snowsuit?”
“Hanging in the closet. I’ll get it.”
He grinned wolfishly. “First door on the—”
“Shut up, Tony.”
After Annie Laurie and Tony had left, Ellie entered the kitchen and turned down the oven. Peter would be late if he was called in on the death of Franklin “Harry” Burns.
She wondered if she’d ever met the man. Colorado Springs wasn’t a small town by any stretch of the imagination, but his name sure sounded familiar.
Holy cow! Mrs. Franklin Harrison Burns. Magnolia. The new Weight Winners member whose photo she had filed earlier today.
Wait a minute. There was another reason why the name sounded so familiar. Yes. Frank Burns, the character on M*A*S*H.
What a strange coincidence that the “stupid suicide” her ex-husband had discovered was named Frank Burns.
When Ellie turned her TV on again, the first thing she saw was a local commercial, where an undertaker spoke in funereal tones while the Guns N Roses rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Knockin On Heaven’s Door” played in the background.
Billy the Kid would turn over in his grave!
Chapter 5
The Raiders were getting their butts kicked.
Jackie Robinson fluffed his thick Persian tail and tip-clawed across the carpet. His whiskers quivered. Then his measled muzzle turned up in the semblance of a cat smirk as he wove his black fur between a man’s long legs and argyle socks.
Peter Miller had been trained by his grandmother to take off his shoes before entering a home. He didn’t remove his shoes inside a crime-scene house; instead, he shrouded his shoes with paper booties. But at the start of his career he’d automatically bend to one knee and reach for his laces. Some of his colleagues still called him Shoeless Pete.
Lieutenant Shoeless Pete.
Lieutenant Shoeless Pete, sir.
Now he removed a cellophane-wrapped tidbit from the pocket of his wet London Fog. “It’s a bit soggy, J.R.,” he said, bending forward to offer his bribe. The cat was addicted to Oreos, but any smidge of crumbs had been removed from his world when Ellie began dieting. Peter had wisely wooed and won the haughty animal’s affection with what he liked to call “Nabisco kickback.” In truth, the “cookies” were harmless kitty products that replicated Oreo sandwich cookies.
“I have a real cookie for Annie Laurie,” Peter said, straightening and stretching his sock-clad toes like a ballet dancer. Although Ellie had told him he didn’t have to take his shoes off upon entering her home, old habits died hard.
“Unless Tony has picked Annie Laurie up already,” he added.
“Gone,” Ellie said. “It’s nine o’clock. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Bad, I guess.”
“Tony’s going to board Annie Laurie with Grandma Bernstein.”
“That’s bad?”
“Not really, but he could have consulted me.”
“She’s not your child,” Peter said, his voice tender.
“Would you have minded? I mean, would you object if Tony decided to board Annie Laurie here?”
“Of course not. This is your house and I love kids. For the record, Annie Laurie’s smarter than most kids. I think she gets it from me.”
“She’s not your child,” Ellie said, striving for humor but hearing the wistfulness in her voice.
“Right. What’s the good news?”
“It’s the third quarter and your Raiders are getting slaughtered. If they lose tonight, my Broncos will lead the AFC West.” Ellie hung Peter’s trench coat inside the closet that also stored Annie Laurie’s portable playpen. Returning to the family room, she inhaled baby powder, warm milk and crackling pine. “How was your day, honey?”
“Did you see that tackle? Holy cow,” he mimicked with a grin, aware that Ellie had attended Catholic schools where nuns didn’t allow cussing. Though Peter had no great love for cows, he usually profaned a bull during his angrier outbursts.
Seating her lieutenant on the couch, Ellie massaged his frozen toes. She unfastened the knot of a necktie that waved in the same direction as a nose once broken then reset incorrectly. Finally, she brought him a mug of fresh coffee and a thick sandwich whose hot gravy disguised carbonized rump.
Peter inhaled half the sandwich. Then he sighed and said, “Is all this attention leftover Annie Laurie syndrome or what?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad to see you and it’s nasty outside and you deserve some TLC. Tender loving—”
“Care? How come yesterday, during the Broncos game, you wouldn’t leave the room to get me another beer? ‘Fetch it yourself’ was the delicate way you phrased your refusal.”
“I didn’t want to miss the game.”
“Hey, wait a minute. Do you think you’re the only detective in this relationship who recalls things in perfect detail? ‘I’m not your slave,’ you growled.”
“The score was close,” Ellie mumbled as she kneaded the tight muscles in Peter’s neck then practically lifted the other half of the sandwich to his lips.
“Bull. Your Denver Donkeys were way ahead.” He glanced toward the TV, then back at Ellie. “This attention couldn’t be for information about the bank rob—”
“How much did they steal? Was anybody hurt? Was it a full-fledged robbery like … oh, say Bonnie and Clyde? Or was it more like Wood—”
“James Wood? Grant Wood? Bob Woodward?”
“Cute, Peter. No. I meant Woody Allen.”
“Woody Allen?”
“Woody Allen’s movie with that hilarious bank robbery. The hand-written note bit.” She took a deep breath. “Speaking of notes, did you find one inside his house or car? Was it hand-written? Or does the average self-executioner use a computer nowadays?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Suicide notes.”
“Damn! How did you hear about Burns? When I arrived at the scene, newshounds were just beginning to sniff. Tony! Tony was the real estate agent who called the police, right?”
“You didn’t see him?”
“Nope.”
“But he said he was grilled by cops. And he knew stuff, Peter. For instance, Tony knew the victim was called Harry and the car’s gas gauge was on half.”
“Take it easy. Tony gave his statement to a uniform and said his name was Anton R. Bernstein. By the time I arrived, I was so tired I didn’t even get the connection.”
“Tell me about ‘Anton’s’ statement.”
“What does the ‘R’ stand for?”
“Rat. The statement, Peter.”
“Tony smelled exhaust fumes and called 9-1-1. Please, I’d rather not discuss this.”
“What did the garage look like?”
“It had double doors and was painted white.”
“I meant inside.”
“Forget it, Norrie. Dead bodies aren’t exactly dinner conversation.”
She could tell from his use of her nickname that Peter wasn’t really angry, merely resigned to the inevitable. He had nicknamed her Norrie, derived from Eleanor, because she tended to ignore his advice.
“A singed roast beef sandwich and dill pickle is not my idea of dinner,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t want a description of the body. I’ve never met Burns, but I’ve met his wife, so I feel close to the case.”
“It’s not a case yet. How do you know the wife?”
“She joined Weight Winners.”
“Okay, tell me about her.” Peter glanced up from his sandwich, gravy dripping from the ends of his mustache.
“Wait a sec.” Ellie left the room and retrieved a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator. Then, wriggling next to Peter, she said, “It wasn’t a suicide, was it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Vibes. What did you find?”
“Nothing. It’s none of your business, Ellie.”
Uh-oh, he called me Ellie. He’s getting angry. I’d better shut up.
“What did you find, Peter?”
“I told you. Nothing. Besides, there could be a logical explanation—”
“What did you find?”
Peter scowled. “You won’t give me any peace until I tell you everything, will you? All right. It was a perfect suicide scene, if any death can be called perfect. Towels along the bottom of the garage doors. Burns slumped over the dash of his car. It all fit, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. An empty bottle of Jim Beam was on the front seat, so he probably drank himself insensible. No glass. He drank straight from the bottle, but…”
“But?”
“It was too tidy, too … orderly. If Burns finished the whole bottle, he should have drunkenly missed his mouth and spilled booze on his clothes. We’ll check for stains. Of course, we don’t know how much was in the bottle to begin with. Or how much alcohol he has in his system. At least that’s easy to check. But to be honest, we’re not even sure about the cause of death. He could have choked on his own vomit. That’s not fun to think about, is it? He urinated, soiled—”
“Okay, Peter, that’s enough.”
“Didn’t you ask for details? Don’t you know what happens when the sphincter muscles relax in death? Or would you prefer a description of a movie murder? Nice red blood. Sterile wound.”
“Holy cow, was there blood?”
“Of course not. He supposedly asphyxiated.”
“Supposedly?”
Peter’s tense shoulders slumped. “Norrie, I’m sorry I went into analeptic detail. It was unfair. I’m tired and baffled. I don’t know. Call it a gut instinct. Something’s wrong. An autopsy will tell us more, but—”
“But what?”
“Burns didn’t have a hell of a lot of body hair, but he had these patches on his wrists.”
“Patches?”
“Hairless, as though he had been tied up inside the car with sticky tape, maybe surgical tape. There were cartons of medical supplies in the back of the vehicle. If Burns kept an inventory, we’ll find out what’s missing.”
“I bet he was killed for his drugs. Some crazed junkie. Peter? Honey, stop watching the damnfool football game and look at me. Couldn’t it have been a junkie?”
“No. I told you. It was too orderly. A crazed junkie would have hit Burns over the head, or knifed him, or shot him, then grabbed his supplies. Why bother staging a suicide? A person high on drugs or needing a fix would be anxious to get the hell out of there. If this thing is murder, and I’m not saying it is, it was probably committed by a professional amateur.”
“Professional amateur?”
“You collect authentic reproductions, don’t you?”
“There goes my drugs theory.” Ellie turned down the TV. Offhandedly, she prodded the fireplace logs with a poker. “Maybe it was a supplier and Burns reneged,” she said, not wanting to relinquish her theory altogether. “Have you ever heard Woody Allen’s line about organized crime? ‘It’s no secret that organized crime takes in over forty billion dollars a year. This is quite a profitable sum, especially when one considers that the Mafia spends very little for office supplies.’ ”
She waited for Peter to smile. He didn’t. “Maybe Burns needed money,” she said. “He was planning to sell his house. He even called Tony for an appraisal. I’ll bet Burns was in financial trouble, desperate, and he—”
“No, Norrie. Apparently, he was doing very well. Of course, he could have a hidden chalet, gambling debts, a mistress. We won’t find out until we investigate.”
“How do you know he was doing well?”
“His co-worker, who lives next door, came running with the rest of the neighborhood. By the time we finished, the voyeurs looked like bizarre snow people. There was even a man with a red-orange nose and an upside-down pipe. Frosty. The Snowman. Gene Autry?”
“Burl Ives, although I think Autry sang it first. What did the co-worker say?”
“That Burns was unbelievably happy lately, for the first time in years. ‘On top of the world.’ His sales were up and he had a huge commission check due. He left the office around lunchtime, singing, ‘Oh, Lordy, pick a bale of flowers.’ ”
“Cotton, Peter. Pick a bale of cotton. Flowers rarely come in bales. Burns doesn’t sound suicidal to me. What would be his motive?”
Peter finally smiled. “You’ve met his wife.”
“Right. Where was she when—”
“Chapel Hills Shopping Mall. She shopped, watched a movie and returned home carrying three rope-handled bags filled to the brim with junk jewelry, undergarments, non-prescription diet pills, and knickknacks.”
“Diet pills? Weight Winners doesn’t allow diet pills! What kind of knickknacks?”
“Civil War stuff. A poster of Rhett and Scarlett. A planter shaped like a Confederate flag. A small sculpture of a man on horseback. General—”
“Lee? Robert?”
“Jackson. Stonewall. Ms. Burns was spending her husband’s commission check ahead of time. Or else she was pissed off about something and charging stuff to punish him.”
“What movie did she see?”
“An oldie. The original M*A*S*H with what’s-his-name? Elliott Gold?”
“Gould. Barbra’s ex.”
“Barbara Stanwyck?”
“No, honey, Streisand.”
“Why did you ask about the movie?”
“It might have been a fake alibi. Magnolia could have stashed all those purchases and waited for the right moment to—”
“Damn it, Norrie, I’m not a professional amateur. We checked her theater stub and the dates on her receipts.”
“Sorry, Peter. How did Magnolia react when she heard about her husband’s murder?”
“We haven’t established it was a murder.”
“You should have been a lawyer. I meant his death.”
Peter grimaced. “Ms. Burns swooned. I’m not talking faint here. Wrist to forehead, hand crumpling tiny hankie. She staggered backward and—”
“You caught her?”
He shook his head. “Even if I had wanted to play the dashing hero, she weighs more than I do. Ms. Burns landed on her fanny and lost her breath. We unfastened a tight, uh, what’cha’macallit.’’
“Girdle?”
“No.”
“Corset?”
“Bingo. I almost had to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. By the way, Ms. Burns had some of those same patches her husband had.”
“She did? Where?”
“When she landed, her skirt fell up and her panty hose fell down. She had strips of hair missing from her thighs.”
“She probably waxed her legs.”
“She what?”
“You poor innocent. Removed the hair from her legs with hot wax. My guess is that she didn’t use a beautician and left some hairy spots. Hey, Magnolia could have used the same goop on her husband. Maybe they were into kinky sex.”
“Speaking of sex.” Rising from the couch, Peter leered à la Groucho and gestured with an imaginary cigar. Then, crossing the room, unzipping her sweater, he nuzzled her cleavage.
“If I swooned,” she gasped, “would you catch me?”
“Are you planning to swoon?”
“Only if you promise to give me mouth-to-mouth,” Ellie said.
Peter scooped her up, carried her easily into the bedroom, and placed her on top of the waterbed.
“Earlier tonight,” she murmured, “I told Mick about gumming it to death because it tasted good.”
“Gumming what?”
“A frozen bagel.”
“What?”
“Never mind. You promised mouth-to-mouth resus—”
As always, their coupling was first gentle, then fierce. When they’d finished, she rested her flushed cheek against Peter’s chest.
“Do you want me to wax your body?” she whispered.
“No, thanks.” He glanced toward the snow-shrouded window. “I need an extra layer of fur for protection against the elements. Like Jackie Robinson has.”
The heavy cat, accustomed to frequent mattress swells, unwilling to relinquish the comfort generated by controlled water temperature, sprawled across Ellie’s ankles, holding her prisoner as Peter again stroked her body.
Later Ellie murmured, “You know what Mick and Sandra said tonight? They said I looked like Hot Lips.”
“Hot Lips who?”
“Houlihan. Loretta Swit.”
“Oh, that Hot Lips. I thought you were talking about a hooker I once arrested for soliciting at a convention.”
“Before or after?”
“After. I had to secure the evidence.”
“That’s entrapment.”
“I know,” he said, a grin in his voice. “I couldn’t get the charges to stick and she was ever so grateful.”
“You rat. Do you think I look like her?”
“The hooker?”
“No. Loretta Swit.”
“I’ve never seen Loretta naked, so I can’t make a comparison.”
“Holy cow, I just thought of something. Years and years ago, during the M*A*S*H finale, I was at the Dew Drop Inn, and a girl costumed and wigged as Hot Lips died outside in the parking lot. Are you listening to me?”
“Died in the parking lot.” Peter traced her belly button with a warm finger.
“It was supposedly a hit-and-run accident. Her name was Ginny … Virginia-something.’’
“How do you remember things like that?”
“It started when Tony refused to let me work and imaginary crime-solving was my main occupation. If we were married, would you let me work full-time instead of part-time?”
“Sure. You could support me.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart. I wouldn’t want you pissed off, charging stuff. By the way, Ms. Burns left a note on her fridge. She spelled mall m-a-u-l. My guess is that the cops at the scene will now think of the mall, any mall, as a maul.” He yawned. “Am I making sense?”
“What did Burns look like?”
“Norrie, please. Forget Burns.”
“Answer my last question and I’ll leave you alone.”
“He was thin all over. Thinning hair, nose, mouth. Not much chin and thin lips. A photo showed him in a ROTC uniform. He looked like that M*A*S*H character. Thin-blooded. Probably got drunk real fast. Breathed fumes. Died quickly.”
“That’s strange. Virginia … Whitley, that was her name. She was trying to look like Hot Lips Houlihan and the suicide tonight resembled Frank Burns. Isn’t that a strange coincidence, Peter? Peter?”
Ellie glanced down at the pillow, but her detective, sound asleep, didn’t answer.
* * *
Three long streets from Ellie’s heated home and waterbed, the student dorm filled an entire block. Snow disguised the dorm’s unimposing industrial-painted facade. Vanilla icicles twisted from its flat roof, looking like Dairy Queen swirls, and Sandra was aware that she’d missed Ellie’s supper feast. Mick had consumed hamburgers, fries and hot chocolate at a stand near the campus, but Sandra insisted on sticking to her diet, having successfully maintained her original loss of thirty pounds. Inside her dorm room, on her desk, sat Bumblebees: a pyramid of unopened tuna cans.
Now she buried her wet face against Mick’s equally damp jacket and hugged him. Beneath his jeans, she could feel an active bulge.
“Come on, Muffin,” he pleaded into her dripping hair.
Sandra shivered with delight at Mick’s use of the nickname Ellie had bestowed upon her.
“Cold?” He drew her closer.
“I just realized that your mom nicknames everybody she loves with food.”
“What do you mean?” Mick gave an exasperated sigh. He had been trying to convince Sandra to spend the night with him but she kept changing the subject.
“Your mom calls me Muffin and Annie Laurie ‘Pumpkin.’ I’m surprised she doesn’t have a food name for you.”
“She used to call me Pizza Face.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. When I was fourteen, fifteen, I had the most classic case of zits you ever saw. Mom was always trying to get me to wash my face. Boy, was I a mess.”
“Me, too,” Sandra said, her freckled nose wrinkling in disgust. Three years ago, under-tall and overweight, her face had been riddled with pimples — pestiferous spots that had festered inside and outside. Weight Winners had transformed her into a respectable butterfly, but her emotional scars hadn’t disappeared like the acne, and sometimes they lay close to the surface.
I’m afraid to make love with Mick, she thought. What if I’m no good? On the other hand, I’m probably the only virgin left in Colorado. Maybe Kansas and New Mexico, too.
“Come on. Muffin,” he pleaded, as if he’d read her mind. “Let’s go inside. I’m frozen solid.”
“Ellie expects you home soon.”
“Hey, what’s your problem?”
“I guess I don’t want to seem too easy.”
“Too easy?” Mick groaned and stepped away. “It’s John Russell, isn’t it? You’ve been sleeping with that piano player while I’m in Boulder, right?”
“Have you slept with Belly?”
“Of course. The whole band has. Is it Russell?’’
Sandra hid a grin with her mitten. John Russell treated her like a kid sister. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“If that’s what you’re worried about, neither do I.”
“You just did.”
“What do you mean? Belinda? Belly doesn’t count. I wouldn’t say anything about us.”
“Because I’m your personal property?”
“Yes.”
“Good grief. Your mom told me there’d be days like this.”
“What does that mean? Next you’ll probably insist I’m just like my dad.”
“Sometimes you are like him. That remark about your stepmother wasn’t very nice.”
“I wasn’t trying to be nice.”
“Don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Okay, you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.” Surprisingly, he grinned. “Sorry, Muffin. Just call me Dopey. Or we can find an eighth dwarf and name him Icy. In a few minutes I’ll be Sneezy. Then we’ll have to visit Doc. Please let me inside your dorm.”
“I can’t. I’m Bashful.” Sandra saw Mick shudder and knew that, this time, it was from the cold rather than desire. The bulge in his jeans had disappeared, hibernating. “All right, you can sleep in my room tonight, but we don’t mess around unless I say so.”
“Deal. C’mon, Bashful.”
Together, clothed in underwear, they huddled beneath the covers of Sandra’s chaste twin-sized bed. The sheets were cold. Mick’s tall athletic form dominated the space, and Sandra cuddled against him as they waited for body heat to generate warmth to the lumpy mattress.
“Muffin?”
“You know, it’s funny how much your mom looks like Hot Lips. I never noticed it before.”
Mick sighed, accepting defeat. At least for the moment. “Remember the fairy tale about Rose White and Rose Red? Was that a nod? When I was a kid, I thought Mom was Rose Red, beautiful and mysterious. Rose Red, the Virgin Mary—”
“That’s normal. I imagine every small boy—”
“And Virgil.”
“Virgil?”
“Mom’s fluent in Latin. French, too. I picked up a few words and phrases by osmosis, but she can read, speak and understand the stuff.”
“No kidding. I’m lucky if I can remember the lyrics to John Russell’s rock songs, especially if they don’t rhyme.”
“When I was small. Mom used to drop these homilies into my lap. Began every sentence with ‘Dei gratia.’ ”
“Which means?”
“By the grace of God. We even had a cat named Advocatus Diaboli. Devil’s Advocate.”
“Oh, I love that. What else?”
Mick yawned. “Sorry, I’m wiped out. The band played until dawn Saturday, then I helped the others get ready to leave on Sunday. Today Mom had chores—”
“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs—”
“Aw, Muffin, you really want me to talk Latin?” He drew Sandra into the curve of his body and reached for her bra snaps.
“Stop it, Dopey. I’m not ready yet.”
“Sorry.” He removed her bra.
“You know who else looks like Loretta Swit? My dorm-mate, Natalie. She’s in the next room. Nat’s a dancer like me, only better. Can’t sing, though. She has blonde hair and a sexy mouth—”
“Maybe I should go next door to her room.”
“I suppose any girl with platinum hair and a sexy mouth could look like Hot Lips. I wish I looked like somebody beautiful and famous.”
“You do, Muffin. You look a lot like Sissy Spacek in Carrie.”
“Is that a compliment? Carrie was a tad naïve.”
“I meant physically.”
“Do I really?” she asked, delighted, thinking that he couldn’t have said anything more flattering. Relaxing, she cuddled closer to his warm body. “Mick? I think I’m ready now.”
Silence.
“Dopey?”
Silence.
Sandra glanced down at the pillow. Mick’s face was turned sideways. Long lashes shaded his cheeks. His diamond earring glittered, and she remembered the argument he’d had with his dad.
Her dorm mate’s boyfriend was old enough to be her father. Sandra had never met him, but Natalie called him “Daddy Longlegs.” Nat had even said something about Daddy Longlegs financing her dancing career. They were sleeping together, of course. Well, not exactly together-together. Nat had once said she’d simply lie there and let “Daddy” do whatever he wanted because any sex on her part would weaken her legs. Natalie danced every day, rain or shine. When she wasn’t dancing, she watched movies about dancing. Sandra knew the words to all of the songs in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers while Nat knew the choreography backwards and forwards, and if Sandra had to watch The Turning Point’s Leslie Browne make love to Baryshnikov again, she’d barf her Bumblebee Tuna.
With a yawn, Sandra fumbled for her portable CD player and earbuds, then listened to “This Love” by Maroon5.
I’m the only college-age virgin left in Colorado, she thought. Maybe the whole world. A satanic cult could sacrifice my virginal body to
With that last unfinished thought, Maroon5 lulled her to sleep.
Chapter 6
The smell of bacon grease permeated the room. Jackie Robinson dogged Ellie’s footsteps, meowing for something more substantial than an elusive aroma.
Peter sat at the kitchen table and read the newspaper. Ellie could see the sports headlines. His Oakland Raiders had lost. Badly. Two days ago, Dolphins had devoured Chiefs. That made her Broncos first in their division.
Sandra and Mick had called earlier and were due for breakfast any moment, so Ellie restrained herself from probing any further about the Burns suicide.
She heard sounds from the front hallway. The kids are arguing. Not wanting to snoop, she turned up the volume on her portable radio, where Sinatra sang about love and marriage. No good. Peter had tuned the kids out, but she could still hear them.
“But you fell asleep,” Sandra said.
“That was last night. This morning I was awake.”
“Give me a break, Dopey. The deal was that I decide when. It can’t always be your way.”
“My way? You sound like Sinatra. I’ll bet nobody ever drove Old Blue Eyes bananas then reneged.”
“I didn’t renege and I don’t eat bananas; too many calories. Look, Mick, I want it to be perfect. Romantic. If you can’t control your urges, keep sleeping with Belinda.”
“Okay.”
“While you’re at it, take her to the Gala.”
“What’s a gala?”
“I thought you understood French. My dance recital. Saturday night. I can get you another ticket, and Natalie’s dancing too. Then you’ll have a choice. Belinda’s room, wherever she shacks up, or Nat’s bed.”
“Right, fine.” said Mick.
“Right, fine,” Sandra echoed.
Ellie heard them open and close the coat closet. Then they entered the kitchen and sat next to each other.
While the men shoveled pancakes and bacon into their mouths, Ellie and Sandra ate poached eggs and rice cakes, along with freshly squeezed orange juice. The atmosphere felt as profuse as Jackie Robinson’s thick black fur, but at least the coffee pot was perky.
“You should have called your mother, Mick,” Peter said, assuming the unfamiliar role of Dad. “It was really nasty out and she worries.”
“Come on, Pete. Mom can’t check up on me in Boulder.”
“I didn’t want to check up on you.” Ellie turned off the radio. “Maybe a brief phone call next time. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry, Mom. Errare humanum est.”
“To err is human.” Ellie laughed. “What made you think of that? It’s been years.”
“Muffin and I spent most of last night talking,” Mick replied. “We talked about you. And Latin. And the Seven Dwarfs, especially Bashful.” When Sandra nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, he grinned. “Hey, Mom, remember Diaboli?”
“Advocatus Diaboli. He was the family puss when you were … what? Ten? Eleven? I should have saved the name for Jackie Robinson here, at least the Devil part.” Ellie watched her Persian nose the pancake Peter had slipped under the table.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call, Mom,” Mick said. “I’ll do better next weekend.”
“Are you planning to visit again, honey?”
“Yup. The band is booked Friday and I’ve been invited to Muffin’s dance thing … gala? … on Saturday.”
“Be sure to bring Belly,” Sandra stage-whispered. Then, louder, “What happened to Advocatus Diaboli?”
“He chased a squirrel up a tree, fell and broke his neck,” Ellie said. “Don’t ever believe that myth about cats always landing on their feet, or maybe that was his ninth life.”
“Can I help with the dishes, Ellie?”
“No, Muffin. The men will wash them.”
Mick and Peter both glanced at their watches.
“Duty calls,” said Peter.
“Have to run,” said Mick. “It’s a long drive, Mom.”
Jackie Robinson sauntered toward his litter box.
Ellie stacked dishes as Peter left for his precinct, Sandra for her Tuesday classes, and Mick for Boulder. With their departure, the silence seemed magnified. Even Jackie Robinson slipped outside to join his neutered buddies and indulge in whatever sexless activities eunuch felines found stimulating.
The sun shone, melting the snow. Earlier, during what Peter called her “crack-of-dawn jog,” Ellie had passed the Burns house. Now she flipped through the pages of her trusty telephone directory and reached for her duck.
A harsh southern-accented woman’s voice shouted, “If’n y’all don’t stop, I’ll call the po-leece.”
“Magnolia?”
“No. I’m Miz Smithers, Magnolia’s momma. Who’s this?”
“Ellie Bernstein. I’m a friend of your daughter’s.”
“Just a minute. Hang on, you hear?”
A younger voice said, “Miz Bernstein? This is I, Magnolia Smithers Burns. How nice of y’all to phone.” Then she burst into tears.
“I’ll come over right away,” Ellie said into her duck’s butt.
Chapter 7
Beneath a limited-edition plate of “Mammy Lacing Scarlett,” Ellie’s blue corduroy slacks barely dented an over-stuffed chair. Crossed sabers hung above the fireplace. Confederate flags and framed prints of gray-clad soldiers dominated every wall. Cut-glass bowls overflowed with essence of lavender. The potpourri clogged Ellie’s sensitive nose, and she could almost swear she felt a light film of perfumed pollution settle upon her orange sweater. Like fungus.
After sneezing twice, she tried to keep her expression sober, which was difficult, especially since she kept honking into a tissue.
Mrs. Smithers stood in front of the fireplace, directly under the sabers. Short and plump, her hair fell in tight spirals — silver-brown ringlets, parted exactly in the middle, as if she’d used a tape measurer to make sure she got it right. The ringlets, held back from her broad forehead with a couple of black velvet bows, framed caterpillar eyebrows and an upper-lip-mustache that could have benefitted from Magnolia’s wax. Her tiny button eyes snapped like two pieces of sizzling charcoal. A black shawl shrouded a black taffeta dress, and a white cameo brooch appeared threatened by an abundant double chin.
Clutching a soggy lace handkerchief, Magnolia made her entrance from the stairwell. Her nose was red. She had tried to curl her brown hair like her mother’s. The left side kinked, but straight strands fell to her right shoulder. Magnolia’s eyes were rimmed pink, like an albino rabbit, and matched the color of her pink dress.
Mrs. Smithers aborted Ellie’s greeting by loudly whispering, “Ah told you to wear sum’thin’ black, Magnolia. Which part of black didn’t you understand?”
“Momma, I don’t have nothin’ black.”
“A closet full of gowns,” Mrs. Smithers said to Mammy, who was busy lacing Scarlett’s 17-inch-waist on the “Mammy Lacing Scarlett’’ plate. Then she — Mrs. Smithers, not Mammy — glared at her daughter again.
“Nothin’ black, Momma, I swear to God.” Magnolia’s bottom lip quivered.
“Well, missy, we can’t go shoppin’. It wouldn’t be fittin’ on this tragic day. I have another black garment in my suitcase.” Momma Smithers swiveled her face toward Ellie. “I got in so late last night, I didn’t have time to unpack. The airplane almost crashed, and they didn’t have no teensy bottles of sherry, just vodka and such, so I had no choice but to drink Bloody Marys with toe-mah-toe juice an’ everyone knows they spray them toe-mah-toes with poison. Thought I’d end up dead like Magnolia’s husband, the late Mr. Burns. Then this mornin’ the phone kept ringin’. Ring! Ring! Ring!”
“But Momma, I can’t fit into your dress,” Magnolia wailed. “I’m too tall.”
Mrs. Smithers waved away her daughter’s objection with several ringed fingers. “We can do alterations, or maybe Miz Bernstein here would be kind enough to purchase a bottle of Rit Fabric Dye so’s you can wear one of your own gowns.”
“Of course, Mrs. Smithers.” Ellie watched Magnolia’s pink ruffled dress sway across the room until her naturally-hooped body perched on top of a horsehair sofa. “Or you can call a store and ask them to deliver a black gown. I have a friend, Hannah Taylor, who’s the assistant manager of a truly lovely clothing—”
“How nice of y’all to visit, Miz Bernstein,” Magnolia said as though there were a dozen people standing behind Ellie.
Ellie pointed toward the blue-scripted pastry box resting on a scroll-legged table, a food donation she had purchased on her way to the Burns house. “Mrs. Smithers, I would love a cup of coffee, maybe one of those little pastries. I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”
Picturing her kitchen table, Ellie felt the words stick in her throat, but she wanted Momma to leave the room.
“We don’t have no coffee,” Magnolia said. “Mr. Burns has … had ulcers.”
“No caffeine,” Mama Smithers amended, “though I understand the late Mr. Burns drank cola and that’s full of caffeine. Fizz and bugs. Bugs breed in fizz. If I wanted to poison someone, I’d give ‘em cola. I once saw a toothbrush dissolve in cola. All the bristles … poof! They didn’t just fall out. They dissolved.”
“Maybe,” Ellie suggested, “you could make me a nice hot cup of tea.” Orange pekoe and bugs!
Mrs. Smithers hesitated, her body ramrod straight. Pasting a demure expression on her face, Ellie watched the woman’s internal struggle, until southern hospitality won over curiosity.
“Lemonade,” said Mama Smithers. “I make it from scratch. Magnolia does, too. Real lemons, sugar, and my own secret ingredient. A recipe handed down from plantation days. Costs more but it’s well worth the price.”
“Use them pink packets ‘stead of sugar, Momma.”
“Lemonade would be wonderful, Mrs. Smithers,” Ellie said. “Thank you so much. I can’t wait to taste your original recipe.”
As Mrs. Smother’s taffeta dress rustled toward the kitchen, Magnolia said, “How nice of y’all to visit, Miz Bernstein.”
“Please call me Ellie.”
“Y’all can call me Mag … Mag…” Magnolia’s bosom heaved and she began to cry.
Ellie transferred her tush to the sofa, thinking how the horsehair must scratch legs not protected by corduroy. She squeezed Magnolia’s hankie hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do without Mr. Burns, Miz Bernstein. He was my whole life.”
“Life goes on,” Ellie replied, somewhat lamely.
“That’s what Momma says. But Mr. Burns was so kind and he wouldn’t deny me when I wanted to go shoppin’. I can’t think what I’ll do now.”
“Didn’t Mr. Burns have life insurance?”
“Oh yes, yes he did, yes indeedy he did. The Silver and Gold Insurance Company. Two policies. Fifty thousand dollars term and … oh, I don’t recall. Mr. Burns took care of that. I can’t balance a checkbook.”
“When your claim is settled, you can go shopping.”
Am I nuts? thought Ellie. Why did I mention shopping when she’s just lost her husband? Potpourri dregs must have traveled from my nose to my brain.
“I can’t go shoppin’, Miz … Ellie. Momma says I have to come home to Atlanta. She says the insurance company might not pay ‘cause Mr. Burns killed himself. And if they do pay, Momma says I have to donate my money. For reconstruction of Civil War landmarks. Life’s a you-know-what, rhymes with witch, and then you die. Oh, I wanna die too.”
“How about a cherry Danish, sweetie?” Ellie knew it was a stupid remark under the circumstances, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Magnolia glanced toward the pastry box. “I shouldn’t. I have too much collateral in my blood. That’s what killed Mr. Burns.”
“He had too much collateral? Magnolia, do you mean cholesterol?”
“I mean ulcers, Miz Ellie. U-l-s-i-r-s. Ulcers!”
Ellie heard Mrs. Smithers bustling about inside the kitchen.
So did Magnolia. “I can’t go in there,” she said. “The kitchen is attached to the garage where Mr. Burns…” She shuddered. “Momma says I’m bein’ silly, but I don’t give a hoot if I never eat again. I’ll fade away to skin and bones and join Mr. Burns in heaven. Well, maybe one Danish.”
Swaying to her feet, she retrieved a pastry then returned to the sofa.
“Why do you think he did it?” Ellie asked.
“I can’t imagine. We were so happy.” Magnolia lowered her voice. “I think Harry had somebody else, another woman on the side. Someone kept callin’ here this mornin’. Over and over. That’s why Momma sounded so rude when you phoned earlier. I’m sure Harry had a you-know-what, rhymes with more.”
More? Oh, whore. “Do you know the identity of the you-know-what, Magnolia?”
“I don’t think so. She wears perfume. Mr. Burns sometimes stunk.”
Ellie wondered how any smell could overpower the lavender potpourri essence. “Do you think Mr. Burns was”—she hesitated, searching for an adequate word—“was in trouble with the other woman?”
“Of course not.” Magnolia finished the pastry in three bites. “I’ll tell you a big secret, Miz Ellie. Mr. Burns disengaged the ‘lectric cord to our garage freezer and the food melted. I think he was gonna leave me. That’s why I joined up with your diet club.” For the first time her pink-rimmed eyes turned mean, squinty. “That smelly whore can’t have him now, can she?”
“Why on earth would Mr. Burns disengage the freezer’s electric cord?”
“He didn’t want me to eat.”
“But if the food spoiled, he couldn’t eat it either.”
“Mr. Burns drank strong spirits for lunch. It made him crazy. He slashed the top of the freezer, too. Now if that’s not the act of a crazy person, I don’t know what.”
“He slashed the freezer? That doesn’t make any sense. Magnolia, did Mr. Burns have any enemies?”
“You sound like the po-leece.” She swayed to her feet, walked to the pastry box, chewed up another Danish, and returned to the sofa. “People loved Harry.”
How on earth can I bring the conversation around to M*A*S*H and Frank Burns? “Magnolia dear, did Harry ever attend a party called a Mash-Bash over at the Dew Drop Inn?”
Ellie mentally kicked herself. Magnolia Smithers Burns was a tad simple, but she’d certainly note the abrupt change of subject.
“What’s a mashbash, Miz Ellie? Is that like a chili cook-off?”
“No, sweetie, it was a party to celebrate the 1983 M*A*S*H finale. You know, the TV show? There was a look-alike contest and I understand your husband looked a lot like—”
“Harry stayed home nights unless he had a business appointment.” Again, her eyes narrowed. “In nineteen-hundred-and-eighty-three he didn’t do his fuckin’ business at night.”
Ellie wondered what synonym “fuckin” rhymed with. Mentally, she traveled down the alphabet, rejected “buckin,” “duckin” and “muckin,” and gave up at the letter T.
“Magnolia,” she said, “I wonder if you could give me a list of Harry’s friends and customers.”
“Whatever for?” she asked as Mrs. Smithers returned, balancing a lacquered tray.
The lemonade’s secret ingredient was a gummy molasses that turned the beverage from its usual yellow to a murky brown color. Ellie took a polite sip and tried not to gag.
“Momma, she wants a list of Harry’s friends,” said Magnolia, gulping down her lemonade.
“Whatever for, Miz Bernstein?”
“I thought I could help y’all out,” Ellie improvised, subconsciously mimicking the southern cadence of her hostess. “Phone, tell people ‘bout the funeral.”
Mrs. Smithers sniffed. “The late Mr. Burns will be on display at his church, for them who give a hoot. I placed the notice this mornin’ in the newspaper. They sounded nice over the telephone. Very nice. For Yankees.”
Rising, Ellie stared directly at Magnolia. “I’ve heard that your husband looked like Frank Burns on M*A*S*H. Do you know who I mean?”
Magnolia’s gaze darted toward the TV, to her mother, then back to Ellie. “I don’t watch television, Miz Ellie. Momma says it’s all trash. Lies. Make believe. Except Dallas, which is truthful. But they took Dallas off the air, and sometimes it seems like a dream that it was ever on. Anyways, Momma says ‘lectricity from the TV makes you sterile. But lots of people thought Harry looked like that mash-man. Once we went shoppin’ for groceries and some people made a big fuss. It was so embarrassin’.”
“Was Harry embarrassed, too?”
“At first. The people said they belonged to a club that watched M*A*S*H reruns. There was a lady with short brown hair, and some men, and I think one of them was a priest ‘cause they called him Father. They made a real ruckus and even wanted to take a camera-pitcher of Harry, but they didn’t have a camera. The priest wrote Harry’s name down and our address too, I think. Harry laughed, since they could be customers one day. Harry was like that. Always sellin’ stuff an’ makin’ a good livin’. He was so smart.”
Magnolia sobbed audibly and raised her hankie to a nose that now guarded a sticky lemonade mustache.
Mrs. Smithers said, “If the late Mr. Burns was so smart, why’d he kill himself?”
“He didn’t, Momma. It was an accident.”
“Hah! Sorry, Magnolia, but you gotta’ face facts. Your husband was Yankee trash and a drunkard to boot.”
“Oh no, he had a teensy-weensy lunch snort, Momma. He was gettin’ in the car to drive back to work and—”
“Snort? If you lit a match and shoved it down Mr. Burns’ throat, he’d regurgitate flames.”
“Please,” Ellie said, trying not to squirm, “we really don’t know yet how—”
“Ah don’t mean to be rude, Miz Bernstein, but Magnolia ought to have a lie-down. She needs to regain her vigah.”
“I don’t have no energy, Miz Ellie, and Momma says now is no time to die … die … diet.” With a final sob, Magnolia ate another Danish.
As Mrs. Smithers ushered Ellie toward the front door, she said, “Will we see you at the funeral, Miz Bernstein?”
Ellie nodded as the first ten notes of “Dixie” sounded.
On her way outside, she passed Lieutenant Peter Miller.
Chapter 8
“What the bloody hell do you mean by a condolence call? You’re full of crap, Ellie.” Peter muttered a few more explicit expletives under his breath and then, with an effort, snapped his mouth shut.
Uh-oh, her detective was furious. When he got angry, Peter dropped the “Norrie.” When furious, he swore like a proverbial sailor.
“I would do the same for any member of my diet club,” she said. “The poor woman was distraught and—”
“Not as distraught as I am right this minute. Keep out of my case, lady!”
“Case? Aha! So you do think it’s a homicide. Why? The freezer, right? You don’t believe for one moment that Harry—”
“How do you know about the freezer?”
“Magnolia just happened to mention it.”
“Just happened? Bull—”
“What’s the motive, Peter?”
“I have no idea, damn it! The only person who had a motive is the wife, and she couldn’t possibly get back and forth from the ‘maul’ in time to murder—”
“Magnolia would never kill her husband. He was nice to her. Besides, she has to donate his insurance money to a bunch of Civil War fanatics. No way. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Magnolia just happened to mention that Harry had a woman on the side.”
“Magnolia Burns was at the freaking mall!”
“Peter, knock it off. I won’t apologize for acting neighborly, and I wasn’t in any danger.” Without waiting for a response, she said, “Magnolia went shopping, but what if the mistress killed Burns?”
“Not unless she brought her three kids along to watch. She was stuck with them for the day. Besides, she has no motive, either. Burns planned to divorce Magnolia and marry Iris Maria something or other. She’s pregnant — the mistress, not the wife.”
“Iris Maria? You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been doing my job, Ellie. My job, not yours.”
“What’s my job? To wash the breakfast dishes?”
“You’re damn straight. The dishes are still stacked on top of the sink. And for the record, stale bacon grease is not an aphrodisiac.”
“That’s good, Lieutenant, because, to paraphrase an old song, I’m not in the mood for love. And you might as well know right now that Magnolia’s mother invited me to Harry’s funeral.”
* * *
Ellie didn’t attend Harry’s funeral, after all. Those rites were performed Friday morning. The time conflicted with her lecturing duties at the Good Shepherd church and she couldn’t find a last-minute substitute.
Surely Peter would attend and survey the mournful assemblage.
Somehow she’d wheedle the information out of him later.
* * *
Magnolia wasn’t at the Weight Winners meeting, of course, but a new member, Melody Remming, was. Ellie found herself charmed by the woman, who was in her early forties and friendly as the poodle puppy she resembled. Melody was gregarious. She confided that she had fallen madly in love at first sight with a man “ten feet tall, who weighs less than I do.” So she had decided to join Weight Winners and shrink to the skinniness of her adored one.
After the meeting, Ellie found Melody thumb-tacking a piece of paper to the church bulletin board. The paper included Melody’s phone number, and in big bold letters, said that anybody interested in joining a M*A*S*H fan club should contact her. Above the handwritten message was a truly remarkable sketch of Hawkeye, Hot Lips, and a few other cast members.
“Star Trek addicts have clubs,” Melody explained. “They even hold annual conventions. So I got this idea, I mean, well, we could start a M*A*S*H fan club in Colorado, maybe even go national, call ourselves Mashies or something. Remember that old movie with Gary Cooper? They started John Doe clubs to help each other.” Her cheeks flamed. “We could donate to causes, Ellie, like literacy or an animal charity.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Ellie said, and heard the doubt in her voice.
“I know it sounds crazy, and it probably won’t fly, but I started thinking about it when I attended this M*A*S*H rerun thingy last Monday night. That’s where I met Dickie.”
Gazing at the notice, Ellie wondered if she’d ever been that optimistic. Or idealistic. Or obsessed. Tony said she was obsessed with the TV show, and certainly it was better to donate one’s hard-earned money to charity rather than buy Star Trek memorabilia, But deep down inside, Ellie had the feeling that M*A*S*H fans didn’t want to “donate.” They wanted to laugh.
“I’m an addict myself,” she admitted, trying to erase with words the blush that had extended to the roots of Melody’s curls.
“Are you really? Maybe you could come with me to next Monday night’s get-together. You’d meet Dickie.”
Ellie smelled lavender potpourri as a thought clicked into place. “Is one of the rerun club members a priest?”
“Priest? No. Oh, you must mean Father Mac. His real name is Sean McCarthy, but he looks a lot like Father Mulcahy and he once won first prize at a Mash-Bash party.”
“Holy cow! The Dew Drop Inn!”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“I was there.”
“Me, too. My cousin Fred took me. He came as Radar, but said to leave him alone because he wanted to sit with ‘the men.’ The only guy who even said hello to me was a drunk cowboy, sloshing down one martini after another.”
“A drunk cowboy?”
She nodded. “He wore cowboy clothes, as if he’d wandered into the wrong party by mistake. I don’t usually drink, but the cowboy bought me a double martini. Then another. Then he bought me a third and suggested we leave. He said I looked like a ‘cute poodle in heat.’ I took that as a compliment and said he looked like John Wayne. He said the mere mention of John Wayne was a turn-on. He said he’d been stood up, which I didn’t believe for a second. I mean, he was very good looking. He steered me to the parking lot. I remember him saying “oopsie daisy” after every step. One step, oopsie daisy, two steps, oopsie daisy … God, I was smashed.
“I told him I was drunk like it was a big secret, like he didn’t already know. He laughed and said he liked it when a girl drank enough to lose her inhibitions. But I lost more than my inhibitions. I lost the double martinis. I guess he didn’t like the sight of an uninhibited girl puking her guts out. He mumbled something about gin and went back inside.”
“Gin? Melody, are you sure he didn’t say Ginny?”
“I was so out of it, I can’t be sure of anything. Why?”
“A girl died in the parking lot that night. Her name was Virginia Whitley, but I think most people called her Ginny. Or Gin.”
“How did she die?”
“Hit-and-run. And I’m sorry you had that horrible experience with the sleazy cowboy.”
Melody shrugged. “Please join me Monday night. The president of the club doesn’t seem to like women and I’m the only one there. He has a wife, Nancy, but she’s a bit of a wimp.”
“Tomorrow night I’m attending a ballet and Sunday I watch football,” Ellie said, thinking out loud. “Monday afternoon I’m supposed to substitute-lecture for one of the Weight Winners group leaders, but I should be finished around four-thirty.”
“Please come with me. Please?”
Ellie’s mind raced. Cold as frozen yogurt, Peter had refused to discuss the Burns suicide, even though she’d tried to propose her theory that the deaths of Virginia Whitley and Harry Burns were somehow related. How many unsolved crimes had involved victims who looked like M*A*S*H characters? Peter could punch buttons on his damn computer and find out. Or he could peruse his files. Or he could—
Wash the breakfast dishes, Ellie.
Translation: Mind your own business. But it was her business. Magnolia had joined Weight Winners. Tony had discovered the dead body in the garage. And, according to some people, Ellie looked like Hot Lips. She pictured Peter’s reaction to Melody’s invitation, could hear his words: “Say no, Norrie. I don’t give a damn if Burns is a suicide or a homicide, just stay away from my case. Say no!”
She said yes.
Chapter 9
Proceeds from Sandra’s Gala were to aid an association called “The Organization for the Evolution of Students for Ballet”—TOES for short.
Inside the recital hall, Kenneth and Nancy Trask, Jacques and Victoria Hansen, Dickie Dorack, Fred and Melody Remming, and Sean McCarthy occupied one row.
Ellie, Peter, Mick and Belinda lingered outside the lobby so that Mick’s date could finish her cigarette. Peter’s resentment over Ellie’s condolence call and Mick’s unresolved argument with Sandra contributed to a cool, stilted atmosphere.
“I’m not crazy about ballet.” Belinda drew deeply from her filtered cigarette, then blew smoke rings toward the moon and stars. “It’s pretty but it’s so slow.”
“Not all ballet movements are slow,” Ellie said. “The word ‘allegro’ means lively and fast dancing, compared to ‘adagio,’ which is slower. Tonight there should be a real mix.”
Recognizing Ellie’s use of familiar musical terms, the singer lost her sophisticated pose. “I’ve never been to a ballet,” she confessed. “It’s a lot different from a rock concert. I hope I’m dressed right. I borrowed a long skirt.”
Belinda Wood (“Call me Belly, everybody else does”) was tall and leggy, always in motion. A fidgety-budget who constantly patted her brownish permed hair and picked imaginary pieces of lint from Mick’s suit jacket. Belinda kept straightening her tight skirt and adjusting the strap of her lacy camisole when it slipped off one shoulder. She wore way too much makeup, but Ellie had to admit that it was applied professionally, from the slant of her Cleopatra eye-liner to the carefully brushed lipstick in two different reddish-purple shades. A dark blusher gave Belinda’s olive-tinted complexion an exotic overcast.
Nervously lighting another cigarette, Belinda quickly squashed it out when the lobby lights winked.
The program was indeed a mix, starting with a chorus production from Oklahoma! Agnes DeMille’s original choreography had been incorporated, and colorful crinolines flashed as the performers combined a lively square dance with sensuous lifts. A microphone rose from the stage apron. Sandra, wearing a gingham dress and cowboy boots, walked up to the mike. She sang “People Will Say We’re in Love,” while behind her two figures separated from the chorus for an original pas de deux.
“Oh look, Peter, how delicious,” Ellie whispered. “There was no entre, but for the coda they’re using a series of fouettes, with momentum increasing every revolution.”
“How do you know so much about ballet?”
“Maria Tallchief was my role model when I was a little kid. I idolized her so much, my mother used to call me Ellie Small Indian. A misnomer. I looked more like what’s-his-name.”
“Tonto?”
“No. Sitting Bull.”
Peter looked mesmerized as he watched a blonde dancer rise on her toes with each turn.
The audience jumped from their seats, applauding and shouting “Brava!” while Sandra’s soprano voice carried the last note of her song into Barbra Streisand territory.
“She didn’t tell me,” Ellie whispered. “Muffin didn’t say anything about a solo.”
“I guess she wanted to surprise us. You said she sang beautifully but I never realized how talented she is. Who’s the blonde ballerina?”
“Her roommate, or more accurately dorm-mate, Natalie. Sandra says Natalie’s the best dancer in the world. That’s a slight exaggeration, but she performed flawlessly just now.”
The stage curtains opened to reveal a simplified set for Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. This time the ballerina was diminutive with oversized breasts that tended to throw her off balance. Her partner tried valiantly in the lifts but both dancers lacked grace. The audience applauded politely.
Curtains closed. Curtains opened. Ellie squinted as figures in black leotards competed with a black backdrop. A jazz selection composed by John Russell pounded from mounted speakers. Suddenly, several white-clad bodies leapt across the stage in a spotlighted blur while the audience gasped at the effect. Sandra was one of the white leotards, hanging effortlessly in the air during her elevations, pushing off from the stage floor then landing on the other foot.
Once more Ellie whispered, “Muffin is fine, having fun, but Natalie’s jetés are cleaner, crisper. I’m impressed.”
At the intermission Peter waited in line to buy wine served in plastic cups.
“Lieutenant Miller should save his money,” Belinda said. “I know a cop doesn’t make all that much and I have booze.” She reached into her large beaded purse and retrieved a silver flask. “This is whiskey. I always carry it, especially when I sing. It clears a path through the smoke in my throat.”
Peter returned to their small group, distributed the Chablis, and gave Ellie a hug. “Sorry about that wash-the-dishes remark,” he said. “I’ll wash them for a week, starting tomorrow.”
“No way. Your idea of washing dishes is to tote home pizza or take-out Chinese and dump the containers in the trash.”
“Unfair, Norrie. I can wok. Dance, too.” Improvising some simple tap steps, he sang, “Wokking my baby back home.”
Peter has finally mellowed, Ellie thought happily, smoothing a fold in her simple black sheath. Later she’d ask him who attended the Burns funeral. Later. This was going to be a fine evening after all.
The second half of the recital began with a Paris nightclub scene à la Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. Then a chorus line of jocks from the college football team, costumed in wigs and netted tutus, kicked like stoned Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
The finale was an original vignette starring Sandra and Natalie. John Russell played piano. A deep-dimpled girl named Marion Bloch executed plaintive flute notes that brought childhood dreams to mind. The music had been composed by Ingrid Beaumont, a Weight Winners graduate.
The simple set featured a dressing table with an enormous mirror attached to its surface. Sandra and Natalie sat on either side of the missing glass, their movements coordinated. Sandra had pinned her hair into a bun to accommodate Natalie’s shorter, shoulder-length style. From the audience, the dancers looked like photocopies. Ellie checked her program and noted that the sequence was titled “Reflections.”
Every arm movement, every finger flutter, every arabesque was performed in duplicate until the conclusion, when Sandra assumed the male role, raising her left hand above her partner’s head. Natalie grasped Sandra’s index finger with her right hand and spun in a series of pirouettes. Then Sandra slipped behind Natalie so that it appeared as though only one figure stood center stage, holding a gracefully sustained pose. The music faded away.
There was a moment of stunned silence before the audience erupted into a jubilant roar. When the crescendo slowed, Sandra stepped from behind Natalie and both girls dipped, together, into an identical dancer’s curtsy. Whistles and shouts of “Brava!” intensified, to an ear-splitting level.
“Let’s go backstage and congratulate Sandra,” Ellie said when the din had finally subsided.
“Of course,” said Peter. “Mick?”
“Later.”
“Come on, Mick,” Ellie pleaded. “She won’t still be angry over your little spat.”
“I said later, Mom.”
Mick and Belinda remained seated as Ellie and Peter joined the throng of well-wishers heading for the back of the theater. The other half of the audience wended their way down the aisles toward exits.
“You ready, Mick?” Belinda fished a cigarette from the crumpled pack inside her purse.
“Not yet. Let’s wait until the crowd thins.”
Instead of a cigarette, Belinda pulled out the silver flask and tipped it to her lips.
“Don’t do that,” Mick said.
“Why not?”
“This isn’t one of our gigs. This is a ballet.”
“Well, la-de-da. Screw you, Mickey Mouse.”
“Okay. Good idea. Let’s get out of here.”
“I want to go backstage,” Belinda said.
“No.”
“Yes. I want to congratulate that virgin friend of yours. Sandra Dee?”
“Leave Sandra alone. She has more talent in her little finger than you have—”
“In my whole body?” Belinda smiled. “I don’t think so.” She gave a shrug with her right shoulder and the camisole strap fell down her arm, exposing a bare breast.
Mick yanked the strap up.
“C’mon, I want to go backstage.” Belinda arched an eyebrow. “I’ll perform a striptease in the friggin lobby if we don’t.”
“Okay, okay.”
As they rose from their seats, Belinda staggered.
Damn, thought Mick. Drinks before the performance, wine during intermission, nips from her flask. Belly was sloshed and primed like a pump. A drunk Belly usually led to an amorous Belly. What a mess.
The stage curtains had remained open, exposing the dressing-table set. Mick steered Belinda around the flats and behind the fire wall. There was a large NO SMOKING sign, which Belinda ignored. She extended her flask toward Mick.
“No, thanks. Hey, Belly, I really think you’ve had enough,” he said, then watched her defiantly gulp down every remaining drop.
She clutched Mick’s arm, leading him farther into the recesses of the cavernous area, where sawhorses stood guarding stacks of wood. It was dim, gloomy and vacant.
Dropping her cigarette, she pulled both camisole straps down to the waistband of her skirt. “Let’s screw our brains out, Mick.”
“Not here,” he said, crushing her smoldering filter with his boot.
“Why not? It’s perfect.” Her camisole and skirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor while she posed in a black garter belt, white hose and heeled sandals.
Nervously, Mick studied the dusty area. Did a sawhorse just move? Was that a woman hiding behind the flats? Jeeze, it could be a dancer, a prop person, even a curious member of the audience. His mind conjured up a shooting gallery, where ducks popped into sight then disappeared.
Nobody popped into sight. However, indistinct conversation filtered onstage from the wings. This was totally insane.
“Come on, Mick,” urged Belinda. “Come on, come on—”
“Shut up, Belly. I think I hear something.”
“Look, there’s a trapdoor. We can have privacy.”
Mick glanced down. The trapdoor, covered with sawdust and wispy scraps of un-swept powdery dust, also showed footprints leading toward the wings, as though somebody had removed his or her shoes and then shuffled through the sawdust. Mick tugged on the trapdoor’s roped handle, lifted the wooden hatch, and peered into complete darkness.
“Ick! Changed my mind.” Belinda kicked the door shut. “It’s dark down there, probably has big ol’ rats. Don’t like rats. But I adore mouses like you, Mickey.”
She breathed whiskey fumes into his face as she again chanted her litany. “Come on, Mick, come on, come on.” Clumsily, she spread a piece of paint-spattered sailcloth across the trapdoor. “Now. Right here on top.” She unzipped his fly. “You ready?”
“I don’t have a condom.”
“Big deal. I have ‘em. All colors. All sizes.”
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Belly, but I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t? You really are a rat, Mickey. Why don’t you find your dancer friend, Minnie Mouse, and screw her?”
Mick slapped Belinda across the face and felt instant guilt.
“Scat, mouse,” she hissed, caressing the angry red mark with her hand.
“Belly, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t care!” she screamed. “Go ‘way!”
“Hush.”
“Don’t tell me to hush, you rat. Go find your blonde virgin. Go! I mean it.”
Certain her shouts would bring the whole world running, including his mother, Mick said, “I’m really, really sorry, Belly. I shouldn’t have hit you. You’re drunk and—”
“I’m always drunk. Or stoned. When I sleep with you or the other boys in the band, I get totally zonked so I can pretend it doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“You’re such a jerk.” She lit a cigarette with shaky fingers. “Don’t you know that I was the original girl from the wrong side of the tracks?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I used to pretend I was Natalie Wood. That’s how I picked my last name. My real name’s Virsnieks. I got sick when Natalie Wood died.”
“Belly, I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I’ve been making it with somebody since I was fourteen years old, Mick. First for food. Then clothes. Then to get ahead in this stinkpot world. I had to sleep with your drummer…” She paused, panting. “I had to let that son of a bitch share my bed before I could get an audition for your band.”
“Belly, I didn’t know.”
“Would you have invited me to this la-de-da ballet if you didn’t have plans for later?”
“Sure, Belly. I wanted you to come.”
“Right. You wanted me to come.” She laughed harshly. “Go ‘way, Mick.”
“Let me take you home.”
“Get out of here!” she shouted. “Leave me alone!”
Like a chastised puppy, Mick scurried toward the wings.
* * *
Slowly, Belinda replaced her skirt and top. Her enormous capacity for liquor hadn’t been reinforced and she’d begun to sober. Mick’s slap still stung, but she shouldn’t have been so nasty when it came to his little blonde dancer.
I really screwed up. Mick is nicer than any other kid I’ve ever met. And he did invite me to this gala thing. Someday when I’m a big star, I’ll attend every premiere, ballet and opera, draped in mink, diamonds and fancy gowns. Mick’s band is a beginning. I’m being seen and heard. Mick even promised that his group will back me on a demo CD.
Hey, maybe she could use Mick’s guilt about hitting her and still get the demo. She wished she could begin the whole evening over, act more ladylike, take back the stupid words she’d yelled earlier.
She could start by being nice to his little dancer friend. Mick would see that she was sorry, maybe even think she’d been kidding. She’d compliment Sandra’s performance. Sincere. That was the ticket. She’d be sincere to Miss Sandra Dee, or die trying.
Peering automatically into the “mirror” that still decorated the deserted stage, Belinda saw sets on the other side. Reflections, hell! The whole damn scene was an illusion. Her world included illusions too, onstage and off.
She wandered through a maze of discarded props and costumes until she found the dressing rooms. A gaggle of celebrants surrounded performers at the end of the hallway. She didn’t see the blonde girlfriend or Mick.
One door had a cardboard star with hand-printed letters that spelled out SANDRA and NATALIE. Impulsively, Belinda ducked inside to wait.
What luck! The blonde-bunned girl sat at her dressing table before a real mirror, her face buried in her crossed arms. Her back was toward Belinda.
The first line of a message, scribbled with lipstick, marred the real mirror—words Belinda had never seen before.
Must be French ballet words, she thought. The rest of the message was hidden by Sandra’s head.
Belinda shut the door with sweaty palms and opened her mouth. Christ, it was hard to apologize, to sound sincere. If she didn’t need that demo—
“Hi, I’m Belinda Wood,” she said in her friendliest tone, “but you can call me Belly. Everybody does. We’ve never met, but I’m sure you’ve heard me sing with Mick’s band.”
Damn! A bad beginning. Hadn’t Mick once said something about Sandra wanting to sing with his band?
“You were wonderful tonight, Sandra. Are you crying over Mick? He couldn’t stop talking about you. How beautiful you are, how good you danced and sang. He thought you were the best. Me, too.”
That’s better, she thought, but still no response. What the hell does she want from me?
“I don’t mean anything to Mick, Sandra. Honest. His mom said you had a fight, but Mick doesn’t hold grudges.”
I hope, thought Belinda. She walked toward the dressing table. “I have a boyfriend and we’re engaged,” she lied, placing her hand on Sandra’s shoulder.
Sandra crumpled from her chair to the floor. Both blue eyes in the dancer’s pale face were open, staring, and a spreading pool of blood dripped from her chest.
That’s not Mick’s Sandra! That’s the other dancer. I can see the difference up close. Her hair is more platinum than blonde. I think I’m going to be sick.
Turning away from the body, Belinda vomited into a wastepaper basket. Then she screamed, “Help! Murder!”
Stupid, really stupid, they might blame me, she thought, and tried to swallow her second scream. But it was too late. Faces were already peeking ‘round the doorway.
One girl shoved her way through, and Belinda watched the real Sandra collapse on the floor, next to the other Sandra. Who was, for the record, smiling.
That smile, thought Ellie, watching Peter check Natalie’s pulse and shake his head, meant that Natalie had known her killer.
A shiny dog tag, engraved with the name Margaret Houlihan, lay across Natalie’s leotard. Lipstick-printed words appeared on the dressing room mirror’s surface:
ADVOCATUS DIABOLI.
WHORE. GOD WILL PUNISH YOU FOR YOUR SINS.
* * *
Several hours later, a body was found in downtown Colorado Springs, not far from the courthouse, a few blocks from the police station. The dead man’s expired driver’s license identified him as Leo Krafchek. A lined piece of paper was pinned to his shirt. Letters had been cut from a magazine and pasted on the paper. The letters spelled out:
ADVOCATUS DIABOLI.
SCUM. GOD WILL PUNISH YOU FOR YOUR SINS.
Chapter 10
Mick admitted that he and Belinda had wandered backstage. Belinda had placed a tarp over a trapdoor, but first Mick had seen footprints. What size footprints? Well, they didn’t belong to the abominable snowman. Or Dopey.
Dopey who?
Dopey Dwarf.
One of the cops muttered, “Smart-ass kid,” and Ellie wanted to smack him. Because her son looked exactly the same as he had at age eleven when their cat, Diaboli, had fallen from a tree and broken his neck.
Even if she closed her eyes, Ellie could still see the mirror message, so she might as well try and decipher it. Advocatus Diaboli meant devil’s advocate. So what exactly was a devil’s advocate? One who pleads a less-accepted cause for the sake of argument? Or some nut who hears a demon’s voice and responds by murdering M*A*S*H look-alikes. And why write the word whore? Was Natalie promiscuous?
Several dancers pointed out an underground passageway that led to the hidden trapdoor. The passageway made it easy for performers to travel backstage without being seen or heard by the audience. Every dressing room had its own entry, but nobody had used it for this recital. In fact, the catacomb lights hadn’t even been turned on.
Members of the cast said that there was too much chaos after the curtain call, so they hadn’t noticed anything or anybody unusual. The petite, busty ballerina-swan remembered that Natalie had entered her dressing room to take off her heavy greasepaint.
“Nat was allergic to stage makeup,” the swan said. “She broke out in pimples.”
Still dizzy, on the verge of hysteria, Sandra blamed herself for letting Natalie enter the dressing room alone.
“It’s not your fault,” Ellie said. “You couldn’t possibly have known. Please, Muffin, it’s not your fault.”
“I can’t go back to the dorm. I’ll never dance again. I’m quitting school.”
“Tonight you’ll sleep over at my house, but first you’ll call your folks. Take a short vacation. You’re not quitting school, okay?”
“Where’s Mick? I want Mick.”
Ellie watched her tall son press Sandra’s tearstained face against his suit jacket: It could have been Sandra lying on the floor, smiling with dead eyes, she thought. No. Sandra doesn’t look like Hot Lips. We buried Diaboli in the backyard and Mick cried, even though Tony said big boys don’t cry. Mick swore he didn’t want another cat, but we adopted Agatha Christie, who mysteriously disappeared. Then Jackie Robinson adopted us and everything was all right. Sandra will dance again. Everything will be all right. Where’s Peter? I want Peter.
But Peter was asking questions, and Ellie was a big girl. A big girl who retreated to the theater’s restroom so that she could lock herself inside a stall and cry.
As she wiped away her tears with toilet paper, she read the stall’s graffiti. One notation stated: MELODY LOVES DICKIE.
Melody Remming?
No, Tommy Tune. But what was Melody doing at the recital? Watching the ballet, of course. Very good, Norrie, advance to the head of the class. And while you’re there, ponder this: If Melody Remming had anything at all to do with Natalie’s murder, why would she leave her signature on the bathroom wall?
Chapter 11
To most people, Sundays meant sleeping late, church services, perhaps breakfast at a Village Inn, where pampered rug rats in soggy, saggy diapers ruled the restrooms, and older children colored their way through paper mazes. To Ellie, Sundays meant the New York Times crossword puzzle — which she did in red ink — and football.
While Broncos reared up and trampled Cowboys, Ellie greeted Dr. and Mrs. Connors, who had driven from Hygiene, Colorado, to collect their daughter. Ellie sensed that the Connors, had they dared, would have entered her home adorned with garlic cloves, a huge cross, sterling silver bullets and pointy wooden stakes.
Watching Mrs. Connors scowl, Ellie could practically hear the woman’s thoughts. After all, Ellie had encouraged “Sandy” to lose weight and indulge in this ridiculous performing thing. Sandy had been menaced during the diet-club murders. Danger seemed to follow Ellie Bernstein around. The man who wore jeans and a black-and-silver Raiders sweatshirt had been introduced as Lieutenant Peter Miller, and Mrs. Connors knew damn well he wasn’t a soldier. Their daughter’s attachment to Ellie was detrimental to her health.
Mrs. Connors sniffed audibly and lit a cigarette.
Under her mother’s disapproving eye, Sandra gave Ellie a hug and whispered that she’d be back to school soon, even if she had to thumb a ride all the way from Hygiene.
Mick overheard. “Give me a call and I’ll come get you,” he said, extending his arms.
Ignoring the adults, Sandra stood on tiptoe to press her lips against his.
Mrs. Connors yanked her daughter away.
Dr. Connors muttered, “Couldn’t we just stay and see how the game turns out?” while the family left the house.
Following Sandra’s departure, Mick collected his freshly laundered clothes and joined other band members in a Day-Glo-painted van. Students all, they had to return to Boulder. Belinda wasn’t a student. Basking in the publicity of having found Natalie’s body, she would bus back at a later date.
“Bye, Mom,” said Mick. “Bye, Pete. Sorry.”
Together, Ellie and Peter said, “For what?”
“Everything.”
Was guilt hereditary? Or environmental? Could it be recycled like aluminum cans? With that last thought, Ellie retreated to the bedroom and brushed her hair into shiny flames. Mata Hari she wasn’t, but Small-Indian could wheedle with finesse.
Peter had spent most of the night at the theatre and precinct, and would soon return to the precinct. He had a meeting with his staff to probe Natalie’s murder. And Krafchek’s.
Although Ellie didn’t agree, Franklin Harrison Burns’ death had been ruled a suicide.
Around three a.m. — just before he crashed, fully clothed, on top of the waterbed, Peter had said that Burns wasn’t wearing a dog tag, so Natalie, Krafchek and Burns weren’t “related.”
A computer guru was decoding Natalie’s laptop, trying to find a link to “Daddy Longlegs,” and two cops were interviewing students. Peter had questioned Sandra, of course, but except for Daddy Longlegs, there wasn’t much to learn. In Sandra’s words, Natalie had been a “danceaholic,” an okay student with very little social life outside of dance classes, rehearsals, and an occasional secret rendezvous with the mysterious Mr. Longlegs.
Two other cops were trying to establish a lead in the murder of Leo Krafchek. The only thing they’d unearthed so far was that Krafchek, a restaurant manager, sexually harassed his female servers. But the sexual harassment accusations weren’t linked to Natalie. Who, according to Sandra, had never even eaten at Krafchek’s restaurant.
The name Krafcheck sounded familiar, but no matter how hard Ellie racked her brain, she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it before.
During halftime, while a sports analyst sketched diagrammatic maps, Ellie pulled some beer mugs from the freezer and filled them with ginger ale. Beer was out, Peter said, because he had to keep a clear head for his staff meeting.
“Here we go again,” he said. “First you get stalked by a madman who’s killing your diet club members, now this. Hell, I guess it’s not your fault that you’re the victim type.”
“Victim type? That’s a put-down.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, sweetheart. It’s just that you look a lot like Hot Lips and Natalie looked like Hot Lips.”
“Don’t be silly. My hair’s not blonde. It’s red.”
“It sure is. C’mere, you gorgeous redhead.”
Ellie snuggled on top of his lap. “Are there many unsolved murders in your case files, honey?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Small talk.”
“You’re not very subtle, Norrie.”
“I really want to know.”
“Why?”
“Self-preservation?’’
“Since when are you concerned with … damn, they just replayed your Broncos blocking a field goal. I missed that when the Connors were here.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I mean, Peter,” she said, sparing a glance at the TV. “The best offense is a good defense. Right?”
“Wrong! The best defense is keeping your pretty nose out of my cases.”
“My mother always told me to ask a boy about his hobbies, his work, his favorite sport. Mom said that would make me popular. So I’m asking.”
“I don’t have time for a hobby. You’re my hobby.”
“Peter!”
“Okay, I like to read, especially poems by Eliot.”
“You like poetry?”
“No, cats. I’ve read Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats from cover to cover.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“We were talking hobbies.”
“We were talking unresolved homicides.”
“That’s your hobby. Anyway, the other cases in our files could be unrelated—”
“What other cases?” Ellie snuggled closer.
“Norrie, there are always unsolved cases. Cold cases. You watch enough TV to know that.” He yawned. “On TV the cases are always miraculously solved before the last commercial.”
“Okay, yes, that’s the word I wanted. Cold cases.”
“In big cities like New York, L.A., Houston and Chicago, cold cases could number in the hundreds, probably thousands. Here in the Springs we might average two or three a year, or none at all. Most of our crimes are bar brawls, jealous spats, drug-related stabbings, abused wives … most of whom refuse to press charges … and the perps are usually at the scene.”
“Tell me about your unsolved cases.”
“No way! What are you doing?”
“Giving you a massage. You are definitely one tired, stressed detective.”
“A masseuse doesn’t give rubdowns down there. Watch your hands!”
“Holy cow, Peter, at least one portion of your anatomy doesn’t seem all that tired.”
“Shame on you, prying for information with sex.”
“Who attended the funeral?”
“Huh? What are you talking about? Which funeral?”
“The Franklin Harrison Burns funeral. Natalie won’t have a Colorado Springs funeral, so unless the perp travels long distance, he won’t show up for her…” Ellie swallowed. “Her burial.”
“Are you crying, Norrie?”
“Yes. Who attended the Burns funeral?”
“I have to leave for the precinct.”
“Nonsense. You have to shave and put your shoes on, first.”
“I plan to grow a beard like your hero Sean Connelly in that Indiana Jones movie. And how, may I ask, is Mr. Connery connected to Kevin Bacon?”
“Sean Connery was in The Longest Day with Eddie Albert, who was in The Big Picture with Kevin Bacon, and you’re changing the subject again. Who was at the funeral?”
Peter looked longingly toward the front door, as if he expected his shoes to magically rendezvous with his socks. “If I tell you, will you let me leave in peace?”
“Absolutely.”
“His wife was there, of course. And Mrs. Smithers. And a few of his coworkers.”
“What about his mistress?”
“Missing.”
“I wonder why.”
“Norrie, the girlfriend didn’t kill Burns. Neither did the wife. Or the coworkers. Nobody had a motive, except maybe the mother-in-law who hates the Yankees.”
“Yankees, Peter, not the Yankees. I doubt she’s ever watched a baseball game in her li … holy cow! J.R.”
“Your cat?”
“No. Magnolia said Mrs. Smithers watched the TV show Dallas because it was ‘truthful.’ Why couldn’t she turn fantasy into reality? Remember that cliffhanger when J.R. was shot?”
“Norrie, Mrs. Smithers was in Atlanta when Burns—”
“Right. I forgot. What unsolved cases?”
“You promised I could leave—”
“I didn’t promise. You said before that there were files of unsolved cases. Tell me about them and I’ll be your slave. I’ll even wax your body.”
“Off the top of my head, a policeman shot in his car and a woman kidnapped from the Safeway shopping center, later found dead in a cemetery. There was an unmarried couple, man and woman, living together, who were killed and discovered in the dumpster at an apartment complex. Is that enough?”
“Did any of the victims look like a M*A*S*H character?”
“I have no idea.”
“What about Virginia Whitley?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Peter. The Dew Drop Inn. March, 1983. Do you remember anything at all?”
“I was living and working in Denver, but I heard about it. A hit-and-run, right?”
“That’s what they said. The newspapers, I mean.”
“Since the CSPD never found the driver, I imagine it’s filed as an unsolved vehicular homicide.”
“Could I look through the CSPD files?”
“You’re pushing your luck, sweetheart. Absolutely not. There’s something else. Your last name. Bernstein. My fault. I should have made you change it to Miller.”
“You can’t make someone change her name. Besides, I don’t understand what … oh wait, I see. My name sounds like Burns. Change the E to a U and—”
“Wow, did you see that touchdown pass? It must have soared sixty yards.”
“Peter, take off your jeans and that damn Raiders sweatshirt.”
“I have to leave for the precinct,” he said with a groan.
She molded her body to his, felt his fingers exploring, locating, unearthing, caressing. She gasped and cried, “Stop. Don’t stop. Ohmygod, Peter, I’m soaring sixty yards.”
After Peter left for the precinct, Ellie made a lap for Jackie Robinson. Together they watched the Broncos, and for the first time in a long time, her sweet tooth kicked in with a vengeance. Oh, for some chocolate ice cream, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate anything.
As if to mock her, a local merchant had decided to run an ad between the third and fourth quarters. The ad touted unsold bags of Halloween candy at a huge discount. Its background music was “The Monster Mash” by Bobby Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers.
Chapter 12
On Monday evening Ellie was home alone, trying to decide what to wear. Casual or dressy?
Her duck quacked.
“Hi,” said Peter, “I’m glad you’re home. I thought you mentioned something about a Weight Winners meeting.”
“That was earlier. It’s over. What’s happening?”
“Well, it seems as though we have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Did you find another dead body?’’
“Lots of dead bodies.”
“Ohmygod! You’re kidding! That’s awful. Why isn’t it on the news? Oh, wait, my TV is off.” She hesitated. Peter sounded too … what word was she looking for? Laidback? She didn’t have a clue why he’d joke about dead bodies, but—
“How many dead bodies did you find, Peter?”
“Twelve, thirteen, maybe more.”
“Whoa,” she said, her skepticism expanding like a cup of rice in one and a half cups of boiling water. “Didn’t you count them?”
“Will McCoy is counting them now.”
“Your partner is counting them? And where, may I ask, are you calling from?”
“The precinct.”
“You carted dead bodies to the precinct?”
“McCoy helped. We tossed them into my trunk. It wasn’t easy. Have you seen the inside of my trunk? There’s a spare tire and a Kevlar vest and tools and—”
“Okay, Peter, what’s really going on?”
“I told you, dead—”
“Bodies. Yeah, right. How big are your stiffs?”
“Did you ever play with Barbie and Ken when you were a kid?”
“I think Barbie came along a few years after my first period. I played with a doll called Betsy-Wetsy. She peed. Ohmygod, you found dead dolls?”
“Yes, ma’am. One of the Barbies was hanging from a tree. She had this miniature noose tied around her — wait a sec. McCoy says it was Skipper, not Barbie.”
“Are you laughing? You are. I don’t think it’s funny.”
“Neither do I, not really. Our killer’s got one hell of a sick mind.”
“Our killer? The M*A*S*H killer? What makes you think—”
“The dolls were dressed in G. I. Joe clothes.”
“Even Barbie and Skipper?”
“Yup. And Ken.”
“Hot Lips and Frank Burns,” Ellie gasped. “The dolls are supposed to look like Hot Lips and—”
“Some of the bigger dolls, like Raggedy Ann and Andy, were wearing hand-stitched fatigues and infant-size T-shirts, dyed olive-green.”
“Rit fabric dye.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Something Mrs. Smithers said. Go on.”
“There was also soldier paraphernalia. Toy guns and knives and grenades. And one of those kid-sized doctor kits, an old one, no bigger than a lunch box. You don’t see them around much anymore. Of course, you don’t see lunch boxes around much, either. Oh, and helicopters, the kind you buy already put together or build from scratch.”
“Where did you find all this?”
“Memorial Park. A guy was walking his dog, saw the mass murder scene, and called the precinct rather than 9-1-1. Thank God we collected all that stuff before the newspapers and TV stations got wind of it. We’ll check for prints after McCoy finishes counting body bags.”
“Body bags?”
“Grocery sacks and evidence envelopes.”
Peter was still joking, but Ellie felt sick to her stomach. Yet she also felt a certain satisfaction. This proved that her M*A*S*H theory was correct.
“Of course,” Peter added, “a kid could have set up that scene and left it there.”
“No way. My son did a head count every night before he went to sleep. If someone was missing, Mick would go nuts and search until he found him. Or her.”
“Her? Mick played with female dolls?”
“Yes. At first his macho father objected rather strenuously. But then Tony decided that Mick could use his ‘doll’ dolls for corpses. Mick even crushed one Barbie with a tank and poured my red nail polish over her body.”
There was a momentary silence as Peter absorbed the tank, or maybe the red nail polish. Then he said, “Our computer’s down right now. When it’s fixed, we’ll run a check for similar MOs. What are your plans?”
“I’m meeting Melody Remming at a club. Melody is that new Weight Winners member I told you about.”
“Be careful, sweetheart. Make sure you’re always around other people. And when you leave the club, have the bartender or a male waiter walk you to your car.”
“You be careful too, honey.”
“Why? I don’t look like any of the M*A*S*H characters.”
“Yes, you do. A little bit. Alan Alda with a mustache.”
“No one would kill Hawkeye, except maybe Frank Burns and he’s already been eliminated.”
“Peter, you’re laughing again. Cut it out.”
“If we don’t laugh, we cry. McCoy says hello. Oops, he lost his place and has to recount the bodies.”
This time Ellie laughed; she had no choice. “What time do you suppose you’ll be home?”
“I’ll probably slip under the sheets while you’re taking your crack-of-dawn jog. No sex tonight, which means no interrogation.”
“If you gave out information freely, I wouldn’t have to wheedle.”
“Is wheedle the Norrie-euphemism for sex.”
“Yes.”
“I think I’d rather have a wheedle than give out information for free. Gotta go, sweetheart. McCoy has lost his place again. Bye.”
As Ellie hung up, she thought: I’ll be surrounded by other people, Peter. All those M*A*S*H rerun club members.
Excited, curious, a bit apprehensive, she locked her front door and left to pick up Melody.
* * *
Ellie’s new friend lived in a furnished studio apartment at the center of a huge complex. Ellie rang the bell. When the door opened, she inhaled paint, linseed oil and turpentine.
Melody plied her secretarial skills on a day-to-day basis, but eventually hoped to become established as a freelance artist. Huge canvases dominated every inch of wall space. Blobs of bright abstract colors were thickly applied with a palette knife.
“Hi, Ellie,” Melody said in her high, scratchy voice. “Soon you’ll meet the whole motley crew. I called and told Nancy that you were planning to join our group tonight.”
“Thanks, sweetie. I’m primed for fun, especially after Saturday night. The victim of what the media is now calling the TOES murder was my son’s girlfriend’s roommate.”
“I was there too, at the ballet. The girl danced like an angel. Nancy Trask gave the entire M*A*S*H rerun club tickets. I’m not sure why she included me since I’ve only been there once.”
Ellie bit her lip to keep herself from mentioning the Hot Lips dog tag clue. Peter had withheld that bit of evidence from the sniffing newshounds. Instead she said, “I need to visit your bathroom, Melody. Is there enough time?”
“Relax, Ellie. We have lots of time.”
More canvases covered the bathroom walls. They appeared nonobjective, but Ellie had a few minutes to study them from her commode perch. Buried in the swirling primary colors were tiny figures. Nuns marching, their hands folded into pie wedges. A priest offering communion to gaping mouths. Jesus blessing disciples. The blobs in the background were birds of all sizes, gliding with outspread wings. Ellie shuddered as she pulled down her white CSPD sweatshirt and zipped up her black corduroy slacks. Melody’s paintings were brilliant but disturbing.
Returning to the main room, Ellie noted oil paint applied in darker hues. Priests, nuns and birds again dominated the motifs.
Observing Ellie’s interest. Melody smiled, only her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I had a very religious upbringing,” she said. “Catholic schools, the whole bit. My mother attended mass every day of her life until she died. She wanted ten kids but could only conceive me. She blamed Daddy because he didn’t go to church often enough. Isn’t that stupid? I mean, well, God doesn’t control sperm, does he?”
“Melody, your paintings don’t seem very religious … uh, complimentary to the church.”
What an understatement! A nun in the bathroom canvas had been marching sedately, au naturel. One of the gaping communion mouths flaunted vampire fangs. Christ’s disciples included Henry VIII making love to a headless wife, Lizzie Borden with a bloody axe, hacking a Norman Rockwell, all-American mom and dad, and a woman who looked like actress Glen Close, holding a dead bunny. In this room, on a hand-built easel, the work in progress showed nuns as ballerinas, their habits shortened into black tutus. The tiny dancers leapt across the canvas in jetés, suspended in their elevations. Under the tutus their butts were bare.
Ellie felt like a voyeur. Propped against the corner wall, a painted priest had an ecstatic grin on his face. He sat below a tree that was festooned with Alfred Hitchcock crows (one had Hitchcock’s face). The priest’s right hand seemed to undulate between his legs, beneath his frock. In short, Melody’s artwork was flawless; technically brilliant religious pornography.
“Complimentary to the church?” Melody’s brow knitted. “Ellie, I believed in the church all through my childhood, even when there were unanswered questions. I studied history in college because it was so absolute. I mean, people really existed. I know every president’s astrological sign. Go on, test me.”
“Sweetie, that’s not really necessary. I believe you.”
“Come on, give me a President’s name.”
“Okay. Roosevelt.”
“Teddy was a Scorpio, Franklin an Aquarius.”
Franklin. Franklin Harrison Burns.
“Melody, did your rerun club members happen to mention a man named Franklin Harrison Burns? Nicknamed Harry?”
“No. Why?”
“He died a week ago. Supposedly, it was a suicide. It happened shortly before your club’s get-together. Do you remember anybody showing up late?”
“Yes. Me. Why?”
“Just a gut feeling I can’t seem to shake off, and I guess I’m trying to connect the dots. Last Monday night, was anybody agitated? Disconcerted?”
“Not really. They were pissed off because my cousin Fred ran out of gas and they had to push his Jeep. There was this guy named Jacques Hansen, who became agitated later. He admires Frank Burns, but the others don’t. Jacques Hansen is a jerk, but I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. I’m sorry, Ellie, but I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Harry’s wife Magnolia recently joined Weight Winners. I paid her a condolence call and she said her husband had met your friends at the supermarket.”
“So?”
“I just wondered if your club members knew him well enough to tell if he was depressed or something.” She decided to change the subject. “When did you become religiously disillusioned?” she asked, thinking how her background paralleled Melody’s, with a Catholic-oriented lifestyle and parochial schools. Lots of praying. Lots of Latin. No cussing. No sex.
During her junior year she’d transferred to a public high school and studied French, No more Latin. She had one boyfriend, Walker Seidman, who liked her hair because, he said, it was the color of blood. Her relationship with Walker had been platonic, but sex was available on a daily basis. An overweight overachiever, Ellie wasn’t very popular, so she didn’t get screwed.
“In my last year of high school,” Melody said, “I got pregnant. The boy looked like Stallone. He’d slept with most of the girls in my graduating class. I found out later that he’d notch his motorcycle after every conquest. I didn’t know anything about contraceptives. ‘Rocky’ hit the road when I told him I was ‘with child.’ To his credit, he didn’t ask me who the father was. I was so damn naïve. He was Catholic, too. I thought he’d marry me.”
“Then what happened?”
“I wanted to have the baby, even if I gave it away at birth. You know, for adoption? Instead, my mother arranged an abortion. To this day I can’t fathom how she justified that sin. Talk about hypocrisy!”
“I’m sorry, Melody.”
“I had very long hair. ‘Rocky’ would tie it around his neck in a noose. Mother sheared it all off, like a sheep, so close to my scalp that there were bald splotches. I tried to kill myself by cutting my throat. That’s why my voice sounds so scratchy, why I wear scarves.”
“Melody, this is really none of my business.”
“Mother grounded me for the rest of the school year. I spent hours kneeling and praying inside our church while the priest gave me pitying looks and more penance. You see, Ellie, my sin was the attempted suicide, not the abortion. I went away to college and became an atheist.”
“I can understand that.”
“Wait until you meet Dickie. I told him what I just told you and he cried. We haven’t done it yet, made love, but I will when he asks me.”
Ellie didn’t know what to say. Like most people, she had emotional scars, but they were minimal compared to those of this friendly, gregarious artist.
She and Melody walked silently through the complex, past a drained swimming pool, the sagging nets of a small tennis court, and several dumpsters. Ellie had left her car near a large wooden sign proclaiming the name of the complex, a name that sounded familiar.
Holy cow! Yesterday Peter had mentioned an unsolved murder case about a couple killed and thrown into a dumpster. Now Ellie suddenly recalled reading about it … when? … two years ago. The murders had occurred in this very same development.
“How long have you lived here, Melody?”
“Almost three years.”
“Do you remember the Dumpster Murders? The couple found in the dumpster?”
“Sure. Police crawled all over the place for days and then it slacked off. At the time I thought about painting a priest blessing a dumpster, but it seemed too ghoulish, too macabre. Isn’t this your Honda?”
“That’s it. Hop inside.”
Melody gave directions to Kenneth Trask’s house while she chatted about the club members.
Ellie concentrated on driving. A sharp wind made it difficult to control her fishtailing rear end. It almost seemed as though a mischievous deity was blowing leaves and debris toward her atheist passenger.
That same wind swept Ellie up a slate path and into a house that looked impenetrable, especially if the Big Bad Wolf craved admission. The wind then swirled through the open doorway and whipped an American flag into a patriotic frenzy.
Ellie’s gaze was immediately drawn to the large-screen TV, where a local newscast replayed Saturday night’s murders. With relish, the camera zoomed in on Natalie’s shrouded body as she was carted from the recital hall toward a waiting ambulance. The screen then showed a black and white photo of the murdered man, Leo Krafchek.
“Lieutenant Miller is working on several possible leads,” announced the CBS reporter.
“Bull,” said a slight man wearing a black turtleneck shirt and khaki pants, who sat on the floor in front of the TV. “Aegri somnia vana. Aegri somnia vana.”
Chapter 13
“A sick man’s empty dreams,” Ellie translated. ‘‘Are you talking about Lieutenant Miller or the murderer?”
The seated man’s eyes seemed to twinkle as his gaze traveled from her sneakers to the oversize white sweatshirt with blue felt letters that spelled out CSPD SOFTBALL TEAM.
Then the same sweet priestly voice said, “Welcome, my child. Dies faustus.”
“Why is it a lucky day?”
“Because I have finally found someone who understands my flummery twaddle.”
“There’s nothing flummery about Latin. And doesn’t twaddle mean silly, idle talk? I have a feeling you’re neither silly nor idle.”
“And you’re perceptive. My name’s Sean McCarthy but my friends call me Father Mac.”
“I’m Ellie … Ellie…” She hesitated as she remembered Peter’s comment about her last name.
“Pleased to meet you, Ellie-Ellie. My aegri somnia vana comment referred to the television reporter.”
“The reporter’s a woman,” she chided, “so a sick man’s empty dreams doesn’t apply.”
“A sick woman’s empty dreams?’’ He grimaced, as if he’d bitten into a sour lemon or a sour memory. “That doesn’t sound very comprehensive, Ellie-Ellie.”
“Okay, I’ll give you sick man’s empty dreams, Father Mac.” She pointed at the TV set. “But why empty?”
“Whatever happened to the old adage ‘no news is good news’? If there’s no news, those mike-sucking reporters have to pretend something’s happening.”
“How do you know something isn’t happening?”
“Elementary, my dear. Our local stations keep televising the same pictures over and over. ‘Several possible leads’ is police-speak for ‘We don’t have a clue.’ In other words, no news is, or should be, no news.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” whined a short, prissy man.
From his appearance, Ellie recognized Melody’s cousin Fred, clothed in brand-spanking-new Levi’s and a starched white shirt.
“You’re monopolizing this pretty lady, Father Mac,” Fred added with what Ellie could almost swear was a simper. He shook her hand but seemed to recoil at the contact. His palm was moist and felt like most people believe a snake might feel, before they touched one.
“This is Dickie Dorack,” said a flush-faced Melody, leading a man by the hand. “Dickie, this is my friend, Ellie. She’s also my diet club leader so I’ll have to watch what I eat tonight.”
Ellie glanced up, way up, at a tousled towhead with droopy-lidded eyes and a charming smile. Dorack probably purchased his clothing at Large & Tall Fashions for Less and had his hair cut by a conciliatory Sweeny Todd. Could Dickie Dorack be a murderer?
A man clothed in gray flannel slacks and a charcoal cashmere sweater introduced himself, and Ellie’s first impression was that Kenneth Trask could sell diet pills to sumo wrestlers. Wait a sec. The name sounded familiar.
“Are you Kenneth Trask the architect?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, preening. “You’ve heard of me?”
“You designed my house.”
“He builds homes, I insure them,” said a man with a dark Santa Claus beard and Santa’s jelly-belly stuffed inside a cowboy shirt. “I’m Howie Silverman of Silver and Gold Insurance, if you’re ever in the market.”
“Gold … Barry Goldman?”
“My partner.”
“Then I’m already covered by your company, Mr. Silverman. Barry’s my ex-husband’s colleague.”
“Call me Howie, sweetcakes.”
“Sure, if you drop the sweetcakes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t like to be called ma’am, either, but it’s better than sweetcakes.
The last member of the club rose from his chair. “I’m Jacques Hansen, OSI,” he stated. Then he nodded toward the TV and said, “I could solve those murders if it was military instead of civilian.”
Ellie stifled her impulse to salute. “You could?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d find out what the deceased had in common and—”
“Cui bono,” Sean said.
“Stop doing that!” Fred shrieked.
“Who will profit by it,” Ellie translated.
“It’s another way of saying what’s the motive,” said a woman with short-cropped brown hair, whom Ellie assumed was Nancy Trask. She had entered the room so quietly, Ellie hadn’t even heard her. Nancy held a tray filled with cake, corn and milk. “Isn’t it, dear?” she said, facing her husband.
Trask nodded as Ellie admired Nancy’s flowered caftan. “Did you sew that dress yourself, Mrs. Trask?”
“Yes, I did. Please call me Nancy. I understand you and Melody are both on diets and can’t eat cake or corn. But your milk is low-fat, so you can join the others in a toast.” She placed the tray on an art deco coffee table.
“I know who killed those people,” Jacques Hansen said, noticeably peeved at the reaction to his original statement. “I figured it out yesterday morning at church.”
“Who?” “Who?” “Who?” “Who?” Voices rose in a chorus, like over-stimulated owls.
“I don’t want to say.” Jacques’s voice sounded smarmy. “I never make an accusation until my facts are indisputable.”
Ellie stared at porcupine-quill hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Was Hansen bluffing? Or was he throwing the scent away from his own trail? What would be his motive? Melody said he loved war movies, but that didn’t mean he’d murder people. Although he wasn’t physically imposing, he looked like he could slash and stalk. It was the expression in his eyes.
“And I never make mistakes,” Jacques added, as club members wandered toward the food.
“Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus,” Ellie whispered to Sean. “Even the great make mistakes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Do you consider Jacques Hansen great?”
“No, but I think he does.”
“Don’t underestimate Hansen.” Sean grabbed two shot glasses and nodded toward the carpet. Ellie sat, folding her legs Indian-style.
“Jacques has the highest percentage rate of confessions on the base,” Sean said, after clinking his glass against Ellie’s. “He may look harmless and sound like a dullard but he’s very sharp.”
“How did he get to be a member of this group? He doesn’t seem to fit.”
“None of us really fit, Ellie-Ellie. I’m not sure how Hansen became a member. He and his wife edit a religious newsletter. Ken met him at a city council meeting. Next thing we knew, Hansen started showing up Monday nights. Ken seems to surround himself with nuts and dolts.” Sean genuflected. “Be careful, Ellie-Ellie. Insanity is contagious.”
“What does that mean? Are you warning me to keep away from the group?”
“Not at all, my child, not at all.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Melody flashed Ellie a grin. “I’m so glad you came. Ken hasn’t even hinted that the girls leave the room and keep Nancy company.”
Fred, Dickie and Melody deflated sofa cushions. Howie’s bentwood rocker groaned. Hansen sat upright on his ladder-back chair. Trask crouched in his comfortable armchair. Sean and Ellie remained seated on the shag carpeting.
As the show began, Ellie soon discovered that she’d never seen it before, a surprise since she thought she’d seen them all.
Attentively, she watched Hawkeye offer to buy the seventeen-year-old mistress and slave of a Sergeant Baker. Baker wants two thousand dollars. Hawkeye devises Operation Poker, where Radar uses a telescope to spy on Baker’s cards. Winning both the game and the girl. Hawkeye realizes that if he sets her free, she’ll be sold again by her own family. But when her brother comes to collect her for another sale, she defies tradition. “I tell brother most important words I learn from you,” she says to Hawkeye. “Shove off.”
At the kitchen table, all discussion revolved around the episode. Trask saw nothing wrong with the practice of buying musame, or in American slang “moose,” during the Korean conflict.
“After all, there were no wives available,” Trask said, playfully patting Nancy’s behind.
The immaculate woman smiled a Mona Lisa smile, and yet Ellie thought she detected a glint of annoyance in those deep brown eyes.
Jacques Hansen said how there were lots of servants and slaves mentioned in the Bible.
Melody said, “Where do you think you’d be today if the slave Jochebed had not given birth to Moses?”
Fred Remming said he’d love to have his own moose and would beat the girl with a stick if she didn’t obey.
Howie Silverman said the moose would beat Fred.
Dickie Dorack thought a relationship should be shared equally by two partners. Melody rewarded him with a smile as Howie murmured, “Dork.”
“What do you think, Ellie?” Melody said.
“Well, I appreciate Hawkeye’s desire to help, even though he cheated at cards and I can’t condone cheating.” She felt her cheeks bake. “Maybe I can condone it, if it’s for a good reason.”
Glancing around the table, she tried to imagine the rerun club members as cold-blooded killers. Later she’d write a list, probing personality traits and motives.
The discussion switched to the Monday night football game. Giants versus Patriots.
“Speaking of patriots,” Jacques Hansen said to Ellie, “did you know that Frank Burns won a Purple Heart? The others call Frank an A-hole.”
She felt compelled to respond. “Frank doesn’t have many admirable qualities,” she said, “but I think the show’s writers used him as a buffoon. Like Shakespeare does with Falstaff.”
“I remember that Purple Heart episode,” Melody said. “It was a joke, a mistake.” She shook her curls. “Never mind. Discussing Frank Burns with you, Jacques, is like arguing religion with a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness, but sometimes they make sense. They believe in the sinfulness of governments and—”
“Shut up, Hansen!” Howie turned his face toward Ellie. “Don’t pay any attention to Jacques. He’s a sick-o.”
Soon Melody left with Dickie Dorack, who had brought his own vehicle, a Chevy pickup with dealer’s plates, almost as old as the pickup Ellie had parked next to during the Mash-Bash.
She walked to the curb with them, said goodbye to Dickie, and hugged Melody. “I had a wonderful time. See you Friday at the Weight Winners meeting.”
Wandering back inside, she thanked Nancy for her hospitality. The men around the table were discussing moose again.
Sean escorted Ellie down the slate path.
She said, “Where did you learn Latin, Father Mac? Parochial school? College?”
“Neither, Ellie-Ellie. I’m self-taught. I can’t really string sentences together or even read the stuff in its original form. I carry a notepad and jot down phrases.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“That’s no answer.”
“When I was in school I started losing my hair. Bald runs in my family.”
“So you learned Latin phrases?”
“I played the priest in a school production of Romeo and Juliet. They cast me because I was baldish and looked ultramontane. Soon I began acting like a priest all the time, blessing everybody. It got me noticed, made me popular. I was trying to impress … you see, I worshiped the girl who played Juliet. Her name was Juliet.”
In the wispy glow from a streetlamp, Ellie could discern the bleak expression on his face.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, then wondered why she’d said it. Habit? Except she’d really meant it. Had Juliet scorned Sean? Did Juliet die? Did Juliet resemble Hot Lips? Ellie couldn’t ask. Sean’s Juliet was off limits, none of her business.
He extended an invitation to join the group next week and she said, “Dei gratia.”
“By the grace of God. You betcha, Ellie-Ellie.” Leaning forward, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Then he battled the capricious wind as he wended his way toward Trask’s front door.
Reaching inside her purse for her ignition keys, Ellie sensed she wasn’t alone and her heart skipped a beat. Was she about to be murdered immediately following her first M*A*S*H rerun club meeting? Peter would be furious.
She took a deep breath and turned around, fervently wishing she had a weapon. Her car keys would have to do.
The looming shadowy shape, Howie Silverman, gave her a mock bow. “Would you care to join me for a drink at the Dew Drop Inn, darlin’? The owner’s my bud.”
“How do you know Charley Aaronson?” Ellie’s heart resumed its normal rhythm.
“Insurance policy. How do you know Charley?”
“My husband sold him his lounge.”
“Ex-husband, sweetbuns. Earlier you said my partner was your ex-husband’s colleague.” Howie’s voice dripped with molasses. “You’re just a li’l bitty divorced lady who could use some lovin’, poor thang.”
The streetlamp’s yellowish light bounced off Howie’s shiny shirt snaps, and his grin was very white, outlined by the dark beard.
“I have a boyfriend,” Ellie said, feeling dumb. Did one say man friend after age forty?
“Is he a cop?”
“How did you … oh, my sweatshirt. Colorado Springs Police Department Softball Team. Yes, he’s a detective.”
“The one on the news? Miller?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“He’s very tall and if you unfolded your shirt, it would probably fall below your knees.”
“You’re a pretty good detective yourself.”
“Yup. Look, I’ll tell you my theory about Saturday night’s homicides, and you can relay the information to your cop. He’d probably appreciate your help.”
Appreciate my help? Not on your life, bud.
Aloud she said, “What theory is that, Howie?”
“If you really want to know, join me for a drink at the Dew Drop Inn.”
Placing his palms on the Honda, he pinned her against the door. His beer belly pressed her rib cage, and she felt one of his shirt snaps painfully indent her breast. His breath smelled like garlic-flavored beer.
She said, “Shove off!”
His hand reached between her back and the car door. He cupped her butt and drew her closer. She struggled as he lowered his head. The streetlamp exposed his open mouth. Ellie had a sudden image of Dracula.
“You heard the lady, shove off!” The wind had whipped Kenneth Trask’s salt-and-pepper hair from its carefully-combed pompadour. In the light’s glow his eyes looked flinty. On the end of a choke-collared leash stood a growling Airedale.
Ellie felt Howie give her rump a painful pinch. Then he stepped back and grinned at Trask. “Hi there, Ken. Taking the dog for a walk? Has the game started?”
What game? The football game? Or is he talking about his performance with me? Ellie hunkered down, patted the Airedale’s Brillo hair and scratched its long nose with her fingertips.
“Fred wants to go home,” said Trask. “He has a cold.”
“Fred always has a cold. I suppose Hansen has an early interrogation tomorrow morning and Father Mac wants to attend evening prayers. Fudge carpooling.” Howie gave Ellie a wink before he turned and retreated up the path.
“Fudge carpooling?”
Trask laughed. “Howie won’t swear in front of a lady.”
Ellie rose to her feet. The Airedale followed all the way, kneading her chest with his front paws.
“Down, Klinger,” Trask ordered and the dog obeyed.
“Klinger?”
“As a puppy, he was all nose. And my son used to dress him up in doll clothes. So we named him Klinger.”
The dog barked at the sound of his name.
“But Klinger wears women’s clothing,” Ellie said. “Did your son…?” She paused as a thought clicked into place. “Did your son play with female dolls?”
The streetlight revealed Ken’s scowl, then his sudden grin. “Yup. K.J. had a few girl dolls. He actually preferred them to … to male dolls, but he outgrew it. By the time he was sixteen he was dating and fudging and all that good stuff.”
“Yes, well, thanks for coming to my rescue. Howie was getting a tad too persuasive.”
“No problem. Silverman is like Klinger here. All bark and no bite.”
Ellie again pictured Dracula. No bite?
“Anyway, I wanted to give you this before you left.” Trask handed her a business card with raised lettering. “You said you’d condone cheating if it was for a good reason. Call me and I’ll show you my renovations.” Leering, he cloned Howie’s wink. “I’ll show you mine, and you show me yours. Sound good?”
Ellie decided to ignore his crudeness. “Say goodnight to your lovely wife,” she said as she slid onto the driver’s seat and slammed the door.
Trask’s hand made a circular motion and she rolled down the window. Maneuvering his head and upper body through the open space, he pinioned her neck with one hand and kissed her. She felt his tongue probe.
Klinger barked and tugged on his leash, pulling Trask away from the car.
Too furious for words, Ellie revved her engine. Three blocks away, she let the wind snatch Trask’s business card from her fingers. Then she spat into the street.
On the car radio Hank Williams sang about a cheatin heart.
Chapter 14
Home again, home at last, home sweet home.
Ellie locked the front door, turned on the overhead three-globed light fixture, and surveyed her family room. Technically, Peter wasn’t living with her — he had his own small apartment not far from the precinct — but his constant visits filled the room.
A woolly cardigan sweater was draped over the back of the couch. The Dixie Chicks and Rascal Flatts anchored his Oakland Raiders baseball cap. A pair of dilapidated sneakers lay under the coffee table. Jackie Robinson slept on top of one, his furry face buried in the laces. Three days’ worth of newspapers were stacked haphazardly near the fireplace and an empty coffee mug half hid behind a windowsill plant.
The room even smelled male. Lingering traces of Peter’s after-shave mingled with the odor of his pungent sneaker beneath her cat’s happy nose.
Ignoring the debris, Ellie collected a pad of yellow lined paper and her trusty Magic Marker. She sank down, onto the carpet, but before she could begin to write, her duck quacked.
“I’m at my place,” said Peter’s sleepy voice.
“No new leads?”
“None that count,” Peter replied. To Ellie he sounded insincere, until he added, “I need to catch a few zees before I drive back to the precinct.” That, at least, sounded truthful.
“Okay,” she said. “Requiescat in pace, honey.”
“What?”
“Rest in peace. My rusty Latin’s getting oiled.”
“You sound like Vince what’s his name.”
“Vaughn? Lombardi? Van Gogh?”
“No, Price. Vincent Price. I thought they put that requiescat thing on tombstones.”
“You’re right. Sorry. Get some sleep.”
“While I’m sleeping, you can figure out how Vincent Price is connected to Kevin Bacon. That should keep you out of trouble.” He yawned. “Love you, Norrie.”
“Me too, you,” she said.
As she replaced the receiver, the phone quacked again.
Melody’s voice oozed excitement. “Can we meet for lunch, Ellie? I have something important to tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“Can’t talk now. Dickie’s here. It’s nothing bad. I’m not going to say I know who killed the ballerina, then hang up and find myself dead.”
Ellie laughed. “You forgot the part about how you don’t want to say the killer’s name over the phone because the phone might be bugged.”
“Right. Tomorrow at noon? Uncle Vinnie’s Gourmet Italian Restaurant?”
“Okay. My treat,” Ellie said and hung up before Melody could object.
Speaking of Uncle Vinnie’s, she’d have to remember to tell Peter that Vincent Price was in Catchfire with Joe Pesei, who was in JFK with Kevin Bacon.
Returning to her position on the floor, she printed names:
DICKIE DORACK
KENNETH TRASK
HOWIE SILVERMAN
FRED REMMING
SEAN MCCARTHY (FATHER MAC)
She paused, pen hovering, then wrote MELODY REMMING. Only Melody’s disturbing paintings and her M*A*S*H addiction made her a candidate. And, she’d been at the ballet.
But Melody didn’t have any motive. The young woman was delirious with Dorack’s attention, not jealous of sexy blondes. The sleazy stud who had deserted a pregnant Melody had looked like macho Sylvester Stallone, not wimpy Frank Burns.
Ellie crossed off Melody’s name with a broad stroke of her marker.
Dickie Dorack didn’t seem the killer type, either. He worked for a Chevy dealership in their used car division. Had he been at Charley’s Mash-Bash party when Virginia Whitley was the victim of a vehicular homicide? Had he sold cars to any of the victims? Ellie wrote down her questions, thinking how Peter would scoff. Laugh? Appreciate her help?
Drawing an arrow, she moved Dickie Dorack to the bottom of her suspect list.
Then she bracketed Kenneth Trask and Howie Silverman together. They were cut from the same cloth, although Trask seemed to have more élan. She remembered his kiss. No, he didn’t.
What would be their motives? Could rejection trigger an explosive response? She’d felt that with Howie Silverman. Maybe he didn’t cuss in front of ladies, but he sure tried to put the moves on them. Her tush still throbbed from his pinch. Melody said that Howie had an ex-wife and twin boys. Did his ex look like Hot Lips? Had she remarried a Frank Burns?
Trask’s motive? Ellie drew a large question mark next to his name and decided to return to him later.
Fred Remming kvetched like a reptile who had swallowed a mouse whole and now suffered from heartburn. Melody said her cousin worked in the utilities building downtown, processing applications and receiving payments through a caged window. He had access to personal information, including addresses. Fred was a definite maybe.
Jacques Hansen had served in peacetime Germany and was no cliché psychotic war veteran on the loose. He edited a religious newsletter. Could his motive be some vague moral vindication?
Religion: Father Mac. Sean McCarthy.
Ellie liked him a lot. Sean was a carbon copy of Father Mulcahy, with a razor-sharp intellect. Sean was a Latin cohort who stimulated her intellect. Funny. She could picture him as a priest, an attorney, a college professor, but Melody said he worked for the telephone company.
Had any of the victims’ phones been bugged?
Then there was the most damaging evidence of all — the Latin-phrased messages left at Natalie and Krafchek’s murder scenes. Sean had learned Latin because he “worshiped Juliet.” Had she looked like Hot Lips?
Farfetched.
Ellie shook her head. Then, under her list of so-called suspects, she wrote: GET A LIFE!
Because these people all seemed to be focused on, and preoccupied with, M*A*S*H reruns. On the other hand, Ellie had met Star Trek addicts whose whole world … galaxy? … seemed to revolve around Captain Kirk and Spock. Star Trek addicts were even more fanatical than M*A*S*H junkies, she thought, returning to her pad and notes.
Of course, the killer could have nothing whatsoever to do with Trask’s rerun club.
In that case, she was up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle and, to tell the God’s honest truth, she wasn’t that great a swimmer.
Still, she had a gut feeling that “the Masher” was a club member.
So sue me, Peter. On quiz shows like Jeopardy! you can guess wrong and lose the game. In real life you lose your life.
Okay, what about the victims?
One, Franklin Harrison Burns. According to Magnolia, “Harry” had met members of the rerun club while grocery shopping.
The priest wrote Harry’s name down and our address too, I think.
Two, Natalie. How did the lovely ballerina fit?
None of us really fit, Ellie-Ellie.
Did Natalie own a car? It would be easy to find out if Natalie had bought a new used Chevy from Dickie Dorack. The student dorm paid the utility tab, so Natalie would have no reason to come in contact with Fred. How had the killer chosen Natalie? How did he know she looked like Hot Lips? Could that murder be an impulse? One of Trask’s club members who attended the ballet and noted a resemblance?
Ellie snapped her fingers, than attacked the pile of newspapers, scattering pages across the carpet until she came to last Saturday’s “Leisure Time” foldout. It listed cultural events. On page three a story about TOES was headed with a photo of Sandra, Natalie, and the busty swan. The swan looked embarrassed, Sandra looked young and vulnerable, but Natalie stood out like the proverbial sore thumb, a professional smile on those Loretta Swit lips. Even the grainy photo couldn’t camouflage Natalie’s glossy platinum hair.
Ellie’s lined paper now had several notations, arrows and scribbles, including Howie’s rump-pinch, Ken’s kiss, Hansen’s religious fanaticism, Natalie’s newspaper photo, and the supermarket tête-à-tête with Harry Burns.
Jackie Robinson’s slitted eyes looked accusatory. He seemed to be saying: Amateur sleuth should tell Miller about Father Mac’s Latin.
“But then I’d have to tell him that I was at Trask’s house,” Ellie said, “and Peter might get a tad teed off. Forget it, puss.”
Studying the list again, she saw that she’d forgotten to jot down Nancy Trask. Holy cow, now she was really reaching for straws. Why on earth would Nancy kill M*A*S*H look-alikes?
Because she was jealous of her husband’s obsession with the show?
Great theory, Ellie! Hadn’t Tony said she was obsessed with the show? That would put Tony in the same league as Nancy Trask.
What about the doll massacre in Memorial Park? Trask’s son had played with dolls. But so had Mick. Not to mention Annie Laurie. Inside Ellie’s closet there was a box filled with Annie Laurie’s dolls, including G. I. Joe. Tony was adamant. If Mick could play with female dolls as a kid, Annie Laurie should be allowed to play with war toys. And Ellie would be willing to bet that Tony kept a war-toys-box at his mother’s house and—
She heard distinct footsteps from the front hallway. Peter? But Peter always took off his shoes at the door. She crawled toward the fireplace. Jackie Robinson followed, weaving his furry body through her bent legs. “Some watch cat you are,” she whispered.
The Persian hissed in his throat and waved his bristly tail under her nose. She sneezed.
“Get away from me, you dumb puss. If you want to be helpful, dial 9-1-1.”
She stifled the urge to laugh as she pictured her cat talking into a duck’s butt. Then, she grasped the fireplace shovel and staggered to her feet. Her legs tingled with pins and needles. Holding the shovel like a baseball player facing a pitcher, she froze.
Ellie could imagine the dialogue when police discovered her dead body. She could see herself as a ghostly presence:
Cop: No forced entry, Lieutenant.
Peter: Ms. Bernstein had a tendency to leave her door unlatched.
But Peter, I locked the front door. Oh dear, you can’t hear me. I’m a ghost.
Cop: What a skinny corpse. Understand she lost fifty pounds.
Fifty-five pounds, numb-nuts!
Peter: Yeah, she went on a diet and trashed her Oreo cookies, pissing off her cat.
Cop: She pissed off her cat?
I didn’t piss off my cat!
Peter: So he didn’t warn her when the perp unexpectedly entered the premises.
This time I locked the damn door, cross my heart and hope to die!
Ashes fell from her shovel, dotting the air like smog. She sneezed again. Her eyes teared. She felt perspiration prickle under her armpits, between her breasts and around the shovel’s handle. Her eyes were still blurry, so she blinked a couple of times and focused on Peter’s Johnny Cash CD.
Then, holding her breath, she waited.
Chapter 15
A man entered the family room.
Ellie’s slippery grasp on her shovel loosened and it fell with a clang.
Jackie Robinson meowed indignantly and sauntered toward his litter box. The cat didn’t appreciate sudden noises and he didn’t like Tony.
“Ellie, what the hell!”
Tony looked puzzled, annoyed, concerned. Letting out her breath, she said, “How, hic, did you get inside?”
“I have keys.”
“But you returned your keys during the, hic, divorce.”
“A real estate agent always keeps an extra set of keys. You have the hiccups, Ellie.”
“Yes, hic. You’re so perceptive, hic. I get hiccups when I’ve had a bad, hic, scare. Why didn’t you knock or ring the, hic, bell?”
“I don’t know. Habit, I guess. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Ellie, so angry she felt her hiccups evaporate. “Just a bunch of recent murders and the kids say I look like Loretta Swit and—”
“Loretta Swit?”
“M*A*S*H you idiot. We discussed it last week. I seem to spend my whole life explaining who Hot Lips is and—”
“Hey, wait, I know who Hot Lips is, and don’t call me an idiot. What’s the connection?”
“Am I talking a foreign language?”
“You have before. French and Lat—”
“What do you want? Why did you come here tonight?”
“Your nerves are shot,” he said, plopping down on the couch and glancing around the room.
He was staring at her mess. Peter’s sweater and sneakers and cap and CDs. As Mrs. Anton Bernstein, she had been the Happy Homemaker, everything spick-and-span, cookies inside the oven, homemade chicken soup simmering on top of the stove. Erma Bombeck once said, “There are four things that are overrated in this country: hot chicken soup, sex, the FBI, and parking your car in your garage.”
Garage! Franklin Harrison Burns!
“If my nerves are shot, it’s because you just scared me to death, damn you!” she shouted, then watched Tony frown. He didn’t approve of cussing females. She should have uttered her usual holy cow.
Fudge that! Fudge Tony!
“You wouldn’t be frightened if you used some logic,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “Why would a killer stomp through the hallway?”
“Okay, I’m sorry. No, I’m not sorry. Why didn’t you yell hello or something? You don’t own this house anymore and you had no right to keep the keys.”
Tony altered his expression to one of contrition. “Look, I didn’t drive here to make you mad, quite the opposite. Would you fix me a whisper martini?”
“Fix it yourself.”
He strolled down the hallway, and Ellie realized that he would pass her bedroom with its unmade bed and scattered clothes: her robe, jeans and panties, Peter’s shorts and shirt. Guilt-ridden, she straightened the family room, neatly stacking newspapers, pushing the coffee mug farther behind a rhododendron. She folded Peter’s cardigan, then placed both sweater and cap on the bookshelf, atop a copy of Jodi Picoult’s latest novel.
Tony returned, carrying a pitcher and glasses. After pouring, he handed one glass to Ellie. She silently counted calories, shrugged, and felt the fiery liquid untie stomach knots. “Why didn’t you call first, Tony?”
“I called earlier and nobody answered and I hate talking to a machine. Later the line was busy. I decided to take a chance and drive by. Your lights were on and your car was outside.”
“So you chose to walk in unannounced,” she said, sinking onto the love seat.
Tony flashed his wolfish grin. “I’ll hand over the house keys before I leave, okay? Another martini?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“No. Just less hostile, more relaxed. Less inhibited.”
Ellie gulped down the remaining gin and extended her glass. She realized she was drinking on a practically empty stomach, having skipped dinner. Nancy’s veggie platter seemed hours ago and she’d been so busy nibbling, make that studying club members around Trask’s table that she’d merely studied, make that nibbled one carrot and a couple of radishes.
“I have a favor to ask.” Tony returned to the couch. He kicked off his leather Gucci loafers, and they lay like a rebuke next to Peter’s smelly sneakers.
“What flavor?”
“Not flavor, favor.”
The whisper martini tasted great. Ellie sucked a gin-favored — flavored — ice cube. “What kind of favor are we talking about?”
“Would you baby-sit Annie Laurie tomorrow?”
“You said Grandma Bernstein—”
“Mother has a doctor’s appointment and it’s such a hassle dragging a baby along. If it’s okay with you, I’ll drop Annie Laurie off first thing in the morning.”
“Why didn’t you bring her along with you tonight? I have a portable crib.”
Tony refilled her glass while eyeing her CSPD sweatshirt. “I wasn’t sure you’d be alone, Ellie. I wouldn’t have intruded if his car had been here.”
“Peter? Why would Peter make a diff … oh, I see. You don’t want me to corrupt Annie Laurie’s morals. Good grief, Tony, she’s not even two years old!”
“My mother says kids are impressionable at that age.”
“You’re kidding. Do you mean to tell me, pure untainted one, that you never screwed your young cheerleader before you married her? You never tumbled that vest full of bouncing breasts? Never shouted rah-rah during orgasm?”
“Ellie, please. I never did that in front of Michael.”
“I don’t make love in front of Annie Laurie, you rotten bastard.”
“Your cop spends the night when Michael’s here, doesn’t he?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Ellie, we’re arguing.”
“Arguing? We’re having a damn fight.”
“You said we didn’t fight when we were married. You said that arguing was a sign of love. Could it be that you don’t hate me anymore?”
“I never hated you,” she murmured, thinking hate was too strong an emotion. Maybe loathe. Detest? Abominate? Hell, she had hated him with all her heart.
He placed his glass on the coffee table and walked over to the love seat. Leaning forward, he gave her a professional Tony-kiss.
“Shove off,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I want you, Ellie.”
“Bastard! Screw you!”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“Since when?”
Half amazed, half disgusted, half intrigued — and wasn’t that three halves? — she watched him remove his slacks, shirt, undershirt and shorts.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “You want to cheat on your wife with your ex-wife? Just like you cheated on me with—”
“I never cheated on you, at least not until we split up.”
“Knock it off, Tony. ‘She’s hot to trot. You should see the carpet burns on my ass,’ ” Ellie mimicked.
“I never cheated on you with that one,” Tony said in an injured tone.
“How come? Did she turn you down?”
“No! She was … sick. Puked her guts out.”
“And you can’t tolerate puking women. Did anyone ever tell you that you have sociopathic tendencies? No conscience?”
“Low blow, Ellie.” He looked angry enough to strangle her, but he grabbed his clothes and left the room. She heard bathroom noises. Dollars to doughnuts he’d left the seat up.
“I understand.” Tony stood just inside the family room entrance. He had splashed water on his flushed face and combed his hair. “I moved too fast, caught you by surprise. You can’t possibly know how much I love you.”
“Love me?”
“The last few years were a mistake, a big mistake. I once said we loved each other but couldn’t live together, that we had different values.”
“Right. Our values are distinctly different. You believe in adultery. I don’t.”
“We never should have divorced, Ellie. I want you and you want me. I felt that before, when you kissed me.”
“You kissed me!”
“Then you decided to get even. I deserved it. I freely admit that. We’re even now, okay?”
Dumb dialogue, she thought, glancing toward the blank TV screen. She needed another drink. No, that was the last thing she needed.
“I realize this is sudden,” he said, “but I had to deal with your cop. I suppose I have no right to judge—”
“Facias ipse quod faciamus suades.”
Tony’s brow puckered. “What does that mean?”
“Practice what you preach.”
“Look, I’m big enough to forgive and forget. I forgive you, Ellie.”
“For what?”
“For your cop. Can you forgive me? ‘And throughout all eternity, I forgive you, you forgive me.’ ”
“Blake? You memorized three lines from Blake’s Broken Love? I’m impressed.”
“Let’s close one window and open another, make a fresh start, let bygones be bygones, wipe the slate clean. Why don’t we bury the hatchet and give love a second chance?”
Holy cliché, Batman, she thought, as she watched Tony slip to one knee in the classic suitor’s pose.
“I want you to marry me,” he said, “after my divorce is final. I want us to be a family again. You, me, Michael and Annie Laurie. Remember how I asked you to marry me the first time?”
“How could I forget?”
Again Ellie gazed at the TV screen, replaying the scene.
Let’s see. Charlton Heston or Robert Redford stars as Tony. My part is performed by an overweight Loretta Swit. Or Molly Ringwald. Setting’s an Italian restaurant. Instead of whisper martinis, Tony plies me with wine, then hands me a rolled piece of paper that looks like a thick diploma. Blueprints. A tiny diamond ring is nestled inside. A gaggle of waiters clap their hands and sing “I hope you will remember this fun event forever,” while I try to put the ring on. But it doesn’t fit. My finger is too fat. Embarrassed, I study the blueprints.
Ellie’s gaze moved away from the TV as she glanced around her family room, once lines on thin tissue paper. She could picture the blueprints with the name of the architect slashed across the corner: KENNETH TRASK.
When Trask designed her house, he’d just begun his career. Soon he became Trask, Inc., responsible for many community structures. In fact, Trask had designed the recital hall where poor Natalie—
Ellie jumped to her feet, ran to her duck, and called Peter.
Holy cow! Trask knew that building inside and out. He designed the hall. He knew about the trapdoor, could easily have made his way in and out of Natalie’s dressing room, unnoticed. Melody said the whole M*A*S*H rerun club attended the performance.
Peter’s phone rang and rang. Ellie heard the loud clunk of a receiver dropped against a wooden table, then Peter’s sleepy hello.
“I’ve solved the case,” she said. “And I’ll bet that bastard was at the Mash-Bash, too. Melody said he wanted to sit with the men. ‘Men’ means Kenneth—”
“He, who?”
“Fred.”
“Norrie, please, you’re talking gibberish.”
“He said his son played with dolls.”
“Who? Fred?”
“No. Kenneth Trask. He’s our Masher.”
Chapter 16
“You have no proof,” Peter said. “You make an emphatic statement and hang up before I can refute one word. I trudge here in the middle of the night and you have no damn proof.”
“It’s not the middle of the night. What do you mean, no proof? Kenneth Trask was the concert hall’s architect. He’s self-employed, so he could have killed Harry Burns on a Monday afternoon. Did you think of that, Peter? The Masher would have to be somebody self-employed. Or unemployed.”
“Norrie, the murder, if it was a murder, occurred around lunchtime. Anybody could have killed Burns on that particular Mon—”
“Trask attended the recital. He slipped away from the group, killed Natalie then returned through the trapdoor. He didn’t even need a flashlight because he knew the theater’s layout like the back of his hand.”
“So do most of the actors in this city. Dancers, too.”
Ellie added a log to the fire. Then she fiddled with the buttons on her blue shirt, Peter’s shirt. Scalloped tails fell below her bare knees and she recalled Howie Silverman’s comment about her tall detective.
“Peter, are you suggesting that a jealous dancer killed Natalie? Then he or she printed those Latin words on the mirror? Afterward, just for grins, the dancing perp knifed Leo Krafchek?”
“Of course not, but you can’t prove Trask did it. Does he know Latin?”
“He could. His best friend, Sean, speaks Latin. Or Trask could have looked the words up.”
“What’s his motive?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do. He was upset because the network killed his favorite show. Melody said so.”
“CBS didn’t kill the show. The cast decided to end it while it was still a hit.”
“Sure, but Melody told me that Ken was upset and wanted all his friends to write complaint letters. Maybe he’s murdering for revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“I hate it when you sound like that, Peter, so calm, so repetitive. Yes, revenge, because they canceled his favorite TV show.”
“Why knock off Hot Lips? Why not Hawkeye? Klinger? Radar? And why on earth would Trask kill Leo Krafchek?”
“I don’t know! Leave me alone!”
Peter placed his arm around her shaking shoulders. “Easy, Norrie. I should be pissed off over your visit to that what’cha’macallit club tonight, but they all sound like harmless nuts.”
“Except Kenneth Trask!” She felt her eyes fill with tears.
“Aw, Norrie, don’t cry. You should leave Colorado Springs. Take a vacation. This case is getting to you.”
“Your suggestion wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I look like Hot Lips, would it?”
“Absolutely.” Sitting on the couch, Peter patted the knees of his faded denims.
Ellie shifted to his lap. “Okay, so maybe I overreacted. I thought I’d found the missing piece of a puzzle, but I forgot that there were other same-size pieces in the box. Wait a sec. What if Ken Trask was the architect for Harry and Magnolia Burns? What if he built a secret passageway—”
“Norrie, the Burns house was built around 1940. How old is this Trask?”
“Restored, then. Ken said he restored old homes.”
“There’s no secret passageway into the Burns home.”
“If there’s no secret passageway, why didn’t a neighbor see the killer entering or leaving? You checked, didn’t you? Even if it did look like a suicide?”
“Damn it, Ellie, Burns could still be a suicide. His body was saturated with alcohol. His mistress was pregnant and he could have been in over his head.”
She ignored the exasperation in his voice, the loss of her nickname. “Did you question the neighbors?”
“Of course we questioned the neighbors. Nobody saw anything unusual except for a black or blue car with a real estate logo. Logical, since Burns told a coworker he was planning to list his house. Two neighbors gave a description of Tony.”
“But Tony arrived after the murder.”
“Right.”
“Let’s go to bed. I’m sick of the whole thing. I give up. Did you hear me, Peter? Up, up, up.”
“Hush. Calm down. I love you, Norrie.”
“Don’t just talk about love, okay?”
“You bet.”
* * *
“Thank you, Peter, I feel better now.”
“Don’t ever thank me for making love to you, Norrie. What we have is not a slam-bam-thank-you-Loot relationship. Rest your face against my shoulder. That’s my good girl. You’re so lovely, sweetheart. We should turn on the lights and pose together for a Christmas photo-card. Peter and Norrie basking in the afterglow of—”
“Pictures!” She bolted to a sitting position, clipping Peter’s chin with the top of her head.
“Ouch. What pictures?”
“Something Magnolia said during my condolence call. She and her husband were shopping for groceries and ran into the rerun group. Everybody laughed at Harry’s resemblance to Frank Burns, and somebody suggested taking a photograph.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Magnolia didn’t say. But what if the killer collects pictures of his victims? Isn’t that logical?”
“What about Natalie? Do you think the murderer lurked around the campus snapping students until he found one who resembled Hot Lips?”
“Before the recital?”
“I assume the killer didn’t take a camera to the performance and shoot his victim.”
“Maybe he already had one of Natalie.” Ellie explained about the newspaper photo. “So you see, the murderer might have a photo collection. I once saw a Law and Ord—”
“That’s far-fetched, Norrie. But even if true, we’d need search warrants.”
“Get them.”
“Do you honestly believe I could ask for warrants to search the homes of a few M*A*S*H rerun club members? Uh-oh, get that look out of your eyes.”
“How can you see a look? It’s dark in here.”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Norrie. Even in the dark, I can sense the wheels turning. You are not to search the club members’ houses. It could be dangerous, and if they’re not home it’s against the law.”
“I know that, Peter. I won’t go anywhere uninvited.”
“I’ll run a check on those characters you met tonight, okay? By the way, what was Tony doing here?”
“What makes you think Tony was here?”
“You’re not the only detective in this bedroom. The toilet seat was up and there’s gin on your breath.”
“How do you know I wasn’t drinking with somebody else?”
“Elementary, my dear. Tony left his shoes under the coffee table. Or have you been entertaining another Gucci addict in my absence?’’
“Smarty-pants.”
“I’m not wearing pants.”
“Tony asked me to re-marry him after his divorce and he dangled Annie as bait.”
“You told him to go to hell?”
“He was in the middle of his proposal when I thought about Ken Trask and ran to phone you. I returned to the family room, but Tony had disappeared. I guess he was so pissed off he didn’t take the time to find his shoes. He rendered a very dramatic proposal. If it had been a movie script, I’d swear that Tony committed some crime and proposed because a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”
“Maybe he wants to get married again because he loves you.”
“Oh, sure. I think he needs a mother for Annie. I think his mother is getting on his nerves. In any case, I bruised his ego.”
“Do you want to marry me, Norrie?”
“I love you, Peter, but we don’t need a piece of paper to prove it. Speaking of paper, did you check out the note that was pinned to Leo Krafchek?”
Peter settled back against the pillow, his arms crossed behind his head. “Of course we checked. Krafchek’s message was on lined paper, the kind you can buy in any stationery store or supermarket. The pin and paste, too. Separate letters were cut from TV Guide. Do you know how many copies of that damn magazine are sold weekly?”
“The scissors—”
“Were ordinary, run-of-the-mill scissors. Every discount outlet, every drugstore carries them. The lipstick on Natalie’s mirror came from her own supply of non-allergenic makeup. No fingerprints,” he added, anticipating her next question.
“The dog tag?”
“We thought that would be easy. Certainly an engraver would recall the name Margaret Houlihan. We contacted department stores and jewelry shops. Nothing. The Denver PD is checking too, but we’re talking hundreds of locations.”
“What about your ‘mass murder’ scene?”
“The dolls? Just your average, garden-variety dolls. You can buy them at any toy store or discount mart.”
“Were they used? Played with? You know what I mean. On Mick’s closet shelf is an old Pooh bear missing its eyes, but once upon a long time ago it was brand new.”
“Smarty-pants,” he mimicked tenderly. “No, the dolls weren’t smudged. Or faded. Or even shabby. On the other hand, they weren’t up-to-date, like Power Rangers or Shrek or Belle.”
“Belle? Oh, Beauty. How do you know so much about dolls?”
“I have a niece, Jonina, my sister Beth’s daughter. Every year she has a birthday. When in doubt, buy Disney.”
“Were there any Disney toys at the massacre?”
“Yup. One. A stuffed Dumbo, perched on a tree branch, watching the whole shebang.”
“I wonder if Dumbo was a stuffed-animal-memorandum, telling us how dumb we are.”
“That’s enough, Norrie. Go to sleep.”
“What about your unsolved cases? The policeman, cemetery woman, dumpster killings, Virginia Whit—”
“We’re working on it. No, you can’t read the files. We’re also attempting to see if the same M.O. has been used in other states. So far, not a clue.” Peter yawned. “Do you have a Weight Winners meeting tomorrow?’’
“No. I’m having lunch with Melody Remming. Tony’s leaving Annie with me, so I’ll take her along.” But first I’ll contact rerun club members and set up appointments to visit their homes. “You know what, honey? I swore in front of Tony.”
“You always cuss, lady.”
“I do not. You do, especially when you’re mad. I suppose cussing is contagious…”
She paused, remembering Sean’s comment. Insanity’s contagious. What exactly had he meant by that?
Peter said, “What about tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Weight Winners, Norrie. We were talking diet clubs.”
“We were talking cussing. No, I don’t have a meeting.”
“Good. I want you to meet me at my office around six-thirty. We’re going on a special date.”
“Where? Should I dress up?”
“Nope. Down. We’re visiting a gym.”
“What for?”
“What for you ask what for?”
She felt like catching the smile in his voice and placing it under her pillow. “I don’t like surprises.”
“Could have fooled me. Ain’t you a mystery buff, sugar britches?”
“Sugar britches? You sound just like Duke—”
“Snider?”
“Who’s Duke Snider?”
“He was an outfielder for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Played on the same team as Jackie Robinson.”
“Oh. I meant Duke Wayne. John Wayne. What’s your surprise?”
“I’m going to teach you the rudiments of self-defense.”
“I don’t need to learn self-defense.”
“Yes, you do. I’m serious about this.”
She remembered the shadow looming behind her while she fumbled for car keys, the slippery shovel, the pounding of her heart. And the hiccups.
“Good idea, Peter.”
“Goodnight, Norrie.”
“If you’re going to do something tonight that you’ll be sorry for in the morning, sleep late.”
“What?”
“It’s a Henny Youngman line. I’m sorry I got you out of bed.”
“You didn’t get me out of bed, you got me into bed. And anybody can make a mistake.”
Even the great, she thought. Except Jacques Hansen said he didn’t make mistakes. Oh, yeah? He made one tonight by insisting that he knew the identity of the murderer. If the perp was a rerun club member, Hansen’s life might not be worth a plugged nickel. But he was bluffing. Even Ellie, who didn’t know him very well, could see that Jacques was a bona fide blowhard. Like tonight’s wind. Like Tony.
Snuggling against Peter’s warm body, she murmured, “Jackie Robinson and I prefer smelly sneakers to Gucci loafers. Fudge Tony!”
Chapter 17
Ellie awoke to find Peter’s pillow occupied by Jackie Robinson. A piece of paper on her bureau was anchored by an empty coffee mug with the inscription: COPS SHOOT THE BULL, PASS THE BUCK AND MAKE SEVEN COPIES OF EVERYTHING.
From her kitchen came the enticing aroma of fresh-brewed caffeine.
Rising, she tossed her dirty clothes into the hamper and retrieved Peter’s note.
My Darling Norrie,
I turned off the alarm.
Forget your crack-of-dawn jog.
You’ll exercise tonight.
Give Annie a kiss for me.
Love Peter.
I do love you, Peter, she thought, and I will give Annie a kiss for you. Peter was great with kids. Which was another reason she wouldn’t accept his marriage proposal. Because her biological clock had basically stopped ticking.
And now she had to stop daydreaming. Tony might burst in on her at any moment, especially since he hadn’t returned his extra set of keys, the rat.
After a quick shower, she slipped into her full-length yellow bathrobe, set up Annie’s portable playpen, and filled Peter’s “cops shoot the bull” mug with two thirds coffee, one third 2% milk. Then, sitting on the couch next to her duck, she placed her trusty phone directory between her knees.
There was one listing for a Sean McCarthy. Nobody answered. She didn’t bother calling Howie Silverman or Silver and Gold Insurance. She didn’t feel like chatting with Howie after last night’s experience. She’d check out the others first.
It was seven-ish, early for phone calls. On the other hand, she might be lucky enough to catch people at home.
Fred Remming answered on the second ring. In her sweetest tone, she told Fred she wanted to throw a surprise birthday party for Melody. At the Weight Winners meeting, Melody had confessed that she’d turn thirty-two the day after Thanksgiving.
“Could you give me a list of your cousin’s friends, Fred? Maybe a few close relatives?”
“Gosh, sure,” he replied.
She suggested that they confer at his apartment then released her pent-up breath when he didn’t ask why they couldn’t handle it over the phone. Fred gave her a time—5:15 p.m.—and his address and apartment number. She noted that he lived in the same complex as Melody.
“May I speak to your father?” she asked the young voice who answered the phone at Jacques Hansen’s home.
“Father? Oh, you must mean my husband. I’m Victoria Hansen.”
Using Melody as an excuse again, Ellie said she wanted to get together with Jacques or Victoria to discuss ideas for an article about a local artist’s work, inspired by a religious childhood. Victoria, still sounding very young, arranged an appointment for Thursday afternoon.
Ellie tried Kenneth Trask’s number, hoping the master of the house wouldn’t answer and assume she was accepting his crude invitation. Again, she breathed a sigh of relief when Nancy said hello.
First Ellie thanked Nancy for her hospitality and Ellie’s initiation into the rerun group.
“Oh, that’s Ken’s department,” Nancy said. “I have nothing to do with the club. By the way, you made quite a hit with Sean … Father Mac. I can never get used to that ridiculous nickname.”
“Sean made an impression on me, too. He’s very nice.” Ellie explained about Melody’s surprise party. “You’re so organized, and I thought we might plan something spectacular.”
And maybe I can discover if your husband keeps a hidden photo gallery.
“Ken has errands for me to run today,” Nancy said. “My dog’s veterinarian moved to Denver and Ken wants me to drive him … the dog, not Ken … there for booster shots. How about tomorrow? Is three o’clock convenient?”
“That’s fine, Nancy, thank you.” Ellie hung up her duck’s butt as the doorbell rang.
Jackie Robinson’s fur bristled and his tail puffed to double its size.
“Okay, okay, Tony, I’m coming.” Ellie opened the front door. “Please stop ringing my bell. You sound like a Good Humor truck on a hot summer afternoon.”
“It’s not summer. It’s not hot. And I’m not in a good humor.”
Although his hair was carefully tousled in its usual The Way We Were “do,” Ellie thought that Disney’s Tinkerbell could don ice skates and glide across the glacial planes of his face.
He strode into the family room while Annie, clothed in a miniature blue-and-orange Broncos jacket and blue Oshkosh overalls, rode the crook of his arm. “You were so rude last night, I left without returning these.” Tossing keys on top of the fireplace mantel, he added, “I hope insanity doesn’t run in your family, Ellie. I’d hate to think our son might be afflicted someday.”
“Stuff it, Tony.”
“Stuff it,” Annie parroted.
“Ann Marie, hush,” Tony chided. “Really, Ellie.”
“Errie.” Annie stretched out her arms. “Mymick?”
“He’s at school today, pumpkin.” She retrieved Annie from Tony, took off the little girl’s jacket, then placed her in the playpen with her alphabet blocks and a frozen bagel.
Annie held up a B-block. “Bird. Cheep, cheep.”
“Cheep, cheep,” Ellie repeated, handing Tony his Gucci loafers and glancing with amusement at her ex-husband’s racquetball sneakers.
“You’re such a s-m-a-r-t-a-s-s, Ellie.”
“What are you going to do when Annie learns to spell?”
Tony was treating her like an undesirable client who couldn’t qualify for the loan on a cheap-cheap house, but Ellie couldn’t really blame him. After all, she had run to the phone in the middle of his earnest marriage proposal.
“If I recall,” she said, “you cussed plenty in front of Mick.”
“It’s okay for men to swear. My mother’s appointment is this morning, so you can return Ann Marie anytime after lunch. By the way, I had a bit too much to drink last night, the reason I rendered my ludicrous marriage proposal.”
Liar! “When I saw your shoes I figured it was something like that. I’m surprised you didn’t call a cab. Oh, wait, I know. It’s okay for men to drink and drive.”
“Your bad manners sobered me up, and sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Tony. Nothing is more discouraging than unappreciated sarcasm. Would you do me a big favor?”
“I suppose I owe you for watching Ann Marie,” he said, his fingers digging into his status loafers.
“You don’t owe me—”
“What do you want, Ellie?”
“Knock it off, Tony. I’m sorry I disappeared in the middle of your proposal. I’m sorry you had to leave so quickly you didn’t take time to put your stupid shoes on. And the only insanity in my family is a great-grandmother who married an asshole like you.”
“Asshore,” said Annie.
“What do you want, Ellie?”
“You have a friend who works at the newspaper. Dave Corley. Isn’t he a crime reporter?”
“Yes.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to write an article about unsolved crimes and I have to research my facts.”
“You’ve always been a p-i-s-s poor liar. Why do you really want to see Dave?”
She sighed. “Remember last night when you frightened me and I mentioned the recent murders? You even discovered one of the bodies inside his garage. Franklin Harrison Burns.”
“Burns was a suicide.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, there have been some unsolved CSPD cases. For example, two lovers who were killed and trashed inside a dumpster. I want to check with Dave and see if the crimes are related.”
“Your M*A*S*H nonsense?”
“That’s right.”
“Boy oh boy, I’m glad I’m not still around to watch you play detective.”
“If you don’t want to call Dave for me, just say so.”
“As a matter of fact, I planned to contact Dave. I want him to meet my new girlfriend, Mary. She works in my office. I meant to tell you about Mary last night, but the whisper martinis made me amorous. I must confess that I’ve visited Charley Aaronson’s lounge, drank too much, and tried to pick up girls who weren’t my type.”
“Charley wouldn’t let your type inside the Dew Drop.”
“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny. By the way, Dave quit the newspaper. He freelances at home, writing nonfiction articles and a book too, I think. Do you still want to see him?”
“Yes, please.”
“Where the h-e-l-l is your phone?”
“On the coffee table.”
“That’s a duck.”
“You’re very perceptive this morning, Tony. If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck—”
“Quack, quack.” Annie glanced up from her frozen bagel.
“Very good, Pumpkin. What does a cow say?”
“Mirk. Gimme, Errie.”
“You can have some milk later, okay?”
Tony strolled toward the duck while Ellie ducked into her bedroom and quickly donned navy-blue wool slacks and a bright cranberry V-neck sweater. When she returned to the family room, Tony handed her a slip of paper.
“Dave’s address,” he said. “Any time after eleven-thirty. You can take Ann Marie along. Dave has two babies of his own.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“You’re welcome. I think h-e-l-l just froze over, Ellie. No sarcastic parting words?”
“You want sarcasm, Tony? Not a problem. To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw, the trouble with you is that you lack the power of conversation but not the power of speech.”
Chapter 18
Inside Uncle Vinnie’s Gourmet Italian Restaurant, Annie was enchanted with the homemade cheese ravioli, her plastic bib, and the businessman who occupied the adjacent table.
Deciding he was an acceptable substitute for her beloved Mymick, she flirted shamelessly.
Melody was charmed by Annie. She even offered the child her bright red neckerchief, exposing her ugly neck scar.
“Dickie and I did it last night,” Melody confessed, picking apart mussels steamed in a marinara sauce. “Then he asked me to move in with him. That’s the reason I wanted to meet you today.”
“To get my permission?”
“No. Your advice. I couldn’t talk last night because Dickie was there and we didn’t have any clothes on.”
“I can’t see through the phone wires,” Ellie said with a grin.
“I know.” Melody blushed. “Do you believe it’s a sin to live with somebody and not be married?”
“Do you?”
“I did, but I don’t anymore. How can something that brings such happiness be considered a sin? I’ve watched M*A*S*H from the very beginning, Ellie, and I nagged Freddy for a long time before he agreed to introduce me to his rerun group. I think Dickie and I were meant to be, don’t you?”
“I sure do.” Ellie ate her shrimp salad with enthusiasm. “Melody, what’s your opinion of Sean McCarthy?”
“Oh, I adore Father Mac. I’m even beginning to remember some of my high school Latin.”
Annie salted the carpet.
“No, Pumpkin. Salt isn’t good for people or floors.” Ellie smiled at Annie’s rebellious glare then turned to Melody again. “Annie takes everything I say—”
“Cum grano salis.”
“Right. With a grain of salt. Holy cow, I ate too fast. I’m already stuffed.”
“Stuff it,” said Annie, very proud of herself.
“Speaking of stuffed, Melody, what’s your honest opinion of Kenneth Trask?”
“I don’t care for him. Dickie promised if … when I move in, we’ll share household chores. Cooking, washing dishes, laundry. He’ll fix up a room for my easel and paints, although he wants me to paint what he calls happy paintings.”
“I can’t figure out why Nancy’s so subservient, why she puts up with Ken’s obvious chauvinism.”
“Oh, they’ve known each other forever. He was the boy next door—well, across the street—somewhere in Florida. Dickie told me that Nancy and Ken attended the same grade school and high school and Ken was friends with Nancy’s older brother, who died … in a car accident, I think. Her parents died, too. They burned to death in a fire. Nancy was all alone, so Ken married her. Nancy put him through school. On the other hand, Ken took care of Nancy after her whole family died and I guess she’s always been grateful.”
When Melody paused to catch her breath, Ellie said, “I feel sorry for her.”
Melody nodded. “She puts up with a lot. Ken’s an alley cat. He even had a mistress for five years. He built her a small house, his own design. According to Fred, everybody thought Nancy would divorce Ken, but she didn’t.”
“What happened to the mistress?”
“She left Colorado Springs. Took everything Ken gave her, except the house of course, and disappeared.”
“Did you ever see her, Melody?”
“Sure. Everybody saw her. They attended the theater and ballet together. Ken seemed to be in love with her, but who knows? He didn’t divorce Nancy. I once caught Ken and the girl cuddling together at an art exhibit.”
“What did she look like?”
“Tall and leggy. Blonde and sexy. She looked a lot like you, except her hair was platinum.” Melody’s cheeks reddened. “I meant that as a compliment. She wasn’t, you know, cheap.”
“When did the mistress hit the road?”
“About two years ago, maybe two and a half.”
“Do you know if Ken was angry?”
“I heard he was livid. Freddy says he closed up shop and took a long vacation in Hawaii. The rerun club didn’t meet for a month. But he’s recovered. Ken’s had other women since then. Do you think he’s handsome?”
“I can see how others might—no, Annie!” Ellie retrieved her water glass before the child could drown the salted carpet. “No, Pumpkin. We water flowers, not floors.”
“Ass-hore.” Squirming, Annie tried to stand up in her high chair.
Melody grinned. “Ass whore?”
“She can’t say the letter L, and I might have hinted that my ex is an asshole. Hush, Annie. Sit down, baby.”
“She can keep my scarf. I have more and it can serve as a distraction. Or,” Melody said with a smile, “a leash.”
Ellie glanced at her watch. “I’m running late for an appointment. I’m happy to hear about Dickie, and I really enjoyed lunching with you.”
“Me, too. With you. Bring Annie to visit again, okay?”
“Of course. Someday you’ll have your own kids and — why are you shaking your head?”
“The abortion messed up my insides. After I met Dickie, I had a full gynecological checkup.” She blushed. “I haven’t slept around, but I wanted my blood checked for, well, you know, and the doctor ran every other test under the sun. Dickie says we can adopt. Anyway, my infertility is such a wonderful revenge on my saintly mother.”
“But she can’t know. You said she’s dead.”
“She knows.”
“Right,” said Ellie, thinking that Melody was a very strange atheist indeed.
Chapter 19
Annie dozed in the car seat while Ellie drove to Dave Corley’s house. As she cruised through intersections, stopped at crosswalks, and slowed down at school zones, she thought about Kenneth Trask. “No motive,” Peter had said.
But suppose Trask didn’t vacation in Hawaii? Suppose, instead, he’d tracked down his leggy blonde mistress? And what if he’d found her shacked up with a man who looked like Frank Burns? Was that as far-fetched as the Howie Silverman ex-wife theory?
Braking for a stoplight, Ellie hummed snatches of an instrumental that played softly from her car radio. What was that melody? It sounded familiar.
Melody! The light turned green and horns honked like New Year’s Eve as Ellie sat riveted in her seat.
Melody understood and spoke Latin!
The messages for Saturday night’s victims had read, in part “Advocatus diaboli.” God will punish you for your sins.
But Melody didn’t believe in God.
Oh yeah? Despite her paintings and avowed atheism, a part of Melody still thought it was a sin for an unmarried woman to live with a man. And what about Melody’s mother-knows bit?
Could her new friend be a Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde?
Toeing the Honda’s accelerator pedal, Ellie suddenly remembered the title of the song playing on her car’s radio. 1967. The Associations. “Never My Love.”
* * *
Dave Corley looked like a fifty-year-old Marshall Dillon, of Gunsmoke fame, but only in the clothes he chose to wear. Otherwise, Dave looked like Harry Belafonte—the same chiseled features, tug-at-your-heart smile and soulful eyes.
His diapered son and daughter, fourteen months apart, sat behind the mesh of a sturdy playpen. At Dave’s invitation, Ellie placed Annie between the two children, where she nestled happily, like the cream inside an Oreo cookie.
“My wife and I share the kids,” Dave said. “She has a part-time job and keeps them out of my hair mornings. In the afternoon I play house-husband.”
Ellie wondered how chauvinistic Tony interacted with Dave. Then she realized that their male bonding had become solidified years before the birth of Dave’s children.
And how come, she thought wistfully, men can make babies in their forties and fifties, even sixties and seventies, while women can’t?
“I haven’t thought about those unsolved murders for years,” Dave said. “I’ve been writing a novel about Negro cowboys in the Old West. Every morning I transport myself to the nineteenth century, when killing was quick, clean, even justified. My wife says I’m beginning to look like a cowboy, but she’s wrong.”
“She is?” Ellie heard the doubt in her voice.
“Sure. I’ve always looked like a cowboy.”
“Dave, do you remember if any of the female murder victims were blonde?”
“I honestly don’t remember, Ellie. Crime reporters tend to write about the whole scene, rather than mutilated bodies. We leave grisly details for the TV reporters. We get reactions from witnesses, rather than close-up photos of dead victims. I’m not sure I’m making myself clear—”
“I have no desire to view corpses. I thought you might have access to before photos. For instance, the article about Virginia Whitley included a graduation picture.”
“Virginia Whitley?”
“The young woman who died outside Charley Aaronson’s Dew Drop Inn, after Charley’s Mash-Bash. In the parking lot. It was supposedly a vehicular homicide.”
“You don’t want pictures of corpses?”
“Absolutely not. Despite what Tony might have told you, I’m not into dead bodies, and I’m sorry I bothered—”
“I have file folders, if that helps. When I left the newspaper I made copies of all my articles. Almost all of the crimes I covered were solved. That’s not what you’re researching, right?”
“Correct,” said Ellie, then realized that Tony must have given Dave her original unsolved homicides fib. Why? What difference did it make? Unless, for some dumb reason. Tony didn’t want her questioning Dave about the recent murders.
“What’s your opinion on the recent murders?” she asked.
“The ballerina?”
“Yes. And the man killed curbside—Leo Krafchek.”
“I haven’t really formed any opinions. Why don’t you interview Lieutenant Miller? He’s the detective in charge of that investigation.”
“Yes, well, I might just do that. Good idea.”
Dave opened a black metal cabinet across from his computer. He sifted through several manila folders, finally extracting three.
The first story involved a missing child, and Ellie put it aside. “Dave, do you remember a policeman shot in his car?”
“Yup, but I didn’t cover that case. It happened before I was hired.”
“Do you remember what the cop looked like?”
“Are you kidding? He was white and wore a uniform.”
She opened the second file folder. Peter had mentioned a woman abducted from a shopping center, later found dead at a cemetery. Dave Corley had reported the crime. Tear sheets included two grainy photographs. The first showed a John Carpenter film set with headstones, grassy plots, and tiny police-blobs prowling amid the graves. It reminded Ellie of a Melody Remming painting.
The other picture was a close-up of the victim before her death. She had short dark hair, glasses, and a gap-toothed smile.
Ellie made a mental note to dig through her own albums for a flattering photo, one taken after she’d lost weight, just in case her meddling landed her on the obituary page.
The third file was thick with articles about the dumpster murders, and included several follow-ups. The male victim, separated from his wife, had moved into his girlfriend’s apartment. Their bodies were discovered by a woman who had just rented an apartment in the same complex. She had been discarding empty cartons, wouldn’t speak to reporters, and was not identified by name.
“Dave, do you remember the name of the woman who found the dumpster bodies?”
“No. Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“If you interview Lieutenant Miller, he might know.”
Ellie glanced down at the tear sheets again. Dave’s feature ran for a couple of weeks, reporting the same information over and over, and Ellie recalled Sean’s “empty dreams” bit. There were lots of pictures.
“Here, this might help,” said Corley, handing her a magnifying glass.
“Yes, that’s a lot better.”
“Did you find what you needed?”
“Yes … I … yes … thank you very much.”
Dave Corley would believe she was nuttier than a fruitcake, thought Ellie, if she were to tell him what she’d discovered. The before photo of the man in the dumpster clearly defined his elfin, Mork-like face. He was the spitting image of a young Robin Williams.
But the murdered woman looked like a Calvin Klein model. She had blonde hair and her wide sexy mouth was smiling impishly.
Hot Lips Houlihan!
Why were they killed? Who killed them?
Not the Mork-man’s estranged wife. She would have been arrested and the case solved.
Someone else had trashed the bodies.
Who? Melody? Why? Because they were living in sin?
What about Kenneth Trask? The Dumpster Murders had taken place two years ago, after his mistress had abandoned him and left town. The trashed woman looked like Hot Lips. So did Trask’s mistress, sort of. But why would he kill the woman’s lover? That made no sense. Unless he had found them together, making love.
Ellie frowned. Jeeze, maybe she was nutty. How could the police connect Ginny, the mistress, the trashed woman, and Hot Lips? Peter hadn’t even believed Ellie’s M*A*S*H theory until Natalie’s dog tag and the doll massacre.
Ellie remembered something Trask had said Monday night, following Hansen’s remark about Frank’s heroic Purple Heart and the Jehovah’s Witness comment. “Let’s write our own show,” he’d said. “We’ll have Hawkeye shoot Frank’s dick off, by mistake of course, and Frank can receive an authentic Purple Heart.”
The others had laughed, especially Howie Silverman, but Hansen’s eyes had turned even icier.
So okay, the trashed man looked like Robin Williams. And Leo Krafchek looked like, well, a dead Leo Krafchek. But the trashed woman looked like Hot Lips. So did Natalie.
Why would Jacques Hansen kill Hot Lips? Because Hot Lips had dumped Frank Burns. On the show she had even married some other guy and slept with Hawkeye. Could Jacques be that obsessed with Frank Burns? Could anybody be that obsessed?
Yes! The Memorial Park “doll homicides” proved it. Furthermore, the perp had slaughtered the park dolls with war weapons.
Peter said the killer had a sick mind. And Howie Silverman had said that Jacques Hansen had a sick mind.
What about Magnolia’s husband? Why would Jacques kill him?
Because Harry Burns was doing something that the real Frank Burns—the real imaginary Frank Burns — would never consider.
Harry Burns was planning to divorce his wife and marry his mistress!
Victoria Hansen’s voice had sounded so young over the phone. Did she play with dolls? Doubtful. But maybe she collected dolls.
Chapter 20
Ellie felt like Red Riding Hood. Although Ms. Hood didn’t drive a Honda, and Ellie didn’t tote a goodies basket, both were planning to visit Grandma. Plus, Ellie kept wondering if she’d find a wolfish “Masher” behind every tree. Every shrub. Every stop sign.
Grandma Bernstein’s small cottage was in Manitou Springs, an historic town right next door to Colorado Springs. Manitou Springs had tourist traps, unique clothing stores, covens, and a truly spectacular view of the mountains.
While Annie dozed in her car seat, Ellie’s thoughts turned and twisted like Manitou’s steep, narrow, winding streets.
Jacques Hansen had become a definite maybe.
On the other hand, Melody had called Kenneth Trask an alley cat. If he was a rejected suitor, would he unsheathe his claws?
Rejection. Melody. The dumpster couple had been committing adultery, living in sin. “I thought about painting a priest blessing a dumpster, but it seemed too macabre.” An unidentified woman had discovered the bodies. Discovered them? Or disposed of them?
Logic, Ellie! The crime had taken place two years ago. Dave’s newspaper article said that the woman who found the bodies had just moved into her apartment. Melody had said she’d lived there three years. It would be easy to check.
Logic! Fred Remming lived in the same complex. Could Fred have believed himself in love with the blonde victim, a Hot Lips look-alike?
Logic! When had Howie Silverman been divorced? More than two years ago? Trask had said that Howie was all bark and no bite, but Ellie had a gut feeling he bit hard, maybe even drew blood.
Automatically, she downshifted and turned into her ex-mother-in-law’s driveway. Annie, still asleep, clutched Melody’s scarf. Gently, Ellie woke the little girl and carried her into the house.
Florence D’Amato Bernstein called herself a widow, even though Ellie knew that the woman’s CPA husband had climbed into his brand-new Imperial after pocketing a grocery list from his wife. Leaving behind a hefty savings account, an education fund for Tony, and real estate investment property — including the cottage — Avram Bernstein had never returned from the supermarket. Florence reported his “abduction” and waited for kidnappers to call.
One week later Avram’s letter arrived. It said, “Hi Flo, bye Flo, have a good life.” The letter was postmarked San Diego. Inside the envelope were Florence’s grocery discount coupons, and she was royally pissed. The coupons had expired.
During Tony’s childhood Florence had ironed her son’s wardrobe, from socks to jocks, and she still pressed permanent-press bed sheets. Ellie knew, without a single doubt, that Florence experienced orgasms while defrosting her refrigerator or cleaning her closets.
No wonder Tony had grown up sexist as well as sexy.
“Granma Fro, Granma Fro,” Annie chanted, while Florence changed her into clean clothes. Then, with a grimace, Florence handed Ellie the soggy red scarf.
Ellie swiftly pocketed the scarf and asked about Grandma’s doctor visit.
Florence warmed to the subject. After three cups of herbal tea and three trips to the bathroom, Ellie heard “Grandma Fro’s” grandfather clock chime five times.
Ellie kissed Annie good-bye and drove to Fred and Melody’s apartment complex.
Damn, she was running late.
“I thought you might have changed your mind,” said Fred, ushering her inside. Almost immediately he extended a plateful of chocolate chip cookies.
She tried to refuse the cookies and explain her lateness, but Fred wasn’t listening. Instead, he fussily straightened an already spotless living room. Although he had no female companion in residence, the window curtains were ruffled yellow organdy and matched the couch slipcovers. Dried flowers — dusted! — nodded from ceramic vases. A vacuum hose coiled through an open closet door. The hose looked like an undernourished python. Fred’s kitchen, visible from the living room, smelled like chocolate-chip cookies and Mr. Clean.
Florence Bernstein and Fred Remming were kindred spirits.
Was Ellie the only Colorado housekeeper who hid unwashed coffee mugs behind rhododendrons? Even Melody’s framed paintings had displayed a tidy structure.
Holy cow! Atop a polished end table were three G. I. Joe dolls. One wore fatigues while the other two sported scrub uniforms and surgical masks.
Fred’s gaze followed Ellie’s. “Nancy Trask sewed those doctor clothes,” he said. “Other people collect unicorns and roosters and such, but my stuff’s more original. Don’t you agree?”
Without waiting for an answer, he strolled into the kitchen, poured green frothy liquid into two salt-rimmed glasses, and washed the blender.
“Drink up,” he said, handing one glass to Ellie. “Plenty more where this comes from.”
She sipped politely. The salt stuck to her lips.
“Cum grano salis,” she murmured.
“Why do you do that? Why does everybody do that?”
“Do what, Fred?”
“Talk like that, so a person can’t understand. You, Father Mac, even Melody. It’s not very nice.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Ellie said, then improvised plans for Melody’s birthday party.
Fred gulped down two more margaritas, washing the blender each time.
Ellie surreptitiously poured her greenish liquid into a potted ivy, thinking how she’d just killed a living organism. Soon it would become fodder for the vacuum-snake.
“By the way, Fred, do you have any photos of Melody and her friends? I keep a few albums on my bookshelf.”
“Albums?”
She realized that she hadn’t been exactly subtle. If Fred collected photos of his victims, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to paste them inside a scrapbook.
Or would he?
“Family pictures, childhood to adulthood,” she adlibbed. “I could enlarge a few and use them as a theme for Melody’s party. A growing-up theme. Thirty-two is a threshold. For a woman.”
“Really? I thought thirty was the threshold.”
“Not anymore.”
I sound like an idiot, thought Ellie. Why not call it the big three-two? Followed by the big three-three. Followed by the loss of one’s faculties.
“Melody has all the family pictures, Ellie. She says she uses them to paint from. I have that picture there, but she’s not in it.” He pointed toward an ornately framed, enlarged photo on his wall, surrounded by four symmetrically thumb-tacked posters—two Radars, one Hawkeye, one Hot Lips.
Ellie stepped closer to the photograph that dominated the middle of Fred’s neat arrangement.
“It was taken at the Dew Drop Inn,” he said, his voice infused with that annoying simper. “During the M*A*S*H finale. It’s hard to believe Ken’s group has been together since way back then. Except for Jacques Hansen. I was dressed as Radar, with a teddy-bear and everything, and I almost won a look-alike contest. That’s me on the left.”
As she studied the photo, she vaguely recalled a group of men seated near the bar. Usually her detailed mind could conjure up clear images from years past, but the Dew Drop had been so crowded that night. She couldn’t have found her own mother in that crush of bodies.
The photo refreshed her memory, or maybe it was because she’d recently met the men depicted. There sat a young Kenneth Trask, costumed as Hawkeye. And a young Howie Silverman, belly bursting through the buttonholes of his dress. Sean McCarthy wore a straw hat and a black turtleneck. Fred clutched a wet-furred teddy-bear that foamed … stuffing? … at the mouth like a rabid dog. Dickie Dorack and Jacques Hansen weren’t in the photo.
Wait a sec. There were figures in the background, drinking, waving at the camera. One waver looked like Hansen, his head and upper torso visible between Howie and Sean. The waver had the same bristly haircut and wire-rimmed glasses, but he was so much younger than today’s Hansen. “Did Jacques attend the Mash-Bash, Fred?”
“He sure did, Ellie. Funny how he got into the picture, almost as if he knew he’d be joining us some day. Ken proposed the club that very night.”
“Who took the photo? Dickie Dorack?”
“No. Golly, I think it was Charley, the guy who owns the place.”
Ellie tried to remember the last time she’d heard a grown man say “golly.”
“Who brought the camera along?” she asked.
“Father Mac. Sean.”
“Was Dickie Dorack at the Dew Drop that night?”
“Golly, no. Howie found The Dork when he bought his used Chevy. Howie has a company car, a BMW that he shares with his partner, but his wife got the family car in the divorce. While Howie and Dorack were reaching a deal, they started to talk about cars and Howie said my Jeep looked like the one Potter drove on M*A*S*H , blah-blah-blah, and Dorack said he liked to watch the reruns, so Howie invited him to join our rerun club.” Fred wriggled onto the couch and patted the cushion next to him.
Ellie said, “When was Howie divorced?”
“October One, 1982.”
“Holy cow! You know the exact date?”
“Sure. Howie says it often enough. He says it was the same day somebody put cyanide inside those cold capsules. Seven people died and the killer was never caught.” Fred patted the cushion again. “Hey, why don’t you sit down? There’s no cyanide in these cushions.”
As he laughed at his own wit, Ellie realized she couldn’t search Fred’s apartment. It was too small, too neat, too Fred. And except for the bathroom, she could be seen from every angle.
She could search the bathroom, but nobody kept a photo album in the bathroom, not even a neat-freak like Fred. For one thing, steam from a shower or bath would damage the photos.
Desperate, she said, “Melody mentioned that you attended the ballet recital last Saturday night. Did you happen to save a picture of the murdered ballerina?’’
“From the program?”
“No, the newspaper.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because she looked like Hot Lips.”
“Really? Golly, I never noticed that. I’ll have to get my eyes examined.”
Ellie finally sat, thinking that her visit was a stupid waste of time and effort.
Fred unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, exposing a plump chest with sparse body hair. “You didn’t have much to drink, Ellie,” he said. “Are you relaxed? Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Darling.” Fred seemed to savor the word. “Darling,” he repeated, “I know why you really came here.”
“What are you talking about?”
He halted at his waistband, mid-button. “Didn’t you come here to—” His cheeks flushed red, pink then red again, like a blinking neon sign. “I thought—”
“You thought I came to have a rendezvous? Are you crazy?”
“But on the phone this morning you talked so sweet and made up that excuse about Melody’s birthday party.”
“Excuse?” Ellie felt her own cheeks flush a guilty crimson.
“You just met Melody. Why would you give her a party?”
“I adore your cousin. She’s bright and talented and—”
“You’re bright and talented too, darling, and elegant, and you look like her. I thought I could—”
“You thought you could what?”
“I was wrong!” Fred shouted. “You’re just a whore like the rest of them.”
“The rest of who?”
“Everybody. Melody. She fooled around in high school. Did you know that? She used to make fun of me, tease me about not having a girlfriend, about being a virgin.”
“Sorry, Fred, misunderstanding,” Ellie mumbled, rising from the couch.
Fred stood up, too. “You’d better be nice to me, Ellie, or I’ll pour tequila down your lying throat till you’re dead drunk.” He stamped his foot. “Take off your clothes.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Don’t you dare call me silly, you hussy. Take your clothes off or I’ll rip them off myself.” Fred’s cheeks exploded with color, like a speeded-up Disney nature film.
“I’m leaving,” Ellie said as calmly as she could.
“No, you’re not!” Fred clenched his fists in the classic boxer’s pose.
Ellie walked forward.
Fred moved with her, blocking her path. The man was small but anger had given him a certain strength and power, like a miniature, non-furry King Kong. Suddenly, he grabbed his margarita glass, knocked it against a table’s edge, and held up the jagged rim.
Lord, was she about to become another Hot Lips corpse? Peter would stand over her grave and say “I told you so.” Maybe there wouldn’t be a grave. Maybe Fred planned to trash her inside a dumpster, only this time he’d be smarter and chop her up into teensy pieces first.
Ellie retreated a few steps, slowly maneuvering her hand to her pocket, searching for her car keys. Not exactly a lethal weapon, but sharp.
The newspapers would laud her courage and daring: Ellie Bernstein captured the “Masher” with her Honda key.
Wrong pocket! Her hand encountered Melody’s scarf.
She fingered the silk material, then thrust it over Fred’s head so that it fell, covering his face.
With the roar of a blinded bear, he dropped the glass and reached up to free his eyes.
Ellie zigzagged past him while he fumbled at the clinging fabric. She opened the front door, slipped outside, and sprinted toward her car.
Fred, she thought, her heart throbbing like a revved-up NASCAR engine, would have to go to the top of her suspect list.
Chapter 21
Although Ellie took meandering side streets in order to avoid rush hour traffic, she toed her accelerator pedal like an Indy 500 racer. She found an open space near Peter’s office and parallel-parked in one try. She had planned to change into sweats, but her whole day was running out of sync.
She stayed seated inside the Honda for a while to compose herself. Because she didn’t want a repeat of last night, didn’t want Peter insisting she “take a vacation.” Finally, she breathed deeply a few times and stepped out of the car, onto the sidewalk.
Peter’s office was housed in an ancient beige stucco building with a scalloped roof. It had once been an appliance store, then a discount tire outlet. Both had gone out of business. Renovated, the building now included a reception area, individual rooms and separate cubicles. Just your average, everyday, small-town investigations bureau, thought Ellie, certain that Andy Griffith would soon scold Ronny Howard while Aunt Bea buzzed around the windowpane.
Her lieutenant sat at his cluttered desk inside an office off the main corridor. The wall held two framed diplomas from the Law Enforcement Officers Training School, one for general law enforcement and a second for police management. On a side wall, an insurance agency’s calendar had pictures of U.S. presidents squared above date boxes. Toward the back of the room, a shelf held equestrian trophies.
Peter stared at her slacks and sweater. “I thought I told you to dress down.”
“Hello, Norrie. How was your day?”
“Sorry. Hello, Norrie. How was your day?”
“Tony was beastly. Annie has a new word, ‘ass-hore.’ Grandma Bernstein talked for hours. She should market a game called Trivial Medicine. She gave me a headache.”
Ellie skipped over the Fred Remming incident. She didn’t think she could take Peter’s recriminations without bursting into tears. Her headache was genuine.
The phone rang. Peter pushed folders out of his way, reached for a pen, and cradled the receiver between his chin and shoulder.
Ellie glanced down at the folders. The top one had a typed label: VIRGINIA WHITLEY. So Peter had taken her seriously. Sitting on the desk, Ellie pushed the folders toward the edge with her tush. As the top two fell, she knelt and gathered the spilled pages.
Peter talked into the phone, fidgeting in his chair as though he rode a carousel horse.
Ellie memorized seven digits while replacing the folders. Virginia’s sister’s name was Mary.
Finishing his conversation, Peter hung up the receiver. “You look very pretty, Norrie,” he said, “but why do you always ignore my advice?”
“Do I really have to wear clothes, honey? Wouldn’t it be more fun without them?”
“More fun but impractical. You’d get bruised and I can’t throw you on the gym floor if you’re naked.”
“I thought I was supposed to throw you.”
“Right.” He laughed.
Ellie thought his laugh had a chauvinist ring. “We can go home,” she said, “and you can wait while I change.”
“I have a better idea. Follow me.” He ducked into a closet storeroom then emerged nearly hidden by brown mats. “Excess,” he said, handing a few to Ellie.
The two struggled through the corridor and out of the building.
“I’ve always associated foam rubber with pillows,” she murmured. “These things are heavy. Where’s your car?”
“Will McCoy borrowed it. He and Wanda are celebrating their six-month wedding anniversary at the Red Lobster, and Will’s car is in the shop. We’ll use yours.”
She released two little hooks, let down the back seat, and together they stuffed mats into the Honda’s hatchback. All the while she thought that if Fred Remming had been successful, Peter would have been stuck without a vehicle.
“Do you want to drive, Peter?”
“Nope. I need to rest so I can be on my toes later.”
He relaxes like a big cat, Ellie mused, as she maneuvered through the heavy rush-hour traffic.
“Why the hell do they call it rush hour, Peter? I’m barely moving. All I can do is clutch. My left leg’s cramping. My headache feels worse.”
“Grandma Bernstein got to you, sweetheart. Chill out a little.”
When the traffic finally thinned, Ellie drove carefully, unable to see through the rear window, obscured by brown mats.
Behind her a BMW played follow-the-leader. She saw its distinctive black, white and blue hood ornament in her side view mirror, but she couldn’t see the driver. The car looked like Tony’s car. Was Tony following her? She was about to say something to Peter when the BMW sped up and passed her. From its open windows she heard Neil Sedaka singing “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.”
Chapter 22
Jackie Robinson was overjoyed. While Peter pushed furniture against the walls, the cat kneaded brown vinyl with his front paws. Finally, he curled into a furry black funeral wreath.
“Move your butt, J.R., or we’ll have Persian pancakes for supper,” Peter said, arranging the mats end-to-end.
“Speaking of supper,” said Ellie, “do you want to eat before we begin?”
“Food is not a good idea when we’re flipping each other. You dumb cat, I said no!” Peter scooped up Jackie Robinson, opened the front door, and gently tossed him outside.
Ellie walked slowly, very slowly, into her bedroom. Pulling gray sweatpants and a Mickey Mouse thermal undershirt from a bureau drawer, she stripped to her bra and panties.
“Come here, Peter,” she called. “I need you to unsnap my bra.”
“No way, Norrie. If I enter the bedroom, I’m subject to entrapment and our lesson goes down the drain.”
She donned her old clothes then captured strands of her auburn hair with a thick rubber band. Ponytail swinging, she returned to the family room and gazed dubiously at the mats that covered her floor like a second carpet.
Peter had worn black sweatpants under the slacks he’d taken off, and they hugged his slim body while he demonstrated a few simple judo holds.
After a while she said, “I have an idea for a new weight-loss clinic. Twenty-four-hour wrestling. Nobody would ever eat anything again. I feel like the whale that swallowed Pinocchio. Uncle Vinnie’s lunch shrimp are swimming inside my chest. Rats, I have to belch.” She belched. “How do those Japanese wrestlers stay so heavy?”
Peter lunged and she fell to the mat with a loud oomph.
“This … is … ridiculous,” she panted. “I can protect myself very well with a silk scarf.”
“Scarf? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“Concentrate on my hands, Norrie.”
“Why can’t I just kick you in the balls?”
“If I was holding a weapon, it would be too late. I could shoot you with a gun or slash you with my knife.”
“In a movie you’d drop the weapon, hold your groin, and swear a blue streak.”
“This is real life. How many times do I have to tell you that? Kick-the-crotch is okay, but only as a surprise move, and certainly not if the perp has a gun or knife aimed at you. Let’s try again.”
Ellie managed to parry Peter’s thrust, but he raised his muscled forearm and lifted her off her feet as if his arm was a chinning bar.
“You have to bend my elbow,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock, she thought, tempted to retrieve one of her scarves and strangle him.
They worked for another half hour. She bounced like a basketball. She bounced like Tigger. Sweat poured into her eyes. Hair escaped its band, whisking about her face like angel-hair pasta. Finally she stepped away from Peter and rubbed her neck.
“Boy oh boy, I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” she said. “At least I can’t find my headache anymore in the midst of all this other pain.”
“Do you still have a headache?”
“I have an everything ache, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.” All of a sudden, she giggled.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Your sweatpants. Your erection sticks out a mile. I’ve been afraid it’ll snap off in our scuffles.”
“Me, too. C’mere gorgeous.”
“We’re finished?”
“We’ve just started.”
“Oh,” Ellie said in a small, disappointed voice.
“Don’t look like that, you’re breaking my heart. We’ve finished our first self-defense lesson, but we’re about to start the next session. A shower together, after which I’ll give you a rubdown.”
“That sounds great, but what about supper?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, not really.”
“You’re not? Are you sick?”
“Just this dumb headache.” She shed her sweatpants. “I’m tired of defense tactics, Peter, tactile though they may be. I prefer to love you to death, smother you into submission.” She removed her perspiration-soaked Mickey Mouse. “Unsnap my bra and I’ll race you to the showers.”
Instead, he slipped her bra straps down and cupped her breasts.
“I’m all sweaty,” she gasped.
“Yeah, me too,” he said, tracing her earlobe with his tongue.
“What about that shower and rub — oh!”
She shivered uncontrollably as he reached beneath the bra’s lace and gently rubbed her nipple with his thumb and first finger. Then he took off his clothes and lowered them both to one of the mats. Its foam rubber didn’t give like her waterbed, but Ellie couldn’t have cared less. It might be fun to bounce for a change.
For a change? She’d already bounced for an eternity.
“Is this part in your defense manual, Peter?”
“First page,” he said, tossing her bra and panties toward the window. “We’d better hurry, Norrie, or it really will snap off.”
“I’m ready. I’ve never been more ready in my life,” she cried, and began to rock like a hobbyhorse.
Outside the house, Jackie Robinson returned from a neighbor’s newly-mulched garden. He hissed at the footprints in the mushy soil beneath his human’s window, then scratched at the front door, meowing for safety from things that go bump in the night.
Chapter 23
Ellie’s crack-of-dawn jog soon became a wobbly dogtrot, so she wobbled home. There were no bruises from last night’s self-defense lesson, but everything hurt. Especially Jackie Robinson’s pushy rub against her legs.
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you in a minute,” she said, first stacking then attacking dishes. “Damn, look at all these dirty plates. Peter still believes that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Here, puss, finish my scrambled eggs. Sorry I’m so bitchy.”
Holy cow! Now she was apologizing to a cat — a cat who probably understood three words. Feed. Peter. Puss.
Peter had been Mr. Cheerful this morning, his grin fragmenting like a sugary breakfast cereal. Then, ignoring her peppery mood, Lieutenant Snap-Crackle-Pop had blown her a kiss and hit the road.
“Hit the road, Pete,” she sang off-key as she wandered into the family room, reached for her duck, and punched in the number she’d memorized from Virginia Whitley’s file folder. A woman answered.
“Whitley residence. Mary Whitley here. Who’s this?”
“Ellie…” She hesitated, Peter’s warning about her last name sounding like Burns still in the back of her mind. Then, using her maiden name, she said that she was a freelance writer researching an article on Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.
“Oh, I contribute to MADD. How may I help you?”
“Do you have a few minutes to talk about your sister’s hit-and-run accident?”
“No, I have to leave for work. But I could meet you here during my lunch hour. Noon-thirty?”
“That’s perfect, thanks.” Ellie jotted down the address. Then she scribbled, “Weight Winners lecture nine o’clock, Mary Whitley twelve-thirty, Nancy Trask three o’clock.”
Damn headache, she thought as she soaked in the tub, trying to soothe her aching muscles. After toweling her sore body, she put on a blue-green skirt, beige silk blouse, and medium-heeled, beige suede boots. Then she arranged her hair into a simple French twist. The sink mirror revealed charcoal smudges under her blue-green eyes and crimson-patched cheekbones.
“Maybe I’m coming down with the flu,” she told Jackie Robinson, who had followed her into the bathroom. “Hey, do you want to play outdoors today, puss? It’s beautiful? You can powder your paws with sunshine.”
But when Ellie opened her front door, the Persian gave her an enigmatic cat-frown, sauntered to the couch, leaped up, and sat with his paws curled under his fuzzy bosom.
“I guess you didn’t appreciate Peter tossing you into the bushes last night, huh? If I get in touch with him, I’ll ask him to apprehend a cat cookie. What’s cop-speak for apprehend? Collar a cookie? Pinch a cookie?”
* * *
Mary Whitley was a small, tidy woman. If she’d been designed as a compact car, she’d probably get a hundred miles to the gallon.
Her dark hair, permed and sprayed, framed her round face. A woolly plaid skirt fell exactly below her knees, and a white cotton blouse was tucked neatly into the waistband without a wrinkled pause. Mary’s living room was spotless, uncluttered, and smelled like potpourri and Pledge.
Even the family pooch, who investigated Ellie’s arrival with a stubby tail-wag, didn’t have those crusty cocker spaniel tears around his eyes, and Ellie would be willing to swear under oath that “Blackie” had never shed one curly wisp of groomed fur.
“Coffee?” Mary offered. “Soda? Iced tea? Juice?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
Actually, she wasn’t fine. The stupid headache clamped her skull like the jaws of a vise.
Mary said she had thirty-seven minutes to spend with her guest, and hoped Ellie didn’t mind if she ate a cheese sandwich while they talked. Seated on a straight-backed chair, she spread paper napkins across her lap and chatted about her job. To Ellie’s surprise, the woman worked as one of the busy secretaries at Tony’s real estate firm.
I want Dave to meet my new girlfriend, Mary. She works in my office.
But Tony fell for women half his age, thought Ellie, unless he was downing whisper martinis. If sober, could an old dog chase new tricks? Mary was what? Early to mid fifties? It didn’t add up, unless Tony had really changed his spots. Maybe Mary was Tony’s new type. She probably typed well, too.
“About your sister, Ms. Whit—”
“Please call me Mary. It’s hard to believe Ginny’s been gone all these years. Harder with the holidays approaching, especially Thanksgiving. Ginny always tasted the turkey, straight out of the oven. She was a nibbler. She liked the skin and tail best. Next week will be difficult.”
“Next week?”
“Thanksgiving.”
Holy cow! Next week? I haven’t even called Mick. It can’t be next week.
“I’m not sure I can help you,” Mary continued. “They never found the person who hit Ginny, so we don’t know if he was drunk. We assume he was, but only Ginny would know and she’s with God now. I suppose I could ask her.”
“You suppose you could what?”
“Ask her. She speaks to me sometimes, but it might be too late for your article.”
“Does she speak often?” Feeling idiotic, Ellie changed her question. “Did your sister drink very often?”
“Oh, no. Ginny hardly ever drank. When she went out with her friends, she ordered Shirley Temples. She liked cherries. I could ask her about the hit-and-run driver the next time she comes to see me.”
Mary Whitley sounded as if her sister was due soon for a holiday visit. Could this woman who consumed her lunch with quick glances at the clock, who probably never ran out of toilet paper — could this woman believe in ghosts?
“Has Ginny ever said anything about that night?” Ellie knew her question was fatuous but felt powerless to resist. “The night she, uh, died?”
“We don’t discuss it. We talk about happy things.” Finishing her sandwich, Mary collected the napkins from her lap and dabbed at the corners of her lips. “We were very close, you know. I blame myself for her death. I didn’t like the TV show, so I let her go to that awful bar alone. She said she was meeting an older man. Of course, at her age older could mean twenty-five.”
“Did she tell you the name of the person she planned to meet?”
“I’m sure she did, she told me everything, but it was so long ago. His name sounded like some sort of insect, I think. Roach? Mr. Roach? No, that doesn’t sound right. Anyway, I don’t believe she ever mentioned his last name, just his first name. Maybe it was Bee, like the initial B, or maybe it was Ant-something. Anteros? One of those outlandish foreign names.”
I suppose a Mary would think foreign names were outlandish. “How does Ginny talk to you?” Ellie asked. “Does she appear as a ghost? I mean, a spirit of some kind?”
“I don’t believe in spirits. She speaks to me through her pictures.” Mary pointed toward an album on top of a polished wood coffee table.
“May I see your photos?”
“All right, but I have to leave in exactly eight minutes, eleven if I catch all the green lights. But one can’t guarantee that one will catch all the green lights, can one?”
“In my opinion, one can’t guarantee anything except death and taxes.”
“True.” Mary retrieved and opened the thick album, offering page after page of cellophane-protected snapshots. Her sister as a baby, toddler and teen.
Ellie watched the child’s blonde hair turn darker as she grew older. Without the wig she’d worn at the Dew Drop Inn, she didn’t look like Hot Lips. Close, but no cigar. So except for the Dew Drop Mash-Bash, there was no M*A*S*H connection.
Trying to hide her disappointment, Ellie said, ‘‘How long have you worked for Mr. Bernstein?”
“Eleven years. Well, Mr. B left the firm for a while, but I’ve been with the company eleven years, twelve this July. I’ll tell you a secret.” Mary’s cheeks reddened. “I’ve had a crush on Mr. B since the very beginning. But he was married to some whiney blimp. Then, after his divorce, he was trapped into marriage by a slutty cheerleader he believed was pregnant. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess it’s because you remind me of—”
“Your sister Ginny?”
“No. Diane Sawyer.”
Ellie’s mind raced as she recalled her hunch that Tony had met or found Ginny at the Dew Drop Inn. Logic, Norrie. If Tony had decided to attend Charley’s Mash-Bash, he’d never come in costume, so he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Tony was much more secure wearing his tailored suits and Gucci shoes. In fact, they had once been invited to a Halloween party. Tony had donned black slacks and jacket over a ruffled shirt and patterned vest. When asked, he said he was Maverick, and he’d sing a few lines from the Maverick theme: “Who is the tall, dark stranger there? Maverick is the name. Ridin' the trail to who knows where…”
Chapter 24
As Ellie drove down lovely tree-lined streets toward the Trask home, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tony. And cowboys. There’d been a cowboy at the Mash-Bash. She had noticed him, even from a distance, because he’d stuck out like a sore thumb. But she’d never seen his face, hidden by dim lighting and shaded by a black cowboy hat.
Still deep in thought, she parked curbside then walked up the brick path. Damn, there were two cars in the driveway. Their license plates read TRASK-1 and WIFE-1.
Nancy Trask, immaculate in lime-colored wool slacks and matching cashmere sweater, opened her front door and offered Ellie her patented almost-smile.
If Nancy allowed her short hair to grow and curl about her face, she’d be very pretty, Ellie mused, unable to stop herself from playing “cerebral paper doll.” Nancy could stand to lose a few pounds, but she was tall and carried any excess weight well.
Seated at the kitchen table, the two women sipped coffee brewed with chocolate beans. What a marvelous fix for a chocoholic, and yet the beans would be legal on the Weight Winners food program. Ellie made a mental note to talk about beans at her next diet club meeting.
Where’s Ken?” she asked.
“He walked Klinger over to Howie’s.”
“Do you think he’ll be gone long?”
“Probably. Ken and Howie are concocting some computer game based on M*A*S*H. I hope you don’t mind, Ellie, but I’ve already started working on Melody’s party. I called her cousin Fred and wrote down a list of her closest friends.”
Ellie wished she could have seen the expression on Fred’s face when he heard that Melody’s birthday party wasn’t an excuse for a rendezvous.
“Wow, Nancy,” she said, “when did you find the time? I mean, you had to drive Klinger to Denver and—”
“It didn’t take much time. I thought we’d hold the celebration here, but Ken vetoed that idea. He doesn’t want strangers traipsing through the house.”
“What about my house? I don’t mind traipsers.”
“Well, I had a brainstorm. Melody is such a big M*A*S*H fan, I thought we might throw a theme party with costumes. I spoke to Charley Aaronson and he said it’s okay to hold our party at the Dew Drop Inn. We could bring Ken’s old VCR and tapes of the show. Melody would be the guest of honor.”
“She’d love it, Nancy. That’s absolutely brilliant.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Howie Silverman said you have a boyfriend, and of course he’s invited. I’ve already called Dickie Dorack and he wants to pay half the expenses. I thought we might take up a secret collection from other club members … if Ken gives me permission.”
“I’m not sure I can make it next Monday,” Ellie said. If she was getting close to the murderer, why press her luck? And she shuddered at the thought of facing Fred, Howie and Ken again. “I’ll contribute my share right now and I’ll help you with the party. Do you want me to keep Melody occupied until the big moment?”
“Dickie volunteered. You and I can meet at the Dew Drop sometime in the afternoon, to prepare. Charley said most of his ‘regulators’ stay home with their families the day after Thanksgiving, but he’ll have to televise football games, so we can show tapes afterward. Ken wouldn’t miss his football.” Nancy sighed. “Would your boyfriend?”
“Not unless it’s for something important.” Ellie remembered the Broncos/Cowboys game when she had questioned Peter about unsolved cases. She had wheedled and caressed and they had missed a field goal and a touchdown. Cheeks burning, she gave her hostess a half-shrug and excused herself to use the bathroom.
As she splashed water on her hot face, she realized she had accomplished very little so far with this visit. All she’d done was firm plans for Melody’s birthday party. And although she enjoyed Nancy in this less subservient role, she didn’t know how to bring the conversation around to Ken.
She couldn’t just come out and question Nancy directly. Did your husband murder his mistress after she took off with a Frank Burns look-alike? Did he kill another mistress and stuff her inside an apartment dumpster? Did he mess around with Virginia Whitley then run her over with his car? Has he ever had an affair with a young blonde ballerina?
Now there’s an idea. Maybe that’s his connection to Natalie — an affair.
Nancy’s guest bathroom was on the first floor, not far from the kitchen. Ellie had no excuse to explore. If Trask hid pictures of his victims, they’d almost certainly be inside his work area. But she couldn’t think of any reason to ask about, or visit, his drafting room. Would an interest in architecture be too obvious?
“I’ve always been interested in architecture,” she said, returning to the kitchen. “Do you mind if I sneak a peek at your husband’s work area? I wouldn’t touch anything.”
Nancy shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Ken would kill me if I let anybody see his office, especially his sketches.”
“That’s okay.” Ellie sipped her coffee. “You mentioned my boyfriend. He’s a homicide detective and he’s been working on the recent murders, you know, the ballerina, and I wonder if I could ask … I feel so stupid asking…”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, as you’re probably aware … no, maybe you’re not … but, well, some of the recent murders have involved M*A*S*H. Well, for example, a man who resembled Frank Burns a tad, actually more than a tad, was asphyxiated inside his garage. Did you read about that in the newspaper or see it on the news?”
“No, I didn’t. I only read the Arts section of the newspaper and I never watch the news on TV. It’s too depressing.”
“The man’s death was supposedly a suicide. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. Peter, my, uh, boyfriend, would throttle me, but I wondered—”
“If Ken’s club members had anything to do with the murders?”
“Yes.” Ellie heaved a deep sigh. “I guess I’ll have to start at the beginning, Nancy, and you have to promise not to tell, or repeat anything I say, not even to Ken. Or Klinger, your dog.”
“I promise. Are you feeling all right?”
“Do I sound incoherent? I have this dumb headache.”
“There’s aspirin right here in the kitchen. Maybe we should discuss the murders another day.”
“No, please, it’s nothing, really. Last night I overextended myself with some new exercises.”
“Oh, I can understand that. I used to exercise, even lifted weights, but I let myself go, and then Ken hinted that I might consider working out again. Boy oh boy, can he hint.”
Ellie watched Nancy scowl. Then her almost-smile flickered, as if she’d discovered the answer to a riddle.
“Last month,” she continued, “I joined a health club, the one that opened last year? I could hardly raise my arms the day after I started. That’s probably why you’re feeling so poorly.” She reached into a neatly compartmented pantry shelf filled with carefully labeled medicine bottles.
After swallowing three aspirins, Ellie said, “I think all of Ken’s club members, except Dickie Dorack, were at the Dew Drop Inn the night a young woman named Virginia Whitley died. It was the show’s finale, and Charley held this look-alike contest, and when she wore a blonde wig, Virginia — she was called Ginny — looked like Hot Lips.”
“I’m not sure I get the correlation. Weren’t there dozens of Hot Lips at the Dew Drop Inn?”
“Yes, but I think Ginny’s death is somehow connected to recent events.”
“No kidding. Why?”
“Gut feeling.” Ellie shrugged. “Nancy, do you recall running into a man who looked like Frank Burns at the supermarket?”
“I don’t think so. Wait a minute. His wife had a southern accent? Wore a corset?”
“Right. Did anyone suggest taking a photo of her husband?”
“I think the whole conversation lasted five minutes. The men were all joking. I don’t remember anything about a photo.”
“Nancy, I hate to ask, but you’ve known all the club members from the very beginning. Do you believe—”
“That one is a cold-blooded killer?” She laughed. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Ellie. Speaking of barking, Ken told me about Howie Silverman. Howie’s a jerk sometimes, but he’s all bark and no bite. I feel sorry for him. You see, he’s never gotten over his divorce, never remarried. He really loved his wife.”
“Was she blonde?”
“Yes. Bleached.”
“Did she look like Hot Lips?”
“No. She looked like that ditzy Brady Bunch woman.”
“The maid?”
“No. The mother.”
“Sorry, Nancy, please go on.”
“Howie’s squeamish. He can’t stand the sight of blood. He almost fainted once when I cut my hand slicing veggies. He’s mortified because it doesn’t go with his macho image, but he couldn’t kill a fly, much less a person.”
Nancy refilled their coffee mugs and Ellie smelled chocolate again.
“Jacques Hansen has the guts for killing,” Nancy said. “The training, too. He’s been in the armed services for a long time and must have learned all kinds of combat techniques. But why would Jacques kill a Frank Burns look-alike? I mean, Jacques adores Frank Burns and thinks he should run for president.”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure someone is killing Frank look-alikes,” Ellie said. “But, well, you see, Hot Lips dumped Frank, and Jacques could have been royally pissed off by that.”
“Have another aspirin, Ellie.”
“You think I’m crazy, right?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. I’m talking about these characters as if they’re real. Maybe I’ve simply imagined the connection. No, I haven’t. The dog…”
“What dog?”
Tag, thought Ellie, realizing just in time that the dog tag was one of the things the police had kept secret. “Klinger,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “Where’s he hiding?”
“Klinger’s with Ken. Didn’t I tell you that?”
She nodded and her head-vise clamped tighter. “What about Sean? Could he kill?”
“Not a chance. Sean’s kind, considerate and loyal. His wife is in a sanatorium—a mental hospital. That’s why he works so hard for the phone company. Benefits pay medical bills. Sean could give last rites but he couldn’t kill anyone. Nope, you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree.”
“Okay, we haven’t mentioned—”
“Dickie Dorack. They call him The Dork and with good reason. He’s become less dorky since Melody. You don’t suspect Melody, do you?”
“No,” Ellie said, hoping she didn’t sound as reluctant as she felt.
“I can’t imagine Dickie as a killer, can you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“That leaves Fred Remming. If I had to pick one suspect from the group, I’d choose Fred.”
“But he’s so whiny, so ineffectual.”
“Also virginal and sexually repressed. And he’s always had this thing for Hot Lips, as long as she stays within her safe television box.”
“Okay, Fred kills Hot Lips because he feels threatened by his sexual urges. But why Frank Burns?”
“Because he’s getting it on with Hot Lips.”
“Oh.” Ellie smiled. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Psychology 101.”
“On second thought, I can’t believe Fred’s your killer. I don’t know if he’s physically strong enough. I think he might fantasize about it, but he’d never follow through. Fred’s too wimpy.”
Melody had once called Nancy a wimp, thought Ellie. Not! The woman’s mind processed logical facts and her gut feelings were incredibly astute. Okay … what about Kenneth Trask?
As if Ellie had spoken aloud. Nancy said, “I’ve been married to Ken for twenty-seven years. If he was a murderer I’d know by now.” Rising from her chair, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a roast. “Please excuse me, Ellie, but I have to marinate this while we talk. Ken invited Sean to supper and he loves my prime rib.” After retrieving a ball of string from a shallow drawer, Nancy efficiently severed the string with a sharp knife.
“I have one other question,” said Ellie, “and if I don’t ask I’ll wonder.”
“Ask away.”
“Melody said Ken’s club members attended the ballet recital. Were you ever separated? The group, I mean?”
“We split up during intermission and took some empty seats near the front, closer to the stage, but I’d probably notice someone leaving. Wasn’t the ballerina killed after the performance?”
“Yes.” As she watched Nancy tie string around the lumpy raw beef, Ellie’s stomach lurched. “I guess my question is, did anybody disappear after the performance, during the murder?”
“I don’t think so. Well, I can’t say for sure. Melody and I went to the ladies’ room and waited in line. You know how it is, Ellie, three toilets and fifty women tugging their panty hose up and down. It takes forever. I wish Ken had included a few more bathrooms in his design.”
Ellie smiled at the pantyhose image. “You and Melody stood waiting all that time?”
“Melody finally got a stall. Then she returned to the lobby. I let a woman and little girl go ahead of me, big mistake. Mommy kept begging the child to ‘make poo-poo.’ ”
“So you don’t know if anybody sneaked backstage.”
“No, I don’t. We all left the theater together. Melody and Dickie headed for the parking lot. I drove Jacques and his wife home. Then I drove Sean home. Ken, Howie and Fred piled into Fred’s Jeep and took off for the Dew Drop Inn.”
“Did anybody seem agitated? Overly stimulated?”
“Yes. Howie, Fred and Ken. But they were all geared up to drink themselves silly and swap dirty jokes. At that point nobody knew about the murder.”
Except for the murderer. “Nancy, did you see blood on anybody? Natalie was stabbed.”
“Fred had a bloody nose, but that’s not unusual. Fred blows it every hour on the hour and he’s addicted to nasal spray.”
“What if the killer wore a coat?”
“Are you saying the killer stabbed the ballerina then hid his bloodstained coat? Where? Didn’t the police search the theater?”
“Yes, but they didn’t search the audience. It was too confusing and so many people had already left and—”
“You want to know if somebody in my group wore a wrap to the recital but didn’t wear one home?”
“Yes.”
“When we left the theater I wore a full-length fake fur,” Nancy said thoughtfully. “Melody wore her blue quilted jacket. Ken wore his fur-lined trench—no, his black cashmere topcoat, the one with deep pockets. It’s at the cleaners right now. The others … Jacques, Victoria, Dickie, Fred…” She shrugged. “I guess I’m not a very good detective.”
Neither am I. I used to believe I was, but I’m not so sure anymore. Everybody had a motive. Nobody had a motive. Opportunity existed for each group member. And the murderer could be a sick-o, not even remotely connected with Trask’s rerun club. Nancy said I’m barking up the wrong tree and she’s probably on the nose.
Unless Fred’s bloody nose was a bloody scam.
Or Ken’s deep pockets hid a bloody knife.
For some strange reason, Nancy’s roast reminded Ellie of the Harry Burns suicide. Well, of course. She had been cooking a rump roast for dinner that night. Speaking of dinner, she’d better touch base with Peter and find out what time he was due home.
“May I use your phone, Nancy?”
“Sure. It’s over there, above that desk. Please excuse me, Ellie, but nature calls. Ken always says that. Howie says he has to take a whiz, Sean urinates, Dickie waters his horse, and Fred goes wee-wee. After eleven years, I’ve got their dialogue down pat.”
Ellie laughed, then walked to the wall phone and reached for the receiver. Peter’s line was busy. Gazing downward, Ellie saw that Nancy’s desk was neat, organized, which didn’t surprise her. A Daffy Duck stenciled glass held several pens and pencils and a small tube of glue. Near the glass was a pad for messages. Nancy doodled. No. Ken doodled. The pad’s first page depicted a detailed sketch of a house, everything drawn to scale. The house was on fire. In fact, the flames had been colored with red, orange, and yellow pencils.
“A sick mind,” Peter had said when talking about the doll massacre. And despite Nancy’s denial, Ellie was even more convinced than ever that Ken was the Masher. But how could she prove it? By eliminating all the other suspects?
On a TV movie, she’d get them all together and shout, “You have a sick mind, Trask!”
“Oh, good,” he’d say. “That’s my defense. I was temporarily insane three times.”
Then he’d pull out his knife, and Ellie would parry his thrust and easily flip him to the floor. Music. Credits. And, “This movie was inspired by a true story.”
Or, as Charlie Aaronson would say, “Torn from the headlines.”
* * *
That night Ellie swallowed three more aspirin, fell into a restless sleep, and dreamed.
The Trask Airedale, Klinger, and Mary Whitley’s cocker spaniel, Blackie, stood at the bottom of a tall shade tree, their fangs bared, barking at Ellie while she struggled to make her way through thick branches. As she climbed, she saw corpses on every tree limb.
Harry Burns.
Virginia Whitley.
The dumpster couple.
Natalie.
Even the shopping center cemetery lady with her gap-toothed smile.
A cop hunched against the trunk on one branch, his features distorted by bloodstained pantyhose.
One of Melody’s painted priests gave communion to the victims, then changed into Sean McCarthy. “Ego te absolvo,” Sean chanted, prying open dead mouths, avoiding lolling tongues, inserting communion wafers.
“Give the victims last rites, Father Mac,” Ellie said, her eyes blurred by tears.
“You betcha, Ellie-Ellie,” Sean said, then crumpled into dust.
On one branch perched a stuffed Dumbo, watching the whole shebang.
At the top of the tree was the murderer, hidden by leaves and foliage. The tree swayed back and forth as the dogs growled. Trapped, Ellie couldn’t climb up or down. Suddenly, she shared her tree branch with cats: Advocatus Diaboli, Agatha Christie, Stephen King’s Pet Semetary cat, and Jackie Robinson, his fur bristling, his eyes golden slits, his thick tail poofy, like a Halloween cat.
“Call 9-1-1, you dumb puss. Call Peter!”
Instead, Jackie Robinson padded along the branch, which soon began to break from the combined weights of Ellie, her fat Persian, and the three other scruffy, maggot-infested felines.
Snap. Crackle. Pop. “Peter!” she screamed. “Help!”
“I’m here, sweetheart.” As her eyes opened, Peter pulled her across the bed and into his arms. “You feel hot, Norrie. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
“No. Not fever. Nightmare. Horrible.’’
“Hush, Norrie, everything’s okay.” Peter stroked her sweaty, tangled hair away from her eyes. “I’ll protect you from nasty bugbears.”
“Not bears, Peter, bug or otherwise. I dreamed vicious dogs chased me up a tree and I think I saw the killer at the top of the tree and — damn, I don’t remember; it’s too hazy. Is Jackie Robinson all right?”
“Sure. He’s asleep at the bottom of the bed. Why?”
“I don’t know.” She shuddered. “I’m scared.”
“Good! I’m glad you’re finally scared. Don’t worry, Norrie. I’ll snag the killer. Just lock all your doors and stay home like a good girl.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Chapter 25
The Honda’s engine sounded louder than usual.
Maybe it needs a tune-up, thought Ellie. Maybe she needed a tune-up. Maybe somebody should plug her sparks, rejuvenate her run-down battery, and force-feed her high-octane gas.
No. Feeding her anything was out of the question. Because she’d lost her appetite after watching Nancy Trask bind a bloody roast with string. Because Nancy’s roast had reminded Ellie of Virginia Whitley and Natalie and Krafchek and the couple trashed inside the dumpster. Because murder wasn’t dinner conversation and corpses weren’t pretty. And because no matter what Tony believed, Ellie wasn’t “into” dead bodies.
Jacques and Victoria lived near the Air Force Academy. It was a long drive, and she had seriously considered canceling her appointment. If un-astute Fred Remming had suspected that his cousin’s birthday party was a fabrication, what would happen when she encountered Hansen’s sharp military mind and tried to describe Melody’s religious paintings? Melody’s religious pornography. Ordinarily Ellie would enjoy sparring with Jacques, would even relish the challenge, but today her brain was out of focus.
She stopped for a red light. Her black cords rubbed the skin around her waist, so she tucked her lilac sweater inside to absorb chafe. Didn’t “chafe” mean to feel irritation? Didn’t “irritate” mean to provoke anger? Ellie was irritated, angry, frustrated, and this damn whodunit chafed like hell.
“Whydunit,” she said. “Not whodunit, whydunit.”
She still thought the who was Kenneth Trask. That strange doodle bothered her. Maybe the house on fire was the house that Ken had designed for his missing mistress. Maybe he had burned her, and the house, to a crisp. But then, couldn’t the cops get DNA from the bones of a burned corpse? Ellie shuddered.
Arriving at the Hansen home, she took a few moments to admire the white picket fence, blanketed by thorny rose vines. Certainly Victoria’s handiwork since Jacques wasn’t exactly what one would call flowery.
Sunshine pierced the cold air, distant mountains wore marshmallow stocking caps, and a few children played cops-and-robbers. Or War. Ellie grinned when she saw the only girl in the group blow on the end of her cap pistol. All the boys were “dead.”
Well, not all. One boy refused to stay dead. Like a zombie he stood up, aimed his gun at the girl, and said, “Bam! Bam! Gotcha.”
She said, “That’s cheating, Barry! I already did you!”
“I pretended,” he said. “Besides, you’re a girl. You shouldn’t even be playing.”
Stay home like a good girl and chafe!
To Ellie’s surprise, the little girl grinned. “Troy, Reed, Parnell and Jeff think you cheated, too,” she said, pointing at the boys who sprawled on the ground. Not one boy moved a muscle.
Barry said, “Hey dudes, let’s go to my house for cookies.”
No one moved.
“Cookies and ice cream,” Barry said.
No one moved.
Barry scowled, looked at the little girl, looked at his friends. Then slowly he folded to his knees and stretched out on the pavement, “dead.”
Ellie stepped from the Honda. She skirted a manicured lawn, walked down a path, and pressed the white button beneath a small brass plaque whose inscription read: CONFESS YOUR SINS, NOT YOUR NEIGHBOR’S.
Obviously Victoria’s handiwork again, since Jacques tended to exploit confessions and felt he was sinless (I never make mistakes).
Ellie thought the doorbell’s resounding chime could be heard in Albuquerque, but nobody answered her summons. She turned the knob, peeked inside and shouted hello. The curbside children were shooting their guns at each other again. Three called a truce long enough to stare. Ellie smiled and waved, then entered the Hansen house.
The living room was cluttered but clean as a whistle. Walls were decorated with photographs of the Air Force Academy and U.S. presidents. Richard Nixon gazed down at a small table where Tom Clancy shared bookends with C.S. Lewis (next to Lewis were figurines from The Chronicles of Narnia). Reagan and Bush Jr. smiled from above the chair and sofa. Directly over the TV hung Bush Sr. and Quayle. Clinton was missing. So was Gore.
To the right, at the end of a short hallway, Ellie could discern that the — bathroom? — door was decorated with a poster of Hillary Clinton, blown up from her book jacket. Hillary’s eyes, nose, neck, and heart were spiked with darts.
Stereo speakers blasted forth “We Are the World.” Apparently the Hansens were into saving hungry children but not the ozone layer. Atop one speaker, an aerosol can of Raid nudged an aerosol can of furniture polish.
Atop another table, next to the front door, was a piece of lined paper, propped up against an aerosol can of hair spray and anchored by a model helicopter. Hadn’t Peter said something about a model helicopter at the scene of the doll massacre? But she’d driven here to eliminate Hansen, thought Ellie, as she stared down at large letters scribbled in a childish print. JACKIE BEAR, MRS. BERNSTEIN DUE ABT. NEWSLETTER STORY. I’VE GONE TO THE 7-11 FOR POT. CHIPS AND BEV. BACK SOON. LOVE & XXXXXXXX, VICKY ANGEL
“Hello?” shouted Ellie. “Jacques? Hello?”
No answer.
Where was Jacques? Could he have left the house after reading Vicky Angel’s note? That didn’t make any sense. Why leave the door unlocked and the stereo on?
The house wasn’t very large. Surely Jacques could hear the doorbell. Perhaps the Hansens had a finished basement. Yes. Ellie found a door near the kitchen entrance and tentatively toed the first step of a wooden staircase.
“Hi, it’s Ellie Bernstein,” she called, thinking how the basement smelled like dirty diapers soaking in an acidic marinade.
Maybe the Hansens had a baby. Maybe there was a bathroom down there. Maybe its toilet had overflowed and Jacques had gone next door to borrow a neighbor’s plunger.
From the top of the steps Ellie could see a tabletop lamp, a computer and printer, a typewriter and a paper cutter. The paper cutter’s green-ruled base and blade seemed to be dark with — blood?
Had Jacques cut himself and run for help?
Although her original intent had been to snoop, Ellie felt distinctly uncomfortable as she descended the stairs. She halted halfway. From her new vantage point, she could distinguish neatly stacked periodicals in different-colored stock — yellow, light green, blue — bound with string. The basement also contained a furnace, a water heater, and a washer and dryer. Heaped next to both appliances was a bundle of dirty military clothing.
Reaching the basement landing, Ellie turned, blinked, then felt her hair stand on end, as if she’d spiked it with mousse then posed for a Dove shampoo commercial.
The dirty bundle of clothes had a face and looked like a giant G. I. Joe doll.
No, not Joe.
Jacques.
He lay on his back. Blood covered his body like a blanket—no, a sticky bedroll.
His fingers had been severed by the paper cutter’s sharp blade.
The killer had used newsletter sheets to transport all eight digits. Two fingers covered each of Jacques’s eyes — four fingers all together. Two fingers had been placed across his lips. The remaining fingers had been glued to his ears by that colorless gunk that sticks to anything.
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Ellie stepped closer. The feculent odor was very strong.
“Don’t you know what happens when the sphincter muscles relax in death?” she murmured, quoting Peter from a Monday night that felt like it had occurred eons ago.
Hansen’s wire-rimmed glasses were missing. A piece of Vicky’s lined paper hung like a giant dog tag from his neck, attached with string rather than a chain. The message had been typed: LET THE EXPERIMENT BE PERFORMED ON A WORTHLESS BODY.
Ellie gagged. She broke out in a cold sweat. She felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. I can’t breathe, she thought, while a rush of bile forced its way up her throat. She retched. She swallowed. Forget it, she was gonna vomit. There was no toilet bowl handy, so she raised the lid of the clothes washer.
Déjà vu. She briefly recalled a long-ago morning, the day after the Mash-Bash, when she’s whoopsed into her washing machine.
She heard the echo of Jacques Hansen’s voice: “I know who killed those people.”
Then a girlish voice sang, “Jackie, I’m home. There’s a car parked outside. Is Mrs. Bernstein here? I’m sorry I took so long, but I ran into Glory Eden, you know, that lady whose grandmother died last year? Glory’s Jewish but she’s been acting very strange since her grandma Esther passed, and she was ready to talk about subscribing to our newsletter. So I couldn’t let the opportunity—”
“Call the police!” Ellie somehow managed to rasp.
“The police? Why? Who said that?”
“Ellie Bernstein. Don’t ask questions, Mrs. Hansen. Just call them.”
“Did something happen to Jackie?”
“Do it, Vicky! Now!”
“I’m coming down.”
“Call 9-1-1 first! Please!”
Resting her hot forehead against the washing machine’s cool white enamel, Ellie heard the distant hum of “We are the world, we are the children,” then nothing. Vicky had turned off the stereo.
Ohmygod! Ellie’s eardrums nearly burst from echo after echo of muted thunder as a bullet shattered the ceiling light bulb, along with a chunk of ceiling.
“Don’t move,” said Vicky.
Ears ringing, Ellie looked up. In the dim glow from the drafting table’s lamp, she could see skinny legs. Low-heeled shoes descended the stairs. A wraparound khaki skirt appeared, then two hands holding a shotgun.
“This is heavy,” said Vicky, “and I’m nervous, so don’t you dare move.”
Fear replaced nausea. Ellie stood frozen, staring. The wraparound skirt proudly displayed Vicky’s rounded belly. An overblouse rose to a cross on a gold chain, then a face with small features and straight brown hair secured by two clown barrettes.
“Vicky dear, please put the gun down and be very careful on those steps. You’re pregnant, off balance.”
“What have you done to Jackie?”
“You called the police, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I hear them coming now, so don’t move.”
The uniformed division arrived and herded the two women upstairs. They confiscated Vicky’s gun. As Ellie collapsed at the kitchen table, she gasped Peter’s name and precinct number. She couldn’t have driven home alone if her life depended on it.
Everything blurred, fading in and out like the screen images from a slide projector. Sirens sounded. Flashguns flared. There was the soft thud of a dart striking wood, and a voice shouted, “Bull’s-eye.” Sick to her stomach again, Ellie wanted to excuse herself and use the bathroom, but she was inexplicably afraid to leave the kitchen. What if the killer lurked behind Hillary’s poster? Stupid! If the perp lurked, the police would have found him … hic … her … hic … it.
Somebody said, “You know it’s blood and I know it’s blood, but let’s wait for the M.E. It could be ketchup.”
“Stumps don’t bleed ketchup,” someone else said. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Don’t touch anything.”
“Wish I hadn’t eaten those greasy fries for lunch,” the first cop said. “Oh jeeze.”
“Hey, don’t puke into the washing machine,” the second cop said. “There might be prints—”
“Fingerprints,” the first voice said. “Fingers. Oh, God!’”
Ellie heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting, then the washing machine; the stupid cop had turned it on. Vicky sounded like the washing machine’s agitator. Between convulsive breath sobs she moaned, “Jaaa-keee.” Ellie wanted to offer comfort but couldn’t move.
Peter arrived in time to hear the end of her third — or was it fourth? — hiccup-infested statement. After a while he drove the Honda home, stripped Ellie’s clothes, and propelled her ice-cold, sweaty body into the waterbed.
Her head was bursting and her eyes hurt like hell.
“Thanksgiving,” she croaked.
“What about Thanksgiving?” Peter said, sponging her face with a washcloth.
“I can’t be sick. I didn’t make plans. Mick — Sandra — no turkey.”
It was as though she had lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite.
“Screw Thanksgiving!” Peter threw the washcloth across the room. “I’m still giving thanks you’re alive. Damn it, Ellie, how many times have I told you—”
“Not now,” she whimpered, “please.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. Try and get some sleep.”
But when she slept, she dreamed. The same dream. Barking dogs, swaying tree branches, the hidden killer on top of the tree. This time Jacques Hansen joined the other corpses. He was missing his fingers, and as his bloody mouth opened to receive a communion wafer, Father Mac chanted, “Dei gratia, Ellie-Ellie. By the grace of God, it could have been you.”
“Peter,” she cried.
“I’m here, Norrie.”
“Is Jackie Robinson all right?”
“He’s fine.”
“You’d better leave. I’m gonna throw up.”
“That’s okay. I’ll help you to the bathroom. Or the wastepaper basket’s right by the bed.”
“You remind me of Dennis what’s-his-name.”
“Franz?”
“No.”
“The Menace?”
“No! Dennis Quaid. That movie where he played a cop.”
“I don’t play a cop, I am a cop.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Because I’m a cop?”
“No, ‘cause I’m gonna throw up. Tony…”
“What about Tony?”
“He yelled when I had morning sickness. He said it was all in my head. But I can’t help it, Peter, honest.”
“That’s okay, baby. You have a stomach virus. Everybody tends to toss their cookies when they have—”
“Collar a cookie. Pinch a cookie.”
“What?”
“Is Jackie Robinson all right?”
“Norrie, he’s fine. I swear.”
“Don’t let the Masher get me. Please, Peter, lock the doors. I’ll be a good girl. Don’t let him cut off my fingers. Oh, God, where’s the wastepaper basket?”
“It’s right here. I’m here. I’ve got you. Don’t try to be brave, Norrie. I’m not Tony.”
For the next three days Peter held her, soothed her, nursed her. When she awoke the fourth morning, she felt weak but recovered. Peter slept on a chair. He wore a black T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and color-coordinated smudges around his eyes.
“You look awful,” she whispered. Staring at his smudged eyelids, she fell in love all over again.
He jerked awake. “What is it, Norrie? Another nightmare?”
“No, it’s morning. Are you okay?”
“Me? Am I okay?”
“Holy cow, my Weight Winners meetings.”
“I collared your personal address book, called a very nice lady, and told her you’d be out of commission for a week or two. She said you deserved a break and she’d get someone to cover your classes.”
“I think I’m hungry.”
“Thank God. Nancy Trask delivered a pot of soup and some oatmeal cookies. I pinched a few cookies.”
“When did Nancy bring food? I can’t remember the last three days.”
“Do you remember—”
“Jacques Hansen? Yes. I’m not hungry anymore.”
Chapter 26
“Thanks for the veggie soup and cookies, Nancy.” Ellie cradled the phone’s receiver on her shoulder so she could pet Jackie Robinson. Except for trips to his litter box and food dish, the cat hadn’t left Ellie’s side.
“I used to serve my son veggie soup,” Nancy said. “It has more vitamins than the traditional chicken broth. How are you really feeling? Physically and mentally?”
“Physically, a lot better. Mentally, I’m not so sure. Did you hear all the gruesome details?”
“Yes. Ken canceled the rerun meeting, even though Sean wanted to dedicate it to Jacques. But Ken told Sean he was crazy, so there’s no meeting tonight.”
“How’s Vicky Hansen?”
“Maintaining.”
“She didn’t lose the baby, did she?”
“No. Vicky’s stronger than she looks.”
“I know. She wields a gun like Clint Eastwood.”
“I guess that kills your M*A*S*H theory. Jacques didn’t look like Frank Burns.”
“Last week Jacques stood in your living room and said he knew who the murderer was.”
“That was a bluff, Ellie. Jacques always did that. It was part of his job as an OSI officer. He’d pretend to know things so that people would confess. There isn’t one person in Ken’s group who would take what Jacques said seriously.”
Except Sean, thought Ellie. Sean had said, “Don’t underestimate Hansen. He may look harmless and sound like a dullard, but he’s very sharp.”
Like a paper cutter’s blade, Father Mac?
Nancy asked how Ellie felt about Melody’s birthday party. Nancy thought they should still have it since it would “perk spirits,” and several of Melody’s friends had already RSVP’d yes.
“I’ll be completely recovered by Friday,” Ellie said, “and we’ll meet at the Dew Drop to decorate, just as we planned.”
After replacing the receiver, she turned on a small TV near her bedside. Theme music, helicopters, a commercial, and then M*A*S*H began its rerun — Colonel Blake’s last show.
Ellie watched Radar enter the O.R., where doctors were operating on the wounded. “I just got a message. The Colonel’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. Spun in. No survivors.”
Entering the bedroom, Peter carefully carried a steaming bowl of Nancy’s vegetable soup. He had showered and now wore faded jeans and a white shirt rolled up above his elbows. Despite the bedside vigil, his forearms were sun-bronzed. And corded with muscles.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
“That’s my third bowl of soup. Breakfast, lunch, now supper. If I eat any more soup I’ll turn into a veg—”
“What’s really wrong?”
She pointed to the TV. “Colonel Blake died.”
Placing the bowl on top of the bureau, Peter walked across the room and gathered her into his arms. “I’ve been waiting for this. It’s okay to cry. You once told me that it’s a sign of strength, not weakness.”
When her wild tears had finally slowed to an occasional sob, Ellie said, “I’m getting your shirt all wet.”
“My shirt’s wash-and-wear. Do you feel better?”
“I guess. Peter, can you get immune to death?”
“Never. If you’re sick of soup, how about soft-boiled eggs and toast?”
“Could we order Chinese takeout? Szechuan? Very spicy?”
“After a stomach virus? Over my dead body.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No, Peter, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to have to choose your words before you speak to me. That would be some strain on a relationship. Ohmygod, look at your face. I’ve opened Pandora’s box.”
“If I don’t have to choose my words, Ellie, we have things to discuss.”
“Please don’t call me Ellie. I’ll come clean, at least I will if you promise to make my sentence lighter. Second-degree disobedience rather than first-degree mutiny.”
“Okay, second-degree insubordination.”
Launching into a nonstop recitation, bringing Peter up to date, she told him about the photos she had seen at the Corley and Whitley homes. She repeated what she could remember of her conversation with Nancy, and detailed her encounters with Ken, Howie and Fred.
“Melody learned Latin in school, Peter, but if you hang around Sean long enough, you’ll absorb some of the language, just as Mick did with me when he was growing up. The whole rerun club probably has certain expressions down pat. Especially Ken, who’s closest to Sean. Everybody but Fred Remming, that is. He bitches a lot, or else he feigns lack of knowledge.”
Peter listened carefully. Except for the tearstained shirt, he looked thoroughly professional. When she’d finished, he referred only to the car-side hustle by Howie Silverman.
“Did he hurt you, Norrie? Threaten you?”
“Not really,” she said. “Howie couldn’t have killed Jacques Hansen, Peter. Or Natalie. Nancy said he faints at the sight of blood, and there was certainly plenty of … of … I still think it’s Trask. Melody’s story about his disappearing mistress … you don’t seem surprised.”
“We’re way ahead of you. I investigated when we ran a check on Trask’s club members. Trask not only flew to Hawaii but he took his wife with him. The Dumpster Murders happened two years ago, on August 13th. But we can’t question your suspects about where they were and what they were doing. It’s not like the bombing of Pearl Harbor or Kennedy’s assassination. Do you remember where you were?”
“During Kennedy’s assassination?”
“No, you nut. During the Dumpster Murders.”
“I went to the movies and danced with wolves. Kevin Costner. Be still my heart.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yes, I’m kidding. I couldn’t resist. Sorry.”
“Don’t do that, Norrie, or I’ll force-feed you veggie soup.” Peter discarded his professional pose. “I’ll tie your arms to the bedposts—”
“That sounds like fun. The second part. Rats, I don’t have bedposts.”
“Seriously, I could swear our perp is an amateur, but so far he hasn’t made one mistake. The closest he came was footprints backstage at the theater, but those were obliterated by Mick and Belinda.”
“He?”
“Generic he, sweetheart, although I can’t imagine a woman cutting off Hansen’s fing—”
“Hey, wait a sec. Outside Hansen’s house, the block was crawling with children.”
We are the world, we are the children.
“Very good, Norrie. “The kids described you as ‘a pretty lady with red hair.’ ”
“Me? Holy cow, Peter, why don’t you arrest Tony and me for the murders of Frank Burns and Jacques Hansen and be done with it?”
“Don’t get angry. Damn, you’re flushed again.”
“It’s so frustrating. If the kids noticed me and the color of my hair, they’d have seen the killer. Didn’t he leave before I arrived? How could they see me and not him?”
“There’s an alley behind all the houses. It has a deep culvert and kids have been warned to stay away. Our killer could have parked in back.”
“Is there a back entrance to the house?”
“Yes, through the kitchen.”
“Unlocked?”
“Victoria Hansen says no. Claimed she kept the front door open because she expected her husband to return shortly. He’d gone over to a neighbor’s house to borrow milk, just in case you wanted coffee and didn’t drink it black. That’s when Victoria left her note. She says they usually kept the back door locked.”
“Which means—”
“That our perp was known to Hansen, if said perp entered through the kitchen door. But Hansen had numerous enemies, Norrie. In his job you make enemies.”
Plumping pillows behind her back, she sat up straighter. “How come the neighbors didn’t hear a shot?”
“The killer used a muffler, what you civilians call a silencer.”
“I read somewhere that a silencer isn’t silent.”
“It’s not, except possibly on a very small gun. We figure he used a goat’s nipple to cover the muzzle.”
“What the heck is a goat’s nipple?”
“A rubber nipple stretched over a baby animal’s feeding bottle. It can be used for calves, horses, any newborn. It works much better than a muffler, and it still traps the gases. Sounds like a cough or pop.”
“Snap, crackle, pop,” Ellie murmured. “How do you know our perp used that nipple thing?”
“We found tiny shards of rubber on the floor.”
“Of course! Rubber. Footprints.”
“Rubber footprints?”
“You said the killer slipped up at the theater and left footprints. What about rubber tire prints? Was the alley paved?”
“Nope, dirt. You have such a fine mind, Norrie. If you’d only keep it safely indoors and stay away from—”
“The police already checked for tire prints, right?’’
“Correct. That day, the day of the murder, a truck delivered a cord of cut wood to the house next door. Delivered and stacked it. The driver parked between Hansen and the neighbor. Can you imagine the mess in dry dirt?” He shook his head. “It was before our killer arrived and the driver didn’t see anything,” he said, anticipating.
“Fata viam invenient,” she said. “That’s from Virgil.”
“And means?”
“The Fates will find a way. Our killer was lucky, Peter. Desperate, too, if he believed Hansen’s statement about knowing the identity…” She paused, yawning. “When you checked out the rerun club members, did you find anything illegal? I mean, did any of them have a record?”
“Sure. Fred Remming was arrested for dealing cocaine. Five years in the Fed pen.”
“Please, I’m serious.”
“Okay, Fred Remming has fifteen unpaid parking tickets, Kenneth Trask has a bunch of speeding tickets — his insurance bill must be a doozy — and Howie Silverman has a DUI.”
“Tell me about serial killers, Peter.”
“Why?”
“The doll massacre.”
“Where should I start? For one thing, the killer usually takes a souvenir from the scene, a trophy, so to speak. He might have a power-control fantasy that started with his childhood. For example, he could have tortured his sister’s dolls.”
“Power … control … Trask.” Ellie yawned again.
“Serial killers love to read about their crimes in the newspaper,” said Peter, warming to the subject. “If caught, they love to talk. When they talk about their murders, they talk in third person, and they feel no guilt. They like to drive. Sometimes they’ll drive for hours, just cruising, looking for the right victim. They always search for a specific type of victim, and sometimes they’ll even drive around with dead bodies in their car.”
“That’s enough, Peter. I get the picture. You forgot to tell me that a serial killer is always described by neighbors as a nice guy.”
“Yup. Always.”
“Aren’t there any nice gals?”
“Probably, but I’ve never heard of any. Serial murders are usually sex-related.”
“Nice gals don’t have sexual hang-ups?” She yawned for the third time.
“Take a nap, sweetheart, and I’ll wok us some Chinese food. I don’t think our Masher would be considered a serial killer. We’ve only had three murders. Natalie, Krafchek and Hansen. Four if you count Burns.”
“Five if you count Virginia Whitley.” Ellie closed her eyes. “Seven if you count the dumpster couple. And who knows how many if you count the Memorial Park Massacre of the Dolls.”
She dozed, but a part of her mind kept working.
Why did Vicky drive to the 7-Eleven when Jacques was borrowing milk at a neighbor’s? Why not also borrow “pot. chips and bev”?
Dumb, Norrie. The neighbors might not have potato chips and beverages handy, and anyway, why would Vicky Angel kill her Jackie Bear?
Ellie recalled a game she’d played as a kid: “What’s Wrong with This Picture?” Usually the dog was missing a tail, or the tree was upside down, or the woman in an apron had a missing finger—
Burrowing deeper into her pillow, Ellie shuddered then forced herself to replay the scene inside Hansen’s basement.
What the hell’s wrong with this picture?
Jacques wasn’t really missing fingers, even though they’d been cut off.
Jacques wasn’t wearing his wire-rimmed glasses and he was covered with blood.
Blood had even begun to soak the crude message tied around his neck with string.
String bound the newsletter stacks.
Vicky’s lined paper was the same kind of paper that had been pinned to Krafchek’s chest, but the paper around Hansen’s neck simulated a dog tag.
Dog tag. Natalie.
Natalie. Mirror-message in Latin.
Latin. Father Mac.
Father Mac. Why would Sean murder M*A*S*H look-alikes? What would be his motive?
Motive: insanity.
Insanity. Nancy said Sean’s wife was mentally impaired. Sean had said, “Be careful, Ellie-Ellie, insanity’s contagious.”
Contagious. Jackie Robinson was behaving quirky, uncommonly attentive. Had he caught Ellie’s fevered fear? Or did the cat know something she didn’t?
Something was definitely wrong with the picture in Jacques and Vicky’s basement, but for the life of her, Ellie couldn’t figure out what was missing.
Something to do with string, she thought, just before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 27
Mick arrived home two days before Thanksgiving, and Peter returned to his full-time duties at the precinct.
“I’m glad Mick’s here to protect you, Norrie.”
“Mick’s a kid.”
“Mick’s a man.”
“Men have been murdered, too.”
“Weak men.”
“Jacques wasn’t weak.”
“Granted, but he was taken by surprise.”
“You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Yup.”
Nevertheless, Ellie felt a lump in her recently healed throat as her son gave her three recent mystery novels and a giant Nestles’ Crunch. Then he arranged for Grandma Bernstein to “cater” their Thanksgiving meal.
“Tony and Annie will be here, too,” Ellie warned as she reclined on the couch with her favorite mystery author and favorite candy bar.
“I’ll survive. Sandra has agreed to play hostess, so you don’t have to do a thing. Too bad Peter can’t sample Grandma’s toasted ravioli stuffed with chopped liver.”
“Peter has a family gathering in Denver,” Ellie said. “Isn’t it funny how all this came about after Grandma Bernstein accepted your invitation?”
“ ‘Over the river and through the wood, now Grandmother’s cap I spy!’ ” Mick reddened then mumbled, “Lydia M. Child, born 1802, died 1880. English lit.”
“You’re amazing, kiddo.”
“Like mother, like son. Sandra once said you had more quotes than Keebler has chips.”
“True, but I tend to quote Woody Allen and Erma Bombeck.”
“Peter should be back in time for your friend’s birthday party, right?”
“Sure. He wouldn’t miss it, and he’ll finally get a chance to hear your band play.”
“And Belinda sing. I wish I could use Sandra but my drummer insists on Belly.” Mick’s face brightened. “It was swell of Mrs. Trask to hire Rocky Mountain High.”
“A man named Dickie Dorack is footing half the bill. He’s Melody’s … the birthday girl’s, uh…”
“Lover? Mom, are you blushing?”
“I’m not embarrassed over the word lover, Mick. It’s just that you have to know Melody Remming. I’d call Dickie her soul mate.”
“Soul mate. Right. Anyway, the band is practicing songs from the fifties. Belly sounds great. In fact, we’re thinking of using some golden oldies for other gigs.” Mick hesitated, then blurted, “How old do you think a man should be before he thinks about getting married?”
“Depends on the man. Are you serious?”
“I knew for sure during the ballet. Afterward, when they found Natalie, I thought to myself, what if it had been Sandra? I’m so afraid of losing her.”
“Michael Anton Bernstein! Sandra’s been in love with you for years.”
“People change. You did. You and Dad.”
“That’s different.”
“Why is it different?”
“Your father and I didn’t establish ground rules. A lot of it was my fault. He’s so handsome, just like you.” Ellie smiled. “And he wasn’t quite so stuffy when we first met. He viewed the world through rose-colored glasses, before he switched to Ray-Bans. What I’m trying to say is that there has to be mutual respect and shared responsibilities from the very beginning. I don’t mean that a marriage has to be so structured it’s inflexible, but you need to give each other room to stretch. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. What happens if Sandra turns out to be a bigger success than you are? Videos, movies, the whole enchilada?”
“Great. We’ll make more money, buy expensive cars, and live in Aspen.”
“Do you really mean that? No jealousy?”
Mick crossed his heart with his first finger. “I swear. She’d have to quit, or at least cut back, when we had kids. But I don’t plan on having children right away.”
“What? Quit when you have kids?”
“Well, sure, the wife-and-mother bit. Dad says—”
“Holy cow, Mick. You’ve still got a lot of growing up to do.”
“You, too.” Mick’s grin was a carbon copy of his father’s. “You look like my kid sister.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
It might have started during his childhood, thought Ellie. The serial killer might have tortured his sister’s dolls.
After Thanksgiving she’d check out childhoods, especially Ken Trask’s. Maybe she could pull the information out of Nancy, ingeniously of course. Didn’t Melody say that Nancy had known Ken forever?
* * *
Florence Bernstein arrived early, her shopping bags filled with Tupperware containers. She switched on Ellie’s oven, and soon turkey, cornbread stuffing, and pumpkin pie filled the house with holiday fragrances.
Then “Grandma Fro” watched the Macy’s Day Parade. Like a kid, she anxiously anticipated what Annie called “Santy Claws in his led suit.”
Jackie Robinson, a black-furred Pilgrim, swayed from kitchen to family room, anticipating food scraps.
In her bedroom, Ellie belted a white wool shirtwaist decorated with a splash of embroidered red poppies. She left her hair loose and it swirled past her shoulders to become part of the dress pattern.
“A woman your age should cut her hair short or wear it pinned up,” said Florence, momentarily removing her gaze from the giant ballooned Snoopy that floated above Broadway.
“Errie pretty,” said Annie. Blissfully reclining on her stepbrother’s lap, she wore an orange party dress, miniature white tights, and patent-leather Mary-Janes.
“Annie,” said Mick, “where do sheep go for haircuts?”
“To the baa-baa shop.”
Ellie laughed and excused herself.
During her recuperation, she had resurrected her mystery manuscript. Now she edited pages while Florence bustled about inside the kitchen and Annie watched a Bugs Bunny special with her beloved Mymick.
Ellie grimaced. My plot still has a beginning that never stops beginning, just like the recent homicides. I wish I could come up with a middle and end. Maybe I should join Mick and Annie. Cartoons make more sense.
Tony and Sandra arrived together and consolidated with the TV watchers. Bugs Bunny’s carrot morphed into a football as Lions prowled and Cowboys branded tight ends with congratulatory handprints. “Footbore,” said Annie.
“I meant to come earlier and spend some quality time with Anne Marie,” Tony told Ellie, “but a real estate agent is like a doctor.”
“Somebody wasn’t feeling up to par and you had to examine—” she glanced towards the kids “—you had to make a house call?”
“No, Ellie. I had to show one of our listings on a d-a-m holiday.”
“You forgot the ‘n’ in damn, Tony.”
Ignoring her correction, he loosened his tie’s Windsor knot. “In fact, I had to show your suicide’s house.”
“Harry Burns is not my suicide. Was Magnolia there?”
“His wife? No. She’s flown south for the winter. You look very nice, Ellie.”
“Your mother says I look too young.” She heard the smugness in her voice and, in another lifetime, would have apologized for the snarky retort. But today she simply beckoned to Sandra, who was sitting at Mick’s feet, one pretty cheek resting against a bony, denim-clad knee.
She and Sandra walked outside, into the crisp air. Up above, clouds looked like fluffy biscuits buttered by the sun.
Sandra wore a pink angora skirt and matching sweater. She had captured her hair away from her face and it fell below her shoulder blades in one thick, ropy braid. She looked a lot like a Sleepless in Seattle Meg Ryan.
“I meant to visit when you were sick, Ellie,” she said. “I really did.”
“That’s okay, Muffin. I wasn’t very seeable.”
“I had exams.”
“I know. How are you feeling?”
“Me? Fine.”
“You’re not still blaming yourself for Natalie?”
“No. It wasn’t my fault, any more than it was Mick’s fault he smudged the trapdoor’s footprints. It just kind of happened.”
“Fata viam invenient. The Fates will find a way.”
“Right. I wish I knew Latin. There seems to be a saying for everything.”
“Muffin, do you mind if I ask you some questions about Natalie?”
“I can handle it,” she said, a puzzled expression merging her freckles.
“First of all, did she buy a used car recently?”
“No way. Natalie was saving her money, every cent. She wanted to move to New York or San Francisco and join a ballet corps. That’s all she ever talked about.”
“Did she date often?”
“Not really. She didn’t want to form attachments because she planned to leave Colorado. I told all that to Peter.”
“So Natalie wasn’t seeing anybody special?”
“No. Oh, wait, she was. It had to be an older man because she called him Daddy Longlegs, like that Fred Astaire movie.”
“Did you ever see Natalie’s, uh, Daddy?”
“No. I don’t think anybody did. He wouldn’t come to the dorm, so Nat met him other places. I’m sure she was sleeping with him, Ellie, or at least he was sleeping with her. Nat said sex made her legs weak and hurt her dancing.”
“Did she ever describe her lover?”
“No, except for the nickname. Rats! How could I forget to tell Peter?”
“That’s okay, you remembered just now.”
Porch boards reverberated from the whap-whap of Mick’s oversized Reeboks.
“Is this a private discussion,” he said, “or can a lowly son and soul mate join you?”
Sandra’s cheeks turned a heavenly shade of mauve. “Shut up, Dopey. You promised not to kiss and tell.”
Mick kissed both women. “Dinner is served,” he announced with a flourish.
Tony carved the bird, handing one drumstick to his son and the other to a gleeful Annie.
Ellie shivered when her ex-husband’s sharp knife severed turkey limbs, especially the wings. It was too close to recent images.
Carefully placing the knife and pronged fork on the serving platter’s scalloped edge, Tony said, “I guess now’s as good a time as ever to make my announcement.”
“What announcement?” Florence fastened a bib around Annie’s neck.
“I’ve decided to move to California,” Tony said, “and patch things up with my … um … my wife.”
His hesitation, Ellie knew, was brought on by Florence’s refusal to call the young woman by her name. “That girl” or “Tony’s second wife” she always said.
And Natalie called her lover “Daddy,” not “Kenneth Trask.” Damn!
Tony’s timing, as always, was impeccable. After he had dropped his verbal bomb, Florence ate in stony silence, dabbing her lips after every small bite. She sipped apple cider as though it would cool her burning tongue and prevent the recriminations that were sure to come later.
Ellie excused herself to check out Jackie Robinson. The cat had escaped from Annie’s painful attention to consume his share of turkey giblets on the front porch.
Tony trailed behind, loosening his belt a notch. “Good meal, Ellie. I’m stuffed.”
Damn stuffed shirt, she thought, watching her cat hiss, then creep beneath dense shrubbery.
“So you’re escaping to California,” she said.
“Escaping? That’s a funny way to put it.”
“Sorry. I’m not sure why I put it that way. I guess it just slipped out.”
“I have to leave Colorado, Ellie.”
“Why? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Of course not. Well, yes. One of my secretaries, a woman named Mary Whitley, thinks we … I’ve never encouraged her, but she believes…” He swallowed then blurted, “Once, a long time ago, I slept with Mary’s sister. She was dynamite, so I thought if Mary had the same genes, she’d be dynamite too. Mary seems so schoolmarm on the outside—”
“I knew it! I knew you had an affaire d’amour with Virginia Whitley.”
“Ellie, please. Walls have ears.”
“So do asses. Was Ginny a one-night stand or a full-fledged affair?”
“Define full-fledged affair.”
“More than one tryst.”
“It was more than one. Look, I’m not very proud of myself. I suppose I was going through some kind of midlife crisis and—”
“If you slept with Ginny before she died, you were twenty-three. Now you’re over the hill. Now’s the time for a midlife crisis.” If she hadn’t been so angry, she would have laughed at his pained expression. “Did you attend Charley Aaronson’s Mash-Bash?”
He mulled over her question as if it were a riddle. Then he simply said, “Yes.”
“Dressed as a cowboy?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“A doctor.” He grinned wolfishly. “You know how Jewish mothers always want their sons to become doctors.”
“Your mother’s not Jewish, your father’s Jewish. Did you see me that night, sitting at the bar?”
“Yes. I’m not very proud of mysel—”
“Did you talk to Ginny?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Ellie, she was falling-down drunk, half naked, and she looked like she was about to puke her guts out.”
“So you left the Dew Drop?”
“Not exactly. I thought I’d rent a motel room, sober Ginny up, why are you ask—”
“What happened in the parking lot?”
“We never got there. Ginny was hot to trot, but then she bolted for the restroom.”
“And?”
“She staggered out with someone else. She shouted something about losing her cherry and drinking gin. Anyway, I’d seen you at the bar and my conscience—”
“You’re full of crap, Tony. You don’t have a conscience. What did the someone else look like?”
“I don’t remember. It happened a long time ago.”
“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin? Did he wear a hat? Glasses? Did he have a mustache?”
“Yes. No. Maybe glasses. I don’t rememb—”
“Did he wear a d-a-m-n costume?”
“Yes. Fatigues.”
“Could you be a tad more specific?”
“He looked like Hawkeye.”
“Oh, great. There were dozens of Hawkeyes.”
“Ellie, why are you grill—”
“Did you run over Ginny with your car, Tony? Did you?”
“No! Why would I do that?”
“Ego. She rejected you.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Ginny was no big deal.”
“Really? I thought she was hot to trot. You really are an ass-hore, Tony. The biggest mystery in my life is why I said yes when you asked me to sleep with you.”
“Are you kidding? You couldn’t wait to sleep with me.”
“You have a convenient memory. I dated you because you looked like Robert Redford. I was in lust with Redford and you showed me a video of The Way We Were and plied me with White Russians until I was ninety percent comatose. I couldn’t tell the difference between you and Redford and I kept thinking I was Streisand. But even then I might have stopped if I hadn’t overheard my brother Tab tell one of his girlfriends that she couldn’t get pregnant the first time. Which was the first and only time in my whole life I ever believed anything Tab said. I should have known better.” She took a deep breath. “Why, may I ask, did you sleep with me?”
He auditioned a smile. “You looked like Molly Ringwald and I was in lust with Molly.”
“What? Molly Ringwald didn’t come until later.”
“Little do you know. She was on The Facts of Life.”
Ellie heaved a deep sigh. “We were talking about California.”
“Yes. California. I have contacts there, and even if things don’t work out with my … wife … I still need a change of scenery. Could we make arrangements for Mick to visit this summer?”
“That’s between you and your son. I’ll miss Annie.”
“But not me, huh?” Tony cleared his throat. “I have a confession to make. One night, last week, I was downtown and I saw you with your cop, so I followed you home.”
“Holy cow, the night Peter and I — the wrestling mats. I knew I was being followed. No wonder Jackie Robinson has been acting so paranoid.”
“I watched at the window for a long time, and I saw you mess around with your cop, right there in our family room, so I decided that I can’t deal with your slutty attitude.”
“Slutty attitude? How dare you!”
“I’m ashamed I spied. It was stupid and not like me at all. But it proved that I could never take you back.”
“Take me what?”
“Back. I can’t forgive and forget, Ellie, so we could never start all over again. But I wanted to let you know about playing James Bond and I wanted to apologize for the peeping.”
“James Bond never peeped. He didn’t have to.”
“Low blow. I shouldn’t have confessed. I shouldn’t have told you about Ginny, either.”
“Well, Tony, we all have our lapses in perfection.”
“I guess that’s true,” he said, his voice sincere. “I’d better go soothe my mother now. I’ll give you ten to one she follows me to California.”
Ellie watched him walk inside. His body was still hunky but his Redford hair had developed a large bald spot in the middle of his skull and soon he’d look like Friar Tuck. I won’t take that bet, Tony. Your mom will set up housekeeping in California and make your life hell, you rat-bastard.
Speaking of rat-bastards—
“You’re not the only one with lapses in perfection,” she said under her breath. “How about Kenneth Trask? The perfect husband and father, the perfect community sponsor, the perfect architect. Except he collects women like other people hoard baseball cards, and if he collected Natalie—”
“Are you okay, Mom?” Mick’s thick mop of blond-streaked hair dominated the doorway entrance. “You’re talking to yourself like you used to do in the old days, and I thought you might be brooding over Annie.”
“I’ll miss watching Annie grow, but you can tell me all about her if you decide to visit your father.”
“Aw, Mom, it’s not the same.”
Mick enfolded her in his arms and she noted with amazement that she barely reached his chin.
“Can I join the party?” Sandra carried a silver platter cluttered with dessert plates, forks and napkins. She set the tray on porch steps when Mick extended one arm.
The three stood peacefully together while the sun set in a burst of Technicolor brilliance and Jackie Robinson licked Cool Whip off the tops of pumpkin pie slices.
As Ellie watched her cat lick, her mind raced. Why did the perp slice off Jacques Hansen’s fingers? Why not just shoot him and leave? Why was the murderer so furious that he’d amputate a dead man’s fingers with a paper cutter?
And why was she so positive that Kenneth Trask was the Masher? Because Ken drew sick doodles? Because Ken had a son who played with dolls? Because Ken drove a luxurious car with a license plate that read TRASK-1, and according to Peter, serial killers liked to drive? Because Ken had designed the theater’s passageway? Because Ken wore a black topcoat to the recital? A coat with pockets deep enough to hide a knife? A coat that Nancy had subsequently taken to the cleaners? Holy cow, she’d missed that clue when her mind was fevered and unfocused. If she could find out the name of the cleaners, she could find out if Ken’s coat had been muddy or bloody. Wouldn’t Nancy know the difference? Not necessarily. Ken could have thrown his coat into some kind of laundry bag or duffel bag, along with other soiled clothes.
Okay, Ellie, focus.
She visualized the photo on Fred’s apartment wall. Reigning over the seated group was a cocksure Kenneth Trask, clothed in fatigues and a Hawkeye Hawaiian shirt.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Ken’s cocky smile? Howie’s cockeyed dress? Fred’s cockamamie bear? Sean’s cross?
If you crossed Father Mac, would he retaliate?
“No,” said Ellie, “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what, Mom?”
“That your father compared himself to James Bond,” she improvised.
“Sean Connery, Roger Moore, or any of the more recent Bonds?” Mick asked.
“Woody Allen,” she said.
Chapter 28
Ellie shifted her body and felt the waterbed mattress ripple. Before Weight Winners it had sloshed like amplified womb music.
“Hey,” she said, “I forgot to ask about your Thanksgiving.”
“It was traditional,” Peter replied. “We talked turkey. My sister Beth was disappointed that I didn’t bring you along. I think she wanted to regale you with confessions of our misspent youth, mine in particular.”
“Speaking of confessions,” Ellie said, and told him about Tony watching them through the window.
Peter’s eyebrows Groucho’d. “What a turn-on,” he said. “Wish I’d known at the time.”
“You’re kidding. You’re not kidding. I was disgusted. Is it a turn-on to picture Kenneth Trask with Natalie?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t prove Trask was Natalie’s lover.”
Upon his return from Denver, Ellie had greeted Peter with the information about Natalie’s affair. Tony, Annie and Florence had already left for Manitou Springs, while Mick eagerly escorted Sandra to her dorm. As Ellie had guessed, Peter responded with his no-proof allegation, and she’d wanted to snap his neck like a turkey’s wishbone.
Now she said, “I told Tony we all have lapses in perfection. I used the most acrimonious voice I could muster, but he took me seriously. Perfection, hah! Suddenly, out of the blue, you admit that voyeurism’s stimulating. Jeeze, I’m going to become a nun. By the way, did I ever mention the nuns who danced bare-assed across Melody’s canvas?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“If I had one, I’ve forgotten it,” she groused. “Something about Tony’s conception of perfection.”
“I can understand Tony’s attitude.” The bedside lamp illuminated Peter’s grin. “I think I’m perfect.”
“Me, too,” Ellie said.
Forget mysteries, she thought. Forget murder. Peter looked unbelievably sexy in sweatpants and a T-shirt with a Joe Namath quote: WHEN YOU WIN, NOTHING HURTS.
She kissed him, then repeated, “Me, too.”
“You think I’m perfect?”
“I was talking about me.”
“You? Perfect? Good Lord!”
“So I get in trouble once a week with your fercockteh murder cases, as my friend Charley Aaronson would say. So I leave the house messy, unlike ‘Grandma Fro’ or Fred Remming or Mary Whitley or Nancy Trask. So I don’t know the difference between judo and Judah. So you’ve got to admit, Loot, that I’m kind of terrific between the waterbed sheets.”
“Perfect,” Peter said as Ellie straddled his waist. Then, in one quick motion, he flipped her over and pinned her elbows to the rippling, sloshing mattress. “Norrie, didn’t you learn anything during our self-defense lesson?”
“Do you honestly expect me to perform self-defense while we’re getting ready to make love? On a waterbed?” She tried to flip his body but couldn’t. “I give up,” she said, “and I’ve been practicing.”
“With whom?” Peter’s tongue circled her inner ear.
“Jackie Robinson,” she gasped. “I flip him easily, and he surrenders. Waves his paws toward the ceiling and begs to have his tummy rubbed.”
“Wave your paws, Norrie.”
“I surrender, Peter,” she purred.
* * *
The next afternoon Ellie joined Nancy at the Dew Drop Inn. Dickie Dorack was there too, attaching red, white and blue crepe streamers above the party tables.
Nancy had made place cards with cutouts of the M*A*S*H cast for the table where rerun club members would sit — Ken as Hawkeye, Howie as Klinger, Fred as Radar, Sean as Father Mulcahy, Dorack as Trapper John, and Melody as a nurse. Ellie’s cut-out and pasted magazine figure depicted Hot Lips Houlihan.
“Where did you find all those cast photos, Nancy?”
“Ken’s got a collection of articles from TV Guide and other magazines.” Nancy put down the last two cards and straightened their folds. “I made your boyfriend that doctor with a mustache. Lieutenant Miller has a mustache, doesn’t he?”
“How did you know that?”
“He was on the news the night you attended the rerun club meeting.”
“Nancy, why didn’t you make a place card for yourself?”
“Are you serious, Ellie? Who could I be?”
“Another nurse.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather be plain old Nancy.”
“You’re not plain, and you’re not old. In fact, you look great. Still working out at the health club?”
“Yes. It makes Ken happy.”
“It’s probably none of my business, Nancy, but shouldn’t you do things to make yourself happy?”
She almost-smiled. “I do things to make myself happy.”
“Okay. Sorry. Should I buy a birthday cake?”
“I’ve already made a low-cal frozen yogurt cake, shaped like Radar’s teddy bear. Yogurt is on your diet, isn’t it?”
“You’re unbelievably considerate, Nancy. I’m really proud to call you my friend.”
A flush of color brightened her cheekbones. “Melody’s cake is stashed inside the Dew Drop’s freezer. I didn’t even know there was a freezer until Charley Aaronson told me. He said it was a ‘strolling ice chest.’ ”
Ellie laughed. “He means a walk-in freezer. Charley’s lounge used to be a restaurant called Costilla de Adam, and the kitchen still exists. Charley always swears he’s going to knock out walls and make the Dew Drop larger. Meanwhile, he uses the freezer for ice cream so that he can whip up frou-frou drinks like Toasted Almonds.”
“Toasted what?”
“Almonds. It’s vanilla ice cream laced with Kailua and amaretto. I used to drink them.”
“Charley has a freezer bigger than a walk-in closet and he uses it for ice cream? What a waste.”
“He also stores bodies.”
“Bodies?”
“Rabbits. Venison. I don’t know what else.” Ellie shuddered. “It’s good for business, Charley says. During hunting season his tavern is filled with celebratory huntsmen. Women too, I guess. They freeze their kill and stick around to drink beer and down shots of whatever.”
She was tempted to ask Nancy about Ken’s childhood but she couldn’t say, “Speaking of huntsmen, did Ken ever mangle his sister’s dolls? Did he even have a sister? How about your dolls?”
The three conspirators finished decorating. Dickie said he hadn’t figured out how to get Melody in costume, but since she was the guest of honor, it didn’t matter. The game plan was to meet Ellie and Peter at the Dew Drop for drinks before they supposedly hit the movies. Wouldn’t Melody be surprised?
Ellie and Nancy agreed she’d be surprised.
“Nothing’s gonna spoil our fun,” Dickie said.
As usual, he ended the discussion, and Ellie couldn’t wait until Dickie Dorack met Peter “I always have to have the last word” Miller.
Chapter 29
Peter and Ellie showered together then dried each other off.
“If we were the hero and heroine in a romance novel,” she said, “we’d maneuver our nude bodies to the bedroom.”
“If we were the hero and heroine in a romance novel, we’d never leave the bathtub. Hours, days, months would pass and we’d become stewed prunes.”
“I despise prunes, stewed or otherwise, and what do you know about romance novels? You read thrillers.”
“I used to sneak peeks at my sister Beth’s paperbacks. Sweet Savage Sex was my favorite.”
“Sweet Savage Love, you nut.”
“You were a romance novel addict?”
“I used to sneak peeks at my brother Tab’s paperbacks.”
“Seriously?”
“No. Tab reads the tabloids and Soap Opera Digest. My mother’s the addict. I think she owns every romance ever written. She even has seven or eight cats, named for romance authors.”
“You’d better get dressed, Norrie, or I’ll sweetly savage you and we’ll never make the party on time.”
She donned khaki shorts and a M*A*S*H T-shirt.
“Where’d you get that tee?” Peter asked.
“Mick. There was a time when his standard uniform was shredded jeans and T-shirts. Is this one too tight?”
“Nope, perfect.” Peter had opted to wear tan chinos and a loose Hawaiian shirt that hid his holstered gun. His thick black hair was partially covered by a Yankees baseball cap.
“Holy cow, Peter, you look like Thomas Magnum.’’
“The baseball cap’s a dead giveaway, huh?”
“No. Your mustache and eyebrows and—” She stared at Peter’s cap. “Why New York?”
“Didn’t Hawkeye come from the East Coast?”
“Maine, I think. Crabapple Cove. The closest baseball team would be the Boston Red Sox. If we ever have another Mash-Bash, email Stephen King and ask him for a Red Sox cap.” She suddenly recalled Magnolia’s mama. “You know what, Peter? You’re awfully nice for a Yankee.”
“Awfully nice? Add that one to authentic reproductions and professional amateur.”
“Speaking of professional amateurs, what if Ken pissed off Natalie and she threatened—”
“You’re going to freeze in those shorts, Norrie. Never mind. Since I don’t intend to let you out of my sight, I’ll keep you sweetly savagely warm.”
“Then you finally agree that our murderer might be one of Trask’s club members?”
“At this point I suspect everybody.”
“Peter, let’s be realistic. Melody and Dickie couldn’t kill a mosquito. Jacques Hansen’s dead. Howie Silverman faints at the sight of blood. Fred Remming is an impotent fuddy-duddy. Sean doesn’t have a motive. That leaves Kenneth—”
“You have beautiful legs, sweetheart.”
Ellie sighed. “Belinda drove the band’s van. Did Mick use your car to drive Sandra?”
“Yup. Looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Can I borrow the keys to your car, Pete?’ I felt very father-ish. When are you going to marry me, Norrie?”
“It’s may I borrow the keys.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” She had a mental image of a subservient Nancy. But Melody and Dickie seemed to balance the scales. “I love you, Peter. Isn’t that enough?”
“For now. Just remember that I expect our romance novel to end happily ever after.”
“Don’t they all?”
* * *
Ellie thought the Dew Drop Inn had a kind of gimcrack beauty—a sleazy ambience. Charley’s buzzing-bee personnel served cocktails but Peter didn’t drink. Neither did two members of his squad who had volunteered their services on an informal stakeout. Both straddled bar stools, pretending to be customers, glancing every now and then at the televised fourth quarter of a college football game. Detective Will McCoy, Peter’s partner, sat next to Kenneth Trask.
Trask wore pressed fatigue pants and a Hawaiian shirt. He had refused to join the party until the football game ended.
Following Charley’s suggestion, Peter downed a glass of bubbly Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic.
“It’ll never take the place of scotch,” he said.
“You’re not on duty, honey. Have a sip of my wine.”
“No, thanks.” He surveyed the room. “I plan to study your rerun club members very carefully. If I could get away with it, I’d speak with a Jewish accent and fool all the pipples.”
“Did you catch that too, Peter? I’d be willing to bet Charley’s vocabulary is perfect.”
Perfect. Tony’s perfect. Peter’s perfect. I’m perfect. What about Kenneth “P-for-Perfection” Trask?
Melody arrived. Surprised and delighted, she let out her throaty screech and hugged every person in sight. Most of her friends were fellow artists, and she shyly conceded that she’d begun a new series of paintings. She was still swirling colors with a palette knife but now her tiny figures were Aspen celebs.
“I’ve painted celebs skiing down a mountain,” she told Ellie, “but I couldn’t resist adding one naked woman riding a ski lift. She looks like you. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Is the canvas for sale? Title it ‘Sweet Savage Ski Jump’ and sell it to Peter.”
The football game ended. Mick’s band played “Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop” and “Big Girls Don’t Cry.”
They sounded professional and very fifties, Ellie mused, although an amplified rock beat wound through their music like colorful thread woven through a black-and-white tapestry. Belinda carried the songs with a certain flair, her husky voice half Connie Francis, half Janis Joplin.
“I’m not jealous of Belly anymore,” said Sandra, joining Ellie and Peter. “I just wish I had her legs.”
“You have very nice legs, Muffin, and in my opinion, a better voice.”
“Listen to Belly’s throaty technique. I couldn’t do that in a million years.”
Belinda sang the Patti Page hit “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window,” slowing the tempo and hesitating before the word “doggie.” Ellie had visions of streetwalkers and brothels.
During a break, Mick strolled over and said that his band planned to record the doggie arrangement on a demo tape. “If our star singer can remain sober,” he added, pointing toward the bar.
Gulping shots of tequila, Belinda sucked limes and licked salt from her knuckles. She wore a short white strapless sheath that molded her breasts and emphasized her long legs, shod in four-inch heels. Ellie saw Trask hand Belinda a business card.
Damn alley cat!
“Trask just gave Belly one of his business cards,” she whispered to Peter.
“I can’t arrest a man for that,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
They sat on the curve, where tables had been placed together to form a U-shape. Melody and Dickie shared the table’s middle with Nancy, Ken’s empty seat, and Sean. Then, spreading out, were the rest of the rerun club members and Melody’s friends.
Mick returned to the stage and tuned his guitar.
Several pitchers had been placed at intervals on top of the party table. Clothed as Radar, clutching a teddy bear, Fred drained and refilled his mug. In between drains, he sent poison-dart glances in Ellie’s direction.
“Mick and Sandra were spot-on when they said you look like Hot Lips.” Peter picked up Ellie’s place card then put it down again. “All you need is a blonde wig. Or a good bleach job.”
“What do you know about bleach jobs?”
“I once solved a horse-theft case by proving that the mare’s color had been altered.”
“Are you comparing me to a horse?”
“No, I’m comparing you to Hot Lips.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t really look like her.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Hey, get a load of Howie Silverman.”
Howie’s stomach burst through the buttonholes of his dress. He had cornered three of Melody’s friends at the bar. In front of the women were rum drinks. Like the gas gauges on a dashboard, straws indicated full, half and empty. One glass was full. One girl was working on half. The other girl’s head lay on the bar’s surface, cradled within her arms.
Remembering Virginia Whitley, Ellie started to rise.
“Where,” said Peter, “do you think you’re going?”
“Look at the young woman slumped next to Howie. I plan to walk her around outside or hold her head.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll simply escort her to the powder room and—”
“No.”
“Holy cow, if we decide to get married, are you going to lock me inside the house every day when you leave for work?”
“Only if this particular murder case remains unsolved.”
Turning her back on his words, Ellie surveyed the center of the table.
Ken’s seat was still empty.
Nancy sipped a martini. She was clothed in the traditional olive-green T-shirt and a pair of fatigue pants. Around her neck was a gold chain. At the end of the chain was a ballerina charm. Ellie had worn a similar charm when she was “Small-Indian.” Hadn’t Natalie sported a ballerina necklace, too? Yup. Sandra once said that she and Natalie had exchanged charms for Christmas, and—
“Jeeze, I’m blind as a bat!”
Startled, Ellie glanced toward the bar and saw Ken on his knees. Belinda slumped on a barstool, her back against the bar, her legs spread.
“My lens is somewhere on the floor,” Belinda continued in a loud, drunken voice. “Jeeze, I’m blind as a friggin bat.”
Ken said something Ellie couldn’t hear.
“Yeah, sure,” said Belinda. “Everybody promises, but nobody delivers except the pizza guy. Hey, get your head out from unner my dresh, Mr. Trash.”
Mr. Trash? Ellie shook her head. Hadn’t Nancy heard Belinda? Or did Nancy, like Magnolia, choose to ignore her husband’s affairs? Probably the latter, Ellie thought, remembering Melody’s comments about Ken’s mistress.
Holy cow, the missing mistress. Could Nancy be angry enough to kill? Could that sick doodle be Nancy’s? No way! The doodled house was flawless, drawn to scale, the sketch of an architect.
Ellie watched Sean whisper into Nancy’s ear, then head toward the restrooms.
Mick’s band returned. They began their next set, but Belinda kept slurring words. Then she said “Gotta pee” into the microphone. Hand between her legs, she staggered down from the platform and headed for the restrooms. Mick helped Sandra climb up onto the stage. Garland and Streisand merged into a style distinctly Sandra Connors. The fifties kaleidoscoped into the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties—and Melody asked Peter to dance.
“Stay put, Norrie,” he said before letting Melody lead him onto the dance floor.
Ellie gave Peter what she felt was her best glower. Then, glancing toward the center of the table again, she saw that Sean had returned but Nancy had disappeared. Concerned, Ellie considered searching. Instead, she waited, feeling goose-bumpy, wishing she’d worn longer pants. Focusing on Charley’s Budweiser clock, she tried to tell herself that she was goose-bumpy from the cold, not because she was ignoring some obvious clue.
What clue? Nancy’s ballerina charm necklace?
Which brought to mind Jacques Hansen’s “necklace,” aka dog tag.
The string. Something about the string—
“Hoo-hah,” said Charley, leaning over Ellie’s chair. “You’re in costume this time, Miss Hot Mouth. Having fun?”
“You bet.” She sneaked a peek at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since Nancy had left the table.
“The cowboy’s here, too,” said Charley.
“What cowboy? Do you mean the man who stuck out like a sore thumb at your Mash-Bash?”
“Yup. He comes all the time now, for twenty years. His name’s Dan-something and he’s a regular. S’cuse me, Ellie, Dan wants me. He looks mad.”
Thirteen minutes passed.
Howie’s empty-glass girl slid from her stool onto the floor. A small group gathered.
Charley pushed his way through onlookers. “I’ll let her sleep it off in my office, then call a taxicab. Don’t want no trouble.” Beckoning toward the cowboy, Charley called, “Hoo-hah, Dan, help me carry Miss Rum Punch to my office couch. And you, yes you, Mr. Man-in-a-Dress, stop getting girls drunk in my tavern.”
Howie had the grace to blush while Fred slurred, “Silverrrman wants ta get himself laid in the men’s. Howie Doody. Get it?”
Fred giggled, while others turned away, embarrassed.
Nancy finally returned to her seat. For the first time since Ellie had met her, Nancy’s hair was mussed, sticking out like the short, thin straws that garnished the Dew Drop’s rock glasses. Even from a distance, Nancy’s eyes looked red. Was she weeping over that bastard of a husband who had followed Belinda from the lounge? Sean patted Nancy’s hand and Ellie resolved to mind her own business.
Was Belinda in any danger? No. Belinda didn’t look like Hot Lips, not with her brown curly hair and heavy makeup.
Peter danced with one of Melody’s friends.
Should I tell Peter about Belinda and Trask?
Undecided, Ellie realized that she had to go to the bathroom. Badly. Catching Peter’s eye, she gestured toward the restrooms and mimed a pained expression. Peter shook his head no. He held up his hand. Five fingers. Five minutes. She had to wait five minutes.
Wait a sec. We forgot about the birthday cake.
“We forgot the cake,” she called to Nancy.
“What did you say? Are you having a good time?” Nancy withdrew her hand from Sean’s and waved.
“No, no,” Ellie shouted, “the frozen birthday cake!”
Nancy pointed to her ears, smiled, shrugged.
Ellie left her chair and knelt by Nancy’s knees. “We forgot to defrost the cake. It must be hard as a rock. Do you want me to get it?”
“I’ll go.”
“I have to use the ladies’ room anyway. Sit, drink your martini, enjoy the party.”
Peter danced with Melody again, dipping her toward Mick’s guitar. Melody’s scarf brushed the floor, and she screeched with delight.
I’m not going to pull him off the dance floor! Ellie walked forward.
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” said Nancy.
“That’s not necessary. Didn’t you go before?”
A bulky figure wended his way around the table. “Mrs. Trask, could I talk to you, please?”
“Of course, Charley.”
“You’ve got that game set up, that pin-the-tail picture.”
“What about it, Charley?”
Ellie glanced toward a huge M*A*S*H poster mounted on the wall. Nancy had scheduled a game of Pin the Tail on Hawkeye, to take place after the dancing. Near the poster were pillows, just in case people wanted to sit or kneel while watching the game. No, not pillows. Stuffed pillow heads. Truly remarkable caricatures of Hawkeye, Hot Lips, Radar and Frank. Radar even had a pair of genuine wire-rimmed glasses sewn above his nose.
“My arrows are missing,” said Charley.
Nancy’s brow furrowed. “What arrows?”
“For the Dew Drop target contest. Every night. My regulators are kvetching, especially Dan-something, the cowboy.” Charley pointed toward a dartboard across the room. “I thought maybe you borrowed my arrows, Mrs. Trask.”
“Darts, Charley.”
“Darts, arrows, my regulators are mad.”
“Regulars, Charley, and the ‘arrows’ are your problem. They have nothing to do with me.”
“Nancy,” said Ellie, “did Ken design those pillows?”
“No, I did. They were easy to sew, just seams. Why?”
“The faces. You’re quite an artist.”
“Not really. I cheated and traced the faces. First I drove to a print shop and had them blow up Ken’s magazine pictures.”
“By the way, Nancy, I’ve been admiring your necklace. I had a charm just like that when I was a kid.”
“Did you? I didn’t. My parents wouldn’t let me take ballet lessons.” Scowling, she fingered the necklace. “Ken gave this to me as a reward.”
“Reward?”
“Yes. I lost ten pounds.” Glancing toward the bar, she added, “The singer said no one delivers except the pizza guy, but the health club promised and delivered.”
Aha, so Nancy had heard Belinda.
“Mrs. Trask,” Charley said, “I hate to be a nudnik, but could you please help me find my arrows?”
The serial killer always takes a souvenir, thought Ellie. Trask must have stolen Natalie’s necklace and Hansen’s eyeglasses, which now decorated a pillow. What had that rat taken from Harry Burns? And Krafchek? And the dumpster couple?
Should she tell Peter? Absolutely. First the bathroom; she couldn’t wait any longer. Smiling at Nancy, Ellie nodded toward the restrooms then walked swiftly in that direction.
Afterward, washing her hands, Ellie wondered if Peter needed a warrant to search Trask’s house. And if he did, could he get one quickly? She was convinced that Peter would find Harry’s surgical tape and — what? Krafchek’s watch or ring?
Should she forget about the birthday cake? No. Retrieving the cake wouldn’t take more than two, three minutes tops, and she wanted everything to look normal while Peter left to get his warrant.
The kitchen was halfway down the hall. Ellie entered and walked toward the walk-in. Damn, the frozen yogurt would never defrost in time unless Charley had a microwave.
The freezer’s door swung open. Shelves were filled with brown-wrapped slabs of beef. All sizes. All shapes. A furry bunny occupied one large see-through plastic bag. Long ears. Marble eyes. Dead eyes. Unskinned. Ungutted. Mopsy? Flopsy? Thumper?
Ellie screamed.
It wasn’t a loud scream. Her recently healed throat had clogged up again.
Forget the dead bunny. On the freezer’s floor lay a dead body. Kenneth Trask. He had a bullet hole in his chest, but he’d also been used as a target. Darts punctured his shirt.
Ken reminded Ellie of the poster on the bathroom door inside the Hansen home. But Jacques couldn’t throw darts, she thought incoherently, because his fingers had been severed. And Vicky Angel wasn’t at the Dew Drop tonight.
Icy freezer temperatures had coagulated Ken’s blood after the first initial gush. So the killer probably didn’t get any blood on his costume and could return to the party without someone screaming “Ohmygod, look at the blood!”
Ellie saw Trask move, or was it her imagination? No. Mesmerized, she watched his head sway back and forth like a cobra.
“Brother,” he whispered, “mother … father.”
“Father?” Ellie willed herself to kneel and lean over the body. There was another ugly wound at Ken’s crotch. “Did Father Mac do this to you?”
“My wife … please … Nancy…”
“I’ll get Nancy, don’t die,” Ellie pleaded then realized that her entreaty came too late.
Staring at Ken’s open, expressionless eyes, she suddenly wondered if he’d meant that Nancy had killed him.
She replayed the last few weeks like a tape on fast-forward. Every clue that pointed to Ken could also implicate Nancy. Right? Wrong. What about the doodle? Okay, Ken had sketched the house, and Nancy had added flames. What about the secret passageway? Maybe Nancy had studied Ken’s blueprints. How’d she hide Natalie’s blood? Maybe her fake-fur coat was black and the blood didn’t show. Why kill Harry Burns and Leo Krafchek and the dumpster couple? Maybe Nancy had meant to kill the Dumpster man, not the woman. But why?
“I don’t know,” she said aloud. “I’m not a mind reader. I’m not a damn psychic.”
The doll massacre. Peter had said the dolls looked like new. They weren’t faded or smudged. Wouldn’t that be a Nancy characteristic? Wouldn’t Nancy clean them, patch them, keep them in perfect condition, even after her son had outgrown them? Sure she would. And she’d have stitched up costumes for Raggedy Anne and Andy, just like she stitched up costumes for Fred’s collection.
Okay, but what about the Latin on Natalie’s mirror and Krafchek’s piece of paper? Not much Latin when you really thought about it. Two words. Advocatus diaboli. Maybe Nancy had learned Latin in school. Maybe she’d learned it from Sean.
Did Nancy have the personality, the characteristics, of a serial killer? She liked to drive, had even driven Klinger to Denver for his booster shots. And then there was the most damaging evidence of all, Natalie’s charm necklace and Jacques Hansen’s eyeglasses. If Ken hadn’t stolen them—
Why was she just kneeling here, frozen to the spot? She had to tell Peter.
Bolting from the freezer and kitchen, she skidded to a stop when she heard footsteps. Peter? But Peter would shout “Hello” or “Who’s there?” Any friendly soul would do the same.
It had to be the killer. And if she could hear him, he could hear her.
She ran toward the back of the building. It ended in a T, and she turned right. Recessed overhead lighting blinked off, on, off.
The perp was fiddling with the wall switch.
Feeling her way along the wall, she found a door. The footsteps sounded closer. Desperate, she slipped inside the room. Groping through the darkness, her hand encountered boxed shapes, and she smelled liquor. Somebody had recently opened a gin bottle. The odor lingered like one of Tony’s whisper martinis.
She crouched behind the first stack of cartons. The string, she thought, something about the string. She pictured the Jaques and Vicky’s basement. The string was … the string was different from … the string was different from the string tied around Vicky’s stack of newsletters.
The string was thinner!
Damn, a diet-club leader should notice “thinner” right off the bat.
The string was—
The same string Nancy Trask had used to bind her roast!
There. She’d finally remembered. What a relief.
The storeroom door opened then closed. An overhead light bulb flickered into life. Ellie tried to stifle her gasp while her Nancy theories crumbled to dust faster than the priest in her nightmare.
Somebody else had access to Ken’s blueprints and the Trask dolls. Even the damn string.
“I heard you.” The man turned toward her hiding place.
Ellie didn’t move a muscle.
“Stand up and walk forward,” he said, “or stay where you are. It doesn’t make any difference. I can smell your fear. Even better, I can smell your shampoo.”
Chapter 30
Ellie circled the cartons, caressing the rough cardboard for support.
“Sean.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “Oh Father Mac, I didn’t want it to be you. Why did you kill all those people?”
He took off his straw hat, revealing flattened strands of tinselly hair.
“Ellie-Ellie,” he said, obviously surprised. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought — oh well, it doesn’t really matter. Qui facit per alium facit per se.”
“Not now, damn you! Don’t give me Latin, you rat. I’m too upset to translate—”
“He who does something through another shares the responsibility.”
She tasted tears at the corners of her mouth. “Ken invited you to dinner the night before Jacques Hansen’s murder. You saw the roast and made your plan, probably on the spot, and then pilfered the ball of string from Nancy’s kitchen drawer. You studied Ken’s theater blueprints and somehow managed to heist those war toys and dolls. Ken gave you the run of the house because you’re his best friend, so it was easy—”
“What string? What dolls? What are you talking about?”
“Earlier tonight I told Peter that you had no motive because I hoped it wasn’t you.”
“It wasn’t. It’s not. It’s me.” Nancy Trask stepped out from behind another stack of cartons. “You knew all the time, didn’t you Sean? That’s why you just said that thing about shared responsibility?”
“I figured it out after Hansen’s murder.” Sean tossed his hat toward the light bulb and the bulb began to swing.
Ellie watched brief blobs of illumination create dancing shadows across the liquor boxes. Shadow boxes, she thought. She felt the urge to shadowbox Nancy, but merely stood there, waiting for an explanation, for answers, for a Dickie Dorack conclusion.
“I paid Vicky a condolence call,” Sean said. “She told me the killer ripped pages from her pad and practiced writing a Latin phrase on her typewriter. It’s hard to type Latin unless you know the language well. Police confiscated the scraps, but Vicky remembered two words. Fiat, because of the car, and experimentum, because it sounded like experiment”
“Fiat experimentum in corpore vili,” said Ellie.
“Let the experiment be performed on a worthless body.” Sean winced, as though he’d rubbed a lemon slice across an open sore. He stared at Nancy. “I’ve said that a thousand times, but I was talking about my sick wife.”
“Jacques Hansen,” Nancy said. “Stupid, stupid man. He couldn’t have seen me go backstage, but when Melody returned from the bathroom without me, I thought maybe Jacques had put two and two together. He called and said he wanted to discuss the ballerina’s murder. I knew he was bluffing, yet he sounded so sly, so positive. Want to hear something funny? He thought it was Ken. If Jacques had kept his mouth shut, he’d still be alive.”
Ellie swallowed and rubbed her eyes, erasing tears. “Why did you cut off his fingers?”
“I was so angry, I couldn’t think straight. You see, I had to plan an airtight alibi. I checked into my health club, sneaked out wearing leotard and tights, then returned later to shower and throw away the bloody workout clothes. It was such a hassle. I’m sorry you found the body, Ellie. It must have been a real shock.”
“Vicky could have lost her baby, Nancy. Did you think about that?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t take a chance. Jacques had a way of getting people to confess. So Nancy shot him with Ken’s gun. Ken bought that gun years ago when we lived in New York. We were robbed twice,” she added, her voice indignant.
“After the ballet,” said Ellie, “you didn’t wait in line for the bathroom.”
It was a rhetorical question, of course, but Nancy said, “Melody waited. I hightailed it backstage.”
“You said you wore a fake fur coat. Natalie’s blood—”
“I didn’t wear a fake fur. I’m afraid that was a fib. I wore a black satin cape and hung it between other costumes on a rack inside the wardrobe room. The John Denver Community Theatre performed Dracula on Halloween. My cape looked like part of Dracula’s ensemble.”
“What did you wear home?”
“Dracula’s cape. Nobody noticed. Nobody ever looks at me. Except Sean.”
“You went through the passageway to Natalie’s dressing room.” Another rhetorical question.
“The trapdoor was my idea,” Nancy said. “I designed the recital hall, not Ken. I designed all his buildings.” She turned toward Sean. “You knew I was the murderer and kept silent even when we made love?”
“I share the responsibility.” Gazing down at the floor, he whispered, “And the guilt.”
“I don’t have any guilt, darling.” She laughed. “Poor Sean. Insane wife. Psychopathic lover.”
“You’re not psychopathic.”
“Oh yes I am. I don’t sit in the corner and suck my thumb like your wife does, Sean. I prefer to be actively crazy. I couldn’t get free from Ken, couldn’t find a way to kill him, because if it wasn’t done right I’d be the first person the police suspected. The husband and wife are always suspects.”
Ellie said, “Why didn’t you simply divorce Ken?”
“Ken didn’t have an inkling I was seeing Sean,” Nancy said, sidestepping the question. “Why would he? I was his damn musame, his American moose. Nancy told Ken about Sean just before she killed him. Pricked his pride while she shot his prick. Let him take her confession to hell. You believe in hell, don’t you Sean?”
Ellie watched Sean trace the contours of a liquor carton with his finger. For a moment she thought he’d genuflect. Instead, he slumped over several carbonated drink capsules, their coiled hoses a nest of metal vipers.
“Ego te absolvo,” he said.
“Forgiven?” Nancy laughed again. “Not a chance. Sit down, Ellie, it’s a long story.”
Serial killers love to talk, she thought, remembering her brief conversation with Peter. When they talk about their murders, they talk about themselves in the third person and they feel no guilt.
“Peter will be looking for me,” she said.
“I don’t think so, my dear. I saw you two arguing earlier. Even if he does decide to investigate your disappearance, I told Charley how I suddenly remembered that I’d taken his missing darts home this afternoon and forgotten to bring them back. I said that you and I were going to retrieve his ‘arrows.’ We can be gone quite a while before anybody gets suspicious.”
“Peter’s not stupid, Nancy. He’ll check the parking lot and see that your car’s still here.”
“Ken and I didn’t come to the party in TRASK-1 or WIFE-1. We carpooled.”
Ellie sat on top of an open crate of champagne bottles. Cheap-cheap, she thought, as plastic corks poked at the exposed skin on her thighs. But she was too emotionally exhausted to move from her uncomfortable perch.
“I guess the best way to explain is to start at the beginning,” said Nancy. “I was born on a gray winter morning in December.”
“Don’t editorialize,” Sean murmured.
“Yes, editorialize,” said Ellie.
Nancy’s almost-smile flickered. “ ‘You were a damn accident,’ my father used to say. I heard his words. I never saw his face, his mouth, only the back of the hand he used to wallop me. ‘I almost died giving birth to you,’ my mother whined. I saw her face clearly. She slapped with words.”
“Are you trying to make Ellie feel sorry for you?”
“No, Sean. I’m not looking for sympathy.”
“Then why the disquisition? What’s the point?”
“Please, Sean, don’t. Ellie has to understand. You’ve got to understand, too. I told you about Steve.” Her mouth quivered. “My older brother Steve was the apple of my parents’ eye. Steve got new clothes while I inherited his hand-me-downs. Steve took guitar and drum lessons while I begged for ballet lessons. Steve needed two rooms, one for his instruments, so I slept in the basement where it was always dark and musty. I dreamed about rats. One night I woke up and there was this big rat sitting on my chest.”
“Oh, God, you poor thing,” Ellie blurted.
“We became friends. I named him Matt — Matt the rat.”
“Nancy, please!”
“Am I editorializing again? Sorry, Sean. You’ve never heard all the details, and Ellie has to understand why I must kill her.” Reaching into her deep pants pocket, Nancy retrieved a small gun with a rubber-nipple silencer. “My parents gave Steve his first car at age fifteen. Another new car at eighteen. I never even owned a bike. Mother discovered Matt, and Father set traps. Is there a heaven for rats, Sean?”
“Dei gratia.”
“What?”
“By the grace of God,” said Ellie.
“Nancy planned Steve’s death very carefully. She bought him a bottle of Boodles gin with her babysitting money. Isn’t that a funny name? Boodles? She told him she wanted to have sex with him, that she’d read books and wanted to practice. Her brother thought it was a great idea but said he was too drunk and needed her help. So he let her tie his arms and legs to his car’s steering wheel — the bondage bit. Nancy poured the rest of the gin down his throat, stuffed rags under the garage door, and turned on the ignition. Steve choked and threw up. I can’t stand the sight of vomit. It’s so disgusting.”
The light bulb wasn’t swinging anymore, thought Ellie, so why did the shadows still seem to dance? Now they were waltzing toward haphazardly-stacked zinfandel cartons.
“Nancy walked across the street and began to bounce her ball,” Nancy continued. “One potato, two potato, three potato, four. No, damn it, that’s jump rope, I must be losing my mind. Anyway, it occurred to Nancy that she might be blamed for Steve’s death. She went back inside the garage. Steve had passed out. She retrieved the rags, untied Steve, pulled a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter from his pocket. The cigarettes were Lucky Strikes. Or maybe Chesterfield. Steve’s lighter was engraved with his initials. Nancy wanted people to think that Steve was drunk and had tried to light his cigarette — and they did. Steve blistered and oozed like a Stephen King character. Have you ever read King, Ellie? Of course you have. Everybody has. The house burned, too. Nancy’s parents were inside, asleep. They went to bed early. A horrible accident, just like her birth.”
“You were young, abused, confused,” said Sean.
“I was seventeen. But Nancy didn’t mean to kill her parents, just Steve. The fire engines came. They watered the lawn, the flowers, the house. Flames lit up the night. The fire engines were red. They had a Dalmatian. Poor dog was hit by a piece of flaming debris and I thought it would burn, like a Stephen King dog. Stephen King loves to kill dogs. And cats. And kids. Stephen King’s my hero. Remember that old riddle, Ellie? What’s black and white and red all over? The answer’s not a newspaper or an embarrassed zebra. The answer’s a Dalmatian on fire.
“Smoke, flames, it was a damnfool silent movie. Everybody moved their lips but there was no sound. Nancy watched from across the street while her parents burned. Ken watched, too. He saw the whole thing from the very start. Nancy was hysterical because of her mother and father. Why bother killing Steve with her parents dead? They wouldn’t love her better. She told Ken to drive her to the police station. She wanted to confess. Ken said that was stupid and it wouldn’t bring her parents back, and he promised he’d always protect her.”
“Men were created to protect their women,” said Ellie, remembering the car-side hustle.
“Ken didn’t love me, either. He needed a slave. I worked to put him through school and learned more than he did. Finished his assignments, waited on him hand and foot, so grateful. When he became an architect, I drafted his buildings. He has no sense of … structure. Comic book heroes, that’s his forte. I designed your home, Ellie, and the house for Ken’s mistress. Nancy killed her, then cremated her body and buried the ashes. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Fire, fire everywhere. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
“Please,” Sean cried. “No more.”
Ellie wondered if he’d make it through Nancy’s confession with his stomach intact. She was immune after Jacques and Ken. Perhaps the mind could only consume so much horror before it became insulated. She’d probably react later.
If there was a later.
Nancy walked toward the back of the storeroom and reclaimed a bottle of Beefeaters gin. She tilted the bottle to her lips with her left hand and drank. Her right hand held the gun.
“My throat’s dry as dust,” she said. “Okay, where was I? The mistress. After she went up in smoke—” Nancy paused to laugh “—Ken and I flew to Hawaii, where I dreamt up the recital hall. I should have left Ken a long time ago but he knew too much about me.”
Sean said, “Isn’t there a statute of limitations?”
Ellie thought the question bizarre under the circumstances. In any case, there was no statute of limitations on murder.
“I was trapped,” Nancy said, her voice bitter. “All Ken needed to do was mention the fire. Pull the strings and watch Nancy dance. I don’t think he guessed that I was responsible for the murders, but even if he did, he kept on protecting me. You see, the award-winning Kenneth Trask couldn’t design a friggin doghouse for Klinger without my help, my expertise.”
“But I don’t understand why you killed those other people.” Although repulsed to the max, Ellie still felt sorry for Nancy. Matt the rat had done it.
“The whole thing started with Virginia Whitley. One potato. Then Ken’s mistress. Two potatoes. Everybody knew about her. I was such an object of ridicule. Ken laughed like a friggin loon when I asked him to be more discreet. He said Frank Burns wasn’t discreet. She … Ken’s mistress looked like … he called her Hot Lips. Same blonde hair, sexy. I could bleach my hair and join your diet club, Ellie, but I’d never look like Hot Lips. She was the type who attracted Ken. I merely raised his son and drafted his blueprints. The perfect color. Blue. Sad.”
The perfect color. The perfect murder. The perfect lapse in perfection.
Aloud, Ellie said, “Why did you kill Natalie?”
“What makes you think—”
“The charm. That’s her necklace, right?”
Nancy nodded. “I took it as a souvenir. Ken promised to finance Natalie’s dancing career. But he procrastinated. He preferred keeping her here, showing her off to Howie. Funny, isn’t it? Jacques figured that part out.”
So did I.
“She, the ballerina, called him Daddy Longlegs. I didn’t get that.”
“It’s from a movie starring Fred Astaire and Leslie Caron. Fred finances Leslie’s education. What about the dog tag?”
“I picked it up in Denver, after Klinger’s vet moved there. I bought it for me. I wanted to play Hot Lips in bed, but I never got the chance. Ken had already found his dancer. I knew the dog tag couldn’t be traced. The shop’s gone out of business.”
“Why,” Ellie said, “did you kill Frank Burns?”
“You killed Frank Burns?” Sean shook his head. “I don’t understand. Frank’s not real. He’s imaginary, a TV character.”
“Not Frank, darling. Harry. Franklin Harrison Burns, the guy we met at the supermarket. He was a sanctimonious prick. He screwed around on his wife, did you know that? I saw him and his whore together, at the outdoor market, all lovey-dovey, buying chili peppers.”
“But we were having our own affair.”
“It’s not the same. I didn’t flaunt you like Frank Burns flaunted Hot Lips, like Harry flaunted his whore, like Ken flaunted his mistress. My whole life people have flaunted things. Steve, Ken, even you, Sean, with your sick wife and your sense of honor. I couldn’t even have you all to myself.”
“Did you steal something from Harry’s house, Nancy?”
“I took a Daffy Duck glass, Ellie. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” she said, remembering the Daffy glass under Nancy’s phone, the glass that had held pencils and pens and stick glue.
“When we met Harry Burns at the supermarket, his wife looked so pathetic. Ken wrote down their address and I copied it. Then I bugged Harry’s phone while his pathetic wife was home alone. I pretended to check the equipment, just like Sean does. It helps to have a lover who works for the telephone company. One morning I caught Burns calling for an appraisal. He planned to sell his house and live with his whore. I couldn’t let that happen, could I? So Nancy pretended she was a real estate agent and killed him the same way she killed Steve. Well, not really. She didn’t burn Burns. And she used whiskey, not Boodles.”
“Did you commit the dumpster murders?” Ellie asked.
“What dumpster murders?”
“The couple killed and trashed at the apart—”
“Killed and trashed?”
Okay, so I barked up the wrong tree. But then, I’m not perfect.
“What about Leo Krafchek?” she said.
“He had a wife, three kids and a lover. Howie sold him insurance and Krafchek made his whore the beneficiary. Can you believe that? Howie and Ken laughed about it. Then Nancy saw Krafchek and his wife at the ballet. After Nancy dropped off Jacques and Vicky and Sean, she drove aimlessly, no special direction, and there he was, Krafchek, sitting alone in a bar. Nancy saw him through the window. The knife was in her purse—”
“Wait a sec. What about that piece of paper with words cut from TV Guide? If you just happened to see Krafchek, how could you have a note handy?”
“I didn’t. Nancy drove home, cut and pasted, then drove back and waited till he left the bar. Nancy likes to drive.”
“What did you do with the murder weapon?”
“You saw it when you came to visit, my dear. I used it on my roast.”
How very Hitchcockian, my dear!
Sean gagged. “You sliced our dinner roast with a knife that had stabbed two people?”
“I cleaned it first.”
“Nancy,” said Ellie, “why’d you kill Virginia Whitley?”
“Ginny. Dear little Gin.” Nancy sipped from the Beefeaters bottle. “Ken and Ginny, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
“She had nothing to do with Ken,” said Sean. “Howie was trying to palm her off on Fred.”
“You’re such an innocent, my darling. Ken followed her inside the restroom—”
“Hold it, you weren’t there, at the Dew Drop Inn,” Sean said.
“Of course I was there. I blended in fine. So many people, and I sat in the corner, away from lights. It was like sitting behind a one-way mirror. I followed Ken and waited outside the bathroom. Someone else was waiting too, an attractive guy who looked a little like Robert Redford, but he took one look at Ginny and bolted. Ken supported Ginny down the hall, past the kitchen, into this very room. He also carried a pitcher of beer, and she chugged it all and then went out of her mind. Ripped off her clothes. ‘Drink Gin,’ she screamed. They began to—”
“Don’t swear,” cried Sean.
“Okay, darling, no eff-word. How about humped? It’s a better word because that’s what they did. They humped. The door was open a crack and I watched. Afterward, Ginny cried and Ken dressed her like you’d dress a doll, like my son used to dress Klinger. I finally got rid of those friggin toys.”
“Memorial Park,” Ellie said.
“Yes. What fun, But your detective took the dolls away so quickly. That was mean, Ellie.”
“Peter has a mean streak. You should have been there when he told me about the bodies.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Ginny was hysterical, so Ken buggered off. He didn’t see me. I ran down the hall and ducked into the kitchen. When I returned to the storeroom, Ginny said she felt dizzy. I helped her outside. There’s a back door. ‘Fresh air will make you feel better,’ I said. She took one deep breath, fell to the ground, and tossed her cookies. Disgusting! She was in such pain. She kept moaning, ‘I want to die, I want to die,’ so Nancy killed her with Ken’s car.”
“Ken’s car,” Sean echoed, his voice a gurgle.
“Nancy wasn’t stupid enough to drive her own car, darling. She took a bus.”
Ellie gasped. “You planned to kill Ginny?”
“No, dear. Nancy planned to kill Ken. But Ginny was so easy. It was like running over those bumps at the parking-lot entrance. Except Ginny was squishy.”
“Blood,” said Ellie, dazed. “The tires must have been covered with—”
“Nancy drove to a 24-hour car wash. At that time of night it was deserted. Then she drove back. She likes to—”
“Drive. Yes, I know. If you left the car in the Dew Drop parking lot, for Ken, how did you get home? The buses don’t run that late.”
“Dan.”
“Dan? Oh, the cowboy.”
“It was scary. I thought he might crash his truck. He was blotto. Kept calling me Melanie.”
“Melody.”
“What?”
“Dan brought Melody a couple of double martinis.”
“Really? Lucky strike for me she didn’t fancy him. Anyhow, he kept singing something about happy trails while he felt me up.”
Sean said, “You slept with a cowboy?”
“No, darling. I made him let me off a few blocks from home and I walked. Walking is good exercise. Don’t you preach that at your diet club, Ellie? Nancy burned lots of calories while killing Ginny. There’s a rush you know, like good sex.”
Now Ellie did feel sick to her stomach. Sean, too. Retching, he leaned over the soda capsules.
Nancy maneuvered around the cartons. “Sean darling, I promise I won’t talk any more. I thought you knew.”
“I figured the mistress and Hansen. I thought Fred was responsible for Ginny. He was so nervous. I thought he started to take her home and she fell from his Jeep and he ran her over. I’m sick, Nancy.”
“Sean, no, please. Here, drink.”
“I can’t.”
“It will settle your tummy, darling.”
Sean tilted the Beefeaters bottle and drank. When he’d finished, large beads of sweat pebbled his forehead and his shoulders spasmed.
Nancy said, “We’ll leave the Dew Drop soon, darling, and then I’ll cook some veggie medicine. Oatmeal cookies, too.”
“Please. Do. Not. Mention. Food.”
“Sorry. You can’t be sick, Sean. Nancy needs you.”
“Can’t help it.”
“No, Sean, don’t throw up. I’ve never been able to stand sick people, not even my son. Oh, very well, if you really must.”
Ellie watched with disbelief. Here was a woman who had cold-bloodedly snuffed her brother, burned her parents, squished one woman with a car, cremated another, knifed two people, shot her husband in the groin, cut off a man’s fingers, and now she couldn’t bear the sight of vomit?
I must be dreaming, Ellie thought. Soon she’d see barking dogs, corpses, maggot-infested cats, and Nancy Trask at the top of the tree.
Turning away from Sean, Nancy placed both hands across her ears and closed her eyes, shutting out the sight and sound of Sean’s pitiful performance. The gun rested against her hair, pointed toward the ceiling.
It’s now or never, thought Ellie. I won’t get another opportunity.
Her hand dipped between her legs and closed around the neck of a champagne bottle.
Aiming at Nancy’s gun, Ellie thumbed the champagne bottle’s plastic cork. It flew through the air and struck Nancy’s left shoulder. Dropping the gun, she clutched her shoulder with her right hand.
Ellie followed the cork’s flight. Her body hit Nancy’s and they fell together. Nancy was strong as an ox, but Ellie used the moves Peter had demonstrated until she secured Nancy’s arms behind her back.
“Let her go.” Sean picked up the gun.
“Goodie, goodie,” Nancy said. “After you kill her, we’re free. We’ll put her body in the freezer with Ken. He was screwing that slutty singer, Linda, in this very room, just like Ginny.”
“Belinda, not Linda,” Ellie said.
“Yeah, whatever. But she passed out before Ken could finish. She’s in the parking lot. Nancy dragged her there. Too bad Nancy didn’t have Ken’s car handy.”
“Ken’s in the freezer?” Sean’s face was very green.
“Oh dear, I promised not to mention dead bodies.”
“Sean, put the gun down,” Ellie said as calmly as she could.
“Let us go, Ellie-Ellie. I won’t shoot if you keep your mouth shut and give us a head start.”
“Are you crazy?” Nancy’s eyes glittered. “How far do you think we’d get? She’d scream her head off.”
“Would you, Ellie-Ellie?”
“No.”
“Let Nancy kill her, Sean.”
“Give me the gun, Sean,” Ellie said.
“I can’t,” he cried. “I’ll lock you up inside the freezer. That’ll give us time—”
“But she’ll freeze to death,” Nancy said. “That’s not very considerate, darling.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Ellie said. “Let’s go,” she urged, before Sean could change his mind.
All three entered the hallway.
And ran smack-dab into Peter. He aimed his revolver at Sean, who pulled Ellie against his body. Leveling Nancy’s gun at Ellie’s forehead, he said, “Drop it, Lieutenant.”
“No, Peter, he won’t shoot. He’s not a killer. Nancy Trask’s our kill—”
“Father Mac, Nancy, Ellie, I’ve been lookin’ all over for you.” Fred Remming staggered down the hallway, clutching his teddy bear. “Melody’s gettin’ ready to open her presents, but she won’t start without Nancy and Ellie, and I wanna leave soon. Howie Doody gave me one of his girls, the one in Charley’s office. She’s better now, and she looks a little like Hot Lips and — hey, what’s goin’ on?”
Ellie had felt Sean release his tight hold at the sight of Fred. Wrenching free, she stepped forward, grabbed Fred’s bear, then turned and batted the gun away. Even after she heard the clatter of the gun skidding down the corridor, she kept slamming the bear against Sean’s chest.
“Whoa, uncle, I give up,” he yelped and turned toward Nancy. “Ego te amo. I love you.”
Ellie dropped the bear. Peter whistled between his fingers. Will McCoy and the other detective came running. They handcuffed Nancy and Sean, then escorted them toward the back exit.
“I should have poisoned your veggies at the rerun get-together,” Nancy said over her shoulder, “or put something in the soup when you were so sick. But Nancy liked you.”
Matt the rat, Ellie thought. Aloud she said, “I liked you, too.”
As Peter led her into the Dew Drop’s lounge, she was struck by the normalcy of the scene. The jukebox had taken over for Mick and was playing one of its many Beatles selections. Melody danced with Dickie and Hawkeye smiled from his poster. On Charley’s overhead TV a taped M*A*S*H flickered.
Ellie wondered if there was another nut out there watching Star Trek repeats and plotting to kill Mr. Spock look-alikes. That would be more difficult. How many men had pointy ears? She began to laugh.
Peter swiftly propelled her onto a stool, hurdled the bar, reached for a bottle, poured and handed her a snifter of brandy. “Drink it all down,” he said.
“Spock, Peter, hic.” Ignoring the snifter, she separated her first two fingers from the last two, and gestured with a Leonard Nimoy benediction.
Peter leaned across the bar, grasped her shoulders, and stared into her eyes. “Ego te amo, Norrie. Did I say that right?”
“Perfect. I, hic, love you too.” She took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Peter, how did you know I was in the, hic, storeroom?”
“At first I thought you’d gone with Nancy to retrieve Charley’s darts. When Trask didn’t return, I began to worry, but Howie Silverman kept me occupied. He wanted to escort Melody’s rum-drinking girlfriends home, and he kept bitching about how he’d carpooled and his BMW couldn’t tote Ken and Nancy, Sean, Fred, and Melody’s friends. ‘Fudge carpooling,’ he said, then hinted that I might consider chauffeuring the gaggle of guests. I must have gulped down too many celery tonics, Norrie, because it took a few minutes for me to realize that Nancy had ridden here in Silverman’s car, so she couldn’t have driven her car home to retrieve Charley’s darts. I checked the parking lot for your Honda and—”
“Mom, are you all right?” An ashen-faced Mick towered above Ellie’s bar stool.
“I’m perfectly fine … hic. Go back to playing … hic … your music.”
“I’m on a fifteen minute break, Mom. Pete, is she really okay?” When Peter gave him a thumb’s up, Mick sighed with relief then walked toward Sandra.
Charley joined Peter behind the bar. “Mrs. Trask was meshuga. A dead body inside my strolling ice chest. The priest tossed his cookies all over my soda pop. Oy vey, does Ellie have hiccups? Move your tush, Mr. Detective, and let me pour from my bottles. Vodka and Kailua are good for spastics.”
“Spasms, Charley, hic.”
“Take my free Russian, bubala.”
“She’ll be fine, Charley,” Peter said. “In a few days Miss Bubala here will be looking for a new mystery to unravel.”
Ellie drowned her hiccups with Charley’s Russian. “I don’t have to wait a few days,” she said. “During the football game, we talked about a policeman shot in his car and a woman discarded at a cemetery, not to mention those enigmatic dumpster homicides. If you let me peruse the files, Mr. Detective, I’ll solve your unsolvable crimes.”
“Over my dead body!”
“I prefer your body alive,” she said, leaning across the bar for his kiss.
In his youth, thought Charley, people kissed in private, under the table. Like that couple over there, singing a Beatles song and noshing on lips in between the verses.
“You’ve got to hide your love away,” sang the boy who looked like Butch Cassidy … no, the Sundance Kid. Then he kissed the pretty girl who looked like Alice in Wonderland.
“Hey you!” Charley stared down, past his belly, at the young musician. “Yes you, Mr. Guitar Player. Stop nibbling Miss Songbird under my table. It ain’t kosher.”
About the Author
Denise (Deni) Dietz is the best-selling author of several novels, including Fifty Cents for Your Soul, Footprints in the Butter – costarring Hitchcock the Dog – and Eye of Newt. She also writes historical fiction and westerns under the pen name Mary Ellen Dennis. Deni lives on Vancouver Island with her husband, novelist Gordon Aalborg, and her chocolate Lab, Magic.
Also by Denise Dietz
DIET CLUB SERIES
Throw Darts At A Cheesecake
Diet Club Mystery #1
At the weekly Weight Winners meeting, losing is winning. Group leader Ellie Bernstein has shed 55 pounds and a cheating husband, and now the thin woman within is free and fabulous. Until she discovers that losing weight is not only murder, it’s downright lethal. One by one the diet club’s Big Losers are being systematically murdered. Is some jealous member of the Friday meetings a secret killer? Could this be a closet psycho’s demented weight-loss technique: eliminate the competition? Motive aside, Ellie has to watch her back as well as her calories before she finds herself on the most permanent diet of all—death.
Chain A Lamb Chop To The Bed
Diet Club Mystery #3
Diet club guru Ellie Bernstein is afraid of heights—and that includes climbing on top of a horse. So it is with trepidation that she accepts the offer of her significant other—Peter Miller, a Colorado Springs homicide detective—to vacation with him for one "stress-free" week at a dude ranch outside Aspen. Upon reaching the ranch, Ellie quickly makes four enemies: the ranch manager who has a John Wayne fetish; the riding instructor who wears a size three and has a crush on Peter; the plump cook who loathes Ellie for no apparent reason; and a fat white horse named Buttermilk. A dead body found near the ranch's ravine turns out to be a world-renowned artist whom Ellie knew and adored, and to make matters worse, the wife who jump-started his career seems to be missing. To find the murderer, Ellie will need to make friends with a black stallion named Satan … before the weight loss she's achieved becomes permanent in a way she's never imagined.
Strangle A Loaf Of Italian Bread
Diet Club Mystery #4
When Barbra Streisand clone Sara Lee is strangled with a Daffy Duck neck-tie, prior to the open auditions for a community theatre production of Hello, Dolly!, diet club guru Ellie Bernstein wants to know why everybody didn’t like Sara Lee. She doggedly pursues a rollercoaster of clues, even though her daily routine is disrupted by a Border Collie named Scout Finch. Ellie—who has never been owned by a dog—has reluctantly agreed to dog-sit a diet club member’s beloved pet, but she soon discovers that Scout’s owner seems to have disappeared into thin air. Ellie’s search for Sara Lee’s killer lands her at the Hello Dolly! auditions. Only problem is, Ellie can’t sing or dance.
COOKING SPIRITS
An Angie Amalfi Mystery
by Joanne Pence
Quail Hill Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, public or private institutions, corporations, towns, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
Quail Hill Publishing
PO Box 64
Eagle, ID 83616
Visit our website at www.quailhillpublishing.net
First Quail Hill Publishing Paperback Printing: April 2013
Excerpts copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2007
Copyright © 2013 Joanne Pence
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0615779417
ISBN-13: 978-0615779416
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
A Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
Six years have passed since the last Angie Amalfi mystery (which was the fourteenth book in the long-running series), and I would like to thank the many people who have written to me to ask for another story. Because it’s been so long between books—and because I hope many new readers will give this story a try—I’ve done my best to introduce each character so that no one will feel lost as to who’s who, or what has gone on in the past.
In a nutshell, Angelina Rosaria Maria Amalfi, the youngest daughter of a large, wealthy San Francisco Italian-American family, wants only two things in life: a good job in the culinary field, and San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith. Her relationship with Paavo is progressing, albeit slowly, since they met in the first book in the series, Something’s Cooking, which was written as a stand-alone ‘romantic suspense’ and not as a mystery (I point this out because true mystery readers will find it easy to solve!). Since readers were interested in what happened next to the couple, the mystery series was born.
In book 4, Cooking Most Deadly, Angie meets Connie Rogers who becomes her best friend, as well as three ex-cons who (some say) bear a close resemblance to The Three Stooges.
Paavo is a bit of a mystery man (what kind of a name is Paavo Smith, anyway??) and Angie doesn’t learn his background until book 8, To Catch a Cook. Connie tells her story in If Cooks Could Kill, the 10th book, and Angie’s neighbor, Stan Bonnette, stars in book 12, Courting Disaster. Angie goes international in book 14, The DaVinci Cook.
And throughout all are Angie’s struggles with love, life, crime and cooking.
For some people, characters in novels are just that—words on a page. For me, after (now) fifteen books with Angie and Paavo, I prefer to think that somewhere ‘out there’ is an alternate universe where Angie, Paavo, their friends, family, and co-workers live and are every bit as real as you and I. If that were the case, and if Angie came to my door, I’d gladly invite her in for a cup of coffee and Italian cookies, and we’d talk about her latest adventures and, of course, Paavo…
I hope you enjoy this story, as Angie goes house-hunting with some ‘spirited’ results.
Sincerely,
Joanne Pence
Chapter 1
ANGELINA AMALFI HAD no sooner entered her penthouse apartment high atop San Francisco’s Russian Hill than she heard a knock on her door.
“I was just thinking about you, Angie,” her neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette, said as he entered the apartment. “And then I heard you come home. You look tired.”
“I am tired.” She tossed her Balenciaga jacket on the arm of a chair, kicked off her Jimmy Choo four-inch high heels, and plopped herself down on the sofa.
Stan sat beside her. He was thirty, thin and wiry with light brown hair and brown eyes.
His was the only other apartment on the top floor of the twelve-story building on the corner of Green and Vallejo Streets. Stan could afford his place thanks to his father, a bank executive. He had a job in the bank for the same reason. Neither provided much motivation for Stan to work hard, or to work at all for that matter.
His one regret in life was that Angie wanted to marry someone who wasn’t him. He thought they’d be perfect together—her money and what he saw as his self-evident charm. He continued to hold out hope that someday Angie would come to her senses and dump her fiancé, San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith. Stan was ready, any time, to take his place.
“I just fired the worst wedding planner the world has ever known,” Angie said.
“You fired her?” Stan couldn’t imagine getting up the nerve to fire anybody. “But I thought you needed someone to help you with your wedding.”
“I do! That’s the problem!” She leaned forward and rubbed her temples. “But she kept pushing a wedding dress cut too low with a bouffant skirt that puffed out at the waist. I’m short. I’ve been clothing this short body for many years, and so I know that with so little material on top, and so much on the bottom—the skirt was wider than it was long—I would look like a marshmallow, a miniature marshmallow, and I did! The dress swallowed me up completely, but she insisted it was perfect and I ‘needed’ to buy it without letting my mother or sister or anyone else give an opinion. She said families only confuse the bride.”
“That may be true,” Stan murmured, giving a shudder at the mention of Angie’s mother and sisters.
“And then, she thought the reception should be decorated in blue. I’m not a blue person. I’m Italian!”
She heaved a sigh. “Finally, I realized the only thing I ‘needed’ was a new wedding planner. One not so bossy!” She picked up one of the See's chocolates in the candy dish on the coffee table and took a bite, chewing morosely. Raspberry cream. She didn’t even like raspberry cream, but ate it anyway. She was truly miserable. Wedding planning was a stress test and she was losing.
Stan also ate one, and wandered off to the kitchen as he licked the chocolate off his fingers.
“This isn’t going the way I want, Stan,” Angie called. “What am I going to do?”
“Tell you what.” Stan’s voice sounded muffled, his head inside the refrigerator as he perused the left-overs. He always said he could get better food eating Angie’s leftovers than at some of the most expensive restaurants in town. “Why don’t I help you cook dinner tonight? After we eat, you’ll feel a lot better, I’m sure.”
Despite his words, Stan couldn’t cook. “Go ahead and eat whatever you’d like, Stan. Paavo’s coming over later, and we’re going out to dinner.” She took another chocolate, this one a caramel chew, as she thought about her handsome fiancé. She loved everything about his looks from his thick, dark brown hair, to his high forehead, penetrating light blue eyes, high cheekbones, and aquiline nose with a small jog in the middle where it had been broken more than once. He was broad-shouldered, his body long and lean, and everything about him exuded power and, to her, more sexiness than any one man should possess.
The whirring of her microwave pulled her from her daydreams.
She reached for a third chocolate, a pecan butter cream, her favorite. Before this wedding was over, she will have learned what was inside each chocolate just by looking at the swirls on top. “This is all making me so nervous, I’m putting on weight. I haven’t even settled on my bridesmaids yet. Do you know how many sisters and cousins I have? And they all expect to be part of the wedding. At the same time, Paavo keeps saying he wants a small wedding. You know how much he hates crowds. It’s a nightmare.”
“It’ll all work out.” Stan put a placemat on the dining room table and in another minute carried a plate with two pieces of Chicken Kiev.
“You can make yourself a salad or some broccoli as a side,” Angie suggested.
“No, no. This is fine. I wouldn’t want to overdo it.” He cut into a piece and hot, garlicky butter oozed onto his plate. One bite and he was in heaven. “I tell you, Angie, if you were marrying me, I’d be home every night for dinner.”
“I know.” One of the ironies of her relationship with Paavo was that his busy schedule often caused him to work late into the night and miss dinner. At the moment, he had no complicated cases that she knew of, which meant he should have time to help with their wedding plans. “I hope, once we’re married and living together, we’ll share more meals. That reminds me, I’ve got to clear out some of my things so he’ll have room here.”
“Oh my God!” Stan put down his fork before he’d finished, a remarkable thing for him. “You aren’t saying he’s moving into this apartment, are you?”
“Of course he is. I can’t fit into his house. It has only one bedroom, one bathroom. Not even a dining room.”
“Angie, you can’t expect him to live in your father’s apartment building!” Stan said, digging in again with gusto to make up for lost time.
Angie had already recognized that it wasn't a stellar idea, but she hated hearing Stan say it. “My father might own the building, but we’ve always considered this to be my apartment. I’ll clean out the den and make it Paavo’s ‘man cave.’ He’ll like that.”
Stan took another bite, savoring the rich flavors as he digested the information. “But if you do that, where will you put your desk and computer and all the books you have that you’ve used to start businesses?”
“For all the good that’s done me!” Angie interrupted. Now, she was not only tired, but dejected as well. Her inability to create a rewarding career for herself was one of the banes of her life. She had a talent for cooking, but even though she had tried to become a cake baker, candy maker, newspaper food columnist, restaurant reviewer, took part in a radio cooking show and a TV cooking show, and on and on…nothing ever worked out.
Stan frowned as he savored the last bite of Chicken Kiev. “It’s not going to work, Angie. As a man, I can tell you that Paavo will not be happy here. If I were him, I’d hate living in your apartment. In fact, I’d do everything I could to postpone the wedding just to avoid it. Just wait. He’s going to try to back out of this. First step will be breaking dates with you, and then he’ll start suggesting the wedding be postponed. You’ll see.”
“Paavo never breaks dates with me…unless he has no choice because of a homicide, which is perfectly understandable,” she said, glaring fiercely. “Fortunately, you’re nothing like Paavo.”
He sniffed. “No. I tell you exactly what I’m thinking; Paavo doesn't. He doesn't want to upset you so he’ll suffer in silence, growing more and more unhappy every day until, finally, he'll walk out on you!”
“Nonsense!” she said, but even as she said it, she knew Paavo held things inside if troubled. He would turn quiet and distant instead of blathering and complaining the way she did. When she first met him, she thought he was cold because of that. Quickly, she learned how much he felt—sometimes too much.
Stan put his plate, fork and knife in the dishwasher. “He’ll deny it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll like being here.”
Angie fumed. How could he think he knew more about Paavo than she did? And yet, Paavo never actually said he wanted to move into her apartment, just that he agreed she couldn’t fit all her stuff into his little house. “I’m busy, Stan. Why don’t you go home?”
He poured himself a generous glass of the Beringer Petite Sirah sitting on the counter. “You can kick me out, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore my advice.” Holding the glass high in the air, he headed out the door. “I’ll bring it back next time.”
She folded her arms and sat back on the sofa, not sure if she was more irritated at Stan or herself, as she glanced at the half-empty box of chocolates. But she couldn’t stop the question reverberating in her head: What if Stan was right?
* * *
Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith walked into Katie Kowalski’s house holding the hand of Katie’s young son, Micky. Katie was the widow of Paavo’s first and long-time partner in Homicide, Matt Kowalski. They had gone through the police academy together and had been best friends.
After Matt had been killed in the line of duty, Paavo made sure he visited Katie and spent time with Micky at least one Saturday or Sunday afternoon each month, and often two or three times a month. He particularly enjoyed taking Micky to a park, to baseball games, playing sports with him, and doing at least some of the things he thought Matt might have done with his son if he had lived.
Katie stood in the living room of the small house to greet them. “Welcome home!” she said. “Micky, why don’t you go wash up and change your clothes! You look like you fell into a pig sty!”
“Aw, okay. Bye, Uncle Paavo! Thanks for everything!”
“Bye, Mick! See you soon.”
Paavo faced Katie. “The field had a few mud-puddles from last night’s rain, and Micky found every one of them. Often on purpose. But I think he’ll be feeling pretty good about himself when he joins that T-ball team next week. If you’d like me to take him, I’ll do my best to get off work on time so I can.”
Katie didn’t answer right away, but looked at the floor a moment before lifting her gray eyes to his blue ones. “Paavo, I don’t know how to say this. I appreciate all you’ve done for me and Micky, but I’d like you to stay away…for a while, at least. I’ve met someone.”
His brow furrowed. He had expected this day would come, but not so soon. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter, except that he’s not a cop. He’s a fine man, and good to Micky, and…” He waited as she struggled to find the right words. “I need to move on with my life. It’s too hard when I see you.”
She bowed her head and folded her arms tight against her stomach. When she looked up at him again, her words poured out quickly and pain-filled. “When you’re here, I remember too much. I remember Matt too clearly. And you! When Matt was here, the three of us spent a lot of time together, and when he was gone, I thought…” Tears filled her eyes.
“Katie,” he whispered.
She shook her head as if to shake off the emotions that gripped her. “I knew there was no chance for me, that you never saw me that way, but I thought if you ever broke up with Angie, that maybe”—she shrugged—“but it’s not meant to be. It never was. Now this man, his name is Daniel, he’s a good man. My head tells me to give him a chance. But my heart—as long as you’re here, I’m stuck in the past. I can’t forget Matt. I can’t forget you! So, I ask you, please give me time. Give me space.”
“I’m sorry, Katie. I had no idea.”
“I know!” She stepped closer to him. “You’re a good man.” She cocked her head, her smile wry. “Obtuse as all get-out, but a good man.”
“What will Micky think if I just stop seeing him?”
“He loves you,” Katie said. “You’ll see him again, and spend time with him again in a few months. But not now.” Her tears flowed freely. “Can you understand what I’m saying? Can you forgive me for being so selfish?”
“I understand, Katie.”
He turned to leave.
“Paavo.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and when he turned around she put her arms around him. She held him tight, as he did her. She cried, and his heart broke for what had been in the past, and would never be again. He held her a long moment, then stepped back.
“Good luck to you, Katie. I hope it works out and you find happiness.” He put his hand on her cheek, brushed aside her tears, and then left.
* * *
Paavo sat in his car. His hands gripped the wheel, but he didn’t start the engine. He should see Angie tonight, but Katie’s words were too fresh, too painful. He had no idea that she ever considered such feelings towards him. Obtuse, she had called him. Maybe so.
Now, as much as hearing she wanted to start fresh and find someone else to love heartened him, another part of him cried that it was wrong, that she was Matt’s wife and always would be. Matt had been a six-foot-five, two hundred fifty pound lug with a laid-back competence and professionalism that Paavo admired, and a sense of humor that made him a fun guy to be around. How could anyone ever supplant his best friend in her life?
At the same time, he understood completely what she was saying. His visits to her and Micky had kept Matt alive in his mind as well. He had never really gotten over Matt’s death. They had been best friends as well as partners, and Paavo had made sure that he never grew that close to his current partner, or to anyone else in Homicide. In a sense, he feared ever again going through the sadness, bitterness, and even guilt that had plagued him after Matt’s death. Matt had been alone when he died, and Paavo always felt he should have been with him, been there to protect him, to save him.
Now, he held himself back from others in Homicide. He was a colleague, but little more.
He called Angie and told her something had come up, that he couldn’t make it tonight. She sounded disappointed and troubled. She tried to question him, but he had no answers, and soon ended the conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her, but tonight he needed time alone; needed time to think.
Chapter 2
NOT MUCH REMAINED to identify.
The next morning, Paavo and his partner, Toshiro Yoshiwara, stood in an alley in the Financial District, surrounded by high rise offices with restaurants, delis, bars, and a myriad of shops filling the ground floors. The alley mainly existed for garbage pick-up.
They had seen many dead bodies in their time, but none as mangled as the poor sap before them. The brightness of the morning sun, the beauty of a new day, seemed bizarrely at odds with watching the medical examiner’s team pull body parts, piece by piece, from a garbage truck. Even hardened crime scene investigators struggled to keep their breakfasts down.
Earlier, one of the scavengers on the route had been wheeling a dumpster back into place when his partner operating the garbage truck told him to climb up to see why it seemed to be straining. The scavenger saw the human legs and feet—jeans and a man’s soft leather slip-ons—slowly being sucked into the trash compactor. He screamed for his partner to cut the power, but it was too late. Only one foot had been saved.
Blood dampened the ground in front of the dumpster as well as the metal inside, making it appear as if an altercation had taken place right there, and the victim had been tossed into the dumpster to die.
“We won’t be able to tell anything until the medical examiner’s team sorts all this out,” Paavo said, although from the color, hardness and lividity of the foot that hadn’t been smashed, the death had occurred a few days earlier. He tried to find jacket or pants pockets to look for a wallet or other identifying papers, but the material had been badly shredded. At the moment, neither pockets nor their contents were identifiable. Finally, he peered with dismay at the mess that was their crime scene.
Things had been quiet in Homicide before this call came in. Almost too quiet. It had given Paavo time to confirm the decision he had made last night after listening to Katie Kowalski—that Katie had been right. She did need to move on with her life, and so did Micky. And so did he. If she met a good man, one who would be a good husband to her and a father to Micky—a full-time dad, not someone who visited once a month—so much the better for both of them. Paavo would find some way, in time, to continue to be a part of Micky’s life, and to be there to make sure the boy was well-treated, safe, and happy. He was good with that.
But now, he turned his full attention to what he knew best, dealing with a murder and the crime scene. It was located in the center of the busiest section of San Francisco during the week, and one of the quietest areas on weekends. The job of canvassing the Financial District and talking to anyone who might have seen or heard something, would be a nightmare.
“The poor bastard’s teeth were crushed when his head went through the compactor,” Yosh said. “Dental records won’t do it.”
Paavo nodded. “Let’s hope we have some fingerprints on file.”
“Yeah,” Yosh said, “once we find his fingers.”
* * *
Angie and her sister, Caterina Amalfi Swenson, spent five hours going to houses throughout the northern section of San Francisco, Angie’s favorite part of the city. Cat, as she liked to call herself, had been an interior designer for many years, and had recently moved to real estate. She was the second oldest of Angie's four sisters, born after Bianca, and before Maria, Francesca, and Angelina, the baby of the family.
Normally, Cat had little to do with her youngest sister, but recently Angie helped her out of a horrific mess in which she was accused of murder. If Angie hadn't dropped everything to go with her to Rome, she didn't know how she would have managed to prove her innocence. Oh, yes…Paavo had helped a bit, too.
She owed Angie, and now Angie was getting payback. Big time. Cat drove with her shoes off because her feet hurt. Louboutin open-toe platform pumps were normally comfortable, but given how far they'd traveled, she was lucky not to ache in more places than her feet.
They had started in the northeast part of the city at Telegraph Hill, and worked their way west through North Beach, Russian Hill, the Marina, Pacific Heights, and now they were in the Presidio Heights area.
The houses went from very expensive to extremely expensive. The one moderately expensive home needed a complete remodel, a new roof, and earthquake retrofitting. A wrecking ball would have been its best solution.
Angie became increasingly depressed. “Let me see what else is on your list,” she said, reaching for Cat’s realtor listing sheet.
Cat kept hold of the paperwork. “I think you should look for a place outside the city, Angie. How does Paavo feel about the suburbs?”
“I haven’t talked to Paavo about any of this yet. I want to see if buying a house is at all feasible for us.” She reached again for the sheets.
“The idea of becoming a home-owner seems to have hit you rather suddenly,” Cat said, holding the papers in the air as she eyed Angie with suspicion. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to Paavo about it before going any further?”
“Why bother him if there’s no place we can afford? Like I said, I’d like to see what else is on your list,” she repeated.
With what sounded distinctly like a “harrumph,” Cat handed Angie the list.
She scanned down the few remaining houses. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “How did you miss this one? It's $600,000 for a house in the Sea Cliff, four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, two-car garage, laundry room, tool shed, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Why didn't we start there? You never even mentioned it! Let’s go, quick!”
Cat didn't even look at the listing. “Don’t bother.”
“What do you mean? It sounds perfect.”
“I’ve heard about that place. It’s been listed forever, and has gone pending any number of times, but the deal always falls through.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. People find some excuse not to live there, I guess. My office manager told us not to get involved with it. It’s a pathway to frustration and a waste of time.”
“I want to see it.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“It’s my time to waste.”
Angie heard a poorly suppressed, “Sheesh.”
Chapter 3
HOMICIDE WAS LOCATED on the fourth floor of San Francisco’s Hall of Justice building, a massive gray block structure near freeway crossings in the city’s South of Market area.
That afternoon, Paavo and Yosh returned to their desks to go over what little information they had turned up so far on the dead body, and to brief the new chief of the Homicide bureau, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood. Eastwood, however, was in a meeting with the mayor.
Paavo knew they were going to have to wait for information from the medical examiner before they could do much on the case. Right now, the only thing they could say with certainly was that the victim wasn’t homeless—he wore shoes and socks far too expensive for that possibility.
Uniformed officers were going door to door asking questions, and one of them might come up with some findings to help them get started.
The phone rang. He expected Lt. Eastwood, but to his surprise, found his fiancée on the line. She almost never called him at work, knowing he didn’t like to be disturbed.
“I’m sorry to call,” Angie said, “but I’ve been worried about you. You sounded upset on the phone last night. Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
She waited a moment, then said, “Oh?”
“Really.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I called because I’ve been thinking about our living arrangements after the wedding. I know you’ve agreed to move into my apartment, but what if we found a house we could afford to buy? What if I went house-hunting?”
Of all the things he believed she might have been thinking about with their upcoming wedding, their living arrangement afterward wasn’t one of them. “House-hunting? Why?”
“I want to make sure that staying in my apartment is right for us,” she said.
He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. He owned a small bungalow in San Francisco’s outer Richmond district. He had gotten it at a decent price because it had no garage, no view, needed work, and was tiny. Angie’s shoes couldn’t fit in it, let alone the rest of her possessions. She had a much larger apartment, but it was in her father’s building. And Salvatore Amalfi didn’t like his baby girl marrying a cop. He wanted her to marry a doctor, a lawyer, or—god-forbid—a political up-and-comer. Anyone but a guy who ran around the streets of San Francisco with a gun and a target on his back.
Sal was even unhappier about their relationship since Angie had a propensity for putting herself in danger because of Paavo’s cases. “What’s this new concern, Angie? Where did it come from?”
“Nowhere,” she said.
He didn’t believe that one bit.
She continued, “I’m open to change, that’s all. This may be a good time to buy. Do you object?”
“Of course not, if that’s what you want to do.” The high price of San Francisco property mixed with Angie's expensive taste flashed before his eyes, making him glad debtor’s prison was a thing of the past. “But we’ve got to be able to afford what you find. Us, Angie, not your father.”
“Good. I'm here with Cat, and we’re going to look at houses. I love you and want you to be happy. You know that don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said, realizing that since she was with Cat, she had already made up her mind about house-hunting. They soon said their goodbyes.
Paavo shuddered at the thought of Angie and her realtor sister together. They rarely saw eye-to-eye, but when they agreed and put their heads together, anything could happen—including dashing off to Rome, Italy, where they went not long ago and caused one of the more harrowing episodes Paavo had ever experienced.
“What’s going on, Paavo?” Yosh asked. “You look worried. Is Angie already spending all your money? You aren’t even married yet.” Yosh, a six-foot tall Japanese-American, built like a sumo wrestler, had married his first love when in his early twenties.
“She’s going house-hunting,” Paavo answered.
“I thought your living arrangements were settled.”
“Did you say house-hunting?” Bo Benson spun his chair around to face Paavo and then leaned back in it.
“I’m afraid so,” Paavo replied.
Bo and Paavo had been the confirmed bachelors of the group. Bo loved women and loved dating. Date many and often was his way of thinking. In his early thirties, smart, good looking, African-American, sharp dresser, he hadn’t been tied down yet, and had no plans to be. He liked to joke that Angie had worn Paavo down. Not exactly, but even when Paavo tried to break it off, Angie kept coming around. She was convinced he needed her, and a convinced Angie was a force of nature.
Not that he particularly minded, if truth be told.
“You had a good deal going, moving into Angie’s fancy penthouse,” Bo said. “Why blow it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be her kept man,” Luis Calderon chimed in. One marriage, one divorce, and he had been miserable ever since. Calderon, in his late 40’s, was sour before the divorce, which many said was the reason the marriage hadn’t lasted. After it ended, he made pickles seem sweet. “Moving into her place isn’t the best way to start a marriage. Gives the woman too much power. That never works out. You got to show her who’s in charge, put her in her place right from day one.”
“‘Put her in her place?’” Rebecca Mayfield echoed, disgust dripping as she faced Calderon. Rebecca Mayfield, early 30’s, had never married. She dated occasionally, but hadn’t been serious about anyone as long as Paavo had known her…except maybe him. She and others in the squad often hinted that she was much more ‘right’ for him than Angelina Amalfi. Tall, blonde, buxom, serious, a crack shot, she was an absolute straight arrow when it came to policy and procedure, and always said exactly what she meant. Quite the opposite was Angie—short, dark hair, with a slight built, she skirted the law or anything else that stood in her way and readily skewed, if not skewered, the truth. All the Amalfis were that way. There was the ‘real’ world, and then the world according to the Amalfis.
Given all that, Paavo had to admit his cohorts were right. And yet, while Rebecca might be more his type than Angie, she didn't stir his blood, and around her he never did foolish things. He had never met anyone like Angie before, and he couldn’t stay away even though that would have been the rational thing to do. But the heart wasn’t rational, and his heart was lost to one petite Italian-American who had managed to wrap him around her fancy French-manicured little finger.
Rebecca was still reaming Calderon for his statement. “I’m amazed your marriage lasted as long as it did!” she said. “Just because Angie is willing to give Paavo a little corner of her lavish, expensive apartment which is in a building owned by her father, who has ultimate control over where the couple lives and how they live, and probably what they do and how they spend their money, that doesn’t mean Paavo would be 'a kept' anything!”
Paavo looked at Rebecca and winced. He hoped she was joking because if that’s what she really thought, he was in trouble.
“Angie basically lives rent free.” Yosh teetered on his chair’s back legs, hands resting on his protruding stomach. “If Paavo moves in with her and sells his place, think of all the money he’ll save. He could invest it, maybe buy his own apartment building in time. In fact, I can’t help but wonder when he’s going to quit police work to become a real estate magnate. Everyone knows Angie and her father consider his job way too dangerous. Instead of doing this, he can become a property mogul, the 'Donald Trump' of the West Coast.”
The others all laughed.
“Can’t wait to see his comb-over,” Bo chortled.
“Paavo is not going bald!” Rebecca said.
“Not yet,” Calderon muttered with a growl. “Just wait until he’s married and has all the Amalfi women ordering him around.”
The only detective who hadn’t said a word during all this was Rebecca’s partner, Bill Sutter. He’d been nicknamed ‘Never-Take-A-Chance’ because he was always super cautious on the job. He’d been thinking about retiring for years and had nightmares that he would be killed a few days before he started collecting his pension. Maybe that was why he hadn’t turned in his papers yet.
He looked ready to offer his two cents when, mercifully, Paavo’s phone began to ring again. Lt. Eastwood called to say he was ready for the briefing.
Paavo couldn’t remember ever being so happy to hear from his boss.
Chapter 4
HERE IT IS,” CATERINA said, “51 Clover Lane.”
“I can’t believe this location.” Angie couldn’t stop swiveling her head as she took in the view. “It overlooks the Pacific Ocean! This is incredible.”
Clover Lane was just off Sea Cliff Avenue on the western edge of San Francisco. The lane contained only two houses--number 51, on the side of the street facing the water, and across from it, number 60, a much smaller home. A guard rail stood at the end of the lane, and beyond it was open space for dog walkers or anyone who might want to scramble down the cliff to the narrow strip of sandy beach below.
The two gray and white clapboard homes appeared surprisingly out-of-place among the mansions that made up the bulk of the Sea Cliff, one of the city’s priciest neighborhoods. They seemed all but forgotten out on the small strip of land.
“The house looks a bit dated, don’t you think?” Cat stood with one hand on her hip, eying the property. “And there's nothing else here but that little cottage. It looks lonely.”
“Lonely? It’s surrounded by open space!” Angie eyed her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “That’s desirable in a city. A little landscaping and fresh paint and it’ll look one-hundred percent better. Let’s see the inside.”
Cat’s expression was decidedly sour as she opened the lock box to remove the front door key. Normally, Angie’s suspicions would rise at too good of a price for a house, and she would walk away from it. Cat’s reluctance to show it to her, however, had the opposite effect.
When Cat opened the door, Angie’s thoughts turned from obstinate to ecstatic. The foyer led directly to the living room with a wall of windows.
“The view is breathtaking!” The picture windows faced north to Baker’s Beach on the western edge of the Presidio with a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge spanning the water to Marin County. Looking west out over the Pacific, she could see the Farallon Islands, for once not lost in fog.
Angie struggled to turn her gaze back to the house. Furniture filled the living room and dining area beside it. “I thought you said no one lived here,” Angie said.
“No one is living here,” Cat repeated. “The furniture comes with the house. If you don’t want it, the seller will move it out before you take possession.”
“Well, if I were to take the place, this furniture would all go! It’s old and hideous.”
As Angie slid open the glass door to the back garden and stepped outside, Caterina’s phone chimed news of a text message causing her to dig into her purse to find it. At the same time, the candy dish on the coffee table rose up high in the air and then dropped with a thud onto the area rug.
Angie walked a little way out onto the patio. The yard had a level area, and then sloped downward. A surrounding fence gave protection from the area’s namesake, the sea cliff.
“It’s a client,” Cat said as she composed a reply. “Give me a moment before we see the rest of the house, okay?” Cat hit “send” and then looked up. “Angie?” Finally, she stuck her head outside. “What are you doing? I thought I heard you come back inside. I’ve been in here talking to myself!”
“Just looking around.” Angie went back indoors.
“That yard will never do once you have kids,” Cat said, pulling the sliding glass door shut. “They’d be over that fence and playing on the cliff in no time at all.”
“You may be right,” Angie said. “But by the time Paavo and I have kids old enough to go outside and play without being watched, I suspect we’ll do like so many people and move out of San Francisco. While we’re newlyweds, however, I plan to enjoy city life. Let’s see the kitchen.”
They walked through the dining area which also had a wall of windows facing the ocean, to the kitchen. The wall between the kitchen and dining room had been removed. The bar and stools in its place gave the kitchen an open and airy feel.
“This kitchen is a nightmare,” Cat said, running her hand over the off-white porcelain tile countertops. The appliances were also white. “I’d need sunglasses to work in here.”
The refrigerator door suddenly swung open. Then, the oven door did the same.
“My God, these appliances really are old,” Angie said as she shut both doors. “Or they were badly mishandled by someone. Not that it matters. I would want new, top-of-the-line appliances and granite countertops wherever I lived. This kitchen could be made truly beautiful!”
The refrigerator door opened once more and she gave it a shove with her elbow, closing it as she moved out of the kitchen. The more she saw of the house, the less sense it made that it hadn’t sold, and that the owners weren’t asking twice as much for it.
On the opposite side of the living room, a large master bedroom and bath also faced the water. One small room, perfect for a den or a future nursery, was across the hall from it, along with a guest powder room. Upstairs were two more bedrooms and a full bathroom. The view from the upstairs bedrooms was even more breath-taking than on the main level. Angie could see making one a guest room and the letting Paavo have the other to use as an office, man-cave, or whatever he wanted.
Angie was beside herself at this find. “If Paavo and I were to buy this house,” she said, “Paavo could either sell his house or rent it out and put the rent money towards the mortgage. We could make this work, you know.” She glanced at her sister. “By the way, your perfume is awfully strong. I noticed it when I came downstairs.”
“Strong? It’s the same as always!” Cat said indignantly. “But I think you’ve gotten ahead of yourself. There are better houses out there than this one.”
“But none with a better view or price!” Angie went off to see the laundry room, mudroom and garage. Cat stayed in the living room and made a quick phone call back to her office manager.
“I think I’m falling in love,” Angie said as she rejoined her sister.
Cat had just ended the call, dropped the phone back into her handbag and faced Angie with a big smile. “If you really want to buy the place, I’m sure I could get a good deal for you. I still owe you for that little incident that sent us to Italy. I’ll even throw in my share of the commission. Call it a wedding present for you and Paavo.”
“Really? That’s awfully generous.” Angie just stared at her, wondering what was up. Familial love didn’t flow in Cat’s veins; money did.
“Nothing’s too good for my baby sister.”
Now, Angie felt certain something odd was going on, but she was too excited to care. She spotted the candy dish on the floor. “Funny, I hadn’t noticed that before,” she said as she picked it up and put it back where it belonged. “This house could be the one!”
“You’ll have to get Paavo out here right away,” Cat advised. “Why don’t you call him and see when he’s available?”
Angie grew even more suspicious of her sister’s about face. “Wait, let me think about this first,” she said. “The problem is, it’s too perfect…except for this hideous furniture. It’s been on the market a long time, so why hasn’t it sold? I’d like to know more before I get Paavo involved. Could you find out its history? You said others dropped out of the deal. I’d like to know why.”
“What does it matter what others did if you love it?” Cat asked, with an emphasis on the word ‘love.’
Cat’s words and demeanor troubled Angie. “I’m not going to think about buying a place that has some kind of bad karma or mystery attached to it.” Her tone was emphatic and determined. “Find out all you can. Also, I want Connie to see it and hear its story. Only if everything sounds good will I bring Paavo out here.”
“Connie? You’re kidding me!” Cat shuddered.
“Connie has a clear head. She’ll be perfect.”
“Whatever,” Cat muttered as they went out the door.
As they walked out to Cat’s car, they missed what seemed to be an act of ceramic suicide as the candy dish rose off the table, flew through the air, hit the stonework around the fireplace and landed in tiny pieces on the hearth.
Evelyn Ramirez, the Medical Examiner, called Paavo to her office. It was in the basement, along with the city morgue and the autopsy room.
“I haven’t had a chance to do the autopsy yet,” she said, “but I found something that might help identify the victim, or at least give you a clue to someone who knows him.”
She picked up an evidence bag with a piece of a business card inside it. “It was covered in blood and stuck to some clothing. I suspect that’s why whoever removed everything else missed this. I used a wash to remove as much of the blood as I could. In any case, I did some investigating of my own with the help of a phone book.” The book lay open behind her desk and she pointed to an advertisement in it as she spoke. “The card looks like it’s from Zygog Software in South San Francisco. You can see that the ‘Zyg’ and the logo match Zygog’s. I’m not sure of the name on the card, but it looks like ‘Tay’ something. The rest of the card hasn’t been found yet.”
“Good job,” Paavo said. “This gives us a start. The fingerprints, such as they were, got us nowhere.”
Paavo and Yosh immediately drove to Zygog and asked to speak to the head of the personnel department. They explained the situation, leaving out most of the gorier details, and showed him a photo of the business card.
“That’s our card, all right,” Larry Peters said. “Tay…hmm. We have a Taylor Bedford who’s our top salesmen. Let’s hope it’s not him. But your victim could easily be one of his clients. Let’s see if Taylor’s available to speak with you.” Peters picked up the office phone and punched in a number.
He looked pale as he hung up and faced he detectives. “The staff secretary said he hasn’t arrived yet. He is expected; he should have been here by now.”
Paavo glanced at Yosh, then said, “May we see his boss?”
“Certainly.” Peters led them to Mark Carter’s office and quickly explained the situation.
“Let’s hope Taylor is all right,” Carter said. He was in his fifties, slim, with glasses and a receding hairline.
“Would you describe Bedford to us?” Paavo asked.
“He’s a bit over six feet, good physique—probably goes to the gym while he travels to stay fit. Brown hair; brown eyes.”
“Age?” Paavo asked.
“Forty.”
“Distinguishing marks or anything about him that might help with identification?”
“Nothing I know of,” Carter said.
The description fit that of their victim, as best they and the M.E. could tell.
“Would you like me to call his home?” Carter asked. “He should have returned on Friday. Maybe he’s simply sick.”
Paavo and Yosh listened as Carter talked to Larina Bedford. She said she expected Taylor home last night but he hadn’t made it. She had thought about calling Carter to ask him where Taylor might be, but decided to wait a little longer.
“I can’t imagine what happened to him,” Carter said to Mrs. Bedford. “But on the road things sometimes do get screwed-up. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.” With that he hung up and faced the detectives. “This doesn’t look good at all.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Paavo agreed. He and Yosh wrote down Taylor Bedford’s home address and phone number, plus other identifying information.
“Before we go,” Paavo said to Carter, “what’s Taylor Bedford’s position here?”
“Sales. Our company produces one-stop software that helps tool and die manufacturers and sales companies inventory and price their equipment, send bills, and so on. It also provides software assistance to mechanical engineers who work closely with the tool and die makers. Taylor’s territory is northern California. He travels two weeks a month to visit clients and find new ones.”
“How easy is it to learn to sell such software?” Yosh asked.
“Not easy at all. It’s a rarified world. That’s why Taylor has a huge territory and travels so much. He’s our most dedicated salesmen. I have to believe he’s all right.”
Chapter 5
CONNIE ROGERS LOCKED up her gift shop, Everyone’s Fancy, at six o’clock on the nose and followed the directions Angie gave her to Clover Lane. She arrived twenty minutes later.
As usual, she was on time; Angie was not. Connie and Angie met when Paavo investigated the murder of her sister, Tiffany, some time back. They immediately hit it off and had been close friends ever since. She once heard Angie’s oldest sister refer to her as “Ethel” to Angie’s “Lucy,” which she found insulting to both of them…most of the time.
Ten minutes later, Angie’s silver Mercedes CL600 coupe pulled into the driveway next to Connie’s ancient red Toyota Corolla. Cat’s white BMW SUV right parked behind her. “Thank you so much for meeting us,” Angie said to Connie as she got out of her car.
“I’m glad to help. From the outside it looks promising,” Connie said. “Great neighborhood.”
“We’ll go in and look around. Cat’s still trying to find out the history of the place. As soon as she does, she’ll tell me everything she’s learned.”
Cat walked up to them. “I’ll let you two in, but then I’ve got to run. It’s a long drive to Tiburon, and I want to get home before dark. Now, Angie, I’m trusting you to lock up the place before you leave. You know how important it is to me that you don’t mess up anything if I give you this key.”
“I know, I know. I’m not a child!” Angie wondered when her big sister would stop treating her like an idiot. “But first, have you found out anything at all yet?”
“Not much,” Cat said. “The owner is a widow. Apparently, she used to live in the house, but after her husband died she moved out and it became a rental. Now, her daughter put the house up for sale. I suppose the owner is too old to handle her affairs anymore.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Angie said. “But it doesn’t tell me why it’s so cheap and hasn’t sold in…how long has it been on the market?”
“Two years. But the real estate market has been soft.”
“Not in San Francisco.” Angie glanced down the lane to Sea Cliff Avenue. “And especially not in this neighborhood.”
Cat had no answer.
“All right, let’s go inside,” Angie said.
Cat opened the lockbox, and removed the key. “I could just unlock the door, and then put the key back in this box.” Cat gave Angie a stern look. “But in case you two lock yourself out of the house by mistake, or find some other door that needs to be unlocked with the key, I’m going to trust you with it.”
“All right, already!” Angie found all her older sisters very exasperating at times.
Cat showed her how to relock the box after placing the key back inside. She then left.
“Are you sure you want my opinion?” Connie asked as Angie unlocked the door. “If you love the house, what does it matter what I think?”
“I value your opinion,” Angie said. “Also, I want to see it without Cat standing over me. She’s acting very strange about this place. One minute she says I don’t want it, and the next she’s practically insisting I buy it. Something’s going on with her, and I don’t know what it is.”
“What worries me,” Connie said, “is that the house was a rental, and now has sat empty for a couple of years. Clearly, there’s something wrong with it. The land alone is worth what they’re asking. You and Cat both know that, Angie. I’ll look at it, but you need to as well, and not in a starry-eyed way.”
“I’m never starry-eyed,” Angie said. “Although this place is a quite a steal. Let’s go in.”
She opened the front door, and Connie’s immediate reaction was everything Angie had hoped for. The view was even more breath-taking now than it had been earlier because the sunset over the ocean had turned the sky a cascade of red and orange.
“Oh no, what’s this?” Angie hurried to the broken candy dish on the fireplace hearth. “This wasn’t here earlier. It must mean somebody else has come to see the house! Somebody else might be interested! Someone might even make an offer on it before I get a chance!”
“Calm down. It’s been empty for a couple of years; it won’t sell overnight,” Connie said as she wandered into the kitchen, then stuck her head into the garage before heading towards the opposite side of the house to see the bedrooms and bathrooms.
“What do you think?” Angie asked hopefully.
“It’s a beautiful house, but…” Connie put her hands on her hips and looked around. “I don’t know. This whole place has a strange vibe, as if someone is still living here. It feels as if the owner could come walking through that door any second and demand we leave.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Angie said.
Connie wouldn’t let it go. “I wonder why the owner isn’t still using it as a rental. Why leave it empty for two years? And what’s with all the furniture?”
“You’ve made your point.” Angie folded her arms. She had thought much the same thing, but hearing Connie voice the concerns didn’t make her happy.
Connie still wasn’t through. “Keeping the house meant the owner dusted, vacuumed, did yard work, and paid taxes on it. That’s crazy. I believe if something is too good to be true, run. This deal is definitely too good to be true.”
Angie cringed. “Don’t you trust my sister?” she demanded. The question sounded lame even to her.
“I trust you,” Connie said. To her, Caterina and Angie were mirror images. While Angie was remarkably selfless when she wasn’t in monomaniacal one-track-mind mode such as with this house, Cat was completely, unabashedly selfish. When both were on the same wave length, heaven help anyone standing in their way. In fact, all five of the Amalfi sisters were that way.
Behind them, a vase with silk flowers rose up, suspended in mid-air, from the small round table it decorated.
“The house does seem perfect,” Connie admitted. “And it also seems you’ve made up your mind about it, no matter what I say.”
“I’m sorry,” Angie said, realizing she ran roughshod over her friend’s opinion. “You’re right that I’m looking at it purely emotionally. I need your clear-headed thinking. What am I overlooking?”
Connie folded her arms and walked around. “I don’t know. Rationally, it’s great. It’s got a fantastic location. How many homes in San Francisco aren’t squeezed between two others? Your neighbor sneezes and you shout ‘Gesundheit!’ It’s a nice size; it’s pretty and well built. You’ll get a home inspection so you’ll know if it needs a new roof, or new electrical wiring, and so forth. There’s nothing I can rationally object to.”
The vase floated across the room towards the stone fireplace.
“But…?”
Connie shrugged. “Maybe it’s the thought of all the hours you’ll have to spend here alone at night, waiting for Paavo because he’s off on some homicide case until all hours. But I suppose if the case is interesting you’ll be sticking your oars in the water as usual, so being alone out here won’t be happening.”
The vase stopped moving.
“Stick my ‘oars in the water’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Angie asked, hands on hips. “I’ll admit that sometimes his homicide cases are interesting, but I’ve never, ever, gotten involved where I’m not wanted or, should I say, not needed.”
The vase did an about face and headed back towards the table.
Angie turned her head ever so slightly…and jumped.
“What’s wrong?” Connie asked, startled.
Angie gawked as the vase slowly settled onto the edge of the round table, and then slid to its center. She blinked several times. “Uh…”
“Angie?”
She walked over to the vase, stared at it a long moment. “Nothing.”
Connie put her hand to her chin as she continued to look around the room. “All right. If you must know, what bothers me about this house is what I already said: I can’t get over the feeling that someone is still living here.”
Angie turned her back on the vase, then looked over her shoulder at it once more. “You’re giving me the creeps!” Clearly, her eyes had been playing tricks on her. “And you’re making me see things. So just stop it!”
Connie placed her hand on the glossy white woodwork framing the opening to the kitchen. “If walls could talk, I wonder what these walls would say.”
Angie shuddered. “The more you talk, the more I don’t want to know! Cat suggested that the past is best left in the past.”
“Well, if Cat suggested it, how can it possibly be wrong?” Connie said. Angie knew she was being sarcastic. “Why not just see what Paavo thinks? If he hates it, case closed. If he likes it, you can always investigate further if you want to.”
“That’s a great idea!” Angie nearly jumped for joy. “No reason I should put all this on my shoulders! Paavo should have a say. Now, before we go, I’ll clean up the pieces of this broken candy dish. I’m going to buy a replacement. If I tell Cat the dish broke, she’ll find some way to blame it on me!”
She picked up the pieces. The bottom of the dish bore an imprint of English Spode china, Garden Rose pattern. “I know a shop downtown where I can get a replacement, or something close to it,” Angie said. “Cat will never know.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Angie,” Connie said as Angie switched off the lights and locked the front door.
* * *
Paavo and Yosh took Taylor Bedford’s coffee cup from his office and brought it to the crime lab where they matched the prints on the cup with those of the corpse in the autopsy room.
Now, they rang the doorbell of the dead man’s house. Judging from its size and its Marina district location, the Zygog sales job paid a lot more than Paavo would have expected.
A strikingly beautiful woman with sparkling blue eyes and black hair opened the door. “Are you Larina Bedford?” Paavo asked, showing his badge. Yosh did the same.
Her blue eyes widened with fear. “Is this about my husband?”
“We would like to speak to you,” Yosh said.
She invited them into the living room and they had her sit while they told her as gently as possible that her husband had been killed.
“Do you need me to identify his body?” she asked. Her eyes misted, but no tears fell.
“It won’t be…possible,” Yosh said, struggling to find a better word and realizing he couldn’t.
She looked ill. “My God,” she whispered.
They asked if they could call someone to be with her during this time.
“No, Inspectors.” She turned her head away from their scrutiny. “I’m used to being alone.” She took a few deep breaths then faced them again. “I knew something was wrong when Taylor didn’t come home last night. He always comes home Sunday night. I tried to call several times, but his phone went to voice mail. I hoped he had been delayed on his return trip and that’s why he wasn’t here, but that didn’t explain why he hadn’t phoned to tell me. He was”—her voice broke—“a thoughtful man.”
“How long had he been away?” Paavo asked.
“Two weeks, as usual. He traveled for business. Two weeks away; two weeks home. That was his schedule.” She stepped into the kitchen for a box of Kleenex. Taking one, she lightly dabbed the corners of her eyes.
“When did you last speak to him?” Paavo asked.
“Friday.”
“Where was he?”
“Sacramento, I think. I’m not sure. He has, had, a lot of customers there.”
That didn’t make sense to Paavo. Sacramento was only two hours from San Francisco. Why wasn’t he home sooner? “Did he work weekends?”
“In a sense, he did. He called it ‘schmooze’ time. He believed a customer found it hard to transfer his business to a competitor after being wined and dined. So he’d usually set up golf games or other outings for his clients on weekends.”
“And you didn’t expect him home until Sunday night?” Paavo asked. “Was that his usual day to come home?”
“Yes. He would roll in about nine p.m. We’d talk, and then he headed to bed to be bright eyed Monday morning. He was usually exhausted when he got home.”
“Do you have the names of the customers or places where he golfed?” Paavo asked. “Or who he met with over the weekend?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds odd, but he traveled so much, I stopped trying to keep up with him years ago. His secretary should know.”
“What’s her name?” Yosh asked.
“His name is Otto. Otto Link.”
Chapter 6
YOU WON’T HAVE TO worry about a thing, my dear,” Diane LaGrande said even before she sat down on Angie’s sofa. She insisted on visiting her clients’ homes to get a sense of their taste and color choices. That sounded logical to Angie, and she invited her over. “I’ve done this many, many times. I know exactly what is needed for a magnificent wedding.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Angie said. After her unhappy experience with a wedding planner her sister Frannie had praised—she should have known better than to trust Frannie!—she decided to go with the one constantly written up in the San Francisco Chronicle’s style section as the best in the Bay Area, and who charged accordingly. But this was Angie’s one and only wedding, and in such things, price should be no object.
“Is this your first marriage?” Diane asked.
“Yes, it is.” Since it was morning, Angie served mimosa with miniature cinnamon rolls and strawberry tarts.
“Isn’t that precious!” Diane took a big gulp of the champagne and orange mixture, then folded one leg over the other, and looked around the apartment, evidently secure in the idea that Angie could afford her service. “We’ll definitely create a wedding suitable to someone who lives in an apartment like this.” She flashed a big smile as she took in Angie’s art and furniture. Her gaze zeroed in on one wall. “Oh, my!” She stood and walked towards it. “Is that a Cezanne? A real Cezanne?”
“Yes,” Angie said. It was a small lithograph.
“He’s one of my favorites. An inspiration to me. Ah, yes! I can see it now.” Diane threw back her head, waving her arms as if painting a tableau. “You! Dressed in reds and yellows and greens; colors rich yet delicate like this Cezanne. Your bridesmaids in a dotted impressionist array... quel magnifique!”
“I want a white dress,” Angie said, folding her hands on her lap.
Diane slowly lowered her chin, eyes open and piercing. “White?” she asked in a voice that sounded like she’d just described the inside of a dirty toilet. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a new bride. Oh, well, I’m sure you can wear white, but we’ll have your bridesmaids in beautiful color! And never mind your dress.” She fluttered her hands as if dismissing Angie completely. “Everything else is what’s important. We’ll make your wedding into a veritable rainbow of colors, with an emphasis on the deeper, richer hues. Purple, blue…indigo!”
“I’m not really an indigo person,” Angie said.
Diane lifted one eyebrow. “So?”
Angie cleared her throat. “Well, I am the bride.”
“Yes. The bride who will be wearing white.” Diane looked down on her with something that struck Angie as very much akin to pity. “As I said, my dear, I’ve done this many times. Many times! My weddings are creative treasures. The very best possible! Memorable! Colorful! Daring!” She picked up her purse and turned towards the door. “I’ve got a good idea of what you want. I’ll get started on it right away. I may need to borrow the Cezanne at some point, to get the colors right.”
“Wait!” Angie hurried after her. “Let me think about this. I’ve got more interviews coming.”
“Excuse me?” Diane looked down on Angie as if she had two heads. “I told you I was free to work on your wedding. Surely, there isn’t anyone else you could possibly want.”
Angie squared her shoulders. “I expect you’re right, but I haven’t yet made my choice.”
Diane sniffed. “Well, I hope I’m still available when you come crawling back. Be sure to call me as soon as you decide, or I may have to disappoint.”
“I couldn’t have that,” Angie said, trying not to sound too sarcastic.
“I should hope not.” With that, Diane left.
Angie no sooner got rid of Ms. LaGrande than Cat unexpectedly showed up at her door. She stormed into the apartment then swirled around to face Angie. “You want Connie to be your realtor, fine! Let her handle the house sale!” Cat loudly harrumphed.
“Relax, Cat!” Angie went into the kitchen to make her a mimosa. She had plenty remaining. “This has nothing to do with Connie. The questions are mine, and I’m sure Paavo, too, will want to know the answers. Why did the owner stop renting out the house, and what happened that caused others not to buy it? They’re simple questions and should have simple answers.”
Cat took off her coat, then walked to the kitchen doorway, arms folded. “Who cares as long as you like the place? Are the answers really that important?”
Angie looked Cat straight in the eye as she held out the drink. “Yes!”
Cat heaved a sigh and gave a disgusted shake of the head. She took the drink to the sofa, then perched on the edge of it. “All right, if you must know. For a long time, when home prices were doing nothing but going up, the house was considered the owner’s nest egg. Now, times have changed. That’s all.” She reached for a cinnamon roll and took a big bite.
Angie sat in a chair, interested in hearing all Cat had learned. “That doesn’t answer my question. Why didn’t it sell?”
Cat put the roll down, professed it delicious, then took a couple of sips of her drink before explaining. “The house did sell…several times. But the people who bought it backed out before the sale was finalized. It happens all the time.”
Angie scooted forward. “Do you mean they changed their minds and backed out? All of them? That doesn’t make sense!”
“Calm down. It’s nothing. They had reasons that had nothing to do with the house.”
Angie folded her arms, her gaze shooting daggers at her sister. “Such as?”
Cat drank some more, then put the glass on a coaster on the coffee table. “One realized she had acrophobia, and couldn’t stand being so close to a drop off. Although it’s called a cliff, it’s not a sheer drop. People can, and do, climb on it all the time. Anyway, another said the constant sound of the waves made her nervous. You know that most people love to hear the sound of waves, and find it soothing and relaxing and oh, so very—”
“Is that all?” Angie interrupted.
“Well, let me see.” Cat picked up the glass again, taking a big gulp of the champagne-orange juice mix this time. “There was the couple who got a divorce. Luckily their marriage fell apart before they signed the final papers.”
“Great luck,” Angie muttered sarcastically. Cat didn’t even notice. Angie’s brows crossed. “Any more?”
Cat cleared her throat. “Well…I mustn’t leave out the woman who had a, uh, nervous breakdown before signing papers. The bank denied her loan at that point, so she shouldn’t really count.”
“Okay, I guess. That would certainly tie the place up for months with each transaction. But that doesn’t answer my other question. Why didn’t they continue to rent the house?”
“You know renters, they mess up places. The owner wanted it to look nice to sell it.”
“For two years?”
“Maybe…maybe no one wanted to rent it for a while.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped. “Maybebecausethefirstrentersdied.”
“What was that? Did you mumble…”
“Who cares what happened!” Cat said loudly. She began eating the rest of her cinnamon roll, saying a few words between bites. “None of it matters if you like the house. Just get Paavo to see it. If you buy it, I’m sure you’ll both be happy as clams.”
Angie looked at her suspiciously. “Who said clams are happy? What else was it you said? Something about first renters?”
Cat finished the roll and then knocked back the rest of her mimosa. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she said innocently. “Now, let’s think about something else. How are your wedding plans coming along?”
“Maybe because the first renters…?” Angie tried to recall…then, she felt herself go cold, as if all the blood drained from her body. She jumped to her feet. “Died! That’s what you said, wasn’t it? ‘Maybe because the first renters died.’ What’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me a couple died while renting the house?!”
“They…apparently, they died while living in the house. But it happened years and years ago.”
“What!”
“Don’t worry! They didn’t die inside the house.” Cat sounded indignant. “California law says I must disclose it if anyone died inside the house, for pity’s sake!”
“Well, that’s good!”
“Realtors have rules, you know. And a murder must be disclosed.”
“A murder? They were murdered?” Angie shrieked. “Where?”
Cat swallowed. “Out on the cliff. They were found near the edge of the cliff, both shot to death. But it’s not even part of this property, it’s beyond it. And it happened before the owner put up the fence.”
“Oh, my God! A murder!”
“It’s nothing to worry about. Besides, it happened years and years ago.”
“How many years ago?”
“The early 1980’s I believe.”
“What? The 1980’s? Wait a minute. I thought you said the house has been empty since those renters…well, since they died. Did I misunderstand?”
“Not exactly.”
“Didn’t you say the house has been empty two years?”
“I said it’s been for sale for two years.”
“And it’s been empty…?”
“Thirty…plus.”
Angie said nothing for a long while, then sat back down and slowly and calmly asked, “Are you saying no one has lived in the house since renters were murdered there over thirty years ago?”
“Look on the bright side.” Cat gave her a big smile. “The place is practically new! It hasn’t been worn at all.”
“Ah ha!” Angie cried. “So, you’re trying to push some loser house off on me!”
“It’s not a loser house! It’s a lovely house that has simply had bad luck. And I never tried to push it off on you! You’re the one who insisted you see it while I told you to ignore it, that it’s had a troubled past. But nooooo! You had to see it! You can’t blame the house for that! Or me!” Cat stood and poked Angie in the shoulder with her forefinger. “You, of all people, should understand bad luck. Think of all the jobs you’ve tried, and haven’t gotten anywhere with. You’ve been a food columnist, did radio, television, ran a cake baking business, tried to become a chocolatier—”
Angie pushed her hand away to stop the obnoxious jabbing of her shoulder. Even as a kid, Cat had skinny, pointy, fingers of steel and used them with relish. “All right, all right! I get the message.” Memories of all those jobs…and others…rushed at her in a wave of failure.
“Just as no one can blame you for the problems with your jobs,” Cat preached, “so you can’t blame the house just because the right person hasn’t bought it yet. Maybe you and Paavo are the right people. You should be sympathetic towards it!”
Angie seethed. “If I thought the house had feelings, maybe I would be!”
“But yesterday you loved the place. Why should this matter?”
“Apparently, it mattered to all the others who wanted to buy it!”
Cat looked stricken, then laughed, a bit too loudly. “Silly girl. When can Paavo see it?”
* * *
So far, Paavo had not found a reason for anyone to want Taylor Bedford dead, yet nothing about the case felt as if it were a random murder. The M.E. had placed the time of death as sometime Saturday evening, when Larina Bedford said Taylor should have been in Sacramento with some clients. Something told Paavo that he and Yosh were going to be spending a lot of time tracking down out of town clients and at the company’s headquarters.
After long hours with nothing to show for them, the two detectives decided it would be best to go home and start again fresh in the morning.
Home for Paavo didn’t mean going to his small house, but being with Angie. He called and asked her out to dinner to make up for missing dinner with her two nights in a row, but she insisted on cooking for him so he could relax. He liked that since she cooked better than any restaurant he knew of. She planned some “Italian comfort food”—spaghetti carbonara with homemade bread, red wine, and a garden salad with a variety of green vegetables, tomato, cucumber, and avocado.
He knocked on the door and she opened it almost immediately.
Even after getting to know her better than any other person in his life, the beauty and warmth of her smile when she greeted him still awed him. He liked nothing more than to look into her wide-set brown eyes as he put his arms around her and kissed her. After a while, he took off his jacket, removed his shoulder holster and gun and left them on a table in the corner of the living room while she poured him a beer, his beverage of choice, and a glass of chardonnay for herself.
He loosened his tie as he settled his long body on the sofa. She put Miles Davis on the stereo since Paavo liked jazz, then sat down beside him. He put an arm around her.
“Tell me about your house-hunting adventures,” he said. “Did Cat come up with any places you like?”
Angie nestled her head on his shoulder. “She did do that. The problem with most places is the price. Most houses in neighborhoods I like are outrageously expensive. Unless my job prospects change, we can’t begin to consider them.”
The last thing Paavo wanted was to have Angie talking about her job prospects, or lack of them. To him, she was bright, clever, and talented, and had a knack for cooking right up there—to his palette—with chefs in the fancy restaurants she sometimes dragged him to. He felt sure she could be another Wolfgang Puck, Emeril, or any of the numerous big-time chefs she talked about. But for whatever reason, that ability had never led to a good job.
“I don’t want you to feel you have to work, Angie. If the wolf is at the door, that’s one thing, but let’s not start out married life with that kind of burden. We’ll simply wait until the right place in the right neighborhood comes on the market.”
More than most people, homicide detectives knew San Francisco wasn’t all quaint cable cars and popular tourist attractions. Like any big city, there were areas that weren’t safe during the day, and became hell holes at night. Innocent people died or were maimed simply because they were caught in the cross-fire. He’d never forgive himself if he did anything that put Angie in danger--especially when she did that so well by herself.
“Actually,” she said, sitting upright. “I did find one house that I like, that’s in a great neighborhood and is affordable.”
“Oh?” It wasn’t like her not to blurt out good news. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Nothing.” He lied. “Tell me about it.”
“Right now, I’m still checking it out. The house has been on the market for a couple of years. It’s a lovely place in the Sea Cliff, with an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean.”
“The Sea Cliff? You mean the area where, not long ago, your sister tried to sell a house and found a dead body inside?”
“Yes, Cat knows the area extremely well.” Angie didn’t seem to realize what was wrong with this picture.
Paavo shook his head. “Those places cost a million plus. What are you thinking? You know that’s out of our reach no matter how generous your father will be with the loan terms. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a good idea to get involved in a house at this point in our lives.”
“Don’t worry so,” she said, giving him a quick kiss. “What if I told you the house was listed for $600,000? It’s a lot of money, but not for San Francisco, and not for that area.”
The unbelievable price stunned Paavo. His little cottage would sell for between $400,000 to $500,000 not because of the house but because of the value of the land it sat on. “As I asked earlier, what’s wrong with it?”
She grabbed his hand. “Do you think it’s a good deal if everything checks out?”
“Check it out really carefully,” he cautioned.
“Wonderful!” She gave him a big hug. Finally, he saw the Angie he knew and loved as she bubbled over with enthusiasm. He was about to kiss her when she popped her head up. “As soon as my questions get answered, I’ll take you to see the place. I hope, I hope, I hope it all turns out as I—”
“Hope?” he offered.
“Yes!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He tried to hold her, but she sat up again. “Now, before we have dinner and can talk about other things, there’s one little bit of information you can help me with.”
“Oh?”
“The last couple who lived there were murdered…not in the house, but behind it, on the cliff above China Beach. It happened sometime in the 1980s. Would you be able to find out who they were and why they were killed?”
“We should have some sort of record,” he said. “But that was over thirty years ago. You don’t think that’s why the house’s price is so low, do you?”
“Definitely,” she said. “If a murder happened in the house, I wouldn’t want anything to do with it.”
Now he sat upright. “Really? If it’s a good deal, who cares what took place thirty years ago?”
“I’d want to know!”
“Afraid of bad juju? Ghosts?” he asked with a grin. “It’s a house. Walls, window, doors. What people have or haven’t done near the house means nothing.”
“You are so logical, Paavo,” she said. “What would I do without you? Are you saying if we both like the house and everything else about it seems fine, maybe we’ll want to buy it?”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting,” she exclaimed. “And sensible. Okay, I feel much better now! And I’ll be even better when you find out what happened out there, who the people were that were murdered, and why. Cat assures me the murders had nothing to do with the house.”
She was protesting too much. It troubled him. Sensible and logical were not usually part of Angie’s vocabulary. “Look,” he said, “if you would be bothered by what happened—”
“No, no, no! I can put it out of my mind. Whatever happened to them won’t have anything to do with how I feel about buying the property. It’s simply idle curiosity.”
He had dealt with those “idle curiosity” requests of Angie’s before, and pretty much reached the conclusion that as long as what she wanted to know wasn’t illegal, it saved time to simply comply rather than have her wear him down bit by bit. “Give me the address and anything else you might have, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Wonderful!” She stood up. “Dinner will be ready in a little while!”
He caught her hand and drew her back down to his side. “I’ve missed you,” he said softly as he took her into his arms. “Would it be so bad to start with dessert?”
Chapter 7
WHEN PAAVO LEFT FOR work the next morning, Angie woke up long enough for him to kiss her good-bye, and he was pretty sure she had gone back to sleep before he left her apartment. Since their engagement, he had moved some clothes, toiletries and shaving supplies to her house. He could imagine living here. It was convenient, it was a beautiful place, the rent Angie paid was miniscule…but it wasn’t his and wasn’t hers. She had been right about that. If she found a good house at the right price, personally, he wouldn’t care if the Manson family had lived there. But he could see that Angie might.
In Homicide, he went through Taylor Bedford’s appointment book and credit card expenditures. It showed that he had been at the Masco Tool and Supply in Sacramento on the Friday before his death.
Strangely, Bedford’s credit card didn’t show any hotel charges for Friday or Saturday nights. Although Bedford had been killed on Saturday, he wasn’t expected home until Sunday, so he should have been staying somewhere those two nights…unless Larina Bedford lied, and Bedford had, in fact, come home after his last meeting in Sacramento.
Paavo looked over several months of credit card charges and a clear pattern emerged. For one week, Monday through Thursday, there would be a string of hotel bills throughout northern California, then a three night stay at the Mountain Shadows Resort in Healdsburg, followed by another string of Monday through Thursday hotel bills all over the area. For the next two weeks, there would be no hotel charges. This agreed with what Larina Bedford said about Taylor being home two weeks, and then two weeks on the road.
But she also said he spent weekends with clients. No charges were put on his business credit card for those expenses, however—except for the weekends in Healdsburg. Paavo would need to check Bedford’s personal credit cards to see if he covered all those expenses himself.
Now, while Yosh went back to Zygog Software to continue discussions with Bedford’s boss, secretary, and co-workers, Paavo decided to head north.
Sacramento was about two hours from San Francisco. It should have taken longer to drive there, but anyone who stuck to the 65 mile per hour speed limit along the multilane Highway 80 would get run over by every other car on the road. Slow drivers, not speeders, were the cause of road rage on California highways.
Talking to the owner of Masco, Paavo learned that Bedford had spent only two hours with him on Friday morning going over updates and add-ons to the software packages, plus arranging for a trainer to come in and give some advanced lessons to the accounting staff. Paavo asked other key people if they had any dealings with Bedford on Friday. None had, and the owner had never been taken out to dinner or anywhere else by Bedford in all the time they had worked together. And, he didn’t even play golf.
So, if Bedford didn’t spent time with his client on Friday evening or Saturday, where had he gone?
Paavo had photocopied a number of other pages from Bedford’s appointment book and decided to check on some other clients near Sacramento. None of them had seen Bedford for over a month. None ever went to dinner, golf games, or anything else with the salesman.
Going through Bedford’s business charges, he spent Monday night in Redding, Tuesday in Shasta, Wednesday in Marysville, and Thursday in Sacramento.
Before that, he had spent the weekend in Healdsburg…Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, just as he had every fourth week for the five months’ worth of statements Paavo had copied. Why there? The small town in northern Sonoma County was hardly a hotbed of anything, let alone the tool and die trade.
Bedford had only one client in Healdsburg, Steelhead Tool and Die.
Paavo drove to Healdsburg where he met with the owner of Steelhead, a small family-run business. He learned Bedford showed up on that Friday afternoon for no more than twenty or so minutes to check on how things were going. He did that like clockwork, about once a month. While the owner appreciated the attention, he hadn’t asked for it and frankly rarely needed it. As with the Sacramento client, the owner had never gone to dinner or attended any kind of social outing with Bedford.
Paavo saw a pattern. He saved himself some travel by phoning Bedford’s clients in Ukiah, Eureka and Shasta. Same story in all three places. Bedford was not the winer-and-diner his wife thought.
While in Healdsburg, he went to the Mountain Shadows Resort, where Bedford booked rooms every fourth Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.
“Oh, yes, I know Mr. Bedford,” the desk clerk said solemnly, his black eyes wide as he looked from Paavo’s badge to the stern detective.
“He’s a regular guest here, I understand. Once every month or so, he stayed the entire weekend,” Paavo said.
“Well, um.” The clerk cleared his throat. “I’m not sure you could say that. He comes here once every four weeks, and he always pays for three nights. But”—cough, cough—“he doesn’t stay the whole time. He comes by, signs his credit card statement as if he’s staying, but then he goes to the room, showers, and changes his clothes to something much more casual. His wife meets him in the parking lot. He leaves his car here and the two drive away. I don’t know where, of course. He comes back Sunday night, spends the night, and leaves early Monday morning.”
“He would pay for three nights, but stay one?” Paavo wanted to make sure he heard correctly.
“That’s right. The maids started to talk about the guest who rarely slept in his bed. I was curious about it, and watched. They were right! As I said, on Sunday evening, he returns.”
“Are you sure his wife was the person with him?” Paavo asked.
The clerk looked even more uncomfortable. “Um, maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but the woman…she wasn’t the type that looks like a girlfriend. She was kind of, I don’t know…frumpy?”
“I see,” Paavo said, even more confused. “Did you see the woman more than once?”
“I did. Every time.”
Paavo nodded, then thanked the clerk as he handed him his card and explained that he was investigating Taylor Bedford’s murder.
As he left, he wondered who the woman was. He couldn’t imagine anyone ever describing Mrs. Larina Bedford as frumpy.
* * *
Angie was in a house-hunting mood after her talk with Paavo the night before, but she wasn’t one to settle on the first place she liked and could afford. When she learned Paavo would be out of town and probably not return to the city until quite late, she called Cat and informed her she wanted to spend the entire day—as long as it took—to check out every house that she could afford in the city, regardless of neighborhood, condition or anything else.
The hour was late when Angie stumbled back to her apartment and flopped down, exhausted, on the bed.
She had seen more houses than she thought possible, but refused to stop until she viewed them all. Caterina was ready to kill her before they reached the last one.
But now she knew. The house at 51 Clover Lane was more of a buy than she ever dreamed.
She wanted it.
Somehow, she would get it.
Chapter 8
GAIA WYNDOM HAD left a message on her bosses’ phone early Monday morning saying she was ill and would need to take sick leave. Her boss thought it odd when she didn’t show up or call on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, but hesitated to do anything because she was such a private person. Strangely private, in fact. He knew she lived alone and had no family. Finally he got up the nerve to phone her house on Thursday to see how she felt.
No one answer his call. The only emergency contact number in her personnel file listed a neighbor who sounded completely shocked that Ms. Wyndom would have given anyone her number as a ‘contact.’ The two never said more than “Hello” to each other.
The neighbor did say, however, that she had noticed Gaia’s living room lights remained on all night for the past few days, which wasn’t like Gaia at all. She normally shut off all lights by ten p.m. at the latest.
The supervisor thought and thought about it, and finally called the police. They sent someone who knocked on the door, but received no answer. On Friday, when she still hadn’t shown up or answered any phone calls, the police entered her small, Sunset district home to investigate. And then called Homicide.
Officer Murphy, who secured the scene, let Paavo and Yosh into the apartment. The first thing he pointed out was a piece of notepaper in plain sight on the coffee table. They read it.
To Nobody:
You, nobody, cared about me.
You, nobody, loved me.
When I needed you, nobody was there;
When I cried alone at night, nobody comforted me.
I cannot go on sharing my life with nobody.
And so, I have decided to become nobody, too.
Gaia, no more
Officer Murphy then showed them the way to the bathroom. Gaia Wyndom, wearing a plain white nightgown, lay in a tub filled with water. No visible signs of how she had died were evident. Judging from the condition of the body, she had not been dead long.
It certainly looked like suicide, but homicide detectives were taught to never leap to conclusions. Clever murderers could fake a suicide and a suicide note. On the other hand, sometimes people did kill themselves.
Findings from the crime scene investigators and the forensics unit would tell quite a bit.
As Paavo and Yosh looked over the house to learn about the victim, the M.E. and her team arrived.
Gaia Wyndom was 43 years old, and had owned her house for twenty-two years. Paavo and Yosh could not find a single photo of her or anyone else in it. Both detectives looked through drawers and closets to find any bit of information about her. They found bank statements, utility bills and such, but nothing else—no diaries, journals, or anything similarly personal.
Even her medicine cabinet didn’t have a single prescription in it. They started to wonder if she ever really lived in that house, but food filled the refrigerator as well as the pantry, clean dishes were ready to be put away in the dishwasher, and a few pieces of clothing were in a laundry basket.
“I can’t remember seeing a house so empty of personality,” Paavo said to Yosh as he went through drawers in Gaia’s bedroom. “Nothing here indicates she had any contact with anyone else. Her mail was all bills, and her laptop had no e-mail except a couple pieces of spam. She may have wiped it clean. I’ll get CSI to look into it.”
Yosh checked her phone and saw it had no caller I.D., not even a last number redial feature. He then went out to the garage to look for boxes of memorabilia—old school yearbooks, anything at all to show Gaia Wyndom had a life. He came up empty.
“Does this make sense?” Paavo asked as the two stood in the living room of the eerily sterile house. The heat was on, but it felt cold.
Paavo walked back towards the bathroom where Officer Murphy stood watching the medical team working. He asked, “Who called in the death?”
“We got a report of a no-show from her place of employment. After twenty-four hours, we entered the house, found her, and called it in.”
“It’s amazing they noticed she was gone,” Yosh said. “There’s nothing here to indicate what kind of a person she was, what she liked, who she knew. Nothing.”
“When did the employer last hear from her?” Paavo asked.
“Monday.”
Paavo was surprised by that. “Five days ago. The body doesn’t look as if she’s been dead five days. If she killed herself, she must have thought about it for a few days before acting.” He turned to the M.E. “Any thoughts on time of death, Evelyn?”
“I’m going to have to get back to the lab,” Ramirez said. “The findings aren’t making much sense, but the bath water could be complicating it. From the condition of the body, I guess—and it’s only a guess—she’s been dead a day or two.”
“I wonder what she did all week,” Paavo said.
“Maybe contemplating suicide, she threw away everything personal,” Ramirez suggested, then returned to her team.
“I’ll be most curious as to what people at her work say about her,” Paavo said.
“Let’s hope they don’t find her as much a nobody as she felt herself to be,” Yosh said with a nod to the suicide note on the coffee table.
Paavo faced to Murphy. “Do you have the name and phone number of the person who called in the missing person report, and her place of business?”
“I do.” Murphy flipped through his papers. “A supervisor, Julio Sanchez, called us. The name of the company where she worked is Zygog Software in South City.”
Paavo could scarcely believe what heard.
Yosh’s mumbled comment was more to the point. “Holy shit!”
* * *
Paavo and Yosh returned to Zygog in South San Francisco. Now that two of its employees had been found dead, they spoke to the Chief Executive Officer to explain that their investigation at the company would be more wide-spread than it had been so far.
Yosh talked to Gaia Wyndom’s supervisor and co-workers. She had chosen to work ten hours a day Monday through Thursday, with Fridays off. No one knew her well, and everyone said she seemed perpetually sad and perpetually tired. She only perked up when Taylor Bedford walked by, although no one had ever seen them say anything more than “hello” to each other. And now both were gone.
One person remarked on the fact that she had cut and styled her hair about six months ago, and that the new style looked much more attractive on her. She hoped that meant Gaia would come out of her shell, but she didn’t. She never wore make-up, and her clothes were uniformly drab and matronly.
Paavo went to Taylor Bedford’s office, where he found the secretary, Otto Link. Link appeared to be in his mid-forties or fifties, with short Grecian-formula brown hair to match his brown eyes, and a slight build. Paavo had spoken to him once before, but the man was so broken up over Bedford’s death, he was scarcely coherent.
Link showed Paavo to Bedford’s office. There, Paavo hunted through paperwork, datebooks, and e-mails to try to find any kind of connection with Gaia Wyndom.
He also did a more in depth review of Bedford’s schedule, going back more than a year. He discovered that in the past six months Bedford’s schedule had become much more stable than previously—two weeks out of town, and then two weeks in the office. Prior to that time, he varied his schedule, although about fifty percent of his working hours were spent on the road.
“Why did Mr. Bedford change from a week or a few days away here and there, to this very strict schedule of two weeks here and two away?” Paavo asked Link.
“He said he liked having a more set schedule,” Link replied. “That way he’d always know if he would be in town or not.”
“His wife said he worked weekends when away, wining and dining his clients.”
“Oh?” Link smirked. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that.”
Link gave Paavo the addresses of every place Bedford visited over the six months prior to his death, as well as every hotel he stayed in. He saw that Bedford only charged the company for stays in Healdsburg every fourth weekend.
“Do you have any idea why Bedford would have been in the vicinity of Commercial and Kearney streets on Saturday night?” Paavo asked.
“None at all. It’s close to the office, but we’re closed on weekends.”
“Any clients near there? Any favorite restaurants or bars he might have mentioned?”
“I can’t say for sure.” Otto looked perplexed. “He went to a lot of places around here. He liked a drink or two or ten, as is typical among salesmen as I’m sure you know.”
“Do you know if Bedford knew Gaia Wyndom?” Paavo asked.
“I believe he did.” Otto’s mouth scrunched up as if he’d bitten into a lemon.
“Did they work together on projects or anything else?”
“She worked in the Records division where mail, e-mail, and telephone orders were maintained. She wasn’t a manager, but a ‘technical advisor’ to the clerks who filed the company’s paperwork. Mr. Bedford would only have reason to talk to her if had a problem, such as his clients not getting something on time or mistakes in billing. Salesmen almost never needed to go to Records.”
“I see,” Paavo said. That didn’t help much.
Otto swallowed a couple of times before he asked, “Rumor has it Gaia committed suicide. But that’s hard to believe. Do you think the two deaths are connected? Could the killer be someone here at work? Everyone’s talking about it. We’re all scared.”
“We don’t know that Ms. Wyndom was murdered,” Paavo said. “Why is her suicide hard to believe?”
“She was very quiet. Hardly spoke to anyone, just did her work. When she did talk, her conversation was all about her cats, how being a vegetarian was morally superior, and the TV shows she watched. I mean, with her life, what would make her want to commit suicide? Nothing, I’d say.”
“There were no cats in her house,” Paavo said.
“Really?” Otto looked perplexed. “Maybe they died. Maybe that’s why she killed herself! She was devoted to them.”
“If you think of anything at all about either of them, give me a call.” Paavo handed Otto his card.
Otto cocked his head then raised his eyebrows, and in a low voice asked, “How about over cocktails some evening?”
Paavo’s eyes narrowed. “Did you and Mr. Bedford go out for cocktails?”
Otto gave a knowing grin. “We certainly did.”
Paavo nodded. “Interesting. If you have something to discuss, you can find me at Homicide. Just call that number.” He headed toward and elevator and hit the up button.
“Oh, all right. You can’t get blame a guy for trying. These days, who knows?” Otto followed him, standing close as Paavo waited for the elevators. “The executive suites, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” Paavo said.
“You’ve met Greenburg then?” Otto referred to the company’s founder, Thomas Greenburg.
“He wasn’t in last time I was here.”
Link shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered. If you expect to find out anything from Mr. Greenburg, you’re going to be a very, very disappointed boy. Do come back and see me anytime.”
The elevator doors opened, and Paavo got on. Alone.
Thirty-five year old Thomas Greenburg was a computer genius who started Zygog Software seven years earlier. It was now worth hundreds of millions of dollars and remained privately owned. Considering the problems Facebook and a few other software companies had when they tried to go public, Greenburg planned to keep it that way. There were other differences between Zygog and better known software businesses. One, it wasn’t in Silicon Valley, and two, it made a huge profit based on a physical product, not simply advertising dollars.
A secretary directed Paavo down a long hall. She told him to knock on the door, and then as if to acknowledge that she knew that wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done, she tightened her lips and gave a small shrug of the shoulders before spinning on her heel and returning to her desk.
Paavo knocked twice more before he heard a mumbled, “Come in.”
Greenburg didn’t stand or otherwise acknowledge him, but kept staring at his computer screen and occasionally hitting one key, then staring some more. He sat on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees as he bent forward, eyeglasses just a few inches from the monitor. He wore a sweatshirt, Levis, and Nikes. The shoes seemed to be the most expensive thing in his office. His shaggy red hair looked uncombed and he looked unwashed.
Paavo waited a moment then moved closer, badge in hand. “Paavo Smith, Homicide. I’m here to talk to you about Taylor Bedford and Gaia Wyndom.”
Greenburg hit another button, then pushed his glasses up on his nose and frowned. “I heard they were killed.”
“Both are dead, yes,” Paavo said.
“Terrible.” Greenburg hit about ten keys in rapid succession.
“What do you know about them personally? Were they involved in anything new or unique here at work?”
At Greenburg’s blank look, Paavo added, “Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Tell you?” Greenburg looked confused. “You can check with Personnel. Their evaluations are on record. Actually, everything’s online. I can look them up for you.” He immediately began pressing keys, paying no attention to Paavo who now stood right in front of him.
“No need,” Paavo said. “They weren’t killed because of their job performance. Were the two of them involved in anything together that you can think of? Any special programs, new products—anything at all tying them together?”
“No. I handle all new projects. They were Sales and Records, not the sort who work on R&D.”
“How did they get along with their supervisors? With other employees?”
Greenburg’s eyes darted from one side to the other, then back to his computer monitor. “I don’t know. I never heard of any problem with them.”
Paavo stared at Greenburg a moment, then took a photo of Gaia from his folder. “Do you know this woman?”
Greenburg took the photo and stared at it. “I don’t think so.”
“What about him?” He handed Greenburg a photo of Bedford.
“Sure. He works here. I’ve seen him around a few times. Oh, wait…that’s Bedford, isn’t it? And the woman…is she the one killed? What was her name again?” He looked up at Paavo and didn’t even seem embarrassed.
“Thank you, Mr. Greenburg.” Paavo put the photos back in his folder. “I’ll be in touch.”
As he left the office, he could only think that Otto was right.
Chapter 9
ANGIE WAS THRILLED when Paavo called to invite her to a quick dinner. He had managed to take a look at the record of the Sea Cliff murders and wanted to fill her in before he went back to Homicide. He knew he faced a long night there.
They met at an Indian restaurant. Over chicken vindaloo, shrimp masala, vegetable samosas, and naan, he told her all he had learned. Angie took in every word.
Eric and Natalie Fleming had been married for only eight months and lived at 51 Clover Lane when they were found shot to death near the edge of the cliff overlooking China Beach.
The way the bodies were situated, it appeared Natalie had been running away from Eric when he shot and killed her. Supposedly, he then turned the gun on himself with a bullet to the temple.
They had been dead two days before their bodies were discovered. No one had reported hearing the gunshots because no one in that neighborhood believed that was what they heard—most assumed they had heard a car backfiring.
A trace of gunpowder residue had been found on Eric’s clothes, but it wasn’t enough to decide he had fired the gun, just that the gun had been near him when fired. They found no gunpowder on his hands, but a light rain had fallen and could have washed it away.
Everyone who knew them said they were a devoted couple with no hint of a rocky marriage. Natalie was beautiful, glamorous, and an heiress. Eric had made money moving from one Silicon Valley start-up to another, just as many young computer nerds did back in those halcyon days, and he stopped working altogether after his marriage to enjoy life with his rich wife. Eric was described as a lover, not a fighter. No one could believe he even owned a gun, let alone would use it on his wife. Also, no one believed anyone would want to kill them.
The gun found at the scene, the murder weapon, was unregistered. The investigating detectives, now both retired, had refused to state that Eric Fleming had murdered his wife. Instead, they put everything in the cold case files, meaning the murder remained unresolved to this day.
Angie shook her head. “Two young people, in love, newly married, no money worries, no employment issues, no known problems…and then they were dead. How horrible! I wonder what really happened to them.”
“I can’t tell you. The investigators could find no motive.”
“There’s got to be a reason. Even if it was a random shooting, there’s got to be some sign—other similar deaths, a madman in the area, something.”
“Their car’s disappearance adds to the mystery,” Paavo said. “Eric owned a two-seater Mercedes sports car. It didn’t turn up until a year later, half-in and half-out of the Russian River. Some kids were hiking in a rugged part of Sonoma County and found it. Other than that, no one found anything to explain what had happened to the couple.”
Angie pursed her lips. “Maybe the investigators simply weren’t looking in the right places.”
“There’s not much more to be done. Maybe they didn’t perform the most complete investigation, but it happened thirty years ago.” Just then his cell phone rang, and he took the call. He wasn’t on it long. “More forensics results are in. I’ve got to get going.”
She nodded. “Okay. I appreciate the information you found.”
He put money on the table for the bill and tip, then helped her with her coat. “Now that you know what happened, you’re going to decide about the house on its own merits, right?”
She didn’t look happy, but she agreed. “I can do that.”
* * *
“How is it you have a key to this place?” Stan asked Angie as they stood on the front porch of the 51 Clover Lane house. “Don’t you need to be a realtor to have one?”
After learning about the Flemings and their death, plus Paavo’s opinion that a murder near the house wasn’t a game changer as far as he was concerned, she wanted to see the house one more time. Since Paavo had to return to Homicide, she called Stan.
“My sister’s a realtor,” Angie said as she unlocked the front door.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Stan pointed out.
“Some things you don’t want to know,” Angie said as she slipped the original house key back into the lock box, then put the copy she had made into her purse. It took her all of a minute to have the front door key duplicated at a hardware store. If Angie told Cat what she had done, Cat would have thrown a fit. But that was just for show. She was sure Cat left her with the key so she could copy it. After all, Cat knew she wouldn’t steal anything from the house, and also knew she would want to visit it about three dozen times before making up her mind about the place. The last thing Cat wanted was to drive back and forth from Tiburon to escort her on all those visits.
“Anyway, Cat talked to the owner, and she’s so happy that someone is serious about possibly buying the house, she told Cat I should feel free to come and go as often as I like. She’s even willing to give me a lease-option if I wish. Here we go.” Angie swung open the door and let Stan enter.
“This place has style, doesn’t it?” he said as he wandered through the large living and dining room, inspecting the woodwork and hardwood floors. “An older home that has been beautifully remodeled to take advantage of the setting.”
Angie put the candy dish she’d bought to replace the broken one on the coffee table, then followed him as he strolled into the kitchen. “You’ll have to gut this,” he said with a frown.
“Not immediately. If I change out the old appliances, the rest can wait.”
He turned on a burner on the range. “At least it’s gas, not electric. That helps.”
Angie led him to the bedrooms, starting with the two upstairs, and ending with the master.
“Large. Nice view,” he said, then walked into the master bath. “It should be much more plush.”
Stan opened the sliding glass door in the master bedroom and stepped out to a private deck overlooking the ocean. “As much as I love my apartment, I miss being able to step outside and be surrounded by nature. This is quite nice, and in the back yard you have room to put in a little garden, maybe herbs, or even a few flowers. People always told me I have a green thumb.”
“I didn’t know that about you,” Angie said.
“Yes. I used to grow a lot of houseplants. Talk to them and mist them daily, that’s the trick.” He leaned back against the banister surrounding the deck and looked at the house. “Pleasant house, this.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“A good deal, you said?”
“An excellent deal.”
“Well, if you don’t want it, let me know,” Stan said, his expression a portrait of sorrow. “My apartment won’t be the same without you living across the hall. And if you’re still there after you’re married, it’ll mean I’ve got that big cop watching my every step.” He reached out and took her hand. “I know he’s jealous of me because of our relationship, Angie. For that reason, I know I won’t be comfortable staying there.”
She could scarcely believe she heard right. Paavo, jealous of Stan? He was even more delusional than she imagined. She pulled her hand free and then patted his shoulder. “Stan, don’t be ridiculous. If I leave, I’ll make sure to tell my father to only rent to someone who’s a good cook.”
“You’re mocking me now.” He turned around to face the water and, bending at the waist, rested his forearms on the railing as he stared out at the ocean. “I can’t imagine living there without you nearby. I’ll have to move. If you don’t take this house, I may have to buy it.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic!” Angie mimicked his pose, enjoying the ocean view herself. “Did I tell you there’s something strange about this place? That many people have attempted to buy it, but the deal always fell through?”
“You never mentioned that. What’s the problem with it?”
“It might be…” Angie paused a beat, and then hit him with: “because there was a murder.”
“A what?” His eyes widened and he stood up straight.
Angie relayed all she had learned from Paavo.
“That story gives me goose bumps. I think I’ve just changed my mind about wanting to live here,” Stan said.
“Good, because I’ve decided I don’t care,” Angie announced. “I like this house, in fact, I love it! I mean, it’s not as if their ghosts are haunting the place.”
Just then, they heard a crash from the living room.
They gawked at each other, and then rushed inside. The vase that had been on the small round table now lay broken on the hardwood floor, its silk flowers spread around it. The vase was the one that seemed to re-center itself on the table the last time Angie visited.
“What happened?” Stan asked, his eyes bulging.
“Why don’t you shut the bedroom’s sliding glass door?” Angie said uneasily. “It must have caused some sort of a draft.”
“A damned strong draft!” Stan muttered as he stepped into the bedroom to shut the door.
Angie picked up the pieces of the white porcelain vase and the silk flowers. “I guess I’ll be looking for a replacement.”
“That gave me a bit of a start.” Stan chuckled. Back in the living room, he sat on the green and gold sofa, his hands clasped behind his head, elbows out, feet crossed on the coffee table as he studied the room, the view, the setting. “This house is definitely not right for you and Paavo. He works with murders. Living here would be too much like work for him. Besides, you’d have to completely redecorate it. Get rid of all the frou-frou, use sleeker lines in the furniture to open the place up. Add color to the walls. I think my interior decorator friend, Ernesto, would either laugh himself to death or die of shock if he saw this place.”
The candy dish Angie had just replaced rose up off the coffee table. Stan watched it in horror. “What?”
He jumped to his feet. Angie froze. The two stared slack-jawed as the dish hovered, then moved back from Stan a moment before it rocketed towards him as if hurled from a sling-shot. Stan ducked just in time. The dish sailed past him and hit a wall.
Stan let out a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream, and ran behind Angie. A book slid out of the bookshelf and now it too floated in mid-air: Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, probably the biggest book on the shelf.
“Run!” Angie cried. But she needn’t have bothered. Stan pushed her out of the way and was the first one out the door. Angie followed close behind.
Behind them, the door slammed shut, and then the deadbolt clicked into place.
Chapter 10
LATE THAT NIGHT when Paavo arrived home, he found Angie in his living room, asleep on the couch. His cat Hercules lay curled up asleep beside her, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor and the TV on. “What’s this?” he asked, going to her. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said groggily as she opened her eyes and sat up. “I just didn’t want to be alone.”
Despite her words that nothing was wrong, he knew her better than that. He sat and held her.
She said she had been stressing too much over the wedding and their living arrangements, and that she was “practically seeing things”—with emphasis on the word practically.
He had no idea what was really bothering her, but if he was patient, eventually she would explain. For the moment, simply having her turn to him when she needed comfort meant a lot to him.
* * *
The next morning, as Paavo headed out the door, he found it even more difficult to leave Angie sleeping in his bed, in his house, than in her apartment. He wondered if he would feel this way after they were married, as well. He did know one thing, though. Seeing her in his home made him feel better about himself than leaving her in her father’s building. He supposed, in these modern time, such thinking was old-fashioned, backward, and macho, but nonetheless, he felt more like a man, a provider, with her there.
Maybe she was right when she said they should find a home of their own rather than live in her father’s apartment.
When he arrived at work, he learned the autopsies had been completed.
Gaia Wyndom had ingested a large number of sleeping pills, enough to kill a woman of her size and weight. No other signs of struggle or trauma were found. The M.E. said it could have been suicide, but she couldn’t be certain if Gaia purposefully took the pills, or someone drugged her. The state of the body, however, was confusing.
She had been found in a bath, so presumably the water would have been comfortably warm before she got in—not even suicides got into tubs of cold, uncomfortable water. Warm water should have sped up decomposition. The small amount of decomposition indicated she had been dead only a day or two, yet other bodily functions appeared to have ceased much earlier. The reports were confused. The M.E. said she needed more time to run tests and research exactly what had happened to the woman. The finding would make more sense if she had gotten into ice water, but that was hard to imagine.
If she had been alive all week, where had she been prior to her death? What had she been doing? The time of death inconsistencies made it difficult to determine what had happened to her.
Taylor Bedford’s autopsy results were much clearer. He had been killed by a knife at least seven inches long in the shape of a chef’s carving knife. It entered under the ribcage and jabbed upward, piercing the heart. A second stab in the same area assured his quick death.
Whoever did it apparently took his wallet and cellphone. They weren’t found in or near the dumpster or in the garbage truck.
The autopsies were interesting, but didn’t tell Paavo much he didn’t already know. No matter when Gaia died, she had been alive at the time of Taylor’s murder. He knew that because Taylor’s death happened Saturday night, and Gaia called in sick on Monday morning. People at work had indicated she had a crush on him. Did she try to act on it and he spurned her so she killed him and then herself out of remorse and guilt?
When he returned from discussing the autopsy results with the M.E., he decided to look more closely into Thomas Greenburg, founder of Zygog.
Greenburg bothered him. He seemed uninterested in anything about his two dead employees, while everyone else in the building worried that Zygog could be somehow involved, perhaps with a madman targeting its employees for some crazed reason.
Paavo quickly discovered a slew of online magazine articles and Internet sites about Greenburg. All talked about Greenburg as cold, nerdy, and aloof, a man who lived in his own world, unhampered and uninterested in anyone else. He started out as a game creator and quickly moved into online hacking. By the time he was twenty, he claimed the ability to hack into any database, anywhere. Ten years ago, at age twenty-five, an anonymous angel gave him $300,000 to put his skills to useful purposes and start a business.
He started slow with an innovative inventory system set up for people whose inventory all looked basically the same to the unskilled eye, but where the slightest error in calibration could mean the difference between success and disaster of a project.
In time, he expanded to other products and within three years, he established Zygog Software. Its profits doubled every year for the first five years, and now it hummed along at a fine clip.
The information was interesting, but it didn’t bring Paavo any closer to figuring out who killed Gaia and Taylor.
Chapter 11
YOU’VE TOLD ME many times that Nana Cirmelli knew all about ghosts and spirits and demons,” Angie said as she sat in her mother’s kitchen with a cup of coffee and some hard, round Italian cookies with white sugary icing on top. The cookies were Angie’s favorite, but could only be eaten by dunking them into hot coffee to make them soft enough to avoid breaking a tooth.
“Not only that.” Serefina Teresa Maria Giuseppina Amalfi, all 5’1”, 150 pounds of her shuddered as she said, “She knew about the evil eye!”
Serefina put her forefinger below her eye and pulled down the lower lid—her family’s signal for the evil eye, or malocchio. Angie learned on a recent trip to Italy that old ideas like the evil eye, brought to the US by Italian immigrants in the early 1900’s and still talked about here, were pretty much laughed at in Italy. Not around Serefina, however, despite her refusal to say she believed in it.
Stories of old women who could give the evil eye had terrified Angie as a child. Simply receiving a compliment from a jealous person could cause the evil eye to descend on the one being complimented. Mothers had to be especially careful that their babies weren’t cursed. If someone praised a cute baby’s looks, the mother had to be sure to say, “God bless her (or him)” to ward off the attack.
When eight-year-old Angie heard that salt warded it off as well, she put thimble-size amounts of salt into plastic wrap and held them shut with rubber bands. She put the packets on doorframes and window frames in the bedroom she shared with her sister Frannie. One day, Serefina hired a painter, and more than a little fuss was caused when he found them. Serefina leapt to the idea that one of her older daughters was doing drugs. She yelled at Bianca, Caterina and Maria, threatening terrible things would happen to all of them if the culprit didn’t confess. Finally, Angie piped up that it was salt, and she did it to protect the family.
Serefina tasted it. Angie told the truth.
Neither Angie nor Serefina ever talked about the evil eye again after that happened. Until now.
“Did Nana believe in ghosts?” Angie asked, knowing her mother, who tried to act modern and practical, would never admit to such a thing about herself.
“Sì, of course. Everyone believed such nonsense back in the old country.”
“What did they say about them? Are they dangerous, harmful, scary, or like Caspar the Friendly Ghost?”
“You have to know why they’re still in this world. Some good, some bad. But mostly bad.” Serefina quickly added, “Or that’s what I been told. I don’t believe in such things.”
“Of course not,” Angie said.
“But many, many people I know have experienced the spirit of someone close to them visiting them soon after dying. Maybe to say goodbye, or to see them one last time.” She took a deep breath then said, “It’s hard to believe, but that may have happened to me once.” Serefina turned her head and looked out the window at the sky as the memory filled her. “I’m not saying it did. And many times, I told myself it was just a coincidence, a dream, but sometimes, I wonder. Anyway, one night—you were very young—I was sleeping, and suddenly woke up. There, at the foot of my bed, stood my father. I hadn’t seen him in many years because he lived in Italy, and with five children, your father and I didn’t have the money to visit him very often.”
“Go on, Mamma,” Angie said when Serefina stopped talking.
“I swear to my dying day, on the Madonna herself, I was awake and saw him looking down at me. He smiled. ‘Papà?’ I said, I was so surprised! ‘Ti amo, gioia mia,’ he told me. It was his voice, I’m sure of it. He looked at peace, and then he said for me not to be sad.
“At that, your father woke up and asked why I was sitting up talking to myself. What could I say? I saw that I was all alone now. So, I said I had a dream, and told him to go back to sleep. Not an hour later, early in the morning, I received a call from Nana. She told me that my papà had died about three hours earlier. I knew, then, he had come to see me one last time. That he loved me so much…it still warms my heart.”
Angie clasped her mother’s hand. “Of course he did, Mamma. You’ve told me so many stories about him. He loved you very much.”
Serefina sighed deeply as she dunked another cookie in her coffee, then took a big bite before going on. Cookies helped the sadness go away. “Anyway, that’s not what most people think when they talk about ghosts. They think of miserable souls, stuck on this earth because something bothers them or is unfinished and they can’t rest.”
“Stuck here,” Angie murmured. For some reason, the idea resonated within her. Not that she believed in ghosts. She and Stan, as they sat quivering with coffee and brandy in her apartment after their scare at Clover Lane, convinced themselves that bright sunlight had bounced off the candy dish in a way that made them think it moved, that their running had caused the book shelves to shake and topple a book, and that they had simply managed to scare themselves with their jokes. Of course there were no such things as ghosts!
“That makes sense,” she said after a while.
“What makes sense?”
“Nothing.” Angie gulped down the rest of her coffee and stood up.
Determination filled her. If she was tempted to believe in ghosts, this house nonsense had gone too far. Time to cease and desist! She needed to forget all about the house in the Sea Cliff and its self-propelled books and candy dishes.
She didn’t care how cheap, beautiful, or anything else it was. And she especially didn’t care what kind of creatures did or did not live in it, or if they had issues that caused them to be ‘stuck’ on this earth. None of it meant anything to her any longer. She had a wedding to plan. “Thank you, Mamma. You’ve been a big help.”
“Aspetti! Wait!” Serefina stood and followed Angie to the door. “I don’t know why you’re asking about such things, and I’m not saying I believe in them, but remember, Angelina, the words of Sant’Agostino. He said that evil always tries to disguise itself as good. There is evil in this world. You’ve seen it, I know, and if you get involved with dark forces, it is not easy to tell which are good and which are bad. It is best to keep away from them, all of them. Be careful, Angelina. And be wary.”
Angie nodded. Her mother’s words only confirmed her decision. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine now.”
* * *
Connie was stunned to see Stan Bonnette walk into her gift shop. “What a surprise. Are you looking for a present for someone?”
“I’m worried,” he said, taking a chocolate mint patty from the tray by the cash register. “It’s about Angie’s fixation with the house that’s for sale in the Sea Cliff. I need you to tell me everything is really fine.”
“Everything is really fine,” Connie said. “Now, what’s this about?”
“Ghosts.” He unwrapped the patty. “I’m sure she thinks she’s seeing them.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s true! She’s obsessed with them. She should be thinking about other things, such as, does she really want to marry a cop? Personally, I have my doubts, but that’s just me. Anyway, I think she’s got so many pressures with her upcoming wedding and her lack of a good job, and now worrying about where she and Paavo will live, that instead of dealing with everything, she’s seeing spirits!” He bit into the chocolate. “Mmm!”
“She hasn’t said anything like that to me,” Connie insisted. “Frankly, I think you’re the one who’s delusional! And that’ll be fifty cents.”
“I was with her at the house. A gust of wind came through because we had the doors open, and you’d think she saw Banquo’s ghost from Macbeth. It was ludicrous. She actually ran screaming out of there.”
“She ran screaming?” Connie asked.
“Yes! It’s true,” Stan confided. He tossed the wrapper into the wastebasket, but didn’t reach for his wallet.
“What did you do?”
“I ran out after her. What else could I do? I had to make sure she was all right. I think she’s losing it.”
“Maybe we should talk to Paavo,” Connie said.
“Hell, no! I’m the last person he’d listen to.” He reached for another mint and she slapped his hand. “Ouch! Anyway, he knows how Angie feels about me, and I think he resents our relationship. Leave him out of it.”
Connie knew the real reason Stan didn’t want to talk to Paavo. Stan was intimidated by him and turned into a babbling bowl of gelatinous goo whenever Paavo was near. “All right,” Connie said. “If we don’t talk to Paavo, what can we do?”
“That’s obvious,” Stan said. “We need to convince Angie that she doesn’t want to live in that house. She’s perfectly safe and happy in her apartment. She should stay there.” He didn’t say, but mentally added “Alone.”
He then took a dollar out of his pocket and put it on the counter.
“Thank you,” she said. “But that’s the price for two. I’ll get you change.”
“No need.” He picked up two more patties and walked out of the shop.
* * *
While Paavo continued to track down anyone who could give him information about the shadowy Gaia Wyndom, Yosh pursued leads on Taylor Bedford. He gained no information other than “Taylor wasn’t himself lately,” from friends, family and co-workers until he found a bar three blocks from the crime scene.
“Sure I remember Taylor Bedford,” Donny Petrollini, the bartender at Harrigan’s said. “He had to go on the road all the time for his job, but when he was in town, he stopped in every night after work. He would drink and get pretty well lit, then call a cab. I think he didn’t want to face his wife.”
When drinking, Taylor would tell Donny about his miserable life. “He spent two weeks in town at a time—two work weeks. He told me he hated his home life so much, he’d leave the city on a Friday night for his business trip, and not return until Sunday, two weeks later. Finally, I asked him, ‘Taylor,’ I says, ‘I never heard of no one leaving home early and coming home late from a business trip.’ Well, he had drunk enough that he says, ‘Who says I’m spending my weekends working?’” Donny chuckled.
“Did he ever explain?” Yosh asked.
“He didn’t have to. He had a woman on the side. Sounded like love, if you ask me. I mean, he’d spend three weekends with her. I’m surprised his wife didn’t kill him. Hey, maybe she did.”
Donny went on to say that the last couple of months, Taylor wasn’t as happy as usual. He told the bartender that he had decided to leave his wife. He was crazy about ‘my girl,’ as he called her, and he couldn’t stand that when they were at work, she pretended there was nothing between them.
“Wait…he said he worked with the other woman?” Yosh asked.
“That’s right.” Donny explained that Taylor told him the company had a very strict no-fraternization policy, and his girl insisted that they act like complete strangers at work. They could both be fired—or more likely, she would be. Taylor kept telling her he wanted to marry her, but she kept saying no. He wanted to tell his wife, tell his company, tell the whole world, that he loved her.
Taylor said his wife looked like every man’s dream, but beauty was all she had. He claimed the only thing she ever loved was her mirror. He didn’t even know why she married him.
His girl, on the other hand, was fun, fascinating, had a wild imagination, and did everything with great enthusiasm, including making love. Taylor said he had never been around anyone with such a lust for life. That was why, at work, he couldn’t handle the drab way she dressed and acted.
Donny thought a moment. “I’m remembering one time something weird happened. He was real shook up the day it took place—just a day or two before he left on his last business trip. He cornered her in the supply room and kissed her. She burst into tears and ran off. He said it felt like kissing a stranger. It shook him, and he didn’t know what had happened to her. He couldn’t take it anymore. He said he didn’t like her looking so dowdy either. He knew the real woman. He said he wanted to stop living a lie. I never saw him after that, and now I learn he’s dead. Poor guy; I guess he got his wish.”
Yosh nodded.
Donny leaned on the bar and looked at Yosh. “You know what was really sad about the guy? I think I was the only one he ever really opened up to about all this. He gave me the impression that his whole life, except for me and his weekends with his girl, was make-believe. He was a good guy, and a good tipper. I’m gonna miss the poor schlub.”
Chapter 12
ANGIE DECIDED TO GO to the next prospective wedding planner’s place of business after the irritating experience of Diane LaGrande seizing on a wedding theme based on her Cezanne lithograph. Now, Angie found herself in the back of a wedding gown shop. She glanced at the dresses as she entered, but she didn’t find one that jumped out at her as “the” dress.
Nancy Blum, wedding planner, was a tall, thin woman, pretty enough to have been a fashion model. She greeted Angie and had her sit on the opposite side of her desk.
“Here are some pictures of weddings I’ve done in the past,” she said, handing Angie a thick photo album. While Angie turned the pages, Nancy asked questions about the type of wedding she hoped for, the size, location, and so on.
The weddings in the photos were lovely but, to Angie’s eye, nothing special. There wasn’t one unique thing about them from the cakes, to the flower arrangements, to the reception halls, to the combos for live music. The brides’ dresses and veils were unexceptional, and the same for the bridesmaids’ dresses.
Boring.
“So, let’s talk in specifics about the wedding you hope for,” Nancy said.
“Something traditional, yet unique,” Angie said, handing back the album.
“Yes, that’s what everyone says,” Nancy said dismissive sigh. “We can do that. We always do that. Rose bouquets, matchbooks and candles as favors. I’ve got it covered. But tell me, what are your interests? Do you work? What about the groom? What does he do?”
“My main interest is in cooking. I’ve had a variety of jobs involved with haute cuisine, but nothing currently. My fiancé is a homicide inspector.”
“Oh. Well…let’s see. We could have a huge variety of foods at the wedding dinner.”
“Yes, we could,” Angie said, not impressed. “I’ll take care of the food.”
Nancy’s face suddenly brightened. “Did you say the groom is a homicide detective?”
“Yes, we call them inspectors in San Francisco.”
“You know, you might be one of the few people who actually can have a unique wedding! Few can, you know. Most brides and grooms have incredibly boring jobs in big office buildings or shops. But for you, oh my God! We can actually do something fun”
She suddenly jumped to her feet. Angie just gawked at her. “Finally, something different from the usual! I know, let’s get crazy!”
“Crazy?” Angie gulped.
“We can put yellow crime scene tape all around the reception hall! And maybe draw a chalk figure on the floor, you know, where the body was found. In fact, we could draw two chalk figures, a bride and a groom! Wouldn’t that be hilarious!”
“Hilarious?” Angie said, horrified at the idea.
Nancy didn’t notice. “Of course! The wedding as the scene of the crime! That is truly unique! And you said you’ll be getting married in a church, right?”
Angie blanched, having a good guess as to what was coming. “Correct. A very old world, traditional Catholic church.”
“Hmm…I wonder if they’d let us put crime scene tape up and down the aisle. They shouldn’t object to that. Oh! Oh! Another idea! We could use toy guns—squirt guns—as party favors! Your guests could have so much fun shooting each other! And you and the groom! I’m just loving it! I’ve done so many weddings that are all alike. Every last one of them, the same thing over and over and over. But this, I’m loving! And I can tell you’re loving it, too, aren’t you?”
Without saying a word, Angie stood up and left the shop.
* * *
Angie wasn’t surprised when Paavo came to her apartment that night. She knew she had worried him the night before, showing up at his place because she’d been so frightened by the strangeness on Clover Street. She had worried herself, and had replayed in her head every horror film she had ever seen until fatigue overtook her.
Now, she wanted to tell him that episode in her life was over. She had already forgotten about the house...mostly. But first, she put her arms around him and kissed him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, enjoying staring into his translucent blue eyes.
“So am I.” He continued to hold her. “I’ve now got two murders instead of one and I expect things to heat up soon. But tonight, I’m free and I’d like to see the house you’re so excited about. I’ve been thinking about what you said about us finding our own place.” He drew her closer, studying her as he added, “You’re right. We need to do that.”
She stepped back and gaped at him. “I am?”
“Definitely.” He smiled. “I like the idea. A lot.”
“Uhhh…”
His brows crossed slightly. “Have you changed your mind about it?”
“No.” Even to her ear, her voice sounded strangely high.
“Good! The Sea Cliff house sounds like a real find. And if the murders of tenants thirty years ago have other buyers spooked, we might be able to get it at an even better price.”
Angie shivered at the word “spooked.” Paavo didn’t notice.
“That could be.” She scooted over to the coffee table and started straightening the bridal magazines spread over it.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
“No.”
He stared at her, then sat on the sofa. “What’s going on, Angie?” When she didn’t answer right away, he continued. “Is this about the murders? You’ve been through enough cases with me to know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Murders are rare, but they happen in big cities. You’ve never let that kind of thing bother you before.”
She put down the magazines, took a few deep breaths and said, “You’re right.” She nodded. “It shouldn’t bother me.”
“Good. So…shall we go see it?”
Her mind roiled. If she told him her earlier decision, she would sound like an idiot.
“Angie?” he said.
She walked over to the picture window, looking out at the lights of the city rather than facing him. “Well…”
He watched her, then stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Drawing her back against him, he kissed her ear, her cheek, then said. “Tell me what’s the matter. Did someone else beat us to it?”
“No…that’s not it.”
“Are we unable to see it for some reason?”
“No…Caterina, uh, gave me a key. She knows how interested I was. Am.”
“Well, then?”
She turned to face him. She felt as if the word stuck in her throat, but finally she forced it out, and squawked, “Okay.”
* * *
Angie unlocked the door and slowly, nervously, pushed it open. She stuck her head inside. “Hello!” she called loudly. “We’re here to see the house. Is anybody home? It’s Angelina Amalfi and Inspector Paavo Smith of the San Francisco Police Department!”
“Angie, what are you doing?” Paavo asked. “The whole neighborhood doesn’t need to know our names. Besides, I thought you said the house is empty.”
“It is, but sometimes other people come to see it, and if anyone else is here”—she swallowed hard—“I want to be sure they know you’re a cop and we shouldn’t be messed with.”
“This is hardly an area where you have to worry about such things,” Paavo said. “Are you going to let us in, or will we spend the night on the front porch?”
“You’re right, since we’re here, you should see it. It’s just that it’s not daytime. In the daylight you’d be able to see how beautiful the view is, and in the dark, you can’t and—”
He reached around her, pushed the door open and walked in. He flipped on the lights, and Angie could see his amazement. He didn’t say a word as went through the living, dining and kitchen areas, then returned to the living room, opened the sliding glass door to the garden and stepped out.
The moon sat low on the horizon, casting a ray of light onto the ocean. The area around them was so dark they could see thousands of stars overhead, a rare occurrence in foggy San Francisco where even on clear nights the city lights were so bright few stars were visible. The waves lapping on the beach far below created a serene, calming sound. Even Angie, despite her angst at what would greet them inside the house, had to admit that the heavens were putting on quite a show for Paavo.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded soft and awe-filled. “It’s not daylight, but even now, I can get a sense of how beautiful this is.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said. His expression was serious, thoughtful. “Do you think, Paavo, we could be happy here?”
He faced her. “To be wherever you are, Angel, makes me happy. I don’t want or need anything else.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” she said and kissed him.
They went back inside and he saw that the master bedroom had the same ocean view as the main rooms. “Hmm…someone wearing perfume must have been in here recently,” Paavo said. “It’s a good scent. I like it.”
Angie noticed it, too—just as she’d noticed it earlier with Caterina. But now, realizing it wasn’t Cat’s perfume, she recognized the scent. Her mother used all the time when Angie was young—Joy by Jean Patou. Her heart started to pound. Who would have been here wearing it?
Paavo quickly took in the master bedroom and bath, the room Angie called a “den or nursery,” and the two bedrooms and bath upstairs.
Angie tried to ignore the perfume, which seemed to follow them wherever they went. But she couldn’t, and grew more nervous with each passing moment.
“Let’s see the garage,” Paavo said.
Angie led him to it. “There’s a big area in the back with room for tools, a lawn mower, all kinds of stuff.”
“I’ll have to buy a lawn mower if we live here.” Paavo slung his arm over Angie’s shoulders. “I guess that’ll mean I’m really a married man.”
His simple words touched her heart. “A rite of passage, I’d say. But no matter where we live, you’ll really be a married man.” She smiled up at him. “I know seeing this at night isn’t ideal. You can’t tell a thing about the paint, the roof, the yard…all those important things. But as to the feel of the place, the layout…?”
They returned to the living room and she watched him look over the woodwork, the large stone fireplace, the hardwood floors, high ceilings. “It’s a good house for us,” he said. “You’re right that I’d want to see it in daylight, but I find it hard to imagine that my impression will change.”
Paavo’s positive reaction thrilled her. The house put on quite a show for him, she thought. For the first time, she felt welcome here…despite the perfume. What had she been worried about?
She watched him as he stood at the living room windows and looked out at the ocean, the big tough detective who was also the kindest, most gentle man she had ever known. Yes, she thought. She could see the two of them happily living in this house.
“What are you thinking, Paavo?” she asked stepping to his side.
His hand clasped hers. “I know you’ve got some concerns about this house’s past.”
“Not me!” she said quickly. “It was all Connie’s fault! She pointed out that with the furniture here, she felt as if the prior tenants could walk into the house at any time—that she felt their presence! But Cat explained the furniture is simply to ‘stage’ the house so it looks better.”
“Connie, hum?” he said.
“That’s right!” she insisted.
“So if we bought the house, the furniture stays?”
“No way! For one thing, all this furniture is over thirty years old!”
“Practically antiques,” Paavo said, trying not to smile.
“I particularly can’t wait to get rid of that sofa.” She pointed to the overly modern, low back, no arm sofa in moss green with gold lame stripes. “It’s butt-ugly, if you ask me.”
Just then, a watercolor of a mountain lake in the dining area fell off the wall. Angie started so badly she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Paavo went over to it and found that the nail still protruded from the wall, so he simply had to lift the picture up and rehang it. “Odd,” he said.
That did it! Wide-eyed, she looked all around. Time to get out. No sense pushing her luck. “Let’s lock up and get out of here,” she said, speaking more rapidly than she thought possible. “I’m suddenly ravenous for dinner. Let’s find a place to eat. Fast!”
Chapter 13
GAIA WYNDOM’S CELL phone bill lay on Paavo’s desk when he arrived at Homicide the next morning. He had been unable to find any indication that she had a cell phone in her home, and even her employment records showed only a landline. The landline showed no personal calls beyond her boss trying to check on her health. Once again, Paavo had been left wondering if the woman had any kind of a life.
Yet, indications were that she had an affair with Taylor Bedford, hard though it was to believe. She might have had a split personality but they still needed some way to communicate.
He did a check of AT&T, Sprint, Verizon, and T-Mobile—the big carriers in the San Francisco area—and sure enough, a cell phone record for her showed up with AT&T.
Call after call went to one number only—Taylor Bedford’s cell phone. Long calls were made in the evening, and just a few short ones on weekends. The pattern of calls confirmed the story the bartender at Harrigan’s told Yosh. Taylor Bedford and Gaia Wyndom were having an affair.
He looked over Bedford’s cell service and discovered he had two cell phones, along with a family landline. One was for calls related to his business and his wife; the second was exclusively for Gaia.
From what he and Yosh had learned about the two victims, it was hard to imagine them together. But then Otto Link had also made suggestive comments about Bedford. Maybe he was the Casanova of the tool and die trade.
Paavo called Larina Bedford into Homicide. She had acted so poised and self-assured at her home, he wanted her in a less comfortable environment.
Homicide’s administrative assistant escorted her to the interview room. Paavo allowed her to sit alone in it for nearly ten minutes before joining her. The windowless room, with cameras in the ceiling, one gray metal table and four cold, hard metal chairs was intimidating. It often made people so nervous they couldn’t hide their lies.
While Yosh observed from outside the room, Paavo entered it.
“Do you have news, Inspector?” Larina said without even a preliminary “hello.” She appeared to be anything but intimidated.
“Something new has turned up.” He sat across from her and opened a folder, taking out Gaia Wyndom’s photo. “Do you know this woman?”
Larina looked at it a long moment. “I do not.”
“She also worked at Zygog, and also died suspiciously just days after your husband. Does that help your memory any?”
“There’s no reason why it should,” Larina looked him steadily in the eye. “I did read in the newspaper about a death at Zygog, but that was a suicide, as I recall.”
“Her name was Gaia Wyndom. She made a number of phone calls to your husband.”
Larina folded her hands, resting them on the table. “They apparently worked together. Taylor spent weeks at a time out of the office. How else was she supposed to reach him? Carrier pigeon?”
“The calls were off hours, to a cell phone different from the one he used for everyone else. You, included.”
“My husband worked twenty-four-seven, Inspector. He had no ‘off hours.’ If he called and wanted something, he would expect a reply anytime of the day or night. If they had a special way to contact each other, I’m sure they had a business reason for it.”
“I spoke with many of Mr. Bedford’s customers, and they said he never took them out to dinner or anywhere else.”
Larina’s face flushed red. “They’re lying. They don’t want anyone to know what he gave them! If they admitted to receiving gifts, they’re afraid the IRS will tax them. Instead, they deny, deny, deny.”
“The clerk at your husband’s favorite motel in Healdsburg said Mr. Bedford would check into the motel, but rarely sleep there.”
She grimaced. “A motel clerk gives you your information? For all you know, Taylor didn’t tip him or the housekeepers and they decided to make trouble. I don’t know or care. Now, it appears to me you’ve wasted my time by asking about some dead person at Zygog. Was she killed in the same manner as my husband?”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Do you have any proof that my husband cheated on me?” she asked stiffly.
“Do you?”
She stood. “This interview is over, Inspector. If you want to speak to me again, call my lawyer.”
He showed her to the door.
* * *
“If” ghosts were real, Angie told herself, and if someone were murdered and the police gave up looking for his or her killer, that dead person could be plenty angry, perhaps angry enough to stick around this mortal coil in a non-corporeal form.
But ghosts weren’t real.
The only real people in this scenario were the two who were dead, and whoever killed them.
Suddenly Angie realized what had been troubling her. It had nothing to do with ghosts at all, but with her far too active imagination. People told her she fantasized too much.
Now, she made up wild stories and came up with ludicrous ideas because she didn’t have all the facts. All she had to do was fill-in the details—which surely were far more mundane than knickknacks flying through the perfumed air, or sad ghosts trapped in a house seeking vengeance or justice. Once she did that, her worries about spirits would vanish into thin air.
Angie headed over to the San Francisco Chronicle’s “morgue” of old newspapers and did a search on Eric and Natalie Fleming’s deaths. The Chronicle loved to fill news stories with personal details. Also, if there had been anything odd about the deaths the Chronicle would have covered them in gory detail.
She was right.
For the first time, she saw what Eric and Natalie Fleming looked like.
Eric was a very late 1970’s to early 1980’s looking guy with curly brown hair that hung below his ears and a broad mustache. He was also handsome enough to have been a rock star. His cheekbones were pronounced, his nose high and straight, his mouth pleasant, but his eyes most captivated her. They were remarkable, with beautifully shaped eyebrows over heavy-lidded hazel eyes. Bedroomy. Being haunted by this guy didn’t seem like such a horrible proposition.
Natalie was surprisingly thin and lacking in curves. Her pale blond hair looked silky as it flowed in soft waves to her shoulders. In sharp contrast to Eric’s casual jeans-clad appearance, in the newspaper photo she wore an expensive looking dress with simple yet tasteful gold and diamond jewelry.
The type of woman Joy perfume would appeal to.
Angie pushed thoughts about perfume from her mind and returned to the news articles.
Eric came from a middle class family, studied computer programing at UC Berkeley, and became one of many new “Silicon Valley millionaires” of that era.
The Chronicle had called Natalie an “heiress.” She had been born Natalie Parker, and raised in Connecticut. Her parents had been killed when their yacht capsized in a storm off the Bahamas. Natalie, their only child, inherited their money. Family arguments over the money caused Natalie to turn her back on the remaining Parker clan and move to the West Coast.
Their bodies had been found when a neighbor’s beagle ran off and refused to come back. The neighbor had no choice but to cross the Flemings’ unfenced back yard to get to the dog. They might have lain there even longer had he not found them since neither Eric nor Natalie worked or had appointments that would have caused someone to look for them. Angie suspected that in those pre-cell phone, pre-text message days, unanswered calls weren’t cause for immediate concern.
When the owner of the home that the Flemings rented unlocked it for the police, they found two half-empty martini glasses on the bar between the kitchen and dining area. Also, two uncooked pork chops were rotting on the countertop next to a frying pan and bottle of canola oil, and lettuce, carrots, and onion lay on the countertop beside a salad bowl. Easy listening music played on KSFO, the “The Sound of the City” station.
Everything suggested that the Flemings had been interrupted while having before-dinner drinks. It didn’t look at all like the kitchen of a couple fighting so bitterly that they would soon both be dead.
The biggest mystery, the thing that most caused the police to question the murder-suicide scenario, was that the couple’s car was missing.
Eric Fleming drove a Mercedes 350-SL, a two-seater. Angie had learned from Paavo that the car turned up a year later in Sonoma County. She searched the newspapers to learn more about its discovery, but apparently the news editors had lost interest in the case by then. No one bothered to report that the car had been found.
In fact, only one follow-up story had been written about the deaths. It was about Natalie’s small dog and how it spent every day out on the cliff as if waiting for Natalie to return. People tried to take it home and make it their own, but the dog would always find a way to escape and go back to the cliff. The paper told a brief but heartwarming story of how the neighbors worked together to assure it had food, water, and shelter from the rain.
Angie made photocopies of the most fact-filled newspaper stories.
She then went to the county assessor’s office to find the history of ownership of the house on Clover Lane. A couple named Donald and Mary Steed built in the 1950’s. Their son, Edward, inherited it in 1970, upon his widowed mother’s death. He died in 1978, and ownership transferred to his wife, Carol. Angie could find no change in ownership after that.
Angie had found out quite a bit about Eric and Natalie’s life and death, but she still had no idea why they died, or who could possibly have been responsible.
* * *
Paavo and Yosh returned to Wyndom’s apartment to go through her personal and financial papers to see if any red flags jumped out at him. Her death and Bedford’s had to be connected, but how? Normally, the first person they suspected was the wronged wife, but Larina Bedford seemed to care so little about Taylor they couldn’t imagine her having enough feeling about him to kill him. She seemed more the type to file for divorce and enjoy taking him for every penny he had.
Scouring Gaia’s tax papers, Paavo discovered she owned property in a small town on the Pacific coast highway called Jenner, some thirty miles from Healdsburg. With that, things began to click.
While Yosh went off to Zygog to follow a thin lead on Taylor, Paavo drove back to the motel in Healdsburg. He showed the desk manager he’d spoken to earlier a photo of Gaia Wyndom.
“Yes,” the manager said. “That’s the woman. She would pick Mr. Bedford up. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. His wife has a nice smile.”
Paavo drove out to Jenner to see Gaia’s house. He found it in a heavily forested spot among a row of similar cabins about a quarter mile from the beach.
The cabin was small but well maintained, brown in color, with white window frames and a red door.
No one answered his knock. Paavo went to a similar home next door where an elderly man stood outside raking leaves.
Ray Larson owned the cabin and lived there year round. Paavo asked him about the owners of the house next door.
“A single lady named Gaia Wyndom owns it,” Larson said. “Met her when I bought this place some eight years ago. Guess she inherited it from her parents quite a few years back. I had the impression it didn’t mean much to her. She rarely used to show up. Once a year at most. The last few months, though, her twin sister and her husband have been coming here just about every weekend.”
“Her twin sister?” Paavo had found no indication anywhere that Gaia had any living relative, let alone a twin.
“Marilee, her name is. Gave me a start when I saw her. Spitting image of Gaia. Husband’s name is Trevor. Nice couple. Good to see middle-aged folks in love that way.”
“So, had Gaia ever mentioned having a twin or any sibling before you met her?” Paavo asked.
“Not a word.” Larson seemed lost in thought a moment, then gave a little chuckle. “It was eerie, the more I think about it. Sometimes I called her Gaia by mistake, and she always answered. She said identical twins get used to that. But when you look close, you see a difference. Not physically, but in the eyes, the light from the eyes. Gaia is a serious, quiet woman with dull eyes. Marilee laughs and talks a lot. Her eyes are so bright if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was downright pretty.” His cheeks reddened at that. “Oh, sorry. I guess that isn’t nice to say, but any fellow knows those gals weren’t ones to turn a man’s head, kinda plain and chubby, to my way of thinking. Still, at times, I felt sorry for Gaia. Marilee is the person she should have been.”
“Do you happen to know Marilee and Trevor’s last names?”
He thought a minute. “You know, I don’t think they ever said. We’re pretty much all on a first name basis out here, and they never got any mail or anything. The only mail that ever showed up was for Gaia, and Marilee said she’d give it to her.”
“So, Marilee and Trevor lived in San Francisco?”
“I suppose. Or the two gals saw each other a lot.”
“You said Marilee and Trevor showed up here every weekend?”
“They’d arrive Friday night, and leave Sunday. Not every week through. In fact, I figured out their pattern—guess I got too much time on my hands.” Larson’s eyes twinkled as he gave his information. “Three weekends here, one weekend not. Oh—and on the first and third weekend, they’d arrive separately, in separate cars on Friday. On the middle weekend, they’d arrive together.”
Paavo nodded. That middle weekend was when Gaia picked Taylor up in Healdsburg. “When did you last see them?”
“That’s easy, weekend before this past one. In fact, come to think of it, something odd happened. They left on Saturday, not Sunday like usual.”
Paavo opened the folder he carried and took out a photo of Taylor Bedford. “Is this Trevor?”
The neighbor needed no time to respond. “Yes! That’s him. Why do you have his picture? Can you tell me what this is about?”
Paavo hesitated only a moment. “I’m investigating his murder. His, and Gaia Wyndom’s.” Just to be sure, he showed Larson Gaia’s photo. “That’s her, right?”
“Yes, of course.” Larson’s bushy eyebrows rose as he looked up at Paavo. “But what about Marilee? My god, is she all right?”
“We’ll check into it,” Paavo said. “One question—did you ever see Gaia and Marilee together?”
“Well…no, but I’m sure there are two of them, if that’s what you’re thinking. No one could be that good an actress.”
“Thank you.” Paavo handed Larson his card. “If anyone at all shows up here please call me immediately any time of the day or night.”
“I’m sorry to hear they’re dead,” Larson said as he took the card. “Doesn’t make much sense that it would be Gaia who was killed with Trevor and not Marilee.”
“That’s true,” Paavo agreed. “It’s all quite strange, in fact.”
Ray Larson nodded, and then faced the trees, his eyes growing misty. “Gaia was a nice person.”
“So everyone says.”
Chapter 14
PAAVO IMMEDIATELY CONTACTED Yosh with the news that Gaia either had a twin sister, or used the name Marilee to hide her relationship with Taylor Bedford. Yosh included questions about Gaia possibly having a sister to his list as he spoke with co-workers of both Taylor and Gaia.
Paavo headed back to homicide where he searched under the name “Marilee Wyndom.” No one by that name appeared in any database. He tried various spellings such as “Mary Lee,” “Merilee,” even “Merry Lee” but nothing worked.
He then returned to Gaia’s home and canvassed her neighbors to ask if any of them ever saw or heard of a sister. He basically wanted to assure himself that no sister, identical or otherwise, existed. He suspected Gaia had made up the name, just as Taylor called himself Trevor. It made sense that the two used false names to cover up their affair. Between Taylor’s marriage and possible workplace non-fraternization issues, they decided to keep the relationship a secret.
To his surprise, a neighbor said she once saw the two women together, well over a year ago, and they looked almost identical except for hairstyle and that one seemed prettier than the other, perhaps because she wore some make-up and styled her hair better. Paavo tried to shake her belief in what she might have seen, but could not. The neighbor was in her thirties, a stay-at-home mother, and her vision seemed to be a solid twenty-twenty. Paavo could find, however, no one to corroborate her sighting.
So, the question was, should he believe Ray Larson and that one neighbor…or not?
* * *
Angie got a call from her sister Maria who wanted to know why Angie had asked their mother about ghosts and spirits. Angie listened to her with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maria had also talked to Caterina and learned Angie was house-hunting, which was something else she wanted to hear about.
Maria then invited her to lunch at the Rose Tattoo restaurant on Columbus Avenue in San Francisco’s North Beach district.
Angie almost said “no,” but that made her feel guilty, so she agreed.
Maria was the sister she got along with the least. Well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. She probably got along least well with Frannie who was just a little older than her. They used to fight all the time growing up, and continued to fight into adulthood. But then she also didn’t get along all that well with Caterina until she went to Italy with her and the two of them had several heart-to-hearts. Come to think of it, the only one she never fought with was Bianca, the oldest of the lot, and the most motherly. Despite all that, she loved her sisters dearly, and was always ready to defend them if needed.
She changed into an Emilio Pucci silk dress, and drove to the restaurant.
She knew why Maria was interested. Maria thought of herself as having “a spiritual nature.” Angie thought of her as downright spooky. When Maria was a teenager, everyone in the family assumed she would become a nun. But then she met a jazz trumpet player, Dominic Klee, and married him after a whirlwind courtship. A stranger couple, Angie had never come across...unless she considered Frannie and Seth who should have gotten divorced ten times over by now. Caterina and Bianca’s marriages were fine—but those sisters were both older and set in their ways. Angie couldn’t imagine either of them even looking at another man. They were both nauseatingly comfortable with their spouses—sort of like not throwing away favorite slippers just because you found a new pair on sale.
In her opinion, she and Paavo were the perfect couple.
Angie gave a sad sigh for her sisters that none of them had managed to find anyone half as simultaneously cool and hot as Paavo. It seemed to take forever for her to convince him that they could be a couple, let alone get married, and yet he still made her toes tingle, her pulse quicken and her heart thrum. They came from very different backgrounds; she had a large and loving family, and he had no one but an elderly Finnish gentleman who raised him. The love he received from Aulis Kokkonen never took away the loneliness or sense of abandonment he had experienced as a child. Angie vowed he would never feel lonely or abandoned again—not as long as she had a breath left in her.
Maria stood on the sidewalk waiting for her. She was the ‘exotic’ Amalfi sister, with long, straight black hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes. She liked to dress in deeply colored, gauzy clothes, and enjoyed turquoise and silver jewelry. Paavo once said—to Angie’s irritation—that Maria was exceptionally beautiful. Men’s taste could be quite mysterious.
After the two finished with small talk and gave their orders to the waitress, Maria took a sip of her Cabernet Sauvignon and then turned her nearly black eyes on Angie. “Okay, little sister, I know you didn’t talk to Mamma about ghosts because you’ve developed an interest in the afterlife. What crazy thing is going on with you this time?”
Angie bit her tongue to avoid giving the answer the tone of that question deserved. Angie sipped some merlot because biting her tongue hadn’t helped. Finally, she said, “I found a house that Paavo and I both love and can afford, but it sometimes has a strange ambiance to it. And I just found out it hasn’t been lived in for thirty years.”
Maria gawked at her. “Thirty years? You’re joking! I wouldn’t want to buy a house that no one has lived in that long. It could be infested with rats and heaven only knows what else. Where is this dump?”
“The Sea Cliff.”
“No way! It must be falling apart because of an earthquake or something.”
“Not according to Cat. The former owner maintained it well, and now her daughter wants her to sell it.”
Maria gave a toss of the head. “There’s your first problem: believing anything Cat says where money is involved.” Maria then contorted her face into one of those piously angelic expressions that made Angie want to hit her with a cream pie as she added, “She knows nothing about what is truly valuable in the world.”
“That’s Cat for you,” Angie said.
“Did she show you any other houses?”
“About a hundred.” Angie stopped talking as the waitress brought them orders of spinach, mushroom, ricotta cheese frittata, and a chicken Caesar salad, which they proceeded to split between them.
After a few bites of the frittata, Angie continued, “Aside from all that, whenever anyone tries to buy the house I like, they back out of the deal for one reason or another.”
Maria’s brows rose at this. “Cut to the chase, Angie. What’s going on?”
“The last people who lived there—tenants not owners—were murdered.” At Maria’s horrified expression, she quickly added, “Not in the house, but near it. It looked like the husband shot his wife and then himself. The police questioned that conclusion, but could find no evidence that both had been murdered. Questions remained, including their car being stolen and not found for a year miles from San Francisco. The case remains unresolved to this day.”
Angie then told Maria all she had learned about the deceased occupants. At the end of her tale, Maria sat silently for a moment, then exclaimed, “You’ve got to show me this house right now!”
* * *
Angie insisted that Maria not tell Cat about Angie’s key to the house. Maria agreed; she would have agreed to just about anything to get inside it.
Even as she opened the door, Angie thought this was not a good idea.
Maria remained on the front porch and made the sign of the cross before stepping across the threshold into the house.
“Ooooh,” she said, as she slowly moved to the center of the living room, her arms wide and her hands raised as if she were holding a beach ball on her head. “It feels cold in here. Very, very cold.”
“Well, the heater hasn’t been on in some time.” Angie said, dismayed, but hoping this would be as bad as it got. “And the house is on the ocean so the breeze is fairly brisk.”
Maria lowered her hands and turned in a circle. “Someone is here.”
Oh, God! “Someone?” Angie asked.
“Or something,” Maria whispered.
“This was a bad mistake!” Angie said. “We should leave.”
Maria suddenly turned pale and gripped Angie’s arm. “Something feels off.”
“Off?”Angie repeated.
Maria clasped her hands together and pressed them to her chest. “Oh, my, this is so terrible,” she said, although her voice said it was exciting and wonderful. “When something feels bad in the house, it usually means there are evil spirits.” Her voice now dropped and she inched closer to Angie. “Dark beings who want to do you harm!”
“No way!” Angie stepped back and shook her head. Truth be told, her whole body shook at Maria’s wild-eyed gaze. She wasn’t sure if her nerves crackled because of the house or her crazy sister. “I don’t think that’s the case.”
Maria slowly turned her head so far to one side she reminded Angie of the first time she watched Linda Blair in the old movie, The Exorcist. At least Maria’s head wasn’t spinning…yet. “Someone is living here,” Maria whispered.
“You think that because the house is furnished.” Angie was frantic. “Even Connie said it looks like the owners could come walking in.”
Maria’s gaze fixed on Angie. “Have you ever noticed any emanations?”
“Eman—”
“Something moving, or from the corner of your eye see something zip past, or notice a scent in the air that shouldn’t be there.”
Angie was near tears. “Yes…yes…and yes.”
Maria tucked in her chin. “Surely, you know what’s going on.”
“No.” The word came out as a squawk
Maria looked heavenward and heaved a sigh before continuing. “Look, the Flemings are connected to the house because this is where they wanted to live their lives. They expected fun, life! But instead, someone stole their lives, someone who may still be alive, and unpunished.” She folded her arms, eyebrows raised. “My guess is that’s why the house is haunted.”
“Just stop!” Angie covered her ears. “I do not want to hear that the house I want to buy is haunted!”
Maria tugged on Angie’s arms, trying to free her ears so Angie would listen to her. Angie slapped her hands away.
Maria moved closer and shouted, “THE SIMPLEST REASON FOR SOMETHING HAPPENING IS MOST OFTEN THE CORRECT ONE. THAT THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED IS THE MOST DIRECT EXPLANATION!”
“No it’s not!” Angie lowered her hands realizing nothing could block out the sound of Maria’s shrieks. “Ghosts don’t exist!”
“Not in your world,” Maria gave one of her all-knowing, oh-so-superior smiles. “But in mine, there are a lot of them.”
Angie counted to ten. “All right, since you know all, tell me what to do about them. How do I get rid of them? If such things exist, of course.”
Maria pondered Angie’s questions. “You know, Angie, this could be very interesting.”
“I don’t want interesting!” Angie put her hands to her forehead and turned in a circle. “I want dull. I want normal!” She raised her arms to the ceiling, head back. “Other people can buy a house and not have to worry about it being haunted, why can’t I?”
“Stop the dramatics and listen to me!” Maria leaned closer, her dark eyes twinkling with macabre interest. “You might want to find out why they’re here.”
“They?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure there’s more than one spirit here.”
“You mean they’re having some sort of a convention? My God!”
“Stop shrieking! You’re making my ears ring. It’s not that bad. Lots of houses are haunted. People learn to ignore what they see and can’t explain, and develop completely wrong explanations for that which they can’t ignore.”
Angie flung herself onto the sofa. “So the best thing for me to do is to ignore everything.”
Maria sat beside her. “Of course not! If you leave things as they are, who knows what will happen? If the spirits here are dark ones, you could become possessed!”
“Possessed?” Angie felt as if her throat closed simply trying to get the word out.
“I don’t expect you to know how to deal with such things,” Maria said.
“You’ve got that right,” Angie said, worried now. “How do I do it?”
Maria pressed her palms together, her face beaming. “It’s easy,” she announced, looking happier than Angie had seen her in a long, long time. “Why didn’t I think of this earlier? It’s the answer to everything. We’ll hold an exorcism!”
Chapter 15
PAAVO AND YOSH compared notes and discovered neither had gotten very far in the investigation. Yosh talked to everyone at Zygog about Gaia and Bedford. He had the clear impression that Gaia had been attracted to Bedford for a number of years, but in the past month or so, people noticed that when he wandered near, Gaia would rush away. In the past, she would stare at him with round cow eyes, and hang onto his every word like a puppy.
No one thought much of it because Otto Link had made it clear to everyone that he and his boss were an item. Link had the plushest job in the place since Bedford spent two weeks out of town each month, and during those days Link had little work to do. He read books and played computer games. No one dared to complain since they feared Link would accuse them of homophobia.
The more Yosh looked into it, the more he began to suspect Otto Link’s affair took place more in his mind than in fact.
Bedford’s wife was the mystery. If his marriage was as dysfunctional as Otto Link and the weekend rendezvous with Gaia—or her mysterious sister—made it appear, why did she put up with it? From all he could tell, she lived a life completely separate from Bedford’s. She had her own circle of friends and organizations that she belonged to. Her days were busy, and she didn’t seem to care if she had male companionship or not. When Bedford was in town, he escorted her to functions; when he wasn’t, she went with other people.
Perhaps the saddest thing in this case, to Yosh, was that Gaia was so alone in the world that no one claimed her body. In fact, her boss, Julio Sanchez, was the only person they could find to go to the morgue to identify her. She had made no provisions for burial, which meant she would most likely be cremated by the state. It was a dismal end to what had appeared to be a lonely life until Bedford entered it. And now he was gone…perhaps by her hand.
Yosh wanted to think that Larina Bedford had killed both of them—she had motive, and she was distinctly unlikable. But if she had murdered them, she may have committed the perfect crime because they couldn’t find one shred of evidence against her.
Paavo read over the M.E.’s preliminary report. “You know, Yosh,” he said, “the time of death for Gaia is all over the map, but we know she was still alive after Bedford’s murder.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Yosh said. “When I talked to the bartender, he said something had upset Bedford about his relationship with the mystery woman. What if something happened between them, and that something split them apart? Maybe Gaia, who never had anyone at all in her life, couldn’t stand to lose him.”
“So you’re leaning towards her killing him and then committing suicide?” Paavo asked.
“Stranger things have happened.”
“We’ve got to figure out if there really is a twin sister,” Paavo said. “That’ll be the key.”
“There’s no evidence of it,” Yosh insisted.
“Except for one neighbor and one old man who believed there really were two different women.”
“Or one sad woman who finally found somebody who made her happy,” Yosh said.
Paavo couldn’t let the idea of a twin go. He talked to her neighbors again, asking if they ever saw her on weekends. None could remember with certainly, except that they rarely saw her at any time. She had a car but she always had it in the garage when she in or out.
Then an idea struck. He knew Gaia’s date and place of birth, and drove to each hospital in Oakland, California until he found the one with a hospital record of her birth. Looking at the record, he learned that Shirley Wyndom had, in fact, given birth to twin girls forty-four years earlier. The girls were named Gaia Ann and Urda Lee.
With this starting point, back in homicide, he tracked the girls to Marin County where their parents moved when they were eight years old. He followed their schooling through graduation from Drake High in San Anselmo.
Both parents were killed five days after the girls’ twenty-first birthday when their car ran off the road on Highway 1 just south of Jenner. Their assets went to their two daughters.
After that, he found no further mention of Urda. He could find no Social Security number for her, no California Driver’s License number or any other normal part of life. He could find no evidence that she paid taxes or died. It was most peculiar.
The Jenner house was in Gaia’s name only.
So what had happened to her sister? Was she, or was Gaia, the woman called Marilee?
Paavo expanded his search to extended family members. Surely, someone existed who remembered those girls.
* * *
“Maria wants an exorcism, but she can’t get one,” Angie said to Connie over shrimp salads at a Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant. Since Paavo was working on his murder investigation that evening, Angie decided it would be a good time to talk to her best friend.
Connie choked on a shrimp. “You’re joking.”
“You’ve met Maria,” Angie said. “She never jokes. I no sooner let her into the house than she went all ‘woo-woo’ on me, and said I could become possessed if we buy it.”
“Good God!” Connie gasped. “Why in heaven’s name did you take her there?”
“She wanted to see it. I thought it’d be harmless. No such luck.”
“So now she’s trying to get an exorcism for you?”
“None of the priests she knows—and she knows a lot of them—will go to the Bishop about providing an exorcist unless there’s some outward sign of a person being possessed. They can’t do an exorcism on a house just because someone ‘thinks’ a ghost might live there. They told Maria she’s jumping the gun.”
“Or jumping the shark,” Connie said. “Maybe the whole fish tank.”
“If only another house would come up, I’d forget this one,” Angie said, eating as if the food were cardboard. “But none of the affordable ones are half so nice.”
“Look, honey, Maria is ridiculous! Ignore her.”
“But even you said it felt odd.” Angie took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table. She had no more appetite. “I don’t know what to do.”
“It felt odd because it stood empty for so long, that’s all.” Connie stabbed one of Angie’s crouton’s with her fork. Her appetite was fine.
“But now that I’ve got Maria thinking the place is haunted, she’ll tell Mamma, and my mother will be afraid to come visit me!”
“Would your mother believe the house is haunted?” Connie asked.
“In a heartbeat.”
Connie thought a moment. “So the only problem now is your sister’s involvement.”
“No. My problem is that bargain-hunter’s House of Dark Shadows,” Angie cried.
Connie remembered her conversation with Stan, how he worried that Angie had not only become obsessed with the house, but it caused her to possibly believe in ghosts. Stan thought it best if she forgot about that house and stayed in her apartment. Connie hated to admit that Stan could be right, but he was.
With that, inspiration struck. Even Connie was amazed that such a crazy and frankly devious idea had come to her. Angie usually came up with ideas like that.
Connie cleared her throat to get Angie’s full attention. “Well, it’s not Catholic at all, but it might work on Maria,” she began. “I know a woman who’s dabbled in the occult and performs séances.”
“A séance?” Angie interrupted. “Maria won’t believe in a séance!”
“This woman has acted on stage, and she’s quite good. Her séances feel very real, trust me on that!”
Angie shook her head. “I don’t think—”
“Just listen. We’ll invite Maria to the house and hold a séance. My friend will tell Maria the ghosts have gone. That way, you’ll have Maria off your back, and you can think about buying the house with a clear head.”
Angie thought a moment. “If your friend can pull it off, that actually is a good idea.”
Connie smiled slyly.
* * *
The next day, Paavo tracked down a second cousin of the twin girls’ father, Henry Wyndom. She was eighty years old, living in Los Angeles. After a conversation by phone that convinced him she had information, he went to Lt. Eastwood and got approval to catch the next commuter plane to L.A.
Helen Atherton was a bright, well-turned out woman. She invited Paavo into her pleasant but cluttered home.
“I really can’t tell you much about Gaia. I’m sorry to hear she’s dead, but I haven’t seen her or her sister in years,” she said even before Paavo sat down in the living room. She offered him coffee or tea, and put out some vanilla wafers. He gladly accepted a cup of coffee. She soon sat down across from him, ready to answer questions.
“You mentioned Gaia’s sister,” Paavo began. “Was there only one? No brothers?”
“One sister, a twin. That was all; and that was enough if you ask me.” She gave a firm nod. “I had nothing to do with the girls after their parents died, I’m sorry to admit. I just never cared for them.”
“What can you tell me about their parents’ deaths?”
“Not much except that their car apparently went out of control on Highway 1 on the way home from their cabin in Jenner. It ran off the road and rolled down a cliff along the Pacific.”
Her wording struck him. Also, being face-to-face with her convinced him her mind was sharp and her words honest. “You said it ‘apparently’ went out of control?”
“That’s right. That road twists like the Dickens, but my cousin knew it well. I’m not saying accidents don’t happen, but Henry was a very careful driver. If anything, he drove too slow! And Henry always maintained his cars. I see no reason for it to have gone off the highway, unless someone helped it along.”
Interesting speculation, Paavo thought. “Were you and Henry close?”
“As children we were. But I didn’t care for his wife, Shirley, so I saw less and less of them as time went on.”
“The twins were age twenty-one when their parents died, so I take it they inherited everything?” Paavo asked.
“They certainly did, including a house in Kentfield. It was pricey when Henry and Shirley bought it in the 1970’s, but worth a small fortune when the girls finally decided to sell it a few years back. They must have made a tidy sum off the place, even splitting it between them.”
“What do you think really happened to their parents?”
“I have no idea. It was called ‘driver error.’ The car caught fire, so there wasn’t really much left to investigate, I suppose. And no reason to suspect anything. No real reason, in any case.”
“Meaning?”
She pursed her lips, then sat up a little straighter. “Meaning I always found it suspicious that their parents died shortly after, as adults, those two could take charge of their inheritance. To me, those girls had ice water in their veins. They didn’t even hold a funeral service or anything for their parents. I doubt they ever shed a tear for them. They were little demons when they were growing up, and I doubt they were any better as adults.” She raised her head. “I wouldn’t put anything past either one of them And I’d never turn my back on them, either.”
Paavo turned the conversation to the missing twin. “Gaia lived in San Francisco and worked in South San Francisco before she died. But I can find nothing about Urda. As far as you know, is she still alive? Any idea where she might be living?”
“I know Urda is alive because I see her books in stores. A new one comes out every six months or so.”
He was surprised. “She’s a writer?”
“Yes. Paranormal romances—werewolves and vampires, that sort of thing. She makes a fortune at it, too, I understand.”
“She doesn’t use the name Urda Wyndom, does she?”
“My gracious, no. She uses a pseudonym, Marilee Wisdom.”
“I see,” Paavo said. “Do you have any idea where she lives?”
“Urda was always a free spirit compared to Gaia. She didn’t like to be tied down by many possessions. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she lived out in the woods somewhere. She used to live in Marin County, or maybe Sonoma. I doubt she’d go much farther than that. The two sisters didn’t get along, but they always kept an eye on each other—a close eye. If Gaia lived in San Francisco, Urda wasn’t far away.”
“How well did they get along?” Paavo asked.
Helen snorted. “Like oil and water. Each always tried to get the upper hand on the other.”
“Were their personalities the same or different?”
“Exactly the same. Both pretended to be nice, but they weren’t. I already said they were demons as children. As adults, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they were monsters.”
Paavo found the words chilling, but the more he learned about this case, the more he believed she was right.
He handed her his card, thanked her for her time, and left.
Chapter 16
ANGIE OPENED THE apartment door to find two women making tiny waving gestures and smiling at her.
“Hello, we’re from Bride’s Little Helpers.” They spoke at the same time, and it was like listening in stereo. After not liking the pushy, opinionated wedding planners she met, Angie decided to move in a completely different direction and contacted a firm that described their services as providing assistance in the planning of a wedding, and fulfilling the bride’s every dream. She contacted them that morning and, to her amazement, they said they would be there in an hour. And they were.
The two looked nothing alike beyond their blond hair, blue eyes, and too much red lipstick. Angie showed them to her living room as they oohed and aahed over her lovely apartment and view that stretched from the Golden Gate Bridge across the north bay and Alcatraz all the way to the Bay Bridge. Angie cringed as they headed towards her Cezanne but they either didn’t know the artist or didn’t care about the lithograph because they continued past it without a word.
They sat on the sofa and Angie took the yellow Hepplewhite chair.
“I’m Lara,” the one on the right said.
“And I’m Kara,” said the one on the left.
“We do everything you don’t want to bother with. You simply tell us what you want and we’ll do it, just like magic!” Lara said, brimming with enthusiasm.
“And we’re always Johnny-on-the-spot,” Kara said, her little fist punching the air.
“That’s why we came here so soon after you called,” Lara added.
“It shows our dedication,” said Kara.
“And consideration of you…” Lara waited for Kara to join in, as both added, “and your time.”
Angie blinked a moment. “You see, I’m not sure what I want or need.” She looked from one to the other. “That’s why I’m hiring a wedding assistant. I mean, I know the basics, but it’s the details I worry about.”
“That’s what we’re here for. Details. You just tell us what you want done, and we’ll do it,” Lara repeated, clapping her hands.
Next, Kara showed how over-the-top bubbly she could be. “Don’t worry, you’ll think of everything eventually. Our brides always do, don’t they, Lara?” Both nodded and smiled so broadly Angie could see their molars.
“But do you offer help or suggestions?” Angie asked.
“We can, but for some reason most of our brides don’t seem to like that, no they don’t.” Lara glanced at Kara and both women shook their heads vehemently.
“They want us to do what they want us to do, nothing more, nothing less,” Kara chimed, forcefully jabbing her forefinger on Angie’s coffee table.
Lara folded her hands together. “And that’s what we do. That’s why we’re…”
Suddenly the two hooked arms, leaned their heads towards each other and sang out, “Briiides little hellllpers!”
Angie gawked. She was already getting a crick in her neck going back and forth from one person to the other. No way in hell could she tolerate these two over the next four months. She stood and tried to sound calm as she said, “I’ll call you.”
Angie shut the door on them and returned to her sofa where she sat and miserably stared at the far wall. The one that was empty. No Cezanne, no nothing. Just like her wedding.
What was wrong with her? She couldn’t find anyone she liked to help with her wedding; she couldn’t find a house for Paavo and her to live in that wasn’t potentially haunted; and she hadn’t even found a wedding dress. Was her taste so completely out of step with the rest of the world? Other people found wedding planners; other people found houses to buy.
Other people found jobs they managed to keep!
Why couldn’t she?
* * *
Angie wasn’t the only one agonizing about life choices and the future. Paavo’s involvement with the dysfunctional Wyndom family caused him to think about and fret over the upcoming changes to his life.
He, who had never really had a family, would soon become part of an enormous one. He had to admit he found it somewhat horrifying.
But most horrifying of all was the wedding Angie planned. It sounded like a cross between “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” and the battle scenes from “Saving Private Ryan.” It was enough to give a 6’2”, 180 lb., strong and tough death cop palpitations.
He left Homicide early and went straight to Angie’s apartment.
* * *
Angie opened the door and greeted Paavo with a kiss. He set her from him and stepped backwards, his expression troubled. “Angie, I’ve been thinking.”
She stiffened as a thousand possibilities of what could be wrong flooded her mind, starting with “Stan was right! He’s going to call off the wedding!”
He continued. “Isn’t it going to be a bit weird to have a wedding with so many people from your family, and my side of the church has no one but Aulis? Why don’t we let your side have the whole church and let Aulis sit with your parents?”
She blinked a couple of times. Is that all? “I don’t think your side will be that empty, but that’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want Aulis to feel alone.”
“Good,” he said with a nod.
She knew there was something more, and expected it might be a subject they had put off talking about. But the time had come for her to broach it. “Since we’re on the subject of the wedding,” she said, “have you chosen your best man yet?”
He shook his head, walked over to the sofa, and eased himself onto it. She understood the problem—the person he wanted, Matt Kowalski, was dead. He also told her Matt’s wife had started dating. Life went on, but sometimes it was much more difficult than others.
She sat beside him. He once said he thought loneliness preferable to loss. He had suffered too many losses in his life, and she watched how, after Matt’s death, he never allowed himself to grow close to anyone else in the homicide bureau. With his job keeping him busy, he had little time to socialize and make friends outside the force. It was, frankly, amazing he was engaged.
She took his hand. “Yosh?” she suggested.
“We’re partners and I like him a lot, but we rarely see each other outside work. He might feel odd being a best man because of that. If I ask, he might want to say ‘no’ but feel stuck. The whole thing could be uncomfortable.”
“What about Calderon? You always seemed to like him.”
“Calderon hates weddings, and hates marriages.”
“But he enjoys talking to my sister, Frannie, I’ve heard,” Angie said with a wry smile followed by a shudder.
“I couldn’t ask Calderon instead of Yosh,” Paavo said. “That wouldn’t work at all. Yosh would be hurt. We should ask both to the wedding, although I doubt either will come.”
Angie thought he was wrong about that, but said nothing.
“What about Cat’s husband?” Paavo asked. “We got along well when we went to Rome together.”
“Charles? But he’s so boring! We’d have to hold a mirror under his nose to make sure he’s alive. Besides, he has to walk Cat down the aisle since she’ll be a bridesmaid.”
“Can’t Stan walk her?”
“Why not make Stan your best man?” Angie suggested. “That way he’ll have a role in the wedding.”
Paavo didn’t even respond to that. Okay, even she had to admit that was a stretch.
Paavo looked despondent. “I never realized I’m such a loner,” he said. “My work has taken over my life, cutting out friendships. I’ve got to do something about that.”
Angie wracked her brain; seeing her groom so unhappy hurt. “Who do you talk to at work?”
“Yosh, mainly. And Rebecca. Say, shouldn’t Rebecca be in the wedding somewhere?”
Angie thought about his tall, buxom, beautiful co-worker; the one who wanted to marry Paavo herself; the one—she had been told—everyone in homicide thought was perfect for him. Angie would feel as if she were standing in a hole if Rebecca were in the wedding party. She could just imagine Paavo looking right over her head into Rebecca’s big blue adoring eyes. The idea was horrible!
“That’s not going to work. I’ve got way too many sisters to have room for anybody else. It’s only through juggling that Connie fits in as my maid (or matron, since she was once married) of honor. And she’s my best friend!”
“Well…maybe I can find myself some friends before you finalize the wedding line-up,” Paavo said more dejected than ever. She had no idea this wedding would put such a strain on him.
Chapter 17
STAN, YOU WERE right,” Connie said into the phone the next morning. She was bursting with excitement over her clever idea, and couldn’t wait to share it.
“What am I right about?”
Connie could hear that he sounded sleepy. “Did I wake you up? It’s eleven o’clock. Are you sick?”
“No. I just didn’t feel like going to work today. I’ve got a lot on my mind with Angie’s wedding and all. I worried so much about who my new neighbor will be once she moves, I must have dozed off again.”
“I’m calling about Angie, so wake up and listen to me!” Connie said. “It’s important!”
“Let’s go back to me being right,” Stan muttered.
“Angie is going too far with this house business. She’s hardly rational. She told me her sister Maria wanted to have an exorcism done on the house, and Angie doesn’t even realize how crazy that sounds! She’s losing it, Stan. Too much pressure between house-hunting and the wedding. We need to help her.”
“An exorcism? Are you joking?”
“No, but at least it’s not going to happen. I’ve got an idea, however, about something that can happen. I know a woman who performs séances. I called her and she’s available tonight.”
“A séances sounds even goofier than an exorcism,” Stan said. “I don’t want anything to do with a séance! You’re more insane than Angie!”
“Me? You’re the one who’s the spoils sport!” Connie spat out the words. “My idea is perfect! I’ll get Angie to hold a séance with Madame Hermione, and invite her sister Maria to attend. Now, here’s where it gets clever. Angie will think Madame Hermione is there to convince Maria that the house isn’t haunted, but in fact, she’ll do the opposite. She’ll act like it is! That way, Angie will be forced to drop the whole idea of buying a house that scares her.”
“And she just might stay in her apartment,” Stan said hopefully.
“For a little while, at least. Anyway, I think we’re on the same page,” Connie said. “Now, you and I need to meet with Hermione this afternoon. She’ll brief you on scary ‘ghostlike’ things to do. I think if you hide outside in the back yard and work with Hermione to make noises and what have you, it’ll appear that she’s conjuring up spirits. Then she’ll announce that the house really is haunted, and Angie will drop any ideas about buying it!”
“Yeah, but what am I supposed to do to sound like a ghost?”
“You can take some heavy chains. Don’t ghosts rattle them? And bring a horn with a low, deep sound.”
“A horn? I don’t…oh, I played clarinet in middle school for a couple of months. What should I blow on it?”
Connie looked heavenward for strength. “Anything, Stan! Who cares? What about the ‘Dies Irae’ theme?”
“I don’t know how it goes.”
“Find anything that makes noise or flashes lights. It doesn’t matter what. It’s the thought that counts.”
Stan remained quiet. “Stan?” she called.
“I’m here. I was hoping I could go back to sleep so when I woke up, I’d find this was all a terrible dream.”
* * *
Early that afternoon, Paavo and Yosh pulled onto the driveway belonging to Urda Wyndom, aka Marilee Wisdom.
Once Paavo learned she might be living in Marin County, he tracked her to Lagunitas, a small community surrounded by park land and redwood forest preserves.
Urda Lee Wyndom had legally changed her name to Marilee Wisdom when she was only twenty-two years old. Paavo looked up the proceedings for the name change. She petitioned the court saying being stuck with “Urda” the rest of her life should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. The judge agreed.
Paavo had worked cases before where someone had their name legally changed, but records of the earlier name had always remained on the books. New records came into being, but the old ones hadn’t been deleted. Not in this case, however. He had no idea how she had pulled that off, but somehow she had.
Adding to the strangeness, Paavo found Urda—or Marilee as she was now known—had a completely made-up biography on her website and Facebook page claiming Marilee was British and lived in London, of all places. He supposed she claimed friendship with J.K. Rowling as well. Everything about her seemed to be imaginary.
Yet, even knowing this, he found it startling to see a person open the door who so greatly resembled the picture of the corpse he had on the murder board facing his desk. Even their hairstyles were the same—side part, casual, chin length.
“Inspectors Smith and Yoshiwara, San Francisco P.D.,” Paavo said as he and Yosh showed their badges. “Are you Marilee Wisdom?”
“Yes, I am.” She looked confused. “What’s this about?”
“Your sister, Gaia Wyndom. May we come in?”
She let them into the house, a small A-frame with large windows facing the forest. The interior consisted of a great room with rustic plaids, comfortable pillows, and leather and wood furnishings. It was a far cry from the sterile, stiff furniture in Gaia’s home. Upstairs was a bedroom loft. Marilee picked up two gray and white cats from the back of the sofa, tossed them out to what appeared to be a covered back porch and shut the door, then invited Paavo and Yosh to sit down.
“When did you last see your sister?” Paavo asked.
Marilee shrugged. “Some weeks ago. Why?”
“Did you communicate otherwise? Texts? E-mail?”
“Sometimes. Not recently. What’s this about?”
“Did she ever mention to you anyone who had threatened her, or anyone she was afraid of for any reason?”
“No. You two are scaring me. Is she all right?”
“Was there any special person in her life? Someone she may have been romantically involved with?”
Marilee’s whole demeanor suddenly changed. She snorted. “Gaia? I don’t think she’s had a boyfriend since high school. Oh, wait.” She smirked. “She didn’t have any in high school either.”
Marilee looked them straight in the eye as she announced, “I went to the prom, not her. Why are you asking such questions?”
Paavo glanced at Yosh, who then took over. “I’m sorry to say, we have bad news,” Yosh said, and then gently told her of Gaia’s death.
Marilee showed little emotion, and what she showed was a combination of surprise and disgust. She took a deep breath then asked, “So, it was suicide?”
“That has yet to be determined,” Yosh responded.
“I see.”
“Is there anything in Gaia’s past that would lead you to believe she might commit suicide?” Paavo asked.
“She wasn’t a happy person. Lonely, I’d say.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about her death from anyone,” Paavo said. “And didn’t read about it in the newspaper.”
Marilee brusquely tucked a lock of hair behind an ear as if all these questions wearied her. “I don’t pay attention to the news. I hate hearing or seeing anything about all the death and destruction going on in the world. I’m much happier ignoring it. The only newspaper I look at is the local one, and I’m afraid people living around me don’t care about the terrible things that happen in San Francisco.”
“You recently faced the death of someone else close to you,” Paavo said.
Marilee stiffened. “Oh?”
“Taylor Bedford,” Paavo said.
Marilee paled. “I should have expected the police would turn up information about his personal life.” Her jaw clenched and her breathing became quick and shallow. “Have you learned who killed him yet?”
“We were hoping you could help us.”
She looked from Paavo to Yosh. “Do you think there’s a connection between his death and Gaia’s? That’s so hard to imagine! According to Taylor, he rarely saw her at work, and their jobs had nothing in common.”
“Right now, you’re the only connection between the two of them.”
Her eyes widened. “Me? You think this had something to do with me?”
Paavo’s expression was cold. “We were told he kept your relationship a secret. That he never even spoke about you to anyone.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Her tone was harsh. “He wanted to announce to the world the way he felt about me. He even pursued me at work!”
“Pursued you at work? What do you mean? You didn’t work with him, your sister did.”
She looked stunned a moment. “What I mean is…is that I didn’t tell him for a long time that I wasn’t Gaia.”
“Why not?”
She folded her hands, fingers intertwined. “When we met, he thought I was Gaia. It was easier, in some ways even more exciting, if I pretended to be my twin. The poor waif, coming out of her shell thanks to the love of a rich, powerful man in her company, yada yada. I felt I was in an old Harlequin romance come to life.” She chuckled. “I’m a romance writer, if you didn’t know. Paranormal romances—sexy vampires, sexy shape-shifters, sexy werewolves, occasionally sexy humans. They’re very popular these days, and sell remarkably well.”
“And you make enough to live on?”
“More than you can imagine,” she said with a cloying smile.
“I see.” Paavo said. “Did you ever tell him who you were?”
“Eventually,” she said.
He noticed her fingers turning white she clutched them so tightly. “When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“How long ago did your affair begin?” he asked.
“I’d say, um, six months ago. In the spring.”
“And all that time he thought you were Gaia?” Paavo couldn’t believe that degree of deception.
“What did it matter?”
“I think it would have mattered a great deal to him.”
Marilee sighed. “I’m not proud of what I did. It started out as a lark. I never dreamed I would fall in love with him.”
“Go on,” Paavo urged.
“I met Gaia one day after work. We walked into a nearby bar to talk about some financial stuff, but we no sooner entered than she froze. She didn’t want him to see her—or us—I’m not sure which. She pointed him out as a big shot in sales and from the way she talked and stared at him, I could tell she was smitten. It made me curious.”
“And then what?” Paavo asked.
“A couple of weeks later, I saw him in a grocery store, Safeway, in the Marina district. We began talking. We left the store and went out for coffee. I liked him, and we shared many interests. Once we started talking, it seemed we never stopped.” A shadow crossed over her face. “Until now.”
“You just happened to meet him and just happened to talk to him?”
She shrugged. “You could say that. And didn’t I already say that Gaia, who never even dated, was half in love with him? I wanted to find out why.”
“I assume you knew Bedford was married.”
“Of course.”
“Wasn’t that a problem?”
“Not for me. I didn’t care. Marriage means nothing to me. Neither does having children. My parents didn’t have a happy marriage, Inspector. And, as I’m sure you found out since you’ve done so much snooping into my private life, Gaia and I do not have other close relatives. I would say the gene for procreation doesn’t run in our family. I’m quite happy to be independent.”
“But you said Taylor wanted to tell the world about the two of you. That must have included his wife.”
“It did,” she said. “Taylor didn’t like ‘cheating’ on his wife as he put it. He was very twentieth century that way. He repeatedly asked his wife for a divorce, but she refused to agree to an amicable one. She threatened to take everything he owned if he walked out on her.”
“What did you think of that?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. It was his problem, not mine.”
“Why didn’t you come forward, talk to the police, when you learned he had been murdered?”
“I didn’t have anything to offer about who did it. And his wife would have been there. I didn’t want to see her.”
“Or you had something to do with his murder,” Paavo said.
“Do I look like a murderer, Inspector?” Marilee asked. “I didn’t kill him. I was probably the only person in the world who truly loved him.”
Paavo paused a moment in the questioning. “What did Taylor say when you told him you weren’t Gaia?”
“He said that explained a lot. And he didn’t care. He loved me.”
Paavo looked up at Yosh to see Yosh had some questions of his own. Yosh shook his head.
Paavo was ready to leave, but not before one last question. “What do you think happened to your sister and Taylor Bedford?”
“I’m not sure I should speculate,” she said.
“Try it,” Paavo suggested.
“His wife knew about the affair, and I’m sure she thought it was between Taylor and Gaia. I suspected all along that she paid someone to kill Taylor. Now that I learn Gaia is dead, she probably hired someone to kill her as well. It’s her style to keep her hands clean, Inspector, no matter how much shit she makes fly. Trust me on that.”
o0o
By the time Paavo finished filling in Lt. Eastwood on the Marilee/Urda interview, it was early evening. Since Angie told him she was going to a ‘girl’s night out’ with friends, Paavo decided it would be a good opportunity to pay a visit to the Night Hawk, the bar around the corner from the station where he used to work before his promotion and move to the Hall of Justice. In San Francisco, instead of each station or precinct having its own robbery, homicide, and other investigative divisions, a Bureau of Investigations had been established in the Hall of Justice. As a result, Paavo rarely saw his old co-workers.
“Hey, Paavo!” a voice called the moment he walked into the bar.
Paavo turned to see Joel Rhodes waving at him. Joel was a good guy, one he and Matt used to drink with on occasion. “Good to see you, Joel,” Paavo said as they shook hands then walked up to the bar. Joel already had a beer, and Paavo ordered one.
“What are you doing slumming around here?” Joel asked with a grin.
“Just wanted to see what you guys are up to. You haven’t been making trouble like usual, so I kind of lost touch.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while. Ever since”—Joel’s voice dropped—“Matt’s funeral.”
“I still can’t believe I won’t see him again.” Paavo took a sip of his beer. “But what have you been up to?”
Joel told him the latest gossip in the precinct, and Paavo talked about life in homicide, as well as Matt’s widow starting to date some guy who wasn’t a cop. They drank more beer, shot some pool. A couple of new cops that Paavo hadn’t met before joined them. All were nice guys, but Paavo quickly realized he had no place in their lives, and they had none in his.
While he was there, feeling like a fish out of water, his phone rang. To his amazement, it was Bianca, Angie’s oldest sister.
Chapter 18
ANGIE, CATERINA, AND Maria sat on the ugly green and gold sofa and equally outdated side chair in the living room of the house on Clover Lane. On the table in front of them were glasses of chardonnay, plus a bowl of plain and chocolate-covered pretzels and another of cashews.
Outside, the stars were hidden by heavy clouds, and the only sound was that of waves lapping on the beach far below.
“I don’t like this,” Maria muttered. “It feels like blasphemy.”
“It’ll be fine,” Angie said, checking her watch. It was nine-fifteen; Connie was late. “Connie insists this person is quite good. Her séance will prove that the house isn’t really haunted.”
“It’s hard to prove a negative, Angie,” Maria said.
“Unless that negative has no logic or common sense,” Cat said, staring daggers at Maria.
A howling wind kicked up. The lights flickered and then went out. Angie opened the front door and saw that lights were out throughout the neighborhood. The wind grew worse and it started raining. Fortunately, Angie had brought a lot of candles for the séance, and lit them now.
She hadn’t thought Caterina would be here. She had only invited Maria, but then Maria phoned Cat and berated her for trying to sell Angie a haunted house. Cat told Maria she was crazy, and then phoned Bianca to complain about Maria interfering with her business. Bianca suggested Cat attend to prove Maria wrong, and so here she was.
Now the three of them sat nervously by candlelight, not saying a word. Even Angie had to confess to being a bit spooked.
Finally, the doorbell rang. Angie jumped to her feet. “That’s got to be Connie!” She hurried to open the door.
Angie didn’t know what to make of Connie’s friend. At least she didn’t show up wearing a turban, a billowy full length dress, a cape, or rows of silver necklaces like seers in the movies. She had short, frizzy hair, and wore flat sandals and a smock-like paisley print dress over a rotund figure. She towered over the Amalfi sisters. The rings she wore on each finger looked so tight, they seemed in danger of cutting off her circulation.
“No power?” Connie asked as she stepped out from behind Madame Hermione into the living room.
“It went out a few minutes ago,” Angie replied.
“That makes the atmosphere even better. Let me introduce my friend.” Connie made quick introductions. “Do you want to start now, Madame Hermione?”
“Let’s not settle down quite yet, Connie,” Hermione said. “I need to get a sense of the house, of the spirits I’m supposed to call up. Let me walk around here a bit, inside and out. And in the meantime, perhaps our hostess can put some chairs around a table.”
She opened the door to the back yard and a harsh, cold wind immediately smacked her. Her hair flew back so forcefully it was almost straight, and her dress swirled around her, the hem flapping in the breeze. She quickly shut the door again. “Well, perhaps not the outside. I’ll need a candle.”
Angie handed her one.
“Ah…” Madame Hermione touched her forehead with her fingertips as she glided from the living room towards the master bedroom. “I feel something. A presence! Yes, there is certainly something ‘other’ in this house.”
“She’s the thing that’s ‘other’,” Cat muttered. “This is already ridiculous and it hasn’t even started yet!”
“This is about more than making another sale, Cat!” Maria insisted. “It’s about Angie’s happiness!”
Angie didn’t want to hear their arguing and hurried after Hermione, wondering what she was up to. The bedroom was empty.
Connie pointed to the bathroom. Hermione was in there holding the candle high, looking at the ceiling, and turning in a circle. “Don’t even ask,” Connie whispered. Angie shrugged.
Hermione came out, briefly stepped into the den, looked at the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms, and turned away from them. Finally she fluttered, as much as a 300-pound woman can flutter, across the living room to the kitchen. “Nothing!” she cried. “Whoever lived here wasn’t much of a cook.”
Angie didn’t follow her into the kitchen, but instead muttered, “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad.”
“Madame Hermione is what’s bad news,” Cat said, disgusted. Angie had forgotten her sister had the hearing of a Doberman. “This is a joke. I thought better of Connie, frankly. Are you sure you don’t want to just call it quits now, Angie?”
“Don’t be silly. Connie went to a lot of trouble to arrange this séance, and we’re going to see it through,” Angie said as Hermione and Connie returned to the living room. She picked up the chardonnay bottle. “Connie? Madame Hermione?”
“Yes!” Connie said, holding out a glass for Angie to pour.
“I suggest not.” Madame Hermione frowned at Connie and then everyone else with wine. “We need all our faculties for this event. Afterward, however, wine and perhaps some little nibblies would be most satisfying.”
The only “little nibblies” Angie had brought were the nuts and pretzels already out, and Madame Hermione looked as if she could down an entire bowl in one gulp.
They gathered all the candles together, placed them in the center of the dining room table, and sat around it.
Madame Hermione ordered them to hold hands. She sat at one end of the table, Angie opposite her, with Maria and Cat on one side, and Connie on the other.
Hermione shut her eyes and began to hum what sounded like “Om,” the chant Angie learned in a yoga class.
Hermione then spoke in a low voice. “I am calling to the spirit, or spirits, in this house. I feel your presence. Come to me! Reveal yourself!” She waited a minute, then repeated the words. A minute later she repeated them again.
Then she stopped and glared at the people sitting with her. “Someone isn’t taking this seriously.” Her dark eyes zeroed in on Cat, then flashed over to Angie. “I’m not sure who it is, but your negative vibes are bothering the spirits. They won’t come where they aren’t wanted or accepted.”
“We’ll try not to be negative,” Angie said. She noticed Cat roll her eyes—all the sisters were eye-rollers. Angie had never realized how obnoxious the gesture could be. “Come on, everybody. I asked Connie to invite Madame Hermione here, as well as all of you, so the least you can do is cooperate.”
Connie nodded; so did Maria. Cat glared.
Hermione repeated her invitation to the spirits. This time, she only said the words once, then stopped. “Yes, I feel you here! You’re coming closer. It’s all right. You’re in the company of friends. Will you speak, spirit?”
They waited.
“Spe-e-e-e-ak!” Madame Hermione roared.
A squawky high “tweet” followed by a low “toot” came from the back yard.
“I’ll be damned,” Cat said. “It’s the ghost of Benny Goodman.”
“Speak to me, I command you!” Hermione ordered.
A noise like someone drumming on a garbage can struck next. Angie felt her heart beat quicken. It was weird, but scary.
“Give us a sign that you are here!” Hermione shouted, her voice loud but tremulous. “A sign! Any sign!”
They held their collective breaths, waiting.
“You need a better class of ghost, Angie,” Cat muttered.
A light streaked across the ceiling. All five of them jumped.
“Ah! It’s here! The ghost is here!” Hermione shouted. She changed her voice to one much higher and almost childlike. “Yes, ma’am, I am here.”
“Who are you?” Hermione demanded. “Why are you here?”
Then she answered her own question in the little hushed voice. “I want to go home. Please set me free.”
A low toooot sounded from outside.
“Oh? Ah!” Hermione cried. “We have more than one ghost. It’s all right.” She stood, still holding Connie’s and Maria’s hands. “I command you, be gone! Leave this house!”
The light, which Angie thought looked remarkably like a flashlight beaming in from the back yard, skittered over the ceiling a couple of times and then went out.
Hermione slowly lowered her hands and sat back down. “I will speak the words that I hope will rid the house of these spirits and keep them away.” In a low voice she chanted, “O vile sprit, o wraith, o spectre—”
Something whimpered and scratched at the sliding glass door.
“It sounds like dog,” Connie said. “But I can’t quite see in the dark.”
Angie took a candle and went to the sliding glass door to the back yard. A small white West Highland Terrier stood on its hind legs and rapped the glass with its front paws. “A little white Scottie dog,” Angie said. “How cute. I wonder if he’s hungry or thirsty.”
She slid open the door to see if the dog was friendly or would just run away. To her surprise, he leaped into the house and ran past her straight to the kitchen. “Doggie, no!” She ran after him, trying to pick him up and get him back outside.
He darted from her and scurried to the pantry door where he began to whimper. She opened the door, but the pantry was quite bare. “I feel like Old Mother Hubbard,” she said to the others who stood in the kitchen watching. “I wonder what this is all about.”
“You might give him some water,” Connie suggested. “He seems to know the house. Maybe he belongs to a neighbor.”
Fortunately, the house still had some bowls, so she found one and filled it with water. The dog lapped it up as if dying of thirst. Then he ran over to a corner of the dining area, curled up, and shut his eyes.
“Look at that!” Angie cried. “He looks so sleepy. I say we leave him alone. It’s cold and rainy outside, yet he somehow managed to stay dry. He’s a pretty smart little dog, I’d say.”
“Shall we attempt to continue?” Madame Hermione asked coldly. “I’m not sure, however, that I can bring back the proper ambiance, the proper—”
“Please try,” Angie said.
They again sat at the table and held hands. Madame Hermione began swaying as she again chanted, “O vile spirit, o wraith, o spectre—”
A candle went out.
“Older houses can be drafty,” Connie said quickly.
The others agreed, chuckling nervously, as Angie took a match and relit the candle.
A little louder, Hermione said, “O vile—”
As Angie blew out the match, another candle went out, then a second.
“What’s going on?” Maria asked in a high, shaky voice.
“It’s nothing. A draft, that’s all,” Cat said as Angie relit the candles.
A candle went out again; Angie relit it.
“So the house is drafty as well as haunted. It figures,” Maria said. “Good job, Cat.”
“The only windbag around here is you!” Cat snarled.
A different candle went out.
As Angie relit it, another one died.
Then another.
Cat yanked the matchbook out of Angie’s hands and quickly relit all the candles. “That’s how it’s done!”
Hermione shouted. “O vile spirit, o—”
A candle flickered and then died.
“I don’t feel any draft,” Connie’s voice trembled. “So why—”
“Obviously, the candle wicks are defective,” Cat said, a little too loudly and a little too forcefully.
All the candles went out at once. The room plunged into darkness.
The dog let out a mournful howl; Angie’s blood ran cold.
Maria jumped to her feet. “I’ll find my purse. I’ve got a bottle of holy water.”
A loud knock sounded on the door.
“My God!” Connie groaned, standing. “What’s that?”
“Evil spirits!” Maria cried. “Don’t let them in!”
“Ignore it!” Madame Hermione ordered as she, too stood up. “All of you! Sit back down right now! I can damned well do this in the dark! Oooo viiiile spirit!—”
But Angie knew that loud, no-nonsense policeman’s knock. She stood, lit one candle and shielded the flame with her hand as she used it to light the way to the door and swung it open.
“What’s going on, Angie?” Paavo asked as he strode inside wearing his grim inspector’s face and dragging in with him a sopping wet, sheepish and scared Stan Bonnette holding a clarinet. Stan wore a slicker and rain hat, and Paavo’s hand had a firm grasp on the slicker’s back collar.
Paavo’s gaze jumped from the Angie to the over-sized Madame Hermione, who stood and shouted strange words at the top of her lungs while flapping thick, gelatinous arms and ordering everyone to sit down.
Maria ran over and doused him and Stan with handfuls of holy water, then continued to splash it all around the room. Paavo let Stan go, and Stan scooted across the room faster than Angie had ever seen him move.
“Stan?” Angie gasped.
Paavo’s eyes grew harder and more skeptical as they went from Maria to Cat who kept trying to light candles on the dining room table with little success, and Connie who awkwardly tried to help her.
“Connie, not you, too?” he said.
“This nonsense was all Connie’s idea!” Cat cried, closing the book of matches and smacking them down on the table. “I’m leaving!” She grabbed her purse and jacket and hurried towards the door. “Lock up, will you, Angie?”
“Wait, Cat! Can you give me a ride?” Stan squeaked, then looked at Paavo. “That is…?”
“Go,” Paavo said.
“Stan, what were you doing?” Angie asked.
He pointed at Connie. “It was all her idea!”
“It was not!” Connie yelled. “He was the one who worried about you, Angie. I only tried to help!”
Angie gave Stan a look that should have turned him to stone. He muttered incoherent goodbyes and keeping as far from Paavo as possible, darted out the front door after Cat.
“Who is this strange, unwanted fellow?” Madame Hermione demanded, pointing at Paavo. “And why has he caused such disruption to my séance?” Her eyes narrowed as she faced Connie. “I still expect to be paid, you know. It’s not my fault I couldn’t finish!”
“Paid for what? A sham?” Paavo asked stepping closer to her. He regarded Hermione without expression, but his question dropped the temperature in the room about ten degrees.
Connie jumped between the two, facing Paavo. “It’s a party game, that’s all,” she babbled, then spun around to face Hermione. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. He’s Angie’s fiancé, Inspector Paavo Smith, SFPD.”
Hermione lifted her nose and regally sauntered towards the door. “Please drive me home.”
“Gladly,” Connie said as she grabbed her jacket and handbag.
Before leaving, Hermione looked back at Angie. “To you, this may have been a ‘party game,’ but there is a presence here. Most definitely.”
“You don’t have to pretend, Hermione,” Connie said sheepishly. “The joke is over. There were no spirits—just you and Stan having fun. I’m sorry, Angie. I thought it was a good idea at the time. One that would make you think seriously about this house before buying it. You don’t want to buy a place you have doubts about. But nothing turned out the way I planned. Again, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not pretending,” Hermione said. “Something is here…some presence. Let’s get out of here, Connie.” With that, head high, she marched out the door, Connie skulking at her heels.
“Angie, you idiot!” Maria shrieked, her holy water bottle empty now. “Don’t you know that when you open the door to the occult and dark spirits, even if you’re playing around, they just might take you up on it! Heaven help you!” With that, she stormed out as well.
As Maria pulled the door shut, Angie wished she could leave, too. Instead, she took a deep breath and faced Paavo. “You can clear out a party faster than anyone I’ve ever known.” She gathered up the wine glasses and brought them into the kitchen. Paavo helped with those she couldn’t carry, but after she put them down and turned to go back to the living room to get the cashews and pretzels she had put out, he caught her arm.
“Let’s talk.”
“Talk? About what?” she asked innocently. “And also, why are you here?”
“Bianca called and wondered what was going on. She told me about Cat and Maria arguing. She said she tried to find out more from Frannie, but she’s not involved at all. It’s clear Bianca can’t handle her sisters knowing something that she doesn’t. And she was worried. I had a good idea where I’d find all of you.”
“Bianca needs to mind her own business! Cat never should have called her!”
“Bianca also said something about worrying about a person who chooses a friend over her own sister as her matron of honor.” Paavo gave her a sidelong glance. “Is there another problem with the wedding plans?”
“There are always problems and hurt feelings with wedding plans! That’s one of the things that makes them so emotional. Now, I’ve got to clean up everything before we leave.” She again started towards the living room, when Paavo hauled her back.
“We aren’t doing anything until we get this settled,” he said. “I take it you honestly think this house is haunted.”
“Of course not! I don’t believe in ghosts! For pity’s sake, Paavo! Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Crazy enough to put salt packets in your parents’ house to ward off the evil eye,” he said with a grin, remembering the story Serefina once told him.
“I was just a kid!” she insisted. “Besides, all Italians believe in the evil eye. It means nothing!”
“Calm down, and tell me why you were holding a séance.”
“It was because of Maria.” She folded her arms. Paavo leaned back against the kitchen counter, one foot crossed over the other, as she explained how Maria wanted an exorcism but couldn’t get one so Connie hired a friend who knows a bit about the occult to put on a show and then declare the spirits had left the premises. “We were doing it to convince Maria, who does believe in ghosts, that Madame Hermione managed to free them from this house. It was supposed to be nothing more than that. Although it seems Connie had other ideas and roped Stan in as well. Anyway, I simply tried to be a good sister, tried to get Maria to believe this house would be safe for her and my mother to come visit.”
He wrinkled his mouth. “A good sister! I see.”
The little white dog got up and padded to Angie. She could have kissed it, since it gave her an excuse to stop the interrogation. She handed it a plain pretzel, and he scarfed it down hungrily. “Poor baby!” she said as she gave it a couple more. “I wonder what we should do with him.”
“Put water outside,” Paavo said, squatting down to pat the dog’s head. “He probably lives nearby. He’s too well cared for to be a stray. I suspect he’ll find his way back home. If he’s still here tomorrow, Cat should contact the realtor in charge. They can decide if they want to try to find his owners or send him to the pound as a lost dog.”
“He’s much too cute for the pound! I hate to leave him.”
He stood back up. “I’m sure he belongs to someone, Angie. He’ll most likely go back home without the distraction of a bunch of people holding a séance. He probably came here to have a good laugh.” At that, Angie watched his mouth slowly spread into a grin. “When I walked in,” he said, “you can’t imagine!” Paavo started with only a small chuckle, but soon he laughed hard.
Hands on hips, Angie shuddered at the memory of Maria smacking everyone with holy water, Cat and Connie furiously lighting candles that kept dying, the oversized seer bellowing for everyone to sit back down, and Stan looking like a newscaster reporting on a hurricane. When she opened the front door for Paavo, her sisters and Connie had gawked and cowered as if they expected someone to walk in with his head tucked underneath his arm.
Lifting her chin high, she announced, “I don’t see what’s in the least bit funny!”
Chapter 19
ON THE PHONE, Gillian from Wedding Vows had been the most unperturbed, placid person Angie had ever spoken with. Excited about meeting her face-to-face, she invited her to her apartment to talk, and now, a cherubic, fifty-something woman sat comfortably on her living room sofa.
“I want a traditional wedding—white dress, veil, five bridesmaids and bridegrooms, one flower girl—but I also want something unique and memorable,” Angie said.
“That’s a lovely idea.” Gillian put on her reading glasses. “I brought my spreadsheet so you can see what we need to do and by when. Now, when is the wedding scheduled?”
“In four months, Saturday the 25th, at Sts. Peter and Paul’s Church in North Beach.”
“Four months? You said four months?” She looked over the top of her glasses. “Goodness gracious! And you’re only now contacting me? Well, don’t worry about it, we’ll manage. That’s why my spreadsheet is so valuable. Have you done anything at all, as yet?”
“Yes, quite a few things,” Angie said. It seemed to her that four months was plenty of time.
“Let’s go through this.” Gillian slid her finger down her spread sheet as she read. “You’ll need to decide on flowers for the reception and the church, corsages, boutonnieres, and whatever you want to give to the parents of the bride and groom. Next, the photographer. Do you want video or stills? Invitations—have you sent out invitations yet? I hope you’ve at least ordered decent looking ones already. The reception location—you must have that by now as well or it’ll be a complete disaster! But if you haven’t chosen a good place it’ll be a disaster anyway. How will you get from the church to the reception, by the way? And how many people will you be responsible for moving? How will your guests get there? Have you chosen your rings yet? Tuxedos for the men? Bridesmaids dresses? Your dress? What about shoes? Your menu? The cake? Favors? Wine or hard liquor, or both? Champagne? And we can’t forget music—music for the church, pre- and post-ceremony, a band for the reception. Do you want a cocktail hour? What about music for that? And we need to think about linens for the reception, and then there’s—”
“Stop! You’re making me so nervous, I can’t stand it! I’ve done a lot of that, I think. Well, at least the menu and the cake. And I’ve booked the reception hall and church. But I haven’t sent out invitations yet. And I haven’t chosen my dress yet because…well, because. And I’m still trying to decide on the bridesmaids’ dresses since they shouldn’t clash with the style of my dress. And I haven’t decided yet on the colors for them.”
“Goodness gracious! That’s as much as you’ve done? And the wedding in four months? No, no, noooo.” Gillian brayed like a dying cow as she shook her head, all her previous placidity gone. “Such a disaster! All I can say is to do this right, we really should have twelve months. Minimum. These things take time, and much careful thought.” She took in a deep breath, and then announced, “You really must delay the wedding.”
Angie was struck mute. When she found her voice again, she could scarcely contain her outrage. “Twelve months? I don’t want to wait another year to get married! I’ve waited quite long enough already!” She felt her arms start to itch. Then the itchiness spread to her neck. Was she going to break out in hives on top of everything else?
“Well, it’s up to you, of course,” Gillian said. “If that’s what you insist on, somehow, we’ll manage. I’ll collect a bunch of things from weddings I’ve put together and you can choose what you want. That’ll help speed us up.”
Had Angie heard her right? “You’ll choose ‘things’ from other people’s weddings?”
“That would be best,” Gillian said firmly. “We can’t have a disaster, now, can we? In fact, I’m thinking already of one especially nice wedding I planned. We worked on it for sixteen months! I can simply import what I did onto your spreadsheet, and that’ll take care of most of the decision-making so we can concentrate on those items we have no choice but to change.”
Angie stood, walked to her apartment door, opened it, and said, “Goodness gracious! I think it’s time for you to leave.”
* * *
Paavo tried his best not to think of the bizarre scene on Clover Street the night before, and instead to concentrate instead on why Wyndom and Bedford had been murdered. Was it, as Marilee suggested, a matter of mistaken identity that caused Gaia’s death?
Listening to Angie talk about housing prices reminded him of something the twins’ elderly aunt had said to him—that they came into a lot of money when they sold their parents’ home. Gaia’s bank account and investments were substantial, but not for someone who sold a home in ritzy Kentfield. He wondered how much money she received and what had happened to it.
He looked for her financial papers and found she kept income tax forms and supporting documents going back to her early twenties. He had never seen anyone, not even accountants, with such neat and complete records. The sale of her parents’ Kentfield home took place ten years earlier. After paying all costs, taxes, and dividing the money with her sister, she had grossed over a half a million dollars. Three months later, she wrote out a check to Thomas Greenburg for $300,000. He could find no evidence that she received anything in return for that money. So why had she given it to him?
He went back to the paperwork he’d collected on Greenburg, and found, as he remembered, a statement that an anonymous “angel” had given Greenburg $300,000 to start his business.
Now he knew the angel’s name. But why had she done it?
Paavo headed to South San Francisco and Zygog Software.
A half hour later, he entered Thomas Greenburg’s office.
Greenburg hunched over his computer, every bit as sloppily dressed and unwashed as the first time Paavo saw him.
Greenburg glanced up, but as soon as he saw the fierce scowl on Paavo’s face his demeanor changed. He took his fingers off the keyboard and leaned back in his chair. “You’re the cop who came here before.”
“That’s right.”
“I told you, I didn’t know the dead people. Why are you back?”
“At least I have your attention this time,” Paavo said. “So you won’t have any excuses.”
“Excuses?” Greenburg’s eyes darted from side to side, and he adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you say you didn’t recognize Gaia Wyndom’s photo?”
“Gaia Wyndom? I don’t know. Maybe because I didn’t.”
“It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t recognize the person who was so important to you ten years ago.”
Greenburg rubbed his chin. A few long whiskers showed it had been a while since he shaved. “People change in ten years. Anyway, I didn’t deny she gave me start-up money.”
“No, but you didn’t offer it, either.”
“Why should I? It doesn’t mean anything. It has nothing to do with her death.”
Paavo leaned on Greenburg’s desk. “How do you know that?”
Greenburg scooted his chair back from the desk, but it bumped into the wall and he could go no further. “Why should it? That was a lifetime ago!”
“Why did she give you the money?”
“She was generous. And knew genius when she saw it.”
“Sure she was. Now answer the question.”
“How should I know?”
“Gaia Wyndom wasn’t the type of person who gave away that kind of money for no reason.”
Greenburg stood. “I don’t like what you’re saying to me! I want to talk to my lawyer.”
Paavo stepped directly in front of him. “In other words, you did something illegal. Something to do with hacking, I suppose.”
Greenburg backed up until he reached the wall, then folded his arms and jutted out his bottom lip. “I’m not saying.”
Paavo looked over the man and saw someone much more immature than his years warranted. He decided to back off. He walked over to a small table, pulled out a chair and sat, hands folded, and waited a moment before saying, “Look, Thomas. I really don’t care about what you did ten years ago as a hacker as long as it didn’t involve murder, treason, or something equally weighty.” He paused and let his words sink in. “If you pulled some goofy stunt, I’m not going to waste my time doing anything about it. I simply want to get this murder solved. And I think you can help me.”
Greenburg scrunched his lips. “How do I know I can I trust you?”
“Did you commit a major crime, such as murder?”
“No, not at all! Of course not! I’d never do that!”
“What then?”
He gave no response.
“Just between us,” Paavo urged. “You have my word.”
Greenburg put a finger in his ear and wriggled it around as he pondered what to do. After a while of this, he dropped his hand. “Promise?”
“Yes.”
Greenburg bit his bottom lip a moment before speaking. “Just between us, Gaia told me she once had a twin sister, Urda Lee Wyndom. Urda died, and Gaia was constantly getting Urda’s social security and other data mixed up with her own. She asked me to go into Federal and California records and remove all trace of Urda. I didn’t think it was anything particularly wrong. After all, poor Urda was dead.”
Paavo rarely heard a bigger bunch of B.S.. “You’re saying she offered you $300,000 to do something you thought wasn’t illegal or in any way wrong? You expect me to believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t you? It’s true. She was a nice woman. Honest. Just like me. If she had money to burn, so be it.”
“How did Gaia find you to offer you this windfall?”
“I’m not naïve. I checked around. She read about me online, and tracked me down to offer me money. Actually, I thought that was pretty nice of her.”
“What else did she say about Urda?”
“Nothing! I swear. Only that Urda had died.”
“Why did you give her a job at Zygog?” Paavo asked.
“She said life bored her and she wanted to work.”
“And?” Paavo asked.
Greenburg shrugged. “After a while of listening to her, I realized she wasn’t as rich as I originally thought, and a whole lot crazier. I even considered that Urda might not be dead. Bottom line, I wanted to keep an eye on her. Anyway, it was just a job.”
Paavo couldn’t take any more of Greenburg. He got up and left the office.
Chapter 20
AFTER GETTING RID of her latest disastrous wedding planner, Angie pondered the prior evening’s fiasco. She had had it with goofy ideas about the spirit world. Séances, Stan playing a demented Wizard of Oz hiding in the backyard, the whole nine yards. With friends like those…
Her phone rang. It was Connie, who said as she drove Hermione home, the seer insisted she felt a real presence in the house, even though she had never felt a presence anywhere before. Madame Hermione had Connie so scared, Connie believed her and now sided with Maria. Angie needed to forget about buying that house.
Angie hung up the phone without saying some very bad words.
When it rang again, she thought Connie might have come to her senses, but instead it was Cat. Cat informed her if she wanted that house she would have to find a new realtor because Maria threatened to kill or at least maim her if she didn’t get Angie to walk away from the deal.
Angie hung up on her as well, wondering if you could divorce your family.
What was with these people sticking their noses into her life? She, who was not in the least bit nosey and never got involved in other people’s lives, didn’t deserve such treatment!
She sat down to ponder what to do next.
She had learned a lot about Eric and Natalie Fleming’s murder reading the Chronicle, but little about the two of them as people—little about what made them ‘tick’ so to speak.
If she understood them better, maybe then she could figure out why they died. Whether the two were “stuck” here as her mother suggested, or not, Angie wanted to know what had happened to them. Why had two young people with so much to live for had their lives taken away so horribly? She remembered their pictures, so alive, so vibrant. For them to have died that way was wrong, and terribly sad.
The two had died thirty years ago, but their friends and possibly others in their families were most likely still alive. For all she knew, they had brothers and sisters who could shed light on them. Even the former homicide inspectors on the case might be available to talk with, although the less she involved Paavo or Homicide, the happier she would be.
Angie was a woman on a mission as she went to City Hall and got copies of Natalie and Eric’s death records. With the information on them, she went to genealogy programs on the internet and began to search for family members so she could talk to them and find out what, if anything, went on in Eric and Natalie’s lives that might have made them a killer’s target.
She knew that sometimes when tragedy first strikes, people are too shocked, too hurt, to think clearly. But the passage of time can help the mind make connections that were lost in the emotion of the moment.
Eric’s parents, Benjamin and Irene Fleming, lived in San Rafael, just north of San Francisco. She telephoned and was surprised when Irene answered. She took a deep breath. No way could she tell a mother that some people suspected her son haunted his former abode. Instead, she came up with a story of being a journalist and writing a magazine article on unsolved murders in San Francisco, and wondered if the Flemings would talk to her.
Both were available at six o’clock that very evening.
Angie drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and arrived right on time.
“I’m surprised anyone is interested in Eric’s death this many years later,” Ben said. He and his wife were well into their 80’s and still living in the same house as they did at the time of Eric’s murder.
Angie was prepared for this. “I know that for many people, finding out why a tragedy happened and the person responsible helps bring closure. I’m hoping that you feel that way and would be willing to help me out.”
Irene perched on the edge of the sofa. She found a Kleenex in her pocket and held it scrunched up in her hand. “I often thought my husband and I were the only people in the whole world who remembered Eric, or cared about what really happened to him. Many seem to believe he committed suicide. He would never do such a thing. Someone murdered him; he and Natalie both. I’m glad you’re looking into the case. It might help.”
“I hope so,” Angie said. “I’m sure the police asked this question time and again, but can you tell me anything about him the days before his death? Was he happy with his wife? Did he ever say anyone scared him or threatened him?”
“He seemed happy and devoted to Natalie,” Irene said. “And never seemed afraid of anyone.”
“Irene?” Ben said as he looked at her long and hard. Finally, she gave a reluctant nod. “There was one thing we should mention,” he said softly to Angie. “It didn’t come out at the time because we didn’t think it important and it would only cast a cloud over his life, but he had a lot of women around him. A lot of women. He was very good looking, and had money.” Ben shrugged. “It was to be expected, I suppose.”
“I see,” Angie said, suddenly uncomfortable over the way this nice couple opened up to her. “And you think that might have contributed to his death?”
“Not really, but we thought someone who might be able to use the information should know about it.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling even guiltier now. She decided to end this sham of a conversation. “Tell me, was Eric an only child?”
“No, we have a son who’s one year older than Eric, and a daughter who’s eight years younger.”
“Would it be possible for me to talk with your son?”
“Certainly, but I have no idea what he could tell you that we can’t.”
Angie gently said, “I have four sisters, and I must admit that we don’t tell our parents everything.”
Irene wrote down her oldest son’s name and address. “Here you go.”
Bill Fleming, Eric’s older brother, lived in Vacaville. Since Angie was already in the north bay, she asked Irene to phone and see if Bill was home and willing to speak to her. He was.
“Thank you for looking into this for us,” Irene said to Angie after she hung up the phone. “I know Eric didn’t kill his wife or himself. People who say that simply didn’t know him.”
“I believe he’s innocent as well,” Angie said. She was about to step out the door when a question came to mind. She nearly dismissed it, but then decided to ask. “I’ve read that Natalie had a dog who was very devoted to her. Do you know what kind of a dog it was?”
“Oh, yes,” Irene said with a small smile. “I remember him. He was a sweet little thing. All the neighbors took care of him until he died of old age. His name was Jock. He was a West Highland Terrier, and white as snow.”
Angie felt a cold chill ripple down her back as she walked out of the house.
* * *
Angie drove Highway 37 to Bill Fleming’s home, arriving about an hour later. Bill didn’t have his brother’s good looks, or if he once had them, they had long dissolved into a mostly bald pate, large, round stomach, and weak eyes covered by thick tortoise shell glasses.
“Eric…he was the golden boy,” Bill said. He and Angie sat in his living room. “Most of the time, people say, it’s the eldest son that gets all the attention. In olden times, the eldest was the heir apparent, and younger sons didn’t much matter. That wasn’t the case at our house.
“Ironically, things only got worse after Eric died. From that point on, no one could ever live up to him. Sometimes I thought my parents wished I had been the one who died instead of Eric, but eventually I realized that wasn’t the case. They put him on a pedestal precisely because he was dead. He couldn’t disappoint them any longer, but remained frozen in time and was, to them, perfect.”
“Wow, you sound as if he wasn’t the ideal son they thought him to be,” Angie said.
Bill’s mouth crumpled with distaste. “Maybe I’m being too harsh, but I got pretty sick of him over the years. I didn’t do so bad in my life! I’ve retired from a good job, I’ve got a wife, two kids, seven—”
“Maybe you can tell me more about Eric,” Angie suggested. When she saw the hurt look on Bill’s face, she knew what the problem was. No one was interested in him. And neither was she.
“Fine, then,” he said angrily. “You want to know about Prince Eric, I’ll tell you. He threw away his money, drank too much, did pot, even LSD for a time. After he started to make a lot of money on those stupid, nerdy, Silicon Valley start-ups, he turned to cocaine. That burned through his money like nobody’s business.”
“I see,” Angie was shocked. She hadn’t expected that. “Does that mean his marriage wasn’t as perfect as everyone liked to say?”
Bill squeezed his eyes shut as if he was struggling with his answer, then he gave a shake of the head and looked at her. “He was a charmer, our Eric, but I think he really did love his wife. I can’t see him shooting her. And definitely not shooting himself. Come to think of it, none of this is particularly helpful to you. He was clean by the time he died, I’m sure. Anyway, just thought I’d mention it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “There’s one other thing I wonder about. Your brother and his wife were both wealthy, so I’m surprised to learn he lived in a rental. Do you have any idea what was going on there?”
“That’s easy. They bought some land near Carmel, on the water, and were having a home built. It was going to be a beautiful place, over 5000 square feet. They died before it was finished.”
“How terrible,” Angie said. Somehow, the thought of newlyweds trying to find a place to live, touched something deep inside her.
“Yes, it was. Eric liked cars and women. Not until he met Natalie did he settle down. He wasn’t a bad person, just wild when he was young and single. I can say that now; now that over thirty years have passed.”
“Thank you,” Angie said, and gladly left the bitterness of that house.
* * *
Back in Homicide, Paavo told Yosh all he’d found out from Greenburg.
“There’s something about these twins,” Paavo murmured, as he studied both pictures on the murder board. “I don’t know what it is, but they bother me.”
“I know one thing,” Yosh said, “paying someone $300,000 to obliterate your twin’s name from government records shows a degree of hatred that’s stunning.”
“At the same time, the two obviously spent time together,” Paavo said. “Gaia even cut her hair to look like her sister’s.”
“Weird. And we’ve found no close friends, and no social activities beyond the one person she apparently loved. Who lives like that?”
Paavo grimaced. It was hitting more than a little close to home. “She supposedly had a couple of cats, but I saw no sign of them,” Paavo said. The irony that he, too, had a cat wasn’t lost on him.
“I think I did see a payment to a veterinarian on one of her credit card bills,” Yosh said. “I could find it and check if she had cats, and if so, what happened to them—although I don’t know that it would matter to the case.”
“If they were healthy and with her, where are they now? We should find out,” Paavo said, as he focused on the case again. “Although her co-workers seemed to scarcely know her, all remarked at how upset she was, starting a few weeks ago. We need to figure out what happened then.”
“The bartender that Bedford confided in said the same thing. Two weeks earlier, Bedford was upset,” Yosh said.
“We’ve got to find out—”
“Tomorrow!” Yosh insisted, standing up and putting on his jacket. “Let’s call it a day.”
“Sounds good,” Paavo said, grabbing his jacket as well. “Say, are you free tonight, by any chance?”
“What, is Angie giving you some time off?” Yosh asked with a chuckle.
“Something like that,” Paavo said.
“Lucky you. I’ve got to get home. The wife will remove my thick head from the rest of my very ample body if I don’t go with her to a parent-teacher conference tonight for our youngest. He’s a good kid, but he likes to act up in class, and the wife’s worried about how bad the teacher’s report will be.”
So much for social activities, Paavo thought. “Good luck tonight!”
As Yosh walked away, Paavo felt a cold chill down his back. Would he have to face teachers talking about his kids some day? He couldn’t imagine being a father. Maybe that was because he’d never known one. He knew nothing about trying to raise a kid, or what a father should be like. He’d probably only disappoint Angie in that, just the way he disappointed her with her wedding plans.
His father figure was Aulis, who was already a fairly old man when Paavo and his sister Jessica moved in with him. Aulis gave him love and support, especially after Jessica died. But Aulis didn’t have a clue what Paavo did when he was a teenager, or the types of kids he ran around with. His life could have turned out a whole lot different than it had if he hadn’t joined the army. That’s what saved him.
Saved him?
Sometimes he wondered. If he had kept running with the gangs he’d gotten mixed up with in high school, at least he’d have friends. At least he’d have a best man.
Now, he had no one but co-workers…and Angie.
At times like this he wondered, was it enough?
Chapter 21
ANGIE SAT ALONE at a table by the front window of Wings of an Angel, the restaurant owned by three ex-cons who had become friends, Vinnie Freiman, Bruce Pagozzi, and Earl White. She went there for lunch, a plate of spaghetti in front of her, but she morosely picked at it.
“How you doin’, Angie?” Vinnie said. He was short, stocky, in his sixties, and generally considered the brains of the operation.
“Not so good,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, Earl said you was lookin’ kinda glum. Anything you wanna talk about? Ol’ Vinnie’s here for you, you know?”
“I know, Vinnie. I appreciate it. Have a seat, please.” She gestured towards the empty chair at her table. He sat. “My friends think I’m crazy, and they may be right.”
“Miss Angie, we all know you always been a little wacky, but since when’s that a problem? What’s goin’ on?” He picked up a piece of French bread from the basket, tore off a morsel and plopped it in his mouth.
“I found a house, a beautiful house, in the Sea Cliff part of the city. Paavo likes it, I love it, we can afford it. But there’s something odd in its past, and now Connie and Maria think the place is haunted!”
“Come on, now, Miss Angie, you don’t believe in no ghosts. What do the people say who’s livin’ in it now? Are they afraid of these ghosts?”
“Nobody lives in it. No one has for thirty years.” She took a sip of her pinot noir. “The owner wouldn’t sell, and now her daughter is trying to sell it.”
“The owner’s dead, is she? Is she the ghost?”
“I don’t think she is dead, just old. And she’s not the ghost. Everyone suspects the ghosts are tenants who died near the house in a murder-suicide over thirty years ago.”
“Forget the tenants, they’s done for,” Vinnie said. “You gotta focus on the living. Every time I think I saw a ghost, it was somebody playin’ tricks, somebody who wanted to scare the crap outta me. Pardon my French. Why didn’t the owner wanna sell the place if no one was livin’ there? You gotta be nuts to sit on land that’s a gold mine. That ain’t makin’ no sense.”
“Oh, my God, you’re right! You’re a genius!” Angie stood, leaned across the table and kissed him. “I’ve been concentrating on the wrong people! Somebody wanted that house to stay empty, and kept it empty for thirty years! I’ll bet whoever it was, still wants no one to live there!”
Vinnie blushed from head to toe at her kiss, a big smile on his face. “You keep us posted on this house business, Miss Angie,” Vinnie said. “And now, what’s happenin’ with your weddin’ plans?”
Angie was sure Vinnie meant well asking about her wedding, but that, too, wasn’t the happiest of subjects for her, although not half as unhappy as ghosts. She soon finished her lunch, and left Wings of an Angel in a much better frame of mind than when she entered. Her three friends always had that effect on her, and she loved them dearly.
Time to scour the internet once more, she thought. How had anyone survived without it?
As she drove, Angie mentally went through the information she already had. Both Flemings were shot to death. Their house showed no break in, which meant they most likely knew their murderer.
The case was considered a murder-suicide only because Eric was found holding a gun and there were no viable suspects. The gunpowder residue proved inconclusive.
The police learned that the Flemings liked to throw parties, which meant many people’s DNA would have been all over the house. Paavo hadn’t mentioned to her anything about DNA tests, or if they were even available back then. He did say that the police conducted many interviews with people who knew the couple or had worked with Eric, but they could find no motive.
A car honked at her. In the rearview mirror, Angie saw a matronly driver indicating that Angie was “number one.”
When had that light turned green?
She drove on. Basically, all speculation was based on fact that no one had any reason to kill the couple, and fell back on domestic violence as the reason for their deaths.
Yet, those same conclusions may have stopped the police from pursuing other motives and suspects.
She stomped on the brakes just in time as someone turned left in front of her. She was again number one! It wasn’t her fault…at least, she didn’t think it was. Being much more careful, she finally reached home.
She had already learned that the owner of the property at 51 Clover Lane was named Carol Steed, and that she had also been owner of the property when Eric and Natalie lived there.
Angie decided to find out more about Carol Steed and anyone else who knew the Flemings.
She then investigated the name of the owner across the street at 60 Clover Lane. She suspected whoever lived there at the time of the murders might have information for her. She was shocked to learn that Carol Steed also owned that property.
Puzzled by this, she spent quite a bit of time searching San Francisco birth, death, and marriage records on the Steed family. Eventually a picture emerged.
Carol Steed was born Carol Ramsey in 1938. She married Edward Steed in 1965. They had one daughter, Enid, born in April 1979. In October 1978, however, before Enid’s birth, Edward Steed died in a fall.
As Angie previously learned, the two Clover Lane homes were built in 1950 by Edward’s parents, Donald and Mary Steed, and after Mary’s death, Edward became owner of both houses.
She now discovered that he and Carol had been living in the smaller of the two homes, and then moved into the big Clover Lane house when it became vacant.
Angie then went back to the notes Paavo had given her from the crime scene report. Eric Fleming had moved into the big 51 Clover Street house in November, 1978, one month after Edward’s death. That must have meant Carol moved back into the smaller house. But why did she give up the bigger, more beautiful home?
Angie considered that Carol might have had only a small income, and rented out the bigger house so that she could have enough money to live on. But if she needed money, she would have rented the house out again after the Flemings were killed. No one would have moved into it immediately after the murders, but a year or two later, few people would have remembered. So money couldn’t have been the reason she gave Eric the big house to rent.
Suddenly, all Angie’s instincts went on red alert.
First, she went back to the marriage records and looked up Eric and Natalie. Their wedding took place in November 1979. Eight months later, both were dead.
She then got into her car and drove back to the Chronicle, and hurried back to its morgue to see if she could find anything about Edward Steed’s death, since he supposedly died in an accident of some sort.
She found an article written one day after he died. Edward Steed had been scrambling on the cliff above China Beach and slipped on the rocks. Reports were that he must have hit his head on a rock or boulder as he fell because one side of his head, near the temple, had been struck hard enough to kill him.
Angie knew a person could die in a fall along some sections of the cliff over China Beach, but for the most part, the way the hill sloped, the fall would be more painful and “scrape-inducing” than a break-your-neck kind of drop unless a person was truly unlucky.
The report quoted Carol Steed as saying her husband climbed on the cliffs for fun because it was a beautiful, sunny October day, and he slipped.
Angie did a quick calculation…Carol’s daughter Enid was born in April, so the prior October when Edward died, Carol would have been only a couple of months pregnant—far enough along that she would know—but not so far that the pregnancy would show. Carol was 41 when Enid was born. She and Edward had been married for thirteen years with no children when Carol found herself pregnant.
The very next month Carol moved out of the big house and let Eric Fleming move into it. He was 28 years old at the time, handsome, single…and if his parents were correct, a womanizer, and according to his brother, enjoyed drugs and alcohol.
So, Angie thought, what if Eric met a lonely wife who lived in a beautiful home, got her pregnant…and poof! the husband was suddenly out of the picture?
Angie had her suspicions about what had happened, but how could she prove any of it?
Why in the world didn’t the police investigators at the time have the kind of mind she did?
Maybe because they were there; they saw Natalie and knew about her money and beauty. They also saw the landlady. For all Angie knew, she was gorgeous, but if so, the police might have suspected something. Most likely, she wasn’t much to look at, a dozen years older than Eric, and that was why thoughts of anything going on between Eric and his landlady never even crossed their minds.
She went back to the online genealogical program she had used earlier to find Eric Fleming’s relatives. In it, she learned that Carol Steed’s daughter’s married name was Enid Norbel and she still lived in San Francisco.
She then phoned her sister, Cat. “The person who wants to sell the Clover Lane house, the owner’s daughter, is named Enid Norbel, right?”
Cat didn’t answer right away. “How do you know that?”
Angie smiled. “Ve haf our vays! Thank you!”
She quickly hung up. She didn’t want Cat quizzing her, and she didn’t want to lie to her sister.
Chapter 22
ANGIE TORE HERSELF away from her discoveries and dashed across town for an appointment. She was both glad and surprised to find a nervous Paavo already there.
She led him to the office area of St. Peter and Paul’s church. They were there to talk to the priest about being married in the church.
“Father John, this is my fiancé, Paavo Smith,” Angie said as she introduced the two men. “Paavo, Father John.”
“Hello, Father,” Paavo said shaking hands with the priest. Father John was in his forties, of medium height and build, with short graying hair that was quite thin on top.
“I know Angie and her family well,” Father John said, “although I don’t see her as often as I should.”
“I know; I’m sorry,” Angie murmured. She had warned Paavo that Father John was an old enough priest to enjoy inflicting a little old-fashioned Catholic guilt on his parishioners. Paavo would have preferred a new-style, anything-goes priest, but he knew that wasn’t Angie’s way or her family’s.
The priest turned to Paavo. “Paavo—that’s a Finnish name, isn’t it? Are you Finnish?”
“My father was,” he said. “He died. My guardian was also Finnish.”
“I suspect you were raised Lutheran,” Father John said with a smile. “Most Finns are.”
“I’ve been told I was baptized in a Lutheran Church, and when I was young I went to a Lutheran church with my step-father,” Paavo said. “But once away from my guardian, I pretty much stopped going.”
“A common situation with many young people these days, I’m afraid. Tell me, do you still consider yourself a Christian?” Father John asked.
Paavo moved uncomfortably in his seat. “As much as I have any religious belief, it is the Christian way of thinking that I most follow.”
“What about children? Would you want them to be raised as Catholics?”
“I would raise children as Catholic, and I would attend church with them and Angie.” He looked at her. “I would like to do that.”
Father John nodded and then studied the couple a long moment. “I’m sure there will be no problem with the two of you getting married in the church. We’ll be glad to have you here. Who knows, someday you might decide to join us and become a convert.”
“Angie can be persuasive,” Paavo said.
“I know the Amalfi women. And you’re right,” the priest said with a chuckle. Angie had convinced the priest to let her break the news to Paavo that they would also be attending the church’s pre-marital classes.
Father John ended the visit with a few words about the sanctity of marriage and the life-long commitment the two were entering with each other. He then gave a brief prayer for their future happiness, and made a sign of the cross with Angie. He placed his hand on Paavo’s shoulder as he made a sign of the cross over him, praying that one day he would find solace in his marriage, and in his life.
Paavo found himself surprisingly shaken by the encounter. How had the priest known he had no solace in his life? Was it that obvious? He felt as if he had been on a hot seat in there. He was so used to the modern way of looking at marriage and divorce, and how easily people moved from one state to the other, that he forgot that in a great part of the world marriage wasn’t a whim of the moment. And to Angie and church-going Catholics, it was a sacrament. He didn’t know much about the Catholic church, but he knew that there were only seven sacraments, so it was a big deal.
He was glad to leave, but at the same time, both the priest’s blessing and his words about the sanctity and seriousness of what they were about to undertake had moved him deeply.
* * *
After meeting with the priest, Paavo was more than happy to go with Angie to dinner at the Russian Renaissance Restaurant. He immediately ordered vodka. He rarely touched hard liquor and it rather amused and moved Angie to see the effect meeting the priest and talking about their marriage had had on him. Maybe he wasn’t as immune to religion as he thought.
By the time their dinner of borsch, stroganoff, and potato vareniki was delivered, the conversation turned to Paavo’s intertwined cases.
“I’ve got two people who worked together,” he said. “The man, Taylor, was married and having an affair with the identical twin sister of Gaia, the woman who was killed.”
“The obvious question is how jealous was Taylor’s wife?” Angie asked.
“She doesn’t seem jealous at all. I have the impression the two lived together but didn’t much like each other. The wife is beautiful, movie star good looks.”
“Did the wife know Gaia had an identical twin?”
“I doubt it. Few people knew, not even her co-workers. To hear them, she had no one in her life, no friends, relatives, had never been in love, and so on. Also, she and her twin didn’t get along. Most people said they thought Gaia lived for TV shows and her cats. Period. She had no interest in the news, politics, movies, or music.”
“So she basically had nothing going on in her life, and then she was murdered?” Angie asked.
“One other thing, Taylor’s secretary, an older man, gave every indication that Taylor might have had a tryst or two with him as well.”
“Really? The wife had to suspect something was wrong with her marriage, or she’s an idiot. Women know, even if they don’t want to admit to anyone.”
“You think so?” he asked.
“Absolutely. She knew he was a cheat, and finally decided to do something about it. The beautiful wife probably found out that her husband had thrown her over for those two and felt so insulted that she killed him. I suspect she didn’t realize the woman who worked in his office was the wrong sister. Poor Gaia!”
“It doesn’t quite ring true,” Paavo said. “If she murdered them, she had to have paid someone to do it since Taylor was stabbed to death with a powerful thrust I doubt she could had inflicted. Gaia was killed after Taylor—or so we assume because she called her boss to say she was sick and couldn’t come in to work. Now that I think about it, though, it could easily have been Marilee who phoned the office, pretending to be Gaia.”
Thoughts swirled in his mind.
“The medical examiner is still trying to determine the time and date of Gaia’s death in the face of some strange findings. Usually, when people are killed because of a jealous rage, both are killed at the same time—and the most likely place would have been their beach cabin.”
“Except that would have pointed straight at the wife,” Angie said. “And everyone would know Taylor had been cheating on her. The wife wouldn’t want that.”
“Good point, Angie. I knew I kept you around for some reason.”
“Something more is out there. Some missing piece. Once you find what it is, it’ll all fall together,” she said, then added. “The same thing is going on with my murder case.”
“Your murder case?”
“The Flemings.” She smugly nodded, leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It was no murder-suicide. Someone killed them both. But I don’t yet know why. I’ve got an idea, though. I’m looking at the landlady.”
“The landlady? That’s a pretty harsh penalty for being late with the rent.”
“Very funny! I think she might have been in love with Eric Fleming.”
Just then, Paavo’s phone began to vibrate. He normally would have shut it off, but he saw the call was from Katie Kowalski. “I better take this.”
He got up and stepped into the hallway that led to the restrooms, away from the diners. “Hello.”
“Uncle Paavo?” the young voice asked.
“Micky, how nice to hear you,” Paavo said, worried that the child would be phoning him. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I wanted to tell you I’m on the Panthers T-ball team now,” Micky said. “I hit every ball!”
“Hey, great job! I’m proud of you!”
“I wish you could have seen me,” Micky said softly.
Something about the way he said it, made Paavo’s heart catch. “I do, too, Micky. But your Mom was there, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And her new friend?” Paavo asked.
Angie stood in front of him now. She’d been watching his face and knew something was wrong.
“What friend?” Micky asked.
Paavo wasn’t sure what to say, but Katie had told him… “Maybe I misunderstood,” he began carefully. “I thought your Mom had a friend, a man named Daniel or Dan, who liked to watch you play ball.”
“No. She comes by herself. She looked a little sad. I think she wished you were there, too.”
Paavo shut his eyes a moment. “When is your next game, Mick?”
“Tuesday, five o’clock, at Funston.”
“I don’t know for sure if I can be there, okay? I can’t make promises because of my job. You understand that, right Micky?”
“Yes. But will you try?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. I miss you, Uncle Paavo.”
“I miss you, too, son. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bye, now.”
Paavo hung up and looked at Angie. “There’s no man in Katie’s life according to Micky.”
Angie nodded. “And there won’t be as long as you’re there as someone for her to lean on and to keep the past alive. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I do. But Micky doesn’t. It’s hard on the boy.”
“On you, too,” she said, and put her arm around his waist. He didn’t have many people in his life that he loved. Micky was one of them, and now he’d been asked to stay away. No words would help, and this was a situation with which she dare not interfere.
Chapter 23
ANGIE RANG THE doorbell at Enid Norbel’s house.
A tall, attractive woman with brown hair and eyes opened the door. “I’m looking for Enid Norbel. My name is Angelina Amalfi, and—”
“Oh, yes.” Enid immediately warmed up to the visit. “You’re the person who keeps going to see my house! I hope you aren’t here to negotiate on the price.”
“No, not at all—”
“But you still like it?” Enid asked.
“Definitely,” Angie said. “Very much. I’m sorry to bother you, and I know this isn’t the way things are usually done, but I’d like to talk to you about it, if I may?”
“Certainly. Come on in.” As they walked to the living room, Enid said, “A friend recommended that I offer whichever realtor sold the house a $20,000 bonus over and above any commissions they might receive. I told your sister that when she called, and that’s all I’ll say on that score!”
“I’m not here to talk money,” Angie said. She now understood Cat’s sudden interest in selling the place, and her generosity in turning over the commission as a wedding present!
Angie sat on the sofa, and Enid on the love seat facing her. “My grandfather built the house,” Enid said. “What did you want to know about it?”
“Did you ever live there?”
“No. My mother moved to the smaller house across the street after my father died, before I was born.”
“I assume she rented out the big house because she could get more money from it than from the little place,” Angie said.
“Not really. My father left her well off. She never said why she moved. The small house was roomy enough for the two of us. I assumed the bigger house reminded her of my father. She was desperately in love with him, and never got over his death.”
“I see. That would make sense,” Angie said.
“To tell the truth, I think she both loved and hated the 51 Clover Lane house. My father died while they lived there, and later, some tenants who were living there also died—not in the house, of course. A murder-suicide, apparently. My mom said the ordeal was a nightmare with the police and newsmen tramping all over and asking everyone questions. I think she decided she didn’t want to bother with any more tenants. Oh, dear! Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying all this. It might make the house seem undesirable to you. But no one died in the house. Not even all that close to it!”
“No, it’s all right,” Angie said. “I already knew about all that.”
“Good.” Enid sounded relieved. “Actually, my mom often said that if she found someone she could love, she would want to live in the big house with him, so she never held anything against the house as you can see! Unfortunately for her, she never fell in love again. Now it’s too late.”
Angie found this conversation terribly sad. “Too late? Is she sick?”
Enid fidgeted. “Well, if you buy the house, it’ll come out so I may as well explain now. My mother has a mental illness. It’s not something easy to put a name to. She’s borderline paranoid schizophrenic. Not dangerous since her medication stabilizes her, but she tends to live in her own little world that has nothing to do with reality. It’s easy to hold a conversation with her on the simplest level. ‘What would you like for dinner?’ ‘Do you want to watch television?’ But if you try to talk to her about anything complex, she can’t follow it. People say she had some sort of a nervous breakdown after my father died. She was always troubled, and she’s gotten worse over the years. Recently, I was granted conservatorship over her finances.”
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” Angie said. “Does she live with you?”
“She spends most days at a care facility, Restful Gardens in the Richmond district. It’s nice, but terribly expensive. That’s why I’d like to sell 51 Clover Lane. Unlike my mother, I have no reason to keep it.”
“I see.”
“On good days, they allow her to go home, which is nice for her.”
“Home? To 60 Clover?”
“Yes. When she’s there, a nurse’s aide stays overnight with her. But I doubt she’ll be able to go home much longer. I haven’t decided yet, when that time comes, if I want to sell that house as well, or simply rent it. It’s not as special as 51 Clover, but still a beautiful piece of property.”
“Yes, it is,” Angie said, then after a slight pause, asked, “I’m wondering if it would be possible for me to speak to your mother?”
“She doesn’t talk to strangers. She’s easily frightened.”
“You think she’d be scared of me?”
“When she sees someone she doesn’t know, she often thinks the person is a ghost.”
Angie was taken aback. “She thinks she sees ghosts?”
“Yes, it’s crazy.”
“Was she institutionalized because she thinks she sees ghosts?” Angie asked.
“She not only sees them, but she believes they’re after her and want to kill her.”
Angie’s left eye began to twitch. “I see. Um…did she ever say who haunted her?”
“Not directly,” Enid answered. “But from things she said, I think she believes she’s being haunted by her renter, the woman who was murdered. Oops…maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But you did say you know about the renters.”
“Yes, Natalie and Eric Fleming.”
“My goodness, you have done your homework, haven’t you? I scarcely remembered their names myself! But she once said a little thing that made me think she referred to the dead woman.”
“What was that?”
Enid smiled. “You’ll probably laugh, and I guess it is funny. Like I said it was a little thing, but I remember it clearly. She said that before the ghost showed up, she knew she was coming because ‘she smelled Joy’. Not until years later did I learned Joy was the name of a perfume!”
Angie felt a cold chill. “Yes, my mother used to wear it as well. It’s a beautiful, expensive and memorable scent.”
“Well, there you go! Maybe you are meant to buy the house,” Enid said with a chuckle. “Especially if the ghost shows up and you like her taste in perfume. Anyway, I never considered a perfume-wearing ghost to be anything that I or anyone else should be afraid of.”
“Did you ever consider that your mother might have been right—that the house is haunted?”
Enid laughed. “Of course not! If I had, I’m sure I’d have been sent to a loony bin like my mom.” She then grew much more serious. “I’m sorry to say that my mother spent her life grieving for my father. Unfortunately, while grieving for him, she forgot that she had a daughter who was very much alive. She gave me next to no attention as I grew up, and now that I’m an adult with my own family, I do what I must with her. No more, no less.”
“I can’t say that I blame you for that,” Angie said, her expression sympathetic. She guessed she had been completely wrong about the landlady being in love with Eric if she grieved that desperately for her husband.
But, while Angie could understand the portrait Enid had painted of Carol’s grief, she also saw how unfair it was to the child.
Seeing Angie’s empathy, Enid continued, “I must admit she never seemed all that crazy to me, but once she started talking about ghosts, well, I couldn’t argue against sending her away.”
Angie swallowed hard. “I guess not. Can you tell me…when did she start having these hallucinations and other problems?”
“As long as I can remember, actually. As I say, she never got over my father's death. She mourned him every day and said he was the love of her life. She often said she wished she had died when he did, which would have meant I was never born. I don’t think she even considered that. I’ll tell you, it was a pretty devastating thing for a child to hear.”
“I can imagine. How terrible for you, and tragic for her.”
“She had no family, and neither did father. It’s hard to believe these days, but I don’t even have any pictures of him except one. She said she burned them all after he died because she was so angry with him for ‘getting himself killed by being stupid’ as she put it.”
“Surely, she didn’t destroy her wedding pictures,” Angie said, knowing what a huge part of wedding planning the photo shoots would be.
“She and my father eloped, so there weren’t any special wedding photos. Keep in mind that well before any doctor diagnosed her, my mother was ‘not quite right’ in the head. She kept one photo of my father, and she didn’t show it to me until years later. I have to say, he was every bit as handsome as she claimed him to be. If you’re interested, I’ll show you.”
“Well…sure,” Angie said. She wasn’t particularly interested, but remembering Bill Fleming’s angry reaction when she implied she didn’t care to hear about him, she didn’t want to insult Enid.
Enid went into another room and soon came out with a framed photo and handed it to Angie.
Angie tried to keep her expression bland as she stared at the photo. Smiling back at her was Eric Fleming. Angie looked more carefully at Enid now. Her early suspicions about Carol Steed’s relationship with her tenant—at least while he was single—as well as the reason Carol suddenly found herself pregnant after thirteen years of marriage, were confirmed. Clearly, Enid had never seen Eric Fleming’s photo, and Angie wasn’t about to be the one to tell her. “So this is your father, Edward Steed?” Angie asked.
“That’s right,” Enid said.
“He was very handsome,” she said, handing the photo back. “And I do see the family resemblance. Thank you for showing me.”
“It’s all I have of him,” Enid said, running her finger along the edge of the frame to remove dust. “People who have families are very lucky. That’s why my husband and I have four children. They’re grown up now, and are starting to have children of their own. We have three grandchildren so far and hope for many more. It’s a blessing to me. I often think if my mother weren’t so alone, she wouldn’t have had these mental problems. Now, she can’t even enjoy the family she has.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Angie said. “If you don’t object, I really would like try to speak to her one day soon. If I frighten her, I’ll quickly leave.”
“Well, I won’t say no, although I doubt it’ll work out for you. I’ll give you a signed note so the care home will allow you in. I hope you won’t be too disappointed by how little she’ll be able to tell you.”
“Me, too.”
After writing the note, Enid walked Angie out to her car. “I also hope all this background information hasn’t soured you on the house,” Enid said. “It’s a lovely place, and deserves a happy, loving family in it. I think you may be just what it needs.”
“Thank you,” Angie said as she got into the car. She had a lot to think about.
* * *
Paavo found an old receipt for a prescription of sleeping pills among Gaia’s financial papers, which made it likely she had taken the pills herself. The case looked more and more like suicide except for one problem—why?
Back in Homicide, Paavo noticed that a cancelled check for $350.00 had just been posted to Gaia’s checking account. Apparently, no word had reached the bank that the account should have been closed.
He got a copy of the check and saw it had been made out to Brian Riddingham on the Tuesday before Taylor Bedford died. Gaia almost never wrote out any checks.
Paavo looked into Riddingham. Only one person with that name lived in San Francisco.
A half-hour later he stood at Riddingham’s door, asking about the check.
He learned that Brian and his wife had sold a white Kenmore freezer to Gaia Wyndom. They hadn’t cashed her check right away, and never realized she wasn’t still alive.
They had been curious as to why Gaia wanted the freezer—usually a single woman living alone doesn’t want or need a large chest-type freezer. She wouldn’t say, paid the asking price, and hired someone who picked it up the very afternoon of the sale.
Riddingham knew nothing more.
No freezer had been found in Gaia’s house, and no clue as to what had happened to it.
Paavo went to see Evelyn Ramirez, the Medical Examiner. “You were talking about time of death and strange findings on the body temperature. You said it might have been because the body had been in bathwater for some time before being found. What if there’s another reason? What if the body was frozen after death and then put in the bathtub to defrost?”
“Sort of like quickly defrosting a turkey in water before Thanksgiving?” The M.E. said with a smirk, but then she gave it some thought. “You know, that could be it! That would make sense. But to freeze a human body? That would take—”
“A large, chest-style freezer?”
“Exactly.”
Paavo’s next job was to find the freezer.
He began phoning haulers and charitable organizations to see if any had pick-ups from Gaia Wyndom’s home. Hours later, he hit pay dirt: she had called a junk hauler to pick up a freezer and bring it to the dump. She had made the call on a Tuesday, one week after buying the freezer, and one day after she called in sick at work.
Paavo met the truck driver and found the freezer relatively easily. He had it delivered to the CSU so the crime scene investigators could go over it with a fine-tooth comb.
They found some hairs that matched Gaia’s, which made sense since it was her freezer, but nothing else.
o0o
Angie told herself she only chose to return to the house to check on the little dog.
When she got there, she couldn’t find him. She hoped Paavo was right about him living in the neighborhood, and he had found his way home.
Once in the house, however, she again had the sense of being welcomed, that this could be home for her and Paavo, a happy home.
“All right. I can’t take this anymore,” she said to the walls. “Eric? Natalie? Are you here?” She suddenly had visions of herself as Cosmo Topper dealing with the ghosts of George and Marian Kirby. She had watched the old black and white film as well as the old TV shows many times as a child with her mother. She had found them hilarious back then. Now, not so much.
“If there’s something here I should worry about, I want to know it. I don’t want to start out in a house with Paavo that is going to cause us grief. I need to know right now, immediately!”
Nothing happened.
Feeling increasingly foolish, she sat down on the sofa, waiting, but soon got up and went to the refrigerator. She had left an unopened bottle of Chardonnay in it the night of the séance. Sitting around waiting for ghosts to appear was definitely a reason for some wine.
To her surprise, the wine was gone. She looked in the trash receptacle under the sink and found the empty bottle there.
Who would have come in here and drunk her wine? That meant she wasn’t the only person interested in the house. But to drink a whole bottle? That seemed a bit rude!
She opened the dishwasher. Inside were two stemmed glasses. She had washed, dried and put away the few glasses and dishes used for her séance ‘party’ the night before. What were these doing here? And why two of them?
“Eric? Natalie?” Her voice quavered.
Just then, she heard what sounded like the glass door in the living room sliding on its track, and then the ‘thud’ when it shut against the door frame. Had someone just entered the house? She froze, scared.
It couldn’t have been a ghost, could it? They didn’t need to open doors to enter a room, did they? She quietly slid open a drawer to look for a knife for protection, but it held nothing more lethal than a butter knife. She took one out of desperation.
Holding it with two hands, she peeked into the living room.
It was empty.
Cautiously, she eased her way to the glass door. It was unlocked. She snapped the lock into place. Had someone been inside the house when she entered, and snuck out when they heard her go into the kitchen?
If so, she wasn’t about to stick around to find out. Faster than she thought possible, she ran out of the house to her car, locking the doors as soon as she got in. The little dog must have found its way home, and so would she.
Chapter 24
CAT ARRIVED AT Angie’s home at 10 a.m., surprisingly early, since Cat usually didn’t face the light of day until 9 a.m., and took another two hours to dress, fix her hair, and put on make-up.
Last evening, Angie had phoned her and told her someone had been inside the Clover Lane house and left through the back door, leaving it unlocked. Cat then knew Angie had duplicated the house key and proceeded to lecture her about it. Angie assumed she was now here to demand the key.
“Have you chosen a wedding planner yet?” Cat asked as she sauntered into the living room.
Her words were a surprise. But if Cat wanted to make Angie feel bad, she had succeeded. “No,” Angie confessed. “I just don’t know what to do! I’m spending more time trying to find someone to hire than I am working on my wedding plans.”
“What about your dress?” Cat asked.
“No.”
“Bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“No!”
“Wedding party?”
“No!” Angie grew more frantic with each question.
“All right, calm down. We’re going to do it this way. I’ll take charge of the clothes for everyone. Bianca, who’s the ‘people person,’ will handle the guest list, reservations, and dealing with caterers and so on; Maria and her husband will handle the music at the church and the reception, plus the photographer; Frannie will be in charge of decorating the church and the reception hall plus ordering all flowers, corsages, etc., for everyone who needs them; you, Angie, will take care of the invitations, meal, cake, and liquor plans, but once you choose the caterers, baker, and bartender, you turn everything all over to Bianca to handle. Plus, you will oversee and agree or disagree with what everyone else comes up with. Anything you don’t like will be changed. Now, stop fussing and start enjoying your wedding!”
Angie was flabbergasted. Cat didn’t even ask if that was what she wanted or not. On the other hand, who knew her and her taste better than her sisters? Who could she more easily work with to get exactly what she wanted?
She looked at Cat and smiled for the first time. This wedding might actually happen…in only four months! “Thank you!”
The two then took off for the Bridal Boutique shop on Maiden Lane.
“Miss Amalfi!” the owner cried. “Thank goodness you’re here!”
Really? Angie thought that was a strange thing to say. “Kellie, this is my sister, Caterina Swenson,” Angie said. “She’s going to help me.”
“Another sister?” Kellie looked a little sick.
Now Angie was even more confused by the normally controlled woman.
“I’m so glad to meet—” Kellie began when Cat cut her off.
“I understand my sister liked a Vera Wang last time she was here. Can you show me the dress?”
“Yes. Right this way.” Kellie led them back into the area where row after row of dresses hung on racks…and that was when Angie discovered why Kellie looked so stressed.
Over at the bridesmaids’ dresses stood her mother and three sisters. Dresses were being pulled and tugged by the women, who were so engrossed arguing with each other they didn’t even notice that Angie and Cat had arrived.
“Here’s the dress Angie liked,” Kellie said, taking one of the bride’s dresses from the rack.
“Go ahead, Angie,” Cat told her. “Try it on. I’ll get the others to pay attention to what you’ll be wearing instead of their own dresses.”
Kellie helped her into the dress and pinned it so that the floor model fit her the way it should after alterations.
She stepped out into an area with a slightly raised platform, a half-circle of mirrors, and a place where the family sat. Her mother and all four sisters were sitting there, waiting for her to appear.
She felt like a bride for the first time as all of them oohed and aahed as she stepped onto the platform. In a matter of seconds, however, the cries turned negative.
“I see the problem,” Cat announced. “The mermaid line looks best on someone tall. It seems to emphasize her shortness.”
“She looks like a little kid playing dress-up,” Bianca said.
“Dumpy,” Frannie smirked.
“Bellissima!” Serefina cried. “But not right.”
“Bleah!” was Maria’s comment.
“What about that one,” Angie pointed to another Vera Wang she thought was beautiful.
The second dress one didn’t even get praise as she walked out of the dressing room.
“Nope, too poofy,” Maria announced.
“Too much frou-frou on it,” Cat said.
“Bellissima!” Serefina cried. “She looks like Cinderella going to the ball. But, maybe Cinderella isn’t right for a wedding.”
Frannie just looked at her, pointed, and laughed.
“Thanks loads,” Angie said. This was like being stuck in a bridal intervention from hell. She liked both those dresses.
“Let’s go step by step,” Cat said. “What kind of bodice do you like?”
“Lots of detail.”
“Strapless?”
“Not necessarily.”
Cat faced the others. “No mermaid, no poofs, detailed bodice. Got it?”
While Serefina sat beside Angie, holding her hand, the sisters turned into whirling dervishes going through the sample dresses, pulling out and rejecting one after the other. Kellie tried to interfere a couple of times and soon learned her help wasn’t needed and definitely not wanted. After about fifteen minutes of this, Frannie cried out “Ah ha!”
She pulled out a Lazaro crepe satin A-line gown with a silver embroidered overlay, jeweled bodice with a strapless curved neckline, and a sweep train. The embroidered overlay on the satin was highly detailed and quite gorgeous.
“Hmm,” Bianca said, taking the dress from Frannie. “It’s very traditional. The line is simple but elegant, the embroidery on the overlay is stunning.
“It reminds me of the dress Kate Middleton wore when she married into the British royal family,” Cat said, “except that hers had long sleeves with lace up to her neck in front, and a somewhat different shape to it.”
“And didn’t have a silver embroidered overlay or jeweled bodice,” Maria added.
“I’ll try it on,” Angie said.
After the fitters helped her into it, Angie had to blink a couple of times that it was really her. The long drop of the A-line gown against her slim form gave the impression of both elegance and height, and the magnificently jeweled and detailed bodice gave her relatively flat chest some depth. Even the train, which Angie didn’t think she wanted, looked beautiful.
She stepped out of the dressing room and up onto the platform.
To her amazement, mother and sisters were completely silent.
Cat got up, lifted an eyebrow as she slowly walked all the way around. “What do you think, Angie?”
“It surprises me. It’s nothing like what I thought I wanted.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it!”
“Bellissima! Ah, my baby is going to get married.” Serefina said, then she started to cry. “I’m getting so old!”
The others burst into a cacophony of words about how beautiful the dress looked on her.
“Let’s see it with a veil,” Cat said to Kellie. “I’d like to see silk tulle with a trim of individual flowers hand-cut from lace. Something delicate, and that will look beautiful with a diamond comb to hold it in place.”
Kellie raised her eyebrows a moment. “I know just the veil that will go perfectly with that dress. And I’ve got a small comb of fake diamonds to give you an idea of how it’ll look.” She dashed off to the back room.
“She’ll need a diamond necklace with the dress,” Bianca said. “I have one she can borrow.”
“And I’ll get her a blue garter,” Frannie said with a wink.
Kellie came out with the veil and put it on Angie.
“I’ll have to pin my hair back,” Angie said.
“Of course,” Cat replied. “The crowning glory, literally.”
Angie had to agree. The dress was both demure because of its traditional lines, yet cut low enough, with material that clung close enough, to be sexy.
“It works. How much does the dress cost?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Serefina said. “But Papà will be sure he paid for a quality dress for you.”
Angie twisted and turned, tried walking, danced around the room by herself…everything was perfect. She loved everything about it, and couldn’t remember ever seeing a dress so beautiful. “I love it. I want it!”
Cat looked at Kellie. “Sold. Also, my sister will need wedding shoes—four inch heels, platform soles, and why don’t we have them custom made? I think white satin with lace hand embroidery would be excellent.”
“Of course,” Kellie said with a swallow. “I’ll fit Angie for the shoes now.”
“They’ll be ready on time?”
“It should be no problem at all!” Kellie said.
“You’re making this too easy,” Angie said.
“It’s hardly rocket science,” Cat said.
The shoe fitting complete, Cat told Kellie all the sisters would be back in a few days to pick out the bridesmaids dresses.
Kellie struggled to find a smile and could only produce a sickly, “How wonderful.”
Even Angie felt a bit sorry for her, knowing what the woman was going to have to deal with.
As they all stepped out of the store, Cat looked at Angie. “I have no idea why you were fussing so much about finding a dress. It was simple. You’re such a drama queen, Angie!”
* * *
Finding the right wedding dress filled Angie with renewed energy and joie de vivre. She and her mother and sisters went out to lunch to discuss bridesmaid’s dresses, and as Angie expected, each had a different opinion regarding color and style. Fun days ahead.
After lunch, Angie went home. She knew she should look at wedding invitations and party favors, table decorations and so forth, but she didn’t feel like sitting.
No matter what she told herself she “should” do, she only wanted to do one thing. Finally, she gave into temptation.
She changed into a business-like gray Donna Karan suit with black Prada shoes and a black Gucci handbag. With them, she wore gold earrings, a necklace, and bracelet. She wanted to look like someone the administrator of Restful Gardens, where Carol Steed lived, would have no problem allowing inside to meet with a patient.
The administrator was a friendly, older woman. Angie stood straight, head high, and hoped the administrator would realize she wasn’t there to try to scam anyone and handed her the note from Enid Norbel.
“I would gladly allow you to see Mrs. Steed,” the administrator said. “But she isn’t here at the moment. She’s on home leave. She stopped in at eight a.m. for her pills, and will be here again at eight p.m. But other than that, she’s home.”
“She has that much freedom?” Angie asked.
“As long as she checks in with us every twelve hours to take her meds, which keep her every bit as healthy as you and I, and has a home care nurse with her at night, there’s no reason not to allow her to go wherever she wants. This isn’t a prison. Our residents have their rights.”
Angie drove straight to 60 Clover Lane.
An elderly woman, tall, medium build, with short gray hair, opened the door and gave Angie a quick once-over. “I guess you Jehovah’s Witnesses are coming up in the world,” she said. “I’m an atheist.” She stepped back to swing the door shut.
“Wait, please!” Angie put out her hand to stop the door. “This isn’t about religion, and I’m not selling anything! My name is Angelina Amalfi. Are you Carol Steed?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I spoke to your daughter, Enid, and she told me it would be all right to ask you about the house across the street.”
Carol didn’t smile. Her face sagged and her eyes were piercing. “Why? It’s not for sale.”
Uh oh, Angie thought. “I…I’ve heard some interesting things about it, that’s all.”
Carol snorted. “I imagine you have. People tried to lock me up because of that house. They say I see things.” She moved closer and dropped her voice. “They say I see ghosts in it. If I were you, unless you want everyone saying you’re crazy the way they do me, forget you ever saw it.”
The words were disturbing, but Angie reminded herself the woman was mentally ill. “I understand you once lived there. I’d like to talk to you about it if you have time.”
“I don’t mind, but I didn’t live there for very long. Come on in.” She led Angie to the living room.
The house was as tiny inside as it appeared from the street. The windows faced the ocean, providing a view that was the house’s best feature.
As soon as they sat, Carol started talking again. “After Edward’s mother passed away, we moved into the house. Edward had some remodeling done. Made it nicer. More modern.”
“But then Edward died?”
Her mouth clamped shut a moment before she said, “Yes, he died.”
“And you moved out of the house?”
Carol scowled. “How did you—?”
“Let’s talk about what happened back then,” Angie interrupted. “You rented it out, right?”
She thought a moment, then smiled. “To Eric. He loved it very much, you see. Loved the view. He said it was worth a million dollars just for the view. But I wouldn’t sell it. No, sir!”
“And then?” Angie asked, doing her best to keep her voice and her expression soft, gentle, and encouraging—a veritable Diane Sawyer handling a delicate interview. “Your baby was born, right?”
Carol nodded. “Yes. Enid was born.”
Angie drew in her breath. “What happened next?”
Carol’s lips turned downward, and even after all these years, Angie saw the emotion the memories caused her. “Eric brought home a wife. He had to marry her, he said. She pressured him, you know. He was very sorry. He told me that.”
“Sorry for what?”
“It was long ago.”
“You didn’t like it that he brought another woman into your house, did you?”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t my business. That’s what she told me—that his marriage wasn’t my business. The tart!”
“I can imagine how you must have felt,” Angie said. “You must have hated her.”
She watched the light go out of Carol Steed’s eyes, as if she were shutting down. She tried a new tact. “Can you tell me anything about the house?”
“It’s a beautiful house. Eric lives there.” Then her eyes took on a crafty look, and she put her fingers up to her mouth. “Or…he did,” she whispered.
“Things seem to move around strangely in that house. Did you ever see anything like that?”
She stared at the floor. “Of course not.”
Angie leaned close and practically whispered, “You can trust me, Mrs. Steed. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“No! I’ve never seen anything!”
“But you used to tell people you saw ghosts.”
“Me? Never!”
“What do you remember about the Flemings?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you ever see any problem around them, see anyone threatening them, or anything like that?”
Carol remained still, not answering or moving.
Angie asked gently, “Did Edward ever haunt the house?”
“Edward? Did you say Edward? My husband?” Carol chortled. “He wouldn’t have the balls.”
“Who do you think is haunting it?”
Carol’s gaze turned cold and black, and Angie had the feeling the madness had lifted and all that remained was pure malice. “No one, of course. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“But if someone were to, who would it be?”
“I suppose it would be Eric. He loved the house.”
“Not his wife?”
“Wife! She was no wife to him! She had no business being with him! She never understood or loved him.”
“Didn’t they have a good marriage?”
Carol cocked her head. “If they had, he wouldn’t have killed her, would he? She was a bitch in this life, I hate to think she’s still making him miserable in the afterlife.”
“I believe I’ve seen things moving around in the house where they lived,” Angie said softly. “Haven’t you seen such things, too?”
Carol’s gaze hardened, and her lips spread into a creepy grin. “Oh? And have you also seen a unicorn in the garden?”
Angie decided it was time to leave. She considered leaving her phone number, but then a better thought struck. She reached into her purse, pulled out the small metal case that held her name and address cards—she had had them created for job interviews and still had a lot left. She handed it to Carol. “My business cards are inside if you’d like one. You can call me and we can talk.”
Carol handed it back. “We’ve talked quite enough.”
Angie dropped the case back into her purse. “Good-bye, Mrs. Steed.” With that, she hurried from the house, glad to get away.
* * *
Angie went straight to Homicide to see Paavo. She hadn’t wanted to involve him in ‘her’ murders, as she called them. But now, as far as she was concerned, she couldn’t keep it to herself any longer.
“The murderer has to be Carol Steed, the owner of the Clover Lane house,” Angie said as soon as she sat down. She was glad to find Paavo still at work. “She had access, opportunity, and motive. Everyone who knew Eric back then said he was quite the charmer as well as being smart and rich. He had lots of women around him. One of them was Carol Steed! They had an affair and she got pregnant. She gave her daughter a picture of Eric and said he was her father.”
“Hold on, Angie,” Paavo said. “I take it this is about Eric and Natalie Fleming?”
“Of course it is!” she said. “The motive was the hard part, but now it all makes sense. Carol Steed got rid of her husband of fourteen years. Maybe it can never be proved that she killed him, but even news reports of the time wrote that bad luck caused his head to hit a rock in just the way to cause a fatal injury. I suspect Carol hit him in the head—maybe with a rock or a brick or a swing of a shovel. Then he either fell off the cliff or she pushed him off.”
“Wait…” He regarded her with a frown. “You’re suggesting this Carol Steed actually killed three people?”
“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to explain,” Angie cried. Yosh heard this and turned around to listen. “Then, after Carol Steed killed her husband, she moved Eric Fleming into her house, probably expecting to live there with him,” Angie said, summarizing the story. “But it never happened. Instead, Eric got married and stopped using drugs and drinking. That was bad enough, but I suspect Carol went completely over the edge when she learned that Eric and Natalie were moving to a house they were having built. Soon after that, they were both dead.”
“So you’re saying Carol Steed killed them out of jealousy,” Paavo said.
“I think she did.”
Paavo nodded. It all fit together. “Once the murder-suicide idea started to be pushed, it became a domestic dispute, and a low priority since both parties were dead. I imagine money was tight, and other, more pressing cases probably took over for attention. But the detectives were bothered enough that they put the case in the cold files, even though they had no physical proof of a third party being involved.”
“That’s what I suspect,” Angie said. “I also wonder if that was why Carol named her child Enid. People might have thought she named her in honor of Edward, but the name is just as close to Eric. Oh—I almost forgot!” She carefully lifted her business card case from her purse and put it on Paavo’s desk. “Carol’s fingerprints are on this case, along with mine, in case you need them.”
“I’ll need a set of your prints before you leave,” Paavo said, “to make it easier on the crime lab.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve turned into quite the investigator, Angie.” Paavo used his handkerchief to lift the case into an evidence bag. “The lab can run these prints against whatever they might have from the original crime scene. Sounds like it’s time to talk to Carol Steed. She’s old and mentally unstable, but if she’s also a murderer, she took away the lives of two young people who thought they had finally found happiness, and possibly her husband’s as well. It’s tragic.”
“Yes,” Angie said, “my thoughts, exactly.”
“But unless we get a confession from Carol it’s unlikely we’ll be able to arrest her, let alone have the DA prosecute. Even then, a good defense lawyer would make mincemeat of a confession from an elderly, diagnosed schizophrenic. Absent physical evidence, she’s home free.”
“She’ll get away with triple murder,” Angie said in a grim voice. “Although, I think being mad is a terrible kind of punishment in itself.”
Chapter 25
AS PAAVO WENT back to investigating the Wyndom and Bedford murders, he also thought about Angie’s conviction that Carol Steed killed the Flemings out of jealousy. It was a plausible motive and a common one.
What made his murder cases strange was that the lovers, Marilee and Taylor, weren’t the ones murdered. Instead, Gaia was a victim, which made no sense.
Clearly, Marilee and Gaia didn’t like each other, but if every family member who didn’t get along with others killed them, the country would be awash in blood.
Even if Marilee killed Gaia, he saw no reason for her to have killed Taylor. Marilee loved him. Gaia was the jealous one.
And he didn’t believe two different murderers were involved.
He flipped through the case’s files when something jumped out at him from Yosh’s interview with the bartender.
He sat down at Yosh’s desk to discuss his thoughts with his partner. Yosh agreed with the premise, but so far it was pure conjecture. They had no proof.
Before long, Yosh left for home. Paavo stayed to bring Angie’s business card case to the crime scene unit along with her set of fingerprints and the old case file from the Fleming murders. He explained to the crime scene technician that once he eliminated Angie’s prints, those remaining belonged to Carol Steed.
The tech needed to see if Steed’s prints had been found at the Fleming crime scene.
As he headed back to Homicide, he passed the forensics laboratory, which gave him an idea.
Before doing anything, he called Ray Larson in Jenner. The old man had been pretty proud of his observation skills. Paavo put them to a test.
Larson gave Paavo a quick answer.
Paavo then turned his step toward the Medical Examiner’s office. Evelyn Ramirez was still at work. She seemed to put in even more hours on the job than he did.
He asked Ramirez to pull samples of Gaia’s hair from hair brushes found in her house, and then samples of what had been determined to be Gaia’s hair from the freezer.
The DNA of identical twins, like everything else about them, was essentially identical. Hair, however, was an exception. Hair was made from protein, metabolized amino acids from the foods eaten. As hair grew, it became a record of the amino acids that had been used in its creation.
In that way, the protein in hair gave a history of the diet of the person whose hair was studied. Not only could foods from a marine vs. a terrestrial environment be identified, but also the kinds of terrestrial plants, complex proteins and meats eaten could be determined.
“I’m desperate, Evelyn,” he said. “I’d like a forensic hair analysis on follicles from both samples.”
“Why?” Ramirez asked.
“Gaia was a vegetarian. I’ve been told her sister was not.”
Ramirez raised her eyebrows. “I see. It’s worth a try.”
She agreed to get on it right away. She warned him that the analysis might take some time to complete.
Back at his desk, Paavo leaned back in his chair, hands intertwined behind his head. Both Gaia Wyndom and Carol Steed were loners, intelligent, unhappy with their lives, and potentially mentally ill. People around them knew they needed help, but didn’t know how to give it to them without their consent. They hadn’t done anything illegal as far as others knew—even though some may have held the unspoken suspicion that Gaia had been behind her parents’ deaths, and Carol behind her husband’s.
Because of their intelligence, they were able to come up with plans that allowed them to get away with murder…almost.
Years ago, before his job took away most of his free time, Paavo had been a voracious reader. He thought now of the first line from Anna Karenina, which he read as a young man trying to understand families and women since he grew up pretty well isolated from both. It said, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
And those were both very unhappy families.
* * *
The next day, a little before noon, Paavo received the results of the analysis from Dr. Ramirez. She must have stayed up all night running the test. He owed her, big time.
He and Yosh drove to Marilee’s cabin in Lagunitas.
Marilee let them into the house and immediately began to scoop up the cats from the great room.
“You don’t have to shut them away,” Paavo said. “Those are Gaia’s cats, aren’t they?”
“No,” Marilee said.
“Gaia loved her cats. Everyone said so. Her vet told us they were two little gray and white tuxedo cats, brothers, eight-years old. She wouldn’t have left them alone and unfed even if she had committed suicide. She never would have hurt them, and I can’t see her giving them away.”
Marilee put them in the back porch and shut the door, then turned towards Paavo, arms folded. “Those are my cats and no one else’s!”
“The cats have microchips in them. Something tells me the chips in those cats would match Gaia’s.”
Her voice turned low and lethal. “You will not touch my cats! What is this about?”
Paavo went over to the sofa and sat.
Yosh quietly backed up to a wall out of Marilee’s line of vision, folded his arms, and listened.
“Did you know,” Paavo began, “that Gaia was in love with Taylor?”
Marilee gave a harsh, hacking laugh, then sat in a stiff-backed chair facing him. “Love? Childish infatuation was more like it. Anyway, I’m the one who told you about it, if I remember correctly.”
“You said he once tried to kiss her in the office. Of course, he immediately knew she wasn’t you.”
Her eyes hardened. “I never said that. And anyway, who cares? Why are you bothering me with this old news, Inspector?”
“Taylor could never be fooled by Gaia pretending to be you,” Paavo said. “Everyone who knew her said Gaia was just about the most boring woman they had ever come across, while everyone who knew you, Marilee, said you were vivacious and fun. You have imagination. Look at your books, your house. The art work you have here, the sculptures. Everything about you reeks of interest and of life. Gaia could never fool anyone that she was you.”
Marilee’s face reddened. She stood. “I’m sure she never tried to! Now, I’d like you to leave, Inspector.”
“Actually, you’re wrong,” Paavo said, leaning back with his arm flung across the back of the sofa. “Taylor told a friend that Gaia once pretended to be Marilee. Taylor said he found her pathetic and disgusting.”
“No!”
“Yes! He knew. That weekend at the beach cabin—the last weekend he was alive—Gaia was there instead of you. She pretended to be you, but even she knew she couldn’t pull it off. Taylor left a day early, on Saturday instead of Sunday. He was so upset that instead of going home, he went to his favorite bar in the Financial District. His usual bartender wasn’t there that night, so he had no one to tell exactly what had happened. But he didn’t need to tell anyone because his actions said it all. He left the cabin, left Gaia alone. Anyone of us could put two-and-two together and understand how Taylor felt about Gaia trying to fool him.”
“No!” Marilee screamed.
“He must have found her pathetic. He probably hated Gaia then, swore he would have her fired. She’d lose him and everything that meant anything to her.”
Yosh walked into the great room from the kitchen area. “No meat,” he said.
Marilee spun around to face him, as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“No meat in the refrigerator?” Paavo said. “How can that be, when everyone knows Marilee likes meat? She and Taylor often grilled sausages, hotdogs, and big juicy hamburgers at the beach house.”
“I’ve decided to eat healthier,” Marilee said, backing away from Yosh as her eyes darted between the two detectives.
“Oh? Since when?” Paavo asked. “Since two weeks ago?”
She slowly sat down again, her voice little more than a whisper. “No, that’s not true.”
“It is true. Gaia pretended to be Marilee with Taylor. Not only that, but she moved here, into your house, used your shampoos, wore your clothes, burned your incense. Then she went to the cabin and met Taylor. But smells and clothes weren’t enough. He left.
“Somehow Gaia convinced him to meet her in San Francisco—maybe by pretending to be Marilee again, maybe telling him crazy Gaia might harm them both. However she did it, she convinced him to meet her in an alley. There, still pretending to be Marilee, Gaia threw herself in his arms, and then stabbed him. She was a big woman, and she was strong.”
“How terrible of her!” Marilee’s chest heaved with emotion. She turned pale and appeared faint. “I always knew something was wrong with her, but I didn’t think it was that serious.”
“That isn’t the half of it,” Paavo said. “Looking back at what happened to your parents, I can’t help but wonder about their accident.”
Marilee’s eyes widened. “My parents?”
“In Gaia’s home, we could find no photos, photo albums, or anything else about your parents, as if she wanted to erase them from her mind. Your parents were killed when their car went out of control on the way home from Jenner, but your father was a slow and cautious driver, and he knew that road well. The car caught fire, so little was done to investigate the accident. Was it truly an accident, or had the car been tampered with?”
When she didn’t answer, he continued. “We also know that Gaia hated Marilee. I wondered how every trace of ‘Urda’ had been eliminated from government databases, until I learned that Thomas Greenburg had first been known as a hacker. He could hack into anything—including government databases. Gaia gave him $300,000 to obliterate any trace of Urda. That’s a lot of hatred. It was odd, everyone said, how simple Gaia’s job was at Zygog, and that she was one of the few people allowed to come and go as she wished there.”
“I know nothing about that,” she said.
He stood. “You should…because you’re Gaia. You hated Marilee, hated having an identical twin who was more liked, more loved, more alive than you had ever been. Both of you lived in a symbiosis of hate. Intimate hate.”
She clutched the chair arms. “No, you’ve got it all wrong!”
He paced as he spoke. “The way I see it, Marilee began all this as a grand joke on a hated twin. First she stole the man you loved. You must have decided you could make it work for you at first, since you cut your hair to look like Marilee’s. Maybe because Taylor now paid some attention to you at work—you shared secret smiles or whatever. It was more than you ever had in your life, and it might have been enough.”
The woman bowed her head, shut her eyes, and covered her face with her hands. “It’s not true,” she whispered.
“Two weeks ago, everything changed. Maybe what started out as a joke turned into love for Marilee as well. What happened, Gaia? Did she tell you she planned to confess everything to Taylor? Tell him she wasn’t the woman he worked with, but an identical twin sister? You knew that once she did, Taylor wouldn’t care about you any longer, and your quiet, secret little love life would fall apart. But Marilee, who you hated, would be happy.”
Paavo continued, “You couldn’t have that. You bought the freezer, invited Marilee to your house, and probably slipped her enough sleeping pills to subdue her so you could then force her to take a lethal dose. You put her in the freezer, and probably would have left her there except for one thing. When you went to the cabin to meet Taylor, he knew something was terribly wrong. You weren’t the woman he loved. He returned to San Francisco, troubled and confused. You knew he would start asking questions. Evidence that you had a twin, and that you killed her, could eventually come out. So you had no choice but to kill Taylor as well.
“You could have gone on, gone back to living as Gaia and probably it would have been damned difficult to figure out who killed Taylor. But you hated your life, and had always envied your sister’s. So you decided to become Marilee. You put Marilee into a hot tub of water where her frozen corpse defrosted. That was why the medical examiner had such a difficult time assessing the time of death. You knew that eventually someone would look for Gaia and find her body.
“But you couldn’t leave your cats to starve. You brought them here.”
Yosh stepped a bit closer, ready to move if she tried to escape.
Paavo stood. “Gaia Wyndom, you’re under arrest for the murders of Marilee Wisdom, aka Urda Lee Wyndom, and Taylor Bedford. You have the right to remain silent…”
“No!” she screamed over Paavo’s statement of her rights. “It’s not true! I’m not Gaia! I’m Marilee!”
When he finished the Miranda rights, he added, “An analysis of hair shows that the person found dead in the bathtub was a meat eater, while you, Gaia, proudly proclaim yourself a vegetarian. Now that you’re under arrest, we’ll have your fingerprints. Identical twins don’t have the same fingerprints. Your deception will be unmasked. You can count on it. Let’s go.” Paavo took her arm, making her stand, and hand-cuffed her.
“Wait!” She looked around, wild-eyed. “You can’t do this! What about my cats? They need me!”
He hustled her out the door.
“They need me!” she cried, with tears running down her cheeks.
“We’ll take care of them,” he said.
“No! Don’t give them to the Humane Society. What if no one wants them? They’ll kill them!”
“You should have thought of that before you murdered two people,” he said as he pushed her into the back of the car.
* * *
From time to time, Paavo had talked to Angie about being on a stake-out. His main recommendations were to drink little water, have some strong coffee on hand in case you get sleepy, and food in case you get hungry.
As she drove to the house at 51 Clover Lane, she had filled her tote with a thermos of espresso, a packet of almonds, five varieties of energy bars, two apples, homemade chocolate chip cookies, Doritos, two types of Cadbury bars, plus crossword puzzles and Sudokus. After her visit to Carol Steed, she had a strong feeling that she needed to keep an eye on the woman.
She might be crazy, but she wasn’t stupid and might have figured out what Angie was up to.
Angie unlocked the door and walked into the house.
The furniture had been haphazardly moved around. A dead mouse lay in a candy dish on the coffee table—not the candy dish she had replaced. That one was gone. She had seen this dish in Carol Steed’s living room.
She wondered if Carol thought she wouldn’t recognize it, or if Carol purposefully tried to intimidate her.
Or had these actions been designed to make Angie think the house was haunted? To get her to abandon her wish to buy the house?
For all she knew, Carol Steed had been watching her come and go from the house all week, and decided to scare her off. Carol surely still had a key to the house. Very likely, she had broken the candy dish and even knocked over the vase in the living room while Angie and Stan were out on the back deck!
She had probably scared off all earlier prospective buyers as well. Angie heaved a sigh of relief. She told herself not to worry any longer about the occult or the supernatural. Everything had been caused by one crazy old woman filled with guilt and madness.
Even as she tried to convince herself of that, however, some events weren’t explainable.
Angie decided to simply ignore them.
She picked up the candy dish and put it and the dead mouse out in the back yard. When she came back in, she made sure she locked the sliding glass door. Then she opened the garage door and drove her Mercedes inside, shutting the door behind it. That way, unless Carol had been sitting at the window and saw her pull in, she wouldn’t know Angie was there.
Angie went through the house, checking and double-checking that all doors and windows were locked, and then pushed a chair in front of the window in the den. It faced the street, and Carol Steed’s home.
Now that she was set up for her vigil, Angie phoned Paavo. He picked up on the first ring—a rarity.
“Guess where I am?” she said.
“Do I have to?”
“I’m in the Sea Cliff on a stakeout.”
“Stakeout?” Paavo’s voice was a mix of long-suffering and gloom.
“I’m convinced that Carol’s been coming in here to sabotage a sale, and I want to catch her. Anyone who puts a dead mouse in a candy dish deserves to be caught.”
“I don’t want to know about any dead mice. What I do know is that you shouldn’t be confronting a crazy woman who may be a murderer.”
“Well…maybe I need my favorite detective on stakeout with me. I’ve got goodies.”
“I’m sure you do. And you should take them and yourself home. Now.”
“You worry too much.”
“With good reason! Anyway, I just made an arrest in my double homicide. I’ve got a few more things to wrap up and I’ll be there. Be careful. Take no chances.”
“You know me, I’m always careful.”
“Since when?”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said with a big smile as she hung up.
Two hours later, she realized how incredibly boring this stake-out business could be. She had worked two crosswords and three Sudokus, ate an apple, an energy bar, half the packet of almonds, and drank the equivalent of three espressos. The candy and cookies were calling to her, but so far, she had succeeded in saving them for Paavo. All in all, this might be a waste of time. She had just about decided to go home when she heard a noise in the house, and what sounded like footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Footsteps that were coming closer…
* * *
After he finished processing Gaia Wyndom and explaining the case to the District Attorney, Paavo returned to Homicide.
He found a report from the crime scene technician. Few prints had been found at the crime scene, and none matched Carol Steed’s. He expected that the original homicide inspectors would have discovered it if the landlady’s prints had been found at the crime scene.
Despite that, he found Angie’s arguments convincing. He wanted to talk to Carol Steed, and phoned the mental institution listed as her residence.
He was told she remained on home leave as Angie suspected.
Since this was a cold case, he telephoned Lt. Eastwood to explain what he was doing and that he planned to reopen the case. He got Eastwood’s voice mail.
He didn’t like waiting, but after all, the case had sat in storage, unresolved for thirty years. What difference could a few more minutes make?
* * *
Angie peeked out of the den. She didn’t see anyone in the living or dining rooms.
She put on her jacket, stuffed the food, thermos, and puzzles back into her tote bag, grabbed her purse, and hurried across the living room to the kitchen and through the mudroom.
She swung open the door to the garage and saw Carol Steed standing in front of her car. She held a revolver. “Going somewhere?” Carol asked.
Angie slammed the door shut and started to run, then reached back and turned the deadbolt just as a gunshot created a hole in the door, missing Angie by inches. Now, she did run, sure Carol would have a key to the lock.
Back in the living room, Angie heard the whirr of the automatic garage door opener. Carol must be expecting her to go out the front door, to try to reach neighbors, other people. If she ran out to the front of the house, Carol would gun her down.
Instead, she dropped her belongings and fled out the sliding glass door to the back yard.
She ran toward the fence. It was about four and a half feet tall; high enough to keep small children in, but not so high as to obscure the ocean view. Somehow, she’d have to climb over it. She wasn’t much of a climber, but knowing a crazy person with a gun stalked her, despite the smooth leather platform soles on her high-heel boots, she scrambled up and over it.
She crouched down and snuck along the side of the fence toward the cliff. Everything in her wanted to go in the direction of the street instead, but she believed Carol waiting for her there.
She hoped to find a place to hide somewhere along the very backside of the fence where it ran along the cliff’s edge. But Paavo had said he would try to get there soon. He’d see the garage door open, Angie’s car inside it. He’d see the open sliding glass door.
But would he see Carol and her gun?
What if he didn’t? What if came here concentrating on finding Angie and because of that, he got shot…or worse?
She had to go back, had to find a way to warn him and make sure he was safe.
She froze, torn by what to do, which way to run, when the choice was made for her.
* * *
Paavo parked in front of Carol Steed’s house at 60 Clover Lane. He had grown tired of waiting for Eastwood’s approval and decided to talk to Steed on his own—no harm in talking to someone.
As he walked up to the front door, rang the bell and knocked, he saw the open garage door across the street at 51 Clover, Angie’s car inside. He shook his head. Despite his warnings, he could well imagine her wanting a front row seat to watch Carol Steed’s possible arrest.
No answer. He knocked again, but the results were no better.
* * *
Carol Steed held the gun on Angie. “Why did you have to get involved in all this? Everything was fine in my life, and then you started prying.”
Angie stood, her hands raised. “Please put the gun down, Mrs. Steed. We need to talk.”
“I want you to walk towards the cliff.”
Angie backed up a few steps, as directed, then stopped. “I thought you loved Eric. Why did you kill him?”
Carol’s brows tightened, her face filled with emotion for a second or two, then she regained control. “He wouldn’t give her up!” she cried. “He was young, and so foolish!”
“It must have been hard on you,” Angie said, trying to control the shaking of her voice.
“I wanted Eric to tell Natalie that he loved me, to tell her that Enid was our child. He refused. He married her only because she was rich, you know. He loved me, and would always love me. But he wouldn’t explain that to her! No matter what I said, he wouldn’t tell her he loved me.”
“You made them walk out here to the cliff?” she asked.
“I told him I’d made a mistake, loving him, doing everything for him! I even got rid of Edward. Poor Edward. But Eric and I loved each other. We lived together until he brought Natalie into my house! Then, I was supposed to go back to the little shack, stay out of his life. Even after he’d gotten married, he’d come to visit me now and then. He’d play with Enid. But then, he said he and his rich wife were building a big house. He would leave me. He told me it was better that way.
“I couldn’t stand it! I couldn’t bear to lose him. I put my gun to his head. Oh, he told me he loved me then! Yes, he swore it. He told Natalie everything—how he loved me and Enid, how he would stay with us, divorce her. But then he told her I’d killed Edward!”
Angie blanched hearing that. She guessed what was coming.
“I knew, then, he was lying to me. He tried to warn her—that if I’d killed once, I might do it again. He thought lying to me would placate me. That I might let them go! He was wrong. I couldn’t let them live—not either of them. If I did, they’d have me arrested. They’d take me away from Enid. I had to raise her. She needed her mother….
“So I pulled the trigger. There was so much blood! It splashed in my eyes, blinding me. I saw Natalie running and I fired again and again. She fell. I carefully wiped the gun everywhere I could think of, then put it in Eric’s hand, pressing his fingers to it, and went home.”
“But his car,” Angie said. “How did it end up at the Russian River?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I went home and took a shower. Then I packed a bag for me and Enid, got into Eric’s car and headed north. I wanted to go to Canada. But then, just a couple of hours from home, I started to wonder. What if the Canadian border guards checked the car registration? What if word got out that Eric was dead? I realized that being caught with his car would be a confession of guilt. So I hid it as best I could. Then Enid and I hitch-hiked to a Greyhound bus station and took the bus back to San Francisco. It took three days before the police came knocking on my door. They were easily fooled. But you weren’t.” Carol’s attention focused on Angie. “You seemed a nice enough young woman. Too bad you don’t mind your own business. Now, back up a little more.”
Carol walked towards her and Angie had no choice but to back away from the gun pointed at her, closer and closer to the cliff.
Angie stopped, her heels on the edge of the land. Past her, it sloped rapidly downward. “Please,” she said. “There’s no reason for this.”
Carol looked past Angie towards the ocean, her brow knitted. “Eric?”
Then she shook her head, as if forcing away the vision. Her gaze fixed again on Angie. She raised her gun as if to take aim.
A small white dog ran at her, barking and growling loudly. She turned her head as the dog lunged, its teeth clamping onto her ankle. “Stop it!” she shrieked, trying to shake the dog off, but it kept coming back. She turned the gun from Angie towards the dog, trying to get it in her sights, but it wriggled and jumped, still biting at her ankles and legs.
Angie saw her chance and threw herself at Carol’s arm, knocking against it just as Carol pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. The force of Angie’s tackle caused Carol to fall over. Angie landed on top of her. Carol was much bigger, but also much older. Angie had one hand on Carol’s wrist with the gun, using her body weight to hold it down, and with the other hand she grabbed Carol’s hair, tugging on it to lift Carol’s head and then slam it down to the ground, hoping to somehow knock the woman out or at least stun her. Carol went from trying to push Angie away, to holding her wrist, and trying to pull Angie’s hand free of her hair. But Angie held it in a death grip, knowing if she let go, Carol might kill her.
Suddenly, the gun was no longer in Carol’s hand, and strong arms reached around Angie, lifting her and telling her everything was all right, she could stop now.
Paavo kept an arm around Angie, his 9mm automatic aimed at Carol, who was holding her head and woozily trying to sit up. Sirens, signaling the backup Paavo had called, shrieked towards them. Angie slumped against him, scarcely able to hold herself up another moment.
* * *
“Let’s go,” Paavo said, walking Angie towards her car after turning Carol Steed over to police custody. “Yosh is on his way. He’ll take over for me here. In the meantime, you can wait in your car, and then I’ll take you home.”
“Not in the car,” she said, brushing dust, dirt, and leaves off of her clothes and hair. She knew she would have very sore muscles tomorrow, but for the moment, she felt fine. “I want to go into the house. I’ll be comfortable there, and safe.”
He glanced at her with surprise. “Into the house? I thought you’d never want to have anything to do with that house or this area again.”
Angie knew what had happened out on the cliff, how she had been saved, but she also knew she could never explain it to Paavo or to anyone else unless she wanted to share adjoining padded cells with Carol Steed.
She walked with him through the garage into the house. An odd sense filled her of being welcomed and protected. The rational part of her said such good feelings were probably a mixture of adrenaline and pride over managing to wrestle a mad woman to the ground. After all, nobody had been shot or killed. The irrational part said much more was going on here.
The sliding glass door in the living room had been left open and she shut it after a quick look outside at the back yard, and the view beyond. It was a lovely sight. She decided a little white lie would explain a lot, and do more good than harm. “Carol Steed kept coming into the house, doing things here that made it feel as if some occult presence was involved. But there wasn’t. It’s just a house, Paavo. A lovely house.”
He put his arms around her and studied her. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want to see a doctor?”
“I’m fine.” She looked up at him with love. They had a lot still to work out—minor, unimportant details about their wedding, and more important issues such as his ongoing relationship with Katie and Micky Kowalski. But she had faith that everything would turn out well in the end. “I’m glad we now know what happened to the two people who once lived here, and that they can finally have peace.”
“They?” Paavo’s arms tightened around her. “Well, if there are such things as ghosts, I agree that they should be happy that the truth has finally come out. Maybe they’ll go off to wherever it is that ghosts go off to.”
“I imagine they’ll do exactly that.” Angie put her arms around his neck. She was about to kiss him when from the corner of her eye she noticed something white in the back yard. She turned her head to see a little white Scottie dog sitting out there looking in at her.
She smiled. Or, she thought, maybe not.
From the Kitchen of Angelina Amalfi
ANGIE’S BAKED CHICKEN KIEV
Note that Chicken Kiev is usually deep-fried, but if you’re watching your weight, like Angie, you might prefer to use this recipe.
Ingredients:
6 Tbsp. butter, softened
1 Tbsp. chopped fresh parsley
½ tsp. leaf tarragon, crumbled
2 garlic cloves, finely minced
¼ tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. pepper
3 whole chicken breasts (6 halves—about 2 ½ lbs.)
Coating:
½ cup unseasoned bread crumbs
2 Tbsp. flour
1 egg
2 Tbsp. sesame seeds
Salt & pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.
Combine butter, parsley, tarragon, garlic, salt and pepper in a bowl. Roll into 6 individual pieces. Place in refrigerator to chill, about 15 minutes until butter is firm.
If using whole chicken breasts, split in half; remove bones and skin. Place each piece between 2 pieces of waxed paper and flatten with wooden mallet or rolling pin. Remove parsley-butter from refrigerator. Place each roll of seasoned butter in center of each flattened chicken breast. Fold long side of chicken over butter, then fold ends over, being sure butter is completely covered. Fasten with wooden toothpicks.
Place flour on a sheet of waxed paper. Beat egg in a small bowl. In another bowl, combine bread crumbs, sesame seeds and salt and pepper to taste. Roll and cover each piece of chicken with flour, then egg, then bread crumb mixture. Coat completely.
Bake 5 minutes at 425 degrees, then lower heat to 400 degrees, and bake 25 minutes longer. Outside should be golden and crisp.
(Angie often drizzles a bit of melted butter over the chicken before serving.)
SPAGHETTI CARBONARA
¼ lb. pancetta diced (if not available, use 1/4 lb. bacon, diced)
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 white onion, chopped
1 clove garlic minced
¼ cup dry white wine (optional)
1 lb. spaghetti
1 Tbsp. olive oil
4 eggs
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
2 Tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped
1 large leaf basil, chopped fine
Salt & pepper to taste
In a large skillet, add oil, chopped pancetta (or bacon) and onion. Cook until pancetta is slightly crisp and onion translucent. Add garlic and wine and cook 1 minute more. Remove from heat.
Cook spaghetti in boiling water with 1 Tbsp. olive oil until al dente (8-10 minutes).
While spaghetti is cooking, in large bowl combine eggs, Parmesan cheese, parsley, basil, salt and pepper to taste. As soon as spaghetti is cooked, drain thoroughly, and toss hot spaghetti into bowl. Toss to coat spaghetti with mixture.
Reheat pancetta and as soon as skillet is hot, add
spaghetti. Toss to mix in pancetta and to cook the egg. Serve.
(Angie sometimes sprinkles red pepper flakes on her carbonara at the table to add a little zest—but not too much or it’ll overwhelm the subtle flavor of the carbonara.)
HARD, ROUND ICED ITALIAN COOKIES
Like Angie’s Mamma makes…
½ lb. butter, softened
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1 Tbsp. vanilla
1 Tbsp. anise extract
4 cups flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
Icing:
1 ¾ cup powdered sugar
1 Tbsp. anise extract (or 1 Tbsp. vanilla or 1 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice)
2 Tbsp. milk
Colored sugar for decoration
Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cream butter and sugar until soft. Add eggs, vanilla and anise flavorings. Mix well. Combine flour and baking powder, then blend into the butter mixture.
Break off small, tablespoon size pieces of dough, roll and then twist into a circle, lightly pinching ends to stick together. (Can twist into any shape you like, bows, braids, “s” etc.) Bake 375 degrees until lightly browned, 15-20 minutes.
Icing: Blend sugar and flavoring, slowly add milk to form soft, smooth icing. Ice cookies when they cool off a bit. Sprinkle with colored sugar before icing sets.
About the Author
Joanne Pence was born and raised in northern California, and now makes her home in Idaho. She has been an award-winning, USA Today best-selling author of mysteries, and has also written suspense, historical fiction, contemporary romance, romantic suspense, and fantasy.
Joanne hopes you'll enjoy her books, which present a variety of times, places, and reading experiences, from mysterious to thrilling, emotional to lightly humorous, as well as powerful tales of times long past.
Visit her at www.joannepence.com. Also, to hear about new books, please sign up for Joanne's New Release Mailing List.
Also by Joanne Pence
The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries
A brand new series! Readers enjoyed the interaction between Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield, who works with Angie’s fiancé Paavo Smith, and Angie’s cousin, Richie Amalfi, in the Christmas novella, The Thirteenth Santa, and asked for more.
Rebecca is a by-the-book detective, who walks the straight and narrow in her work, and in her life. Richie, on the other hand, is not at all by-the-book. But opposites can and do attract, and there are few mystery twosomes quite as opposite as Rebecca and Richie.
THE THIRTEENTH SANTA (a novella)
ONE O’CLOCK HUSTLE
TWO O’CLOCK HEIST
The Angie Amalfi Mysteries
Gourmet cook, sometime food columnist, sometime restaurant critic, and generally “underemployed” person Angelina Amalfi burst upon the mystery scene in SOMETHING’S COOKING, in which she met San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith. Since that time she’s wanted two things in life, a good job...and Paavo.
SOMETHING’S COOKING
TOO MANY COOKS
COOKING UP TROUBLE
COOKING MOST DEADLY
COOK’S NIGHT OUT
COOKS OVERBOARD
A COOK IN TIME
TO CATCH A COOK
BELL, COOK, AND CANDLE
IF COOKS COULD KILL
TWO COOKS A-KILLING
COURTING DISASTER
RED HOT MURDER
THE DA VINCI COOK
COOKING SPIRITS
COOK’S CHRISTMAS CAPERS (novella)
Non-series books:
ANCIENT ECHOES
ANCIENT SHADOWS
DANCE WITH A GUNFIGHTER
THE GHOST OF SQUIRE HOUSE
SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES
DANGEROUS JOURNEY
ÉCLAIR MURDER
A Patisserie Mystery Book 2
by Harper Lin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some street names and locations in Paris are real, and others are fictitious.
ÉCLAIR MURDER Copyright © 2014 by Harper Lin.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
www.harperlin.com
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
Chapter 1
A month after returning to her hometown from her travels abroad, Clémence Damour was back into the swing of Parisian life without the tedious routine that came with living in the city. She knew she was lucky to avoid the Métro, boulot, dodo, the subway-work-sleep routine that was the unfortunate fate of other Parisians. Working eleven-hour days had never been her goal. What she did for a living she didn’t even consider work but play.
Her family’s patisserie chain, Damour, made some of France’s most delicious desserts and pastries. Aside from the flagship store in the 16th arrondissement, there were two other locations in Paris that Clémence checked up on from time to time. Her parents were away in Asia for at least six months, and not only was she house-sitting and dog-sitting for them, but she got to take over in inventing new dessert flavors with the patisserie’s head baker, Sebastien Soulier.
But by Thursday afternoon, she was feeling the fatigue. Because work was so much fun, she’d been spending seven days a week in the kitchen without even noticing it. She and Sebastien were experimenting with savory éclairs for the salon de thé lunch menu. Some of the results had been downright awful. She decided to leave work early and walk her dog Miffy at the park to relax and spend some time under the sun.
It was spring in Paris. The trees on the streets and boulevards were in bloom. As she walked down the steps of the Palais de Chaillot with Miffy, she passed by the lovely flowers in the gardens and the fresh green foliage of the trees and the dewy grass. The grand fountain was turned on, and kids squealed as they splashed their hands in the water. A few skateboarders did flips and tricks while the tourists on the viewing platform above took pictures of la Tour Eiffel in awe.
She was heading across the Seine to the Champs de Mars, the park beneath the tower. She passed the thick aroma of crêpe and waffle stands, where Miffy was compelled to linger. The sun was still three hours away from setting, so they had plenty of time to enjoy the blue clouds and the light of day. One never knew when the sun was going to appear in Paris, and when it did, everybody was out to take advantage of it.
Clémence walked around, looking for other dogs so that Miffy could socialize. She spotted a fluffy Pomeranian dog on the other side of the field and wondered if the lady holding the leash would mind if Miffy interacted with the dog a bit. She made her way toward them, passing teenagers taking selfies and vendors selling illegal keychains and trinkets in the shape of the original tower.
As they walked, they were accosted by a Jack Russell terrier with a red bandana tied around the neck.
Arthur Dubois, her neighbor, greeted her with a strained smile. He was as handsome as always, dressed in a white dress shirt and crisp blue jeans. His chestnut brown hair was neatly combed, and his brown eyes seemed to examine her with curiosity.
“Bonjour, Arthur,” Clémence said with a polite smile. She still wasn’t sure whether their greeting required bisous, kisses on the cheeks, since they were not particularly close.
“Bonjour,” he replied stiffly.
They had been on the verge of some sort of friendship when Arthur had found her unconscious on the street last month and called for an ambulance when she had been investigating who had killed la gardienne, the caretaker of their building. Once in a while, she was able to discern a soft side from his snotty façade, but it was as rare to encounter as a French person who didn’t like cheese.
The Russell terrier and Miffy were wagging their tails happily and jumping up and down. The dogs were pals, since Arthur’s family had dog-sat Miffy before, and Clémence would’ve suggested walking the dogs together more often if Arthur wasn’t so downright rude sometimes.
After Clémence helped Inspector Cyril St. Clair find the killer, she had received a big bouquet of beautiful pink and red roses that had been left in front of her apartment door. No note came with it to say whom the bouquet was from, but she suspected that it had been from Arthur. The last time she’d run into Arthur, she’d asked whether the roses were from him, but he had vehemently denied it.
“Why would I give you flowers?” he asked, a bit nastily.
Clémence immediately felt stupid for asking. He probably thought she was insinuating that he had romantic interest in her. His family had been victims in the whole debacle, and Clémence had uncovered the truth. Plus she had been beaten and almost killed in the process. Didn’t that warrant flowers?
“Nobody in your family sent it either?” Clémence had asked.
“Not as far as I know,” he replied.
If the Dubois family didn’t send it, then who did? In any case, she didn’t appreciate Arthur’s attitude, and the whole exchange had made her apprehensive about him again.
But here he was with his dog. And he was walking next to her.
“Hey, what is your dog’s name?” she asked.
“You mean after all these years, you never knew his name?”
Clémence fumed. She was trying to be polite, but he was making it difficult, as usual.
“I was away for two years,” she said. “And this is maybe one of the few times I have seen your dog.”
“It’s Youki,” he replied.
“Oh.”
Clémence wanted their walk to be over, but Miffy was really enjoying herself with Youki. She had come to the park to socialize Miffy, after all.
“How’s the PhD going?” she asked, to dispel the uncomfortable silence between them.
“Well,” he said.
“What’s it about, anyway?”
“Macroeconomics,” he said. “But nothing you would understand because it’s quite complicated.”
Clémence silently called him a few names. Did he realize how rude he was being, or was it just a part of his personality?
She decided not to react, but she wouldn’t make the effort to make any more conversation. As soon as Miffy received sufficient time with Youki, she would make her excuses and walk the other way.
After another bout of awkward silence, Arthur finally spoke up. “Any new macaron flavors at Damour?”
“Yes,” Clémence said. “We’ve just launched a cherry blossom flavor, and—”
She was interrupted by Youki running off in the park, toward two guys who were throwing a Frisbee around. Arthur must’ve had a loose grasp of the leash, and he chased after Youki.
Miffy wanted to go after them, too. She barked excitedly, but Clémence held the leash tight.
“Stay here, Miffy. I guess we’ll wait for them.”
After all, she couldn’t just go home now. It was amusing to watch Arthur chasing after Youki and looking frazzled.
Clémence laughed as she watched them, but when she looked down at Miffy few minutes later, she realized that the dog had stretched the extended leash all the way to a bush.
“Miffy?”
Her dog was sniffing an éclair on the ground near the bush. Sticking out of the bush were shoes. Men’s shiny brown shoes.
“What the…?”
Clémence pulled Miffy back and looked into the bush. The pants seemed to be made of expensive fabric, and the shoes were high-end as well; it couldn’t have been a homeless man.
“Monsieur?” she called. “Are you okay?”
The man didn’t answer.
Miffy was still sniffing the piece of éclair on the ground, but she wasn’t licking it.
“Okay, Miffy, stop.”
Clémence looked back at Arthur, who was walking toward them with Youki.
“I think this man needs help!” Clémence said to Arthur.
Arthur ran to them, and he parted the bush. The man lying in it was in his mid to late forties, with dark brown hair and tortoiseshell spectacles. He wore a business suit and tie, like a typical Parisian man working in the area.
Arthur checked for a pulse. He grimaced and stepped back.
“I think he’s dead,” Arthur said weakly.
Chapter 2
“Dead?” Clémence croaked. She looked around the park incredulously, but nobody else was within earshot.
Arthur nodded, looking at his hand, which had just touched a dead man.
Clémence wasted no time in pulling out her phone and calling the police.
“How could this happen?” she wondered out loud. “There’s no blood or anything. And in broad daylight?”
“I don’t know, but let’s step away.”
They pulled their dogs to a nearby bench. Arthur sat, but Clémence couldn’t help but remain standing. She strained her neck to look at the body.
“Come on,” said Arthur. “You’re drawing attention to it.”
Clémence didn’t listen. She pushed Miffy’s leash into Arthur’s hands and left before he could object. She found the courage to go back to the corpse in the bush.
Was the man really dead? And the éclair he’d been eating—it looked awfully like the one from her store. It was pistachio flavored, and Clémence recognized the exact shade of the green cream filling oozing out from the choux pastry.
She held her breath and parted the bush.
“What are you doing?” Arthur said, coming up behind her with the dogs. “You don’t want to get involved in another murder, do you?”
Clémence noticed a lavender paper bag in the bush, close to the body. Just as she suspected. Lavender was Damour’s brand color, and sure enough, the bag was imprinted with the store’s gold logo.
“This man had been eating a pistachio éclair from my shop before he died,” she said.
“Not so loud,” Arthur said. “There are children walking by.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said in a lowered voice. “This makes no sense. It must be a medical condition.” Then she began to panic a little. “Oh God, what if he was allergic to something in the éclair? We use fresh ingredients. But what if it’s our fault?”
“Calm down,” said Arthur, even though he was worked up himself. “Will you just come back to the bench? Oh look—the police are here.”
A police car pulled up, followed by the emergency response workers in a pompier truck.
Clémence told them what they had discovered, and the police quickly sectioned off their part of the park with police tape, telling picnickers to pack up and move.
Soon another car pulled up, a black smart car. Clémence was amused to see the lanky Inspector Cyril St. Clair getting out of the tiny car. Cyril was tall and green bean–thin, with gaunt cheeks, a hawk nose and sharp green eyes. He reminded her of a vulture.
“You again,” he called. “Where there’s murder, there’s la heiress.”
Clémence sighed. Did this fool of an inspector always have to be such a bully?
“Well, my dog seems to have a nose for finding dead bodies,” she said wryly. “Maybe she should have an office of her own at 36 Quai des Orfèvres.”
Arthur swallowed a laugh. This was certainly not the moment to be comedic, Clémence knew, but if Cyril was going to be nasty and sarcastic, she would have a laugh too.
“Who is he?” Cyril nodded toward the dead body in the bush.
“Aucune idée,” said Arthur. “No clue. We just found him in the bush when we were walking our dogs.”
Cyril demanded that they tell him everything from the beginning. He took notes, then poked around the body like the rest of his team.
“He had been eating pistachio éclairs from Damour?” Cyril turned around, holding a plastic bag that contained the nub of the éclair. In his other hand was the lavender paper bag in another plastic bag.
Clémence shrugged. “Our pastries are very popular in this neighborhood. I don’t know what happened.”
Cyril narrowed his sharp eyes at her. “I knew your pastries were poison.”
Clémence put a hand on her hip. “If you so much as suggest to the media that our products are poisonous, my parents will have their lawyers on you in an instant.”
“We don’t know what happened,” Arthur said. “So everybody just calm down. He could’ve just had some sort of medical condition, like epilepsy.”
“And nobody noticed him fall into the bush?” Cyril asked.
“Are there any security cameras around the tower?” asked Clémence. “Maybe you can find out that way.”
“Leave the investigating to me,” said Cyril. “I’m the inspector, remember? Not some amateur baker.”
Clémence bit her tongue, literally, to keep from lashing back at Cyril. Sure, she didn’t go to baking school and she was the heiress to the most popular patisserie and tea salon chain in Paris, but she was no amateur baker. She had learned from the best—her parents—and she had graduated from one of the best art schools in the country. But she didn’t want to say all that to Cyril, as she’d be wasting her breath.
“I did solve the last murder, remember?” she said as calmly as she could. “I never got a thank-you note for that.”
“Well, I could’ve solved it if you and your dog hadn’t ruined the investigation.”
“Oh, please.” Clémence rolled her eyes. “We—”
“Maybe we should go,” said Arthur. “We’ll leave you to your investigation, since we’ve already told you all we know. If you want to ask anything else, you know where to reach us.”
He pulled Clémence away.
“I want to smack that guy every time I see him,” Clémence said.
“Which is why I pulled you away.” There was a hint of a smile on Arthur’s face. “I don’t want you to end up in jail for beating up an inspector.”
Clémence took a few deep breaths. “Fine. You’re right. I can’t let him get to me.”
They walked back toward the tower and then to their building. Clémence thought about taking a bath to relax. This was the second time in a month that she’d seen a dead body. At least it was a stranger this time.
“Just go home,” Arthur said. “We don’t even know if there is a killer. Like I said, the man could’ve died from natural causes.”
“Killer?” Clémence hadn’t even thought about another killer being involved until Arthur mentioned it. But it was entirely possible.
Chapter 3
When Clémence went into work the next morning, she had nearly forgotten about the dead body in the bush. She hoped that this was the end of her spell of finding dead bodies in Paris. In the kitchen, she busied herself with testing Sebastien’s savory éclairs. This one was stuffed with salmon, a mousse-like cream cheese, and fresh herbs.
“You’ve done it,” she said. “This is going on the lunch menu.”
Sebastien beamed. “Did you still want me to work on the hot dog éclair?”
The hot dog éclair was basically a wiener in the éclair’s “choux” shell—a gourmet hot dog with a French twist.
Clémence nodded. “Yes. It doesn’t taste quite right yet. I want the perfect balance of French and American. Right now, it’s tasting too French.”
Damour pastries often had an American or international twist. It was the fusion between the classic and the new that made the chain so popular.
“What is it about it that’s so French?” Sebastien asked.
“It’s the ketchup and mustard,” said Clémence.
“But it’s freshly made,” Sebastien protested. “It’s perfect.”
“Yes, but American ketchup has more sugar.”
Sebastien wrinkled his freckled nose. “You want me to add more sugar to this perfectly good homemade tomato ketchup? Why don’t we just use a bottle of Heinz then!”
Sebastien was being sarcastic, but Clémence took this idea seriously. Her mother was American, and she’d lived in New York during many summers growing up. She knew how good a New York hot dog from a street vendor could be.
“Heinz…” she said. “Okay, let’s try it. I think that’s the only thing keeping that recipe from being a hit.”
“You can’t be serious,” Sebastien muttered, but he called up one of the intern bakers to try to find some authentic American ketchup. The intern took a break from slicing vanilla beans in half for their vanilla macaron recipe to go to an American shop in the 7th arrondissement.
“In the meanwhile, let’s work on the shrimp and avocado éclairs,” Clémence said.
Berenice came back from her break with a strange look on her face. She was Sebastien’s younger sister, and also a baker. Both Soulier siblings had reddish-brown hair and pale, freckled skin. Sebastien was more serious and secretive, while Berenice was a lot more spirited and chatty.
“Hey, Clémence,” Berenice said. “There’s a couple of police cars outside the patisserie. Caroline’s talking to the police right now, and they’re causing a commotion with the customers.”
Caroline was Damour’s head manager. Clémence wiped her hands on her apron. She was about to head out the door to see what was going on when Caroline came in with Inspector Cyril St. Clair.
Clémence groaned.
“The feeling is mutual, Mademoiselle Damour,” Cyril said.
Caroline, who was usually calm and collected, had panic in her eyes. “He says we have to close down the entire place for the day. They want to inspect for poison.”
“What?” Clémence exclaimed.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Sebastien asked. “What’s going on?”
All the chefs and bakers in the kitchen turned to stare at Cyril and his men.
“A man was found dead this morning at the Champs de Mars,” Cyril declared. “He died from eating poisoned éclairs from your patisserie.”
“Poisoned?” Berenice said.
“Yes. That’s right.” Cyril paced the kitchen with his long spidery legs. “One and a half pistachio éclairs from Damour was enough to kill a healthy forty-three-year-old man. We are shutting down the entire shop to check for traces of poison.”
“Tell me you did not announce this loud enough for the customers to hear,” said Clémence.
“I pulled him to the back before he did,” said Caroline.
Cyril rolled his eyes. “Did you hear what I said? I need everybody out. My team is going to check every nook and cranny for anything suspicious.”
“But you can’t do that,” Clémence implored. “This is ridiculous. We’re not lacing our pastries with poison. Our salon is full, and have you seen the lineup for the patisserie? We can’t shut down now. You have nothing on us.”
“It’s for the good of the customers,” Cyril insisted. “We can’t have another one dropping dead from poison, can we now? Everybody out.”
The employees looked at each other, then looked to Caroline and Clémence for further instruction.
“Fine,” Clémence said. “Caroline, please come up with something and inform the customers that we’ll be closed for the morning.”
“Not just the morning.” Cyril smiled slyly. “We might need the entire day. Maybe even tomorrow.”
“That’s just not right.” Heat rose to Clémence’s cheeks. “First of all, you’re wasting your time. And you’re not only wasting our time, but our business, as well.”
“I’m so sorry that you’ll be losing a few dollars,” said Cyril, “but I think a police investigation is more important than selling a few macarons, don’t you think?”
“We have lunch reservations to fulfill, custom orders, and all this food and desserts are going to waste because we only sell them fresh—it’s just not right.”
Cyril shrugged. “Police orders. You do know that a murderer is on the loose here? I can’t help that your patisserie happens to play yet another role in a murder. Call it bad luck, but we have to do our job.”
Clémence got the urge, again, to smack the inspector silly. But she took a deep breath and turned to her staff. “I’m sorry, everyone. We’ll call you back in when this ordeal is over. In the meanwhile, enjoy the morning off.”
They filtered out, but Sebastien and Berenice lingered as Cyril’s team got started.
“What a pain,” said Berenice.
“Don’t worry,” said Clémence. “I know exactly what to do.”
“What?” asked Sebastien.
“Call my mother,” she said.
Chapter 4
After Clémence informed her parents, who were back in Tokyo after traveling around Japan, her mother called Cyril and gave him a piece of her mind. She said that if the store wasn’t reopened by tomorrow, she’d have the country’s best lawyers down Cyril’s throat. She also threatened to bill him with the profit loss because there was no way any of her staff had anything to do with this.
She helped Caroline call and inform the customers with lunch reservations that the place would be closed for the day and that they would receive a fifty percent reduction for their next lunch. Then she put up two signs to inform walk-in customers of the closure, as well.
Clémence was so mad that she turned down lunch with Sebastien and Berenice. She went home to feed Miffy and tried to calm down.
In her bedroom bathroom, she took a lavender bubble bath and tried to relax. She thought about the dead man in the bush. He had died eating pistachio éclairs. They had been fresh éclairs, from what she could tell. It meant that they had been bought on the same day. There was no way that the staff would have had anything to do with this, on purpose or by accident. It wasn’t as if they had bottles of poison just lying around.
But Clémence was worried. What if it was the éclairs? What if one of the bakers poured in something toxic by mistake, or some stranger had snuck in to do some damage? What if it was a competitor out to destroy their reputation?
Clémence splashed water on her face. She had to relax. She just had to wait for the results. When Cyril concluded that Damour had nothing to do with this death, the store would be reopened, and it would be business as usual.
She got out of the tub, ate lunch, and thought about how she could enjoy the rest of her day. It was an unexpected day off. If she were to hang out with Berenice and Sebastien, she would probably want to rant about Cyril, the whole situation, and get mad again. Maybe it was best for her to be alone and mellow out that day.
She decided to paint. She had set up an easel on the balcony earlier that week with the intention of painting again, but she never got around to it since she had been so busy at work. But her first love was art, after all. She did have great ambition to be a painter and put on her own show at a reputable art gallery someday.
Clémence had graduated from École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, one of the best art schools in the country. She mainly studied the techniques of classical paintings. It had been a long, rigorous process, but she did it because she wanted to perfect the techniques of the masters so she would have the tools to develop her own style of painting.
What her style was, however, she didn’t exactly know yet, even after all the years at school. She personally loved the impressionist paintings, cubism, and anything surreal. Recently, she’d been obsessed with the childlike whimsy in some of Marc Chagall’s work.
For now, she would try to have fun with art again. To loosen herself up, she decided to sketch Miffy. She sat down with a glass of wine and called Miffy out to the balcony.
It wasn’t hard for Miffy to stay still. Clémence told her gently to sit, explaining that she was going to draw her in charcoal. Miffy smiled and wagged her tail as if she understood.
After an hour, she had five rough sketches of Miffy in various poses. She decided that she was ready to paint a portrait of Miffy.
It had to be good enough for her parents to want to frame and display in the apartment. The thought of that made Clémence hesitant with her paintbrush. Although she was proud to have graduated from one of the best art schools, she had never been considered the best in her class.
One of her professors used to tell her that her paintings were average and forgettable. She had been in awe of a couple of her classmates who were so talented and so sure of themselves. Clémence didn’t have the same confidence when she held her brush. She hesitated, which was why she never made it as an artist. Plus, she hadn’t really given it a good shot.
She was good at inventing pastries, and her skills could rival any top baker in Paris, but she’d learned that through osmosis. Her parents were the talented ones. It was in the blood. Baking, to her, was a lot simpler. It was a matter of picking and choosing ingredients and deciding which ones would work well together. The fun was in the “lab,” the kitchen where she’d try and fail until she got the combination right. It was a lot of adjusting and patience.
So why couldn’t she apply the same patience, certainty, and perseverance to her art? It was probably because she took it too seriously. Baking and experimenting in the kitchen was fun, while painting and trying to figure out what it was that she wanted to express through lines and colors was work. Painting conjured up insecurities, and it was easier to stick with what she was good at.
When she was living in Le Marais before she went on her two-year tour around the world, she had been the live-in girlfriend of a classmate, Mathieu, the one deemed “talented” in school. His technique did in fact rival the masters. His portraits of people were incredible.
The last she’d heard, Mathieu had put on a small exhibition, portraits of farmers from the countryside. She read one of the glowing reviews in the papers. As everyone had predicted, Mathieu was on his way. She wondered if he was still with the girl he’d broken up with her for, Susanne what’s-her-name. He had scouted her from the streets and asked her to pose for one of his portraits. What a cliché it had been, the artist and the muse getting romantically involved.
The whole breakup had turned Clémence off from dating artists—and from creating art. After it happened, she decided to go off and travel, which had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made.
She’d been with Mathieu for three years, and she used to be crazy about him. Mathieu was so brilliant and charming, but ultimately, he didn’t think Clémence was good enough for him. Looking back now, he had hardly been encouraging about her work. He was condescending toward her efforts, paying false compliments as if he was a parent praising the ugly scribbles of a child. There could only be one artist in a couple, and it certainly hadn’t been Clémence.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said to Miffy. “If I’m no good as a painter, I might as well just have fun with it, right? I already have a pretty good job. I’ll just do it for the enjoyment of it.”
Clémence looked up at la Tour Eiffel for moral support, which seemed to be emitting the positive response that she needed.
“If it sucks, I’ll just throw the painting away, right? It’s just practice.”
Clémence went ahead and sketched Miffy on the canvas. She painted her on top of a Parisian rooftop, since that was her view from the balcony.
Time seemed to fly as she painted. Miffy barked every so often to cheer her on.
When Clémence took a break in the kitchen to eat a snack, she heard knocking at the kitchen door.
It was Ben, the Englishman who lived in one of the former servant rooms on the roof. He rented the room from her parents.
“Hey.” The goofy Englishman was dressed all in black, his signature attire, and he was holding his laundry bag. “I saw that you were in, and I figured I’d be able to do the laundry. I tried calling you.”
“Come on in. Sorry, I was on the balcony so I didn’t hear the phone ring. Run the machine, and come have a drink outside if you want. I should go get my cell phone in case anyone else tries to call.”
“Sure.”
“Plus, I want to hear all the latest on your relationship with Berenice.” Clémence smiled mischievously.
She had invited Berenice out to Ben’s poetry slam a few weeks ago, and the two had hit it off.
“You’re gonna grill me, are you? You’re going to have to ply me with alcohol first.”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” said Clémence. “Sometimes I worry about your drinking problem.”
“Don’t worry.” Ben grinned. “It’s just the British in me.”
They took a bottle of white wine to share on the balcony. The sun was bright, and the clouds were a brilliant white.
“What’s that you got there?” Ben peered at the half-finished painting on the easel. “You did this?”
“Just now,” Clémence said, a little embarrassed. She’d been looking at the painting so closely that she had not stepped back to look at it in its entirety until now. She scrutinized it, hoping that it wasn’t awful.
“It’s amazing,” Ben said.
“Really?” Clémence beamed. She did think the painting wasn’t too bad. There was a sense of whimsy to it, and it captured Miffy’s friendly personality well. “I’m still working on the shading.”
“I’d forgotten that you were a painter,” said Ben.
“I’m trying to get back into it,” said Clémence.
“You’re obviously very good.”
Clémence blushed. Her parents had always told her that she was good, but art school had been so competitive. It felt good to have another person tell her that she had talent, even if he was a friend.
“Is that what you want to be? A painter? Your mother mentioned that you really wanted to be a great painter.”
Clémence groaned. “She told you that? I suppose I do.”
“So you’re thinking of putting on a show any time soon?”
“A show? No, I’m just trying to practice.”
“But that’s the ultimate goal, right?”
“Well, I guess so,” Clémence admitted.
“I have friends in Belleville,” said Ben. “If you ever want to put on a small exhibition or something, I know some artists and gallery owners. Maybe you can team up with some other artists.” His face lit up. “Or we can collaborate, too. We can make it an art and performance project. I can get my musician and dancer friends in on it, and we can perform all evening. Maybe we can put on a show where there’s a performance every hour.”
Clémence’s head spun. She’d just wanted to draw her dog, and Ben wanted to put on some big spectacle?
“I wouldn’t even know what to paint,” said Clémence. “I’m still trying to find my footing.”
“You’re painting Miffy,” said Ben.
“Yes, but I can’t put on a show with portraits of my dog.”
“Anything can be done, but you must paint something you’re passionate about.”
Clémence thought about it. “Well, I’m passionate about desserts.”
“Yes, desserts! It’s perfect! Clémence Damour of the Damour patisseries painting desserts and pastries. I’m sure people will snatch those pieces up.”
She gave a little laugh. “Sounds like a big advertisement for our company.”
“Not if it’s sincere,” said Ben. “Cheers.”
They clinked wine glasses.
Clémence smiled. “You should be an inspirational speaker or something.”
“I’m a writer,” said Ben. “I help people with perspective.”
“How’s that mystery novel coming along?” asked Clémence.
“It’s going well. The inspector has decoded the pages of code in the briefcase. I’ve decided that it’s a plan to access another dimension. But now it’s turning into sci-fi.”
“A sci-fi mystery. Sounds cool. Berenice loves mysteries. You should let her read it.”
Clémence turned to Ben, waiting for his response.
“She is reading it,” said Ben. “She has plenty of ideas.”
“So is it official now?” Clémence grinned. “Are you a couple?”
“I don’t know,” said Ben. “I really like hanging out with her, but I don’t know if either of us are taking the romance aspect seriously, which makes me wonder if there is a romantic aspect. I mean, we’re attracted to each other, and we have a good intellectual rapport, but I wonder if the chemistry is there.”
“Well, have you tried to kiss her?”
“No,” he said.
“No?” Clémence gaped. “What are you waiting for?”
“We only hang out once or twice a week. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush. I think she might even be dating other guys, but I like her, so I’m waiting to see how this unfolds naturally.”
Clémence shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”
Berenice was a little boy crazy. She often made eyes at Raoul, who worked at Damour. Still, it did seem as though she and Ben had a lot in common, but if one took the relationship more seriously than the other, someone could get hurt. Clémence would probably end up feeling responsible because she had been the one to introduce them, after all.
“But you’re also right,” said Ben. “A kiss would probably tell me if we have something more. If there isn’t, we’ll just go back to being friends, no big deal.”
“You’re very practical for a poet and a fiction writer,” Clémence remarked.
“We’re not all drunks and philanderers,” Ben joked. “Don’t you usually work at this time, or are you taking an extended lunch break?”
“Oh.” Clémence sighed. “No. Actually, the place is closed for the day.”
Clémence explained about the murder and the poisoned éclairs.
“That’s really strange,” said Ben. “Paris is actually a pretty sinister place, if you think about it.”
“Don’t blame Paris,” said Clémence. “Blame the psychopathic murderers. I wonder who would do such a thing.”
“So the inspector thinks your store has something to do with it?”
“I think he hopes that it does,” said Clémence. “He’s out to get me.”
“I think he’s out to get everyone.” Ben had met Cyril once and felt the same way about him that Clémence did.
“What if he finds something?” Clémence asked. “What if the store is responsible?”
Just then, the cell phone she’d taken out to the balcony with her began to ring on the table. An unknown number.
Chapter 5
“One of your staff members has been arrested,” said Cyril.
“What?” Clémence exclaimed, jumping up.
“Raoul Baka. Just thought you would want to know.”
Cyril hung up.
“I can’t believe this!” Clémence said to Ben.
“What?”
“Apparently Raoul has something to do with this.”
“Who’s Raoul?”
“He’s one of the cashiers at the patisserie. I’ve got to go to the store and chew off that inspector’s head!”
Clémence went back inside the apartment.
“I’ll go with you so you don’t seriously hurt that inspector,” Ben said.
They walked back to Place du Trocadéro, where Damour was. A few people gathered outside, looking into the window, wondering what was going on.
This was not good. This was not good at all. Not only was the store closed, her customers could see the police car and Cyril’s team in the store. Now an employee had been arrested in connection with a murder. Her parents were going to be furious. Clémence’s fear would be realized: Damour’s reputation would take a nosedive under her watch. How could she let this happen?
She knocked on the door to the salon de thé. One of the members of Cyril’s team opened up.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “Cyril St. Clair?”
At the sight of her furious face, the man didn’t hesitate in pulling Cyril out of the back kitchen. Clémence stepped in the store with Ben. From outside, a camera flashed. People were taking pictures of this. They would be in the papers. What a mess.
Cyril had that smug grin on his face, with lines that appeared at the sides of his mouth like parentheses trying to contain his mean intentions. “Ah, Mademoiselle Damour. I knew it was only a matter of time before you started sticking your nose in our business again.”
Clémence crossed her arms and bit back a retort about his large nose. She wasn’t in grade school. Trading insults wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
“What’s the story?” she asked instead.
“It seems to me that your employee had a public spat with our deceased only a few days ago. A grocer saw him punch out Monsieur Dupont in front of his grocery. Plus, Raoul had been working the morning shift the day that Dupont was killed, so putting two and two together—it’s simple mathematics, really.”
“In this case, you end up with five,” said Clémence. “It’s circumstantial evidence, but did you even find any traces of poison or anything suspicious around here? Do you even have proof that Raoul poisoned the éclairs or know of any witnesses who’d seen him do it?”
“You are lucky that your employee covered his tracks well, but he still has a couple of eyewitnesses who saw him punch out Dupont on the street, as I’ve told you. It explains why Dupont’s eye still has a trace of a bruise.”
“Who is this Dupont guy, anyway?” Ben asked.
“Alexandre Dupont,” said Cyril. “One of your best éclair customers, according to his wife—who is in hysterics, by the way. He works at Avenue Kléber and comes to your patisserie often, though he’s learned his lesson now, hasn’t he?”
Cyril let out a nasty laugh. Clémence grimaced, disgusted by his ability to joke at a time like this.
Clémence had never seen Dupont at the store before, but she’d only been back for a month. Her employees probably knew way more about him. And she was eager to find out why Raoul would punch him out.
“Where is Raoul?” asked Clémence.
“Already in custody.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Not unless you’re his lawyer.”
She sighed. “So why did Raoul punch Dupont?” she asked Cyril.
“I don’t know yet,” said Cyril. “But I’ll be questioning him later on. Next time, be careful who you hire.”
“What about the store?” Clémence asked. “You’ve found nothing, right? So can we reopen it now?”
“Yes, fine. You’re lucky that my men are so fast.”
“Fast? You’ve cost us a whole day of business! We pride ourselves on freshness, so some of the desserts are garbage now.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you give them to us?” Cyril said.
Clémence couldn’t tell if he was joking. His expression was neutral, awaiting a response.
“You can’t be serious! You expect me to give our gourmet desserts and pastries to you and your team as a reward for shutting down our store, arresting one of my employees with no real evidence, and insulting me?”
Cyril sputtered. “You did say the desserts were going to waste.”
“What are you, pigeons? No, I’m not giving you anything!”
Ben had to stifle his laughter.
Cyril’s face fell. “Fine. Our men are leaving soon. They’ve tested a good portion of your pastries for poison, so a lot of your food is already in the garbage, anyway.”
“Whatever,” said Clémence. “Now get out, all of you.”
Some of the men who were still working turned to her with alarm.
“No need to be rude, Damour,” said Cyril with an infuriating grin. “We’re off. We got what we wanted. Just accept it. One of your employees is a cunning killer. Poisoning a customer like that. You’ll be lucky this whole thing doesn’t spread. People will avoid your store out of fear for their lives.”
With that, Cyril turned and left the store. His men followed after gathering up their supplies, leaving the store a complete mess.
Chapter 6
Clémence called Caroline. Together, they called back in many of their employees to help clean up the store. They were open almost as late as the other restaurants at Place du Trocadéro, so they could aim to reopen for dinner if they cleaned up in time.
While Cyril’s team did throw a good portion of the food into the trash, there were still plenty left on the covered cooling trays. As the employees got to work, Clémence gathered up Caroline, Celine, and Marie in the employee lounge. Marie worked in the patisserie as a cashier. Celine was a hostess, as well as Clémence’s friend.
“I didn’t want to tell the others,” Clémence started, “but I have to let you know that Raoul has been arrested.”
“Pourquoi?” Celine frowned in concern.
Clémence told them about the dead customer, Alexandre Dupont, and how Raoul had been seen arguing and fighting with him last week on the street.
“I’m just wondering what you know about Raoul and this Dupont guy,” said Clémence. “C’est grave. It’s very serious. Raoul might be tried for murder.”
“That can’t be,” Marie exclaimed. “Raoul is a great guy.”
“I agree,” said Caroline. “Raoul is one of our best employees. He’s friendly and smiles a lot. Customers have commented that his smile really brightens up their day when they buy their morning pastries. I can’t believe he’d fight Dupont—and murder?”
“What else do you know about Raoul?” asked Clémence. “If we’re going to clear his name, I need more of his background info, as well as Dupont’s.”
“He’s from Marseille,” said Caroline. “He likes working in the patisserie, but his real passion is music.”
“He wants to be a music producer,” said Marie. “He’s already helping some new hip-hop artists in the studio, but not enough to make a living yet.”
“Now, he lives in Courbevoie, near La Defense,” Caroline added.
“What about the fight with Dupont?” Clémence asked. “Why would he do that? There were two eyewitnesses who saw him punch Dupont on the street.”
“Dupont…Who is he?” Marie asked. “There are so many costumers, and we don’t know them all by name.”
Clémence tried to describe him the best she could—from what she could remember of the dead body, anyway.
“Is his top lip thinner than the bottom lip?” Marie asked.
“Yes,” said Clémence.
“I do remember this guy. I don’t like him. He doesn’t say a lot, but he seems arrogant. I don’t think Raoul liked him much, either.”
“Why exactly? Did he ever say anything?”
“It was more his eyes,” said Marie. “He had these pale blue eyes that were really cold. He’d only order by saying what he wanted, never a s’il vous plait.”
“What would he usually order?”
“He liked the éclairs, mainly the pistachio ones. Sometimes he’d order the chocolate, or the salted caramel one, as well. Otherwise, he’d buy a pain au chocolat.”
“I think I’ve seen him dine with his work colleagues in the salon de thé for lunch,” said Celine. “But I’m not sure. You can’t really pick this guy out of a crowd. He looks like every businessman in the area. I’m not sure why Raoul would fight with him. I wonder if he knew him personally.”
“I want to ask him,” said Clémence, “but he’s detained right now. The police are grilling him. We’ve got to find out more about Dupont.”
“We do have a video camera installed in the patisserie,” said Caroline. “It’s hidden in the chandelier.”
“Really?”
Clémence went into the patisserie, and the girls followed. She looked up at the dazzling chandelier and couldn’t see the camera.
“I can’t believe it’s up there,” she said. “Did my parents install this recently?”
“A year ago,” said Caroline. “It was long overdue.”
“How do we replay the footage from yesterday?”
“There’s a company in the fifteenth arrondissement that we hire for our security,” Caroline said. “The camera quality is not HD or anything, but we’d be able to see if this Dupont was here that day and whether Raoul had anything to do with this.”
“Great! I wonder why that inspector didn’t ask to see the store surveillance footage. Probably because he’s so clueless. I’m going over there right now.”
“I’ll give you the card of the company,” said Caroline, who then disappeared into the back office to get it.
* * *
Clémence took the Métro to Avenue Emile Zola. She’d made an emergency appointment with the surveillance company and knocked on the door of a storefront with dark tinted windows. A guy in his early thirties with scruffy facial hair answered the door.
“Bonjour,” Clémence greeted him. “Are you Monsieur Ralph Lemoine?”
“Oui. Clémence Damour?”
“That’s me.”
He let her in. The place was set up more like an apartment. The kitchen was at the front, with a living room that was really scattered with plenty of surveillance equipment, including TV screens and computers. There was a staircase that led to a floor upstairs.
Ralph was wearing scruffy jeans, sneakers, a ripped gray T-shirt, and a white hoodie. His brown eyes were rich in color, but his dark under-eye circles indicated that he hadn’t slept much the night before.
“Do you live here, as well?” Clémence asked out of curiosity.
“Oh, no,” said Ralph, “It’s not an apartment, although I live in the neighborhood. There are a few other guys working upstairs, surveilling your stores and some other companies. I’m only dressed this way because we don’t need to dress up for this job since we look at screens all day. Excuse me.”
Ralph rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. In Paris, appearances were everything, but she knew how liberating it was to dress like a slob and not have to worry about what people thought. She had dressed in sweats during a good portion of her travels abroad.
Clémence smiled. “Don’t apologize. You can dress however you want. I’m the one taking up your time.”
“Do you want a café?” Ralph asked, moving near the espresso machine on the kitchen counter. He looked as though he needed one.
“Non, merci.”
He made one for himself and sat down at the counter.
“So you’re looking for someone on the surveillance tapes?” Ralph asked.
“Yes. This guy named Alexandre Dupont. I just want to look through the footage of Thursday morning to early afternoon. This is in the patisserie section of our store in the 16th.”
“Sure,” said Ralph. “Let me find it.”
He went to his workspace, switched on a screen, and began typing on a keyboard. After a few minutes of fiddling, he was able to find the footage.
Clémence sat beside him as he started playing the footage at the beginning of the workday. The camera had a view of the profile of the customers in line, as well as the cashiers. She looked carefully at every man’s face in the sped-up footage. After a couple of hours of reviewing each customer carefully, rewinding and freezing the footage at times, she shook her head.
“He wasn’t there,” she said. “Are you sure this footage is from yesterday?”
Ralph pointed to the date on the bottom right of the screen. “I’m one hundred percent sure.”
“So this Dupont guy wasn’t in the shop,” Clémence said.
“If you don’t recognize him, then he wasn’t.”
“Apparently he had bought two pistachio éclairs,” Clémence said.
If Dupont hadn’t bought the éclairs himself, someone else must have bought them for him that morning.
Cyril had mentioned that Dupont ate two pistachio éclairs. He could tell because of the glazing smeared inside the bag. There was no receipt to go with the purchase, but they had to have been bought in the morning—the nub of the éclair on the ground that Clémence had inspected had been fresh indeed, judging by the texture, by the shine on the glazing.
Besides, Damour never sold day-old pastries. Everything had to be fresh.
She had an idea. She would just have to find out who had purchased two pistachio éclairs from their cash register. After thanking Ralph for his time, she grabbed her coat and immediately headed back to the patisserie.
Chapter 7
The employees at Damour had done a good job of getting the patisserie back in shape. When Clémence walked in through the door, the counters were filled halfway up with fresh macarons, éclairs, tarts, croissants, and their other signature desserts and pastries. The staff for the evening shift had already arrived, and Caroline said that they could reopen soon.
Clémence asked Caroline and Marie to help her dig up all the purchases and transaction information on their cash register before the store opened.
“I want to know who bought two pistachio éclairs that morning,” Clémence said. “If you can recall their names or faces, that would be great, but either way, I’ll take the time of the transaction and go back to our surveillance guy to match the time the purchase was made to the video, so we can put a face to the purchase.”
Caroline punched in her manager code on the touch screen of the cash register. With a few more punches of the keys, she was able to print out a long receipt of all the transactions made on Thursday. While it printed, Clémence turned to Marie.
“Do you always choose the right flavors when you’re ringing up, say a pistachio éclair versus a chocolate éclair?”
“Yes,” she replied. “We all do. It’s how we determine which flavors are more popular.”
“Which éclairs are more popular, anyway?” Clémence asked.
“The salted caramel and the chocolate are neck and neck,” said Marie. “But pistachio and passion fruit are popular, as well.”
“Are there any customers who buy two pistachio éclairs on a regular basis?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Sometimes it happens, I suppose, but people buy all sorts of combinations. It’s hard to keep track.”
When the receipts finished printing, Clémence turned her attention to it. Numerous éclairs had been bought that morning, but they weren’t as popular as croissants, pains au chocolat, and other pastries and breads for the morning crowd. Single éclairs had been bought, but two?
After she went through all the purchases, she found out that there had only been three transactions that included two pistachios purchased at the same time.
Clémence called Ralph again, saying she was coming back and needed more of his help.
* * *
Ralph opened the door, but he had changed clothes. Instead of his casual sweats, he was wearing khakis, a striped blue dress shirt, and brown dress shoes. Gone was his facial hair, and his hair had been combed.
He smiled, and a dimple appeared on his left cheek that Clémence hadn’t noticed before when he had the scruffy facial hair.
“I decided to go home and change,” he said.
“What made you do that?” Clémence asked.
“In case another beautiful woman comes in to see me today,” he said, looking into her blue eyes.
Clémence blushed.
He did look handsome, all cleaned up. He stood up straighter, too, and Clémence could tell that he was in good shape, from what his well-fitted dress shirt revealed.
She hadn’t paid much attention to him before, but she appreciated his effort in looking good for her. She was in a white oversized cashmere sweater that hung nicely on her thin frame, black python-print leggings, and black ankle boots. The outfit was chic enough, but not exactly something to inspire men. She couldn’t take his flirtations seriously, however. Many men were incorrigible flirts.
She got down to business and asked him for help in finding the footage for the three transaction times.
As he had before, Ralph found her account on his system, and rewound the footage for the first transaction, at 8:13 a.m. It was a little boy, around ten years old. He wore a helmet with a frog on it. Clémence dismissed it and told Ralph to find the second time, which as at 8:47 a.m. The customer was a tall businessman. He looked to be in his early thirties, but she could be wrong, since the screen quality wasn’t the best.
Clémence asked Ralph to pause when he looked in the direction of the camera. She remembered his face but took a picture of the screen with her cell phone for good measure. She would show it to her staff and ask whether they recognized this guy.
The third transaction was from a lady who looked like a fashionable bourgeois housewife with too much time on her hands. She ordered a huge box of treats, along with the pistachio éclairs. It couldn’t have been her. The éclairs found on Dupont came in Damour’s lavender paper bag.
The little boy and the woman didn’t seem like possible suspects. Her biggest lead was the businessman, who surely worked in the area. Clémence had to find out just how he was connected to Dupont.
Chapter 8
“I do know him,” said Celine incredulously.
Back in the employee section of the patisserie, Clémence had shown her the picture on her smartphone. Berenice and Marie were there, as well, getting ready to leave at the end of their shifts. They’d all been working longer than usual, but the store was reopened, and things were more or less back to normal.
“I’ve seen him too,” said Marie. “Although he only started coming in recently.”
“He’s pretty good looking,” said Celine.
Berenice craned her neck to look at the fuzzy picture on Clémence’s phone. “I suppose he does have good bone structure.”
“Really, guys?” Clémence said, amused. “We’re talking about a potential murderer here. And I don’t think he’s all that cute.”
“No, he’s really charming,” said Celine. “Green eyes, dirty blond hair, and this pouty lower lip like Brad Pitt’s. He looks better in person, trust me.”
“He’s American,” said Marie. “At least, I recall him speaking French with an American accent, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re probably right,” said Celine. “He stumbles on his words a little, which makes him even more adorable. I’m pretty sure he came in for lunch one day with a colleague. They were both in suits, but I noticed him because of his build.” Celine sighed dreamily.
“I don’t think he’s that good looking,” said Marie. “I see what you’re saying about the pouty lips, but his eyes were kind of pale and cold.”
“No way,” said Celine. “He was really smiley and friendly. He didn’t look cold at all.”
“I just meant his eyes,” said Marie.
“Are they the eyes of a killer?” Berenice asked in her mischievous way.
Marie shrugged. “Maybe. But I guess it’s not a crime to have light-colored eyes.”
“He’s too hot to be a killer,” said Celine. “He’s tall, he’s got nice broad shoulders, and I think he works out.”
Clémence shook her head. Hot men were always the topic of conversation with her employees. “Let’s get back on track here. What else do you know about him? Where does he work?”
Marie shrugged. “Not sure. We never had time to chat or anything. You know what it’s like during the morning rush.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Celine. “His colleague was French, as I recall.”
“Maybe we can trace his credit card or something,” said Clémence. “Although he did pay for his éclairs in cash. Maybe he paid for his lunch in cash, as well.”
“He might be coming in tomorrow,” said Marie. “Why don’t you wait for him then? He’s been in consistently for the past few days now, probably before he goes to work.”
“Okay,” said Clémence. “I’ll do that, then. I’ll be here early in the morning, and I’ll wait for him. Now let’s go. Go home, and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
* * *
As Clémence walked back home from work in the early evening, it started to rain. Not just light rain, but a great downpour. In Paris, the weather could change in an instant. The clouds were fast moving; the sky, temperamental.
Clémence remembered that she had left her painting of Miffy on the balcony.
“Oh, no.” She raced back home. The painting might’ve been ruined.
She entered her building and waited impatiently for the small elevator to come down. When the doors of the elevator opened, Arthur came out with Youki.
“Bonsoir,” he said.
“Oh, hello,” said Clémence. “You’re walking Youki in this weather?”
“Actually, I have to run some errands,” he said. “And Youki’s not afraid of a bit of water.”
“Well, see you later then.”
Arthur frowned, scrutinizing her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem a little haggard and run down.”
Clémence frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Tired,” said Arthur. “Your complexion is muddy, and your eyes are bloodshot.”
“What are you saying?” Clémence was getting more angry by the second.
“That you probably need some rest,” said Arthur. “Why are you getting mad?”
“Are you absolutely clueless? You don’t tell a girl that she looks horrible.”
“I didn’t say horrible. I said ‘run down.’”
“And ‘haggard.’ It’s been a long day, okay? I’m not just sitting around all day picking lint out of my belly button.”
Arthur smiled, amused by how easily she got riled up.
“What’s going on, anyway?” said Arthur. “I noticed Damour was closed this morning.”
Clémence sighed. She was tired, and she didn’t feel like talking about the situation with Arthur. Besides, what good could come out of it, anyhow? It wasn’t as if he would be able to help.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just some technical problems. We’re back and running now. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go home.”
“Okay, bonne soirée. See you around.”
Clémence pressed the fifth floor button, hoping the door would close sooner. She didn’t want to talk to anyone else, especially Arthur. How clueless he was, to tell her that she looked haggard. The boy could be so incredibly insensitive that it was laughable. Every time she started warming up to him, he would say something off-putting.
Clémence wasn’t entirely innocent, either. She didn’t know why she made that comment about belly button lint. She supposed she was just grasping at straws to insult Arthur right back. When was he going to move out of the building, already? She had run into him two days in a row now.
When she went home and ran out to the balcony to retrieve her painting, it had already been pelted by the rain.
“Oh great.” Clémence shook her head.
Miffy was at her feet, barking at the canvas in her hand. Some of the paint had smudged a bit.
“I’m sorry, Miffy. Looks like I’ll have to take some time to fix this.”
She took a couple of dishrags from the kitchen cabinet and placed the canvas on top of them on the counter.
Under the bright lights of the kitchen, she looked at the painting more closely. The more she looked at it, the more she liked it. The rain had ruined some of her detailing and given it a gauzy effect—really runny in some areas, but still clear in others. She liked this particular style. It gave her a distinctive feeling that this was what life was like in Paris: crystal clear and beautiful, yet dreamy and gauzy, even messy.
Although she wouldn’t try to pelt her oil paints with any more rainwater, she would play with this type of experimental texture in her future work—on purpose, this time. It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Not everything had to be perfect and anatomically correct all the time, the way she had been taught all those years in art school.
She could take Ben’s advice and paint what she was passionate about. Desserts and pastries could be incorporated. Clémence had a few ideas about what she could do, but it had been a very long day and she didn’t have the energy to dwell on them.
Clémence gave Miffy a kiss and began to make spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. It was fast and easy, and she just wanted to eat and get some rest.
As she waited for the water to boil, she looked into the mirror at her reflection. It was true that she wasn’t looking her freshest. She had dark under-eye circles, and her skin was paler than usual. But haggard?
She refused to be insecure about it. She was human. She couldn’t look beautiful all the time. And if a jerk like Arthur couldn’t accept that, well, she didn’t need to talk to him. Ever.
Why did she have to give so much weight to what boys said? On the same day, Ralph had called her beautiful, and Arthur had said she’d looked horrible. Maybe she should be the one to decide whether she looked beautiful or not.
Right now, beauty should’ve been the last thing on her mind. She needed to eat, and she needed rest. She had a murder case to solve.
Chapter 9
When Clémence went into work the next morning, Sebastien had already finished making a tray of their newest éclair flavor. He’d been piping in the cream when she came in, and he handed one to her.
“Try it,” said Sebastien. “And give it to me straight.”
“When do I ever not?” asked Clémence.
She took a bite. The pastry was still a bit warm, and the cream filling fresh. She almost moaned in pleasure, but she restrained herself.
“What did you do?” she said. “This is amazing.”
Sebastien crossed his arms and smiled proudly. “You said you wanted a hazelnut flavor, so you got it.”
“But there’s something else that’s going well with this. What is it?” Clémence took another bite. “Orange?”
Sebastien nodded.
“It tastes so fresh,” said Clémence. “You’re a genius.”
Sebastien smiled and flushed with pride. “I knew you’d go crazy for it.”
“Get over yourself.” Clémence groaned. “We can launch this flavor next week. Give me the recipe, and I’ll send it off to the bakers in the other locations.”
“Even Tokyo and Hong Kong?” Sebastien asked, referring to the two new patisseries that had opened recently in Asia.
“We’ll see,” said Clémence. “I’ll send the recipe to my parents, and they can decide if it’ll do well for the market. Right now they’re still doing market research and collecting information on what’s doing well and what’s not. I’m not sure if they’ll want new flavors so soon, but I’ll ask them.”
“So my experimental savory flavored éclairs will just have to wait, too, huh?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. “We’ll see if it works in Paris first. Simon really liked it though.” She referred to the head chef in charge of the menu for the salon de thé. “We’ll have to see if there’s enough demand for it to be featured permanently on the menu.”
“It should do well,” Sebastien said confidently.
“Probably,” said Clémence. “But is it possible for your head to get any bigger?”
“No, it’s not,” he replied dryly.
His sister came in.
“Hey, Berenice,” said Clémence. “Any sight of that guy in the patisserie?”
“Nope, but when Marie calls you, I want to come out, too. I want to see just how hot this guy really is.”
“What guy?” asked Sebastien.
“The potential murderer,” Berenice said.
“What?”
Clémence had to explain how she found out about this guy through their surveillance company.
“I didn’t know we had surveillance.” Sebastien looked around the kitchen. “Are we being filmed right now?”
“You didn’t know about the cameras?” said Berenice. “It’s up there, see?”
Berenice pointed to a black dome on the high ceiling.
“Oh,” said Sebastien. “I thought that was some sort of light or something. High tech.”
“I hope you’re not doing anything here you shouldn’t be doing,” Clémence teased.
“Of course not,” Sebastien said.
“I’d like to install some cameras in your apartment.” Berenice turned to Clémence. “I never know what he’s up to. Even when he was still living with us, Sebastien would just hide out in his room all the time.”
“I need time to myself,” Sebastien said. “It doesn’t mean I’m doing anything weird.”
“Yes, but you’re always so private, even to your family. We always get this impression that you’re hiding something.”
“You guys are just too nosy,” said Sebastien. “You and Mom. Maybe I just don’t want to give you a play-by-play of everything I’m doing during my day.”
“Take, for example, Tuesday and Thursday nights,” said Berenice. “Where do you go? We notice that you don’t ever answer your phone around that time. Do you have a girlfriend now or what?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Sebastien.
“If you’re seeing someone, you’ll have to present her to us, you know.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you care what we think?”
“No,” said Sebastien.
“So you are seeing someone?” Berenice asked.
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Berenice gave an exaggerated sigh. “See? You can’t get anything out of this guy. He doesn’t even have Facebook or any kind of online presence.”
“Well, I don’t have Facebook, either,” said Clémence.
“You don’t?” Sebastien gave her a high five.
“Sometimes I post on the Damour fan page,” said Clémence. “So I’m not entirely social network-free.”
“That’s different if you’re just using it for business,” said Sebastien. “But I don’t really care what people eat for lunch or other mundane status updates, you know?”
“Unless they’re eating at Damour,” said Clémence. “But I get what you’re saying. I’d rather get to know people face-to-face.”
Clémence used to have a Facebook profile, but she deleted it when she started seeing photos of her ex Mathieu with his new girlfriend. She had been so distraught that she blocked him. Still, his pictures showed up in the feeds of their mutual friends, and she just had to delete her profile altogether and start living in the real world by taking off for her travels. She didn’t miss being online one bit.
“You’re just as hard to get to know offline,” Berenice said to Sebastien. “As your sister, how am I suppose to give you guidance on relationships if I don’t know what you’re up to?”
“Maybe I don’t need your guidance,” Sebastien retorted.
Clémence shook her head at the brother and sister. They looked alike, but they were so different. It made her miss her older brother and sister, who were living outside of Paris. Her brother was in Deauville in Normandy, and her sister was in the south of France. She hadn’t seen Henri and Marianne since her birthday in January, when they’d all visited her in Malaysia.
“I very much doubt it,” said Berenice. She turned back to Clémence again. “Did you know that Seb was in a relationship for three years, and I didn’t even know it until two years in? I ran into them at the movies once and that was when I found out.”
“You’re really annoying me,” said Sebastien. “I’m not one of you girls. I don’t kiss and tell.”
Clémence laughed. They could spend entire lunch hours talking about boys with Clémence. But she understood Sebastien’s discretion. Lately she’d been guarded about her love life, too, although there wasn’t much to talk about to begin with.
Celine came into the kitchen. “Pssst,” she called to Clémence.
Clémence walked to her. “What is it?”
“He’s here,” Celine said in a loud stage whisper. “Your main man.”
“The murderer guy?” Berenice asked.
“Yes. He’s in line right now. I just saw him walk past the door and into the patisserie.”
They turned to Clémence.
“What are you going to say?” Sebastien said.
“I think I’m just going to follow him for now,” said Clémence. “I don’t want him to know that I work here.”
“Own the place you mean,” Berenice said.
“I’ll follow him to his workplace, see what he does, and I’ll figure out how to talk to him after that.”
“Clémence, come on,” said Sebastien. “If this guy has killed someone, you have to be careful.”
“I am careful,” she said. “I’m not following him into alleys. It’s Friday morning. It’s safe.”
Celine went back to her post. Clémence took off her apron and checked herself in a small mirror on the wall before she went out. The salon de thé was already full with customers eating breakfast. She traversed over to the patisserie section, which was divided by a half-wall. She could see the man’s back. Marie and another cashier, Charlotte, were working, and Marie gave her a meaningful look. Clémence inched closer to get a better view. The man was looking at all their treats under the glass display.
He was looking at the éclairs, then the croissants. She was sure it was him, because he was the only man in a business suit in line.
Clémence waited, watching him from behind the wall opening. He ordered a pain au chocolat. As he paid, Clémence got ready to follow, but someone else came in through the patisserie door.
At the sight of her, this new arrival called out her name.
It was Arthur.
Chapter 10
“Clémence!”
Startled, Clémence ducked back into the salon de thé. She hoped that her suspect hadn’t spotted her.
“Hey, Clémence.” Arthur came through to the salon section with a puzzled look. “Didn’t you see me?”
Clémence shushed him. “Stop calling my name,” she said in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” said Arthur.
Clémence snuck another look into the patisserie.
“He’s leaving!” she exclaimed.
She watched the man push the door open and turn the corner.
“Who’s leaving?” Arthur asked.
“Never mind.” She moved toward the door. She should follow at a good distance behind. “Arthur, this is not a good time.”
She pushed the door open.
“You’re not seriously stalking some guy, are you?” Arthur said. He came out after her.
Clémence groaned. “No. I mean yes, okay, I am following someone, but it’s not what you think.”
“How do you know what I think?” He was walking next to her now, as Clémence turned onto Avenue Raymond-Poincaré.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Clémence asked.
Arthur was carrying a briefcase. “Yes, I was going to go to the library to work on my thesis, but I thought I’d stop by and talk to you first.”
“Pourquoi? What do you want to talk about?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me what exactly it is that you’re doing following some guy in the early morning.”
Clémence sighed. He could be quite persistent when he wanted to be. “Fine. I’m trying to solve another murder case, all right?”
“Oh. Don’t tell me it’s for the guy we found in the bush.”
Clémence nodded. She gave him the quick rundown of what she’d found out so far.
“If he’s been coming in the store consistently, doesn’t it mean that he just likes your baked goods?” Arthur asked.
“He’s my biggest lead, so I have to check this out. What if he poisons someone else?”
“This is insane. You’ve already gotten seriously injured the last time you tried to find a murderer.”
“Yes, but I found out who the murderer was, didn’t I?” Clémence didn’t know why Arthur had to be so argumentative. “Now I’ve told you what I’m up to. What did you want to tell me?”
Before he could answer, the man went inside a bank. It wasn’t the bank that Clémence was a client of, but she wondered if he worked there, or whether he was just there to make a transaction.
“Act casual,” Clémence said. “Pretend we’re just walking by and I’m going to look inside the window to see if the guy’s there.”
“Fine.”
They walked by, but Clémence didn’t see him. The receptionist was sitting at the front desk, and there were no one else in sight, not even clients.
“I’m going to have to go in to find out,” said Clémence.
Before Arthur could object, Clémence went into the bank. The attractive receptionist greeted her, and Clémence smiled back, but she moved to the cash machine. She would make a withdrawal. If the man didn’t reappear, it meant either that the man worked there, or that he had an appointment.
She should have followed him in immediately. She would’ve been able to tell from how the receptionist greeted him whether he was a client or an employee. That Arthur really set back her investigation.
By the time the euros came out of the ATM, the man still hadn’t appeared. Clémence considered asking the receptionist. But the receptionist might refuse to tell her who the man was if she didn’t have a good reason to know.
When she went back outside, Arthur was still hanging around, waiting.
“Why are you still here?” she asked him.
“I have better things to do, obviously,” he replied haughtily. “But you’ve made it difficult.”
“I’m making your life difficult? You’ve just set my investigation back.” Clémence explained that she had to wait around now for the man to come back out.
“Okay, Clouseau, I didn’t mean to.” Arthur’s face softened. “Come on. Let’s just go across the street, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Clémence wanted to reject his offer because she didn’t want to spend any more time with him, but this made the most sense. The café across the street did have a solid view of the bank, and she’d be able to keep an eye on the scene without appearing suspicious.
“Fine,” she said.
They went in and sat down, and Arthur flagged down the server.
“Un café, s’il vous plait,” Clémence ordered.
“Make that two,” Arthur said.
“What did you want to talk about anyway?” she asked.
“I just came over to give you an apology,” said Arthur.
“Why?” Clémence was suspicious. Arthur apologizing? Surely there was a catch.
She turned and looked into his eyes. Arthur stared back. His brown eyes almost looked tender in the sunlight. And he seemed a little nervous.
“I think I offended you yesterday with my comment about you looking…run down.”
Clémence raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she asked dryly.
“Yes, I mean, I personally can’t understand why, but I suppose women are sensitive to these things.”
“I was not offended,” Clémence said. “I was annoyed.”
“Fine, which is why I’m apologizing.”
Clémence wondered why Arthur cared. He was rude to her half of the time. His behavior was quite inconsistent, but she had to give him credit for at least owning up to part of his rudeness.
“I accept your apology.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, looking satisfied.
The waiter arrived with their espressos.
“If you want to go soon, you can,” said Clémence. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”
“Well, we found the body together. We might as well wait for the killer together.”
Clémence gave a laugh. “You want to join in on the sleuthing?”
“Look, you’re poking around a guy who’s a potential killer. You need someone as backup.”
“I don’t need backup.”
“Oh, for the last time—I found you unconscious a month ago, remember?”
“I didn’t really plan that evening,” said Clémence. “I just happened to have been home very late and things happened.”
“Exactly,” said Arthur. “Sometimes you don’t think. You just act. Somebody has to be the voice of reason.”
“And you think that’s your voice?” Clémence shook her head.
“You’re impossible,” Arthur said. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed.”
“If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
What was it about Arthur that always brought out her argumentative side? If she really needed protection, she had plenty of guy friends to ask, like Ben or Sebastien, and she wanted to tell him that, but something stopped her.
She looked at Arthur. Did she find him attractive? Sure, objectively, but was she personally romantically interested in him? She couldn’t be. Especially after he’d sneered about the flowers when she’d asked, or his insensitive insults, even if he’d just apologized.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Fine.”
“I hear you’re a painter,” he said.
“I dabble,” she said. “Why? Did your mother mention it?”
“Yes.”
Clémence got the feeling that Arthur’s mother really wanted him to pursue her. She also knew, however, that Arthur was more into bimbos. She’d seen enough girls coming out of the building with him on Sunday mornings—girls in tight miniskirts and salacious curves doing the walk of shame. In fact, he had been bringing one of these girls home late at night when he’d found her unconscious outside of their building, over a month ago.
So why was he being so nice now? Surely she wasn’t his type. She was slim and dark haired—not curvaceous and blond like his usual type. She didn’t show much skin at all.
Clémence couldn’t go out with someone with such superficial taste in women. She’d been heartbroken by someone who’d dumped her for a great beauty, and she wasn’t going to risk her heart again. Especially by someone who was in essence a spoiled rich kid, even if he was working on a PhD and living in a servant’s room.
Nevertheless, she indulged him in his inquiries about her art, answering his questions about what she’d studied in school and the artists who inspired her. Although she was surprised by his interest, she didn’t want to delve into the subject of the personal paintings she was working on, or planned to work on. For now she felt like a fraud, a wannabe, even though she had a fancy degree.
Her ex-boyfriend had been the real artist. She knew she should probably have more confidence in herself, but confidence was something she had to build in this field.
She changed the subject to something that she’d been curious about, but had refrained from asking out of respect. But since Arthur seemed more and more relaxed, it felt like a good time to ask.
“Did your mother ever find out about Lana?” she asked.
He blew air out of his mouth and shrugged. “She probably knows, but I don’t know for sure.”
Last month, when Clémence had been investigating the murder of la gardienne, the caretaker of their building, she’d uncovered that Arthur’s father had been having an affair with one of their maids. Arthur had been pretty upset about it. The maid immediately moved out from her room on the top floor. Such behavior from his father didn’t surprise him.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Arthur continued. “Their marriage is not really built on love, you know?”
Clémence didn’t. Her parents’ love story was grand and passionate. They’d met in culinary school, started the patisserie together, and to this day, they were still in love and having a great time traveling and having new adventures together.
“That’s a shame,” said Clémence.
Arthur shrugged again, as if to shrug the whole thing off. “It’s peaceful at home right now, so that’s all I can ask for.”
Clémence looked at his profile. Strong chin, gold reflecting from his chestnut hair and tawny skin. He looked vulnerable enough that she felt the urge to hug him. An urge that she obviously resisted. Who knew when he was going to go back to being callous again? She couldn’t open herself to that kind of vulnerability.
As she looked away, Arthur looked at her. She felt his gaze on her. Their faces were only inches away, and she wondered if he was inspecting her pores, her flaws.
She downed her café. How much longer did she have to sit there with him?
After another half hour of chatting about this and that, the man came out of the bank.
“There he is,” Clémence exclaimed.
Chapter 11
The man lit a cigarette and took a call on his phone. From afar, Clémence couldn’t decide whether he was handsome or not, as Celine had claimed. He was just as out of focus as the photo on her phone.
Although Clémence didn’t know why it mattered how good-looking he was. She was spending way too much time with her boy-crazy employees.
“If he’s taking a smoke break, he probably does work at the bank,” Arthur said.
Clémence got up and searched her purse for her wallet to pay for her espresso.
“Let me.” Arthur paid their bill.
Clémence thanked him, surprised. He could be nice when he wanted to be. The nice thing about bourgeois boys was that they were raised to be gentlemen, even if they didn’t behave all the time.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She watched the man, who was chatting away on the phone and paying no attention in their direction.
“I’m just going to find out who he is,” she said. She stood up to cross the street.
By the time she made it across in the mad traffic, the man was already going back inside. He smoked like a Parisian. Parisian smokers were fast, sucking on those cigarettes as if they kept them alive.
“You’re not going to follow me inside, are you?” she asked Arthur.
“Fine. I’ll be waiting outside.”
“Really, you can leave. You’ve wasted enough of your morning. Go work on your thesis.”
Arthur groaned. “Just accept my help. I’ll be out here like a bodyguard. I won’t interfere with your schemes, whatever they are, okay?”
Clémence watched him closely. “All right.”
She went inside the sliding doors of the bank, and the brunet receptionist greeted her again.
“Bonjour. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. “I would like to make an appointment with one of your bankers.”
“Okay, which one?”
Clémence couldn’t believe she was going to do this, but it was the only plan she had. She lowered her voice. “The handsome one who just came back in from his cigarette break?”
“Ah,” the receptionist was surprised, but soon her face fell into the knowing smile that women put on when they conspired with each other. “I see. He’s certainly good-looking, isn’t he?”
Clémence laughed in embarrassed. “Do you know if he’s single?”
“As far as I know,” said the receptionist. “If I wasn’t married, I’d be after him, myself.”
“I’m not a client here,” said Clémence, “but if you tell me his name, I will be.”
“John Christopher,” she said. “He’s American. He speaks fluent French, though, and he’s our newest financial advisor. Did you want to make an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. She was wealthy enough to make investments, if it came to that.
At that moment, however, John walked out to speak to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded toward Clémence.
“She’s interested in your services.” She turned to Clémence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Anabelle.”
She had panicked and spat out the first name that came to mind, but she should’ve given her real name, especially if she was supposed to be starting some sort of account at this bank.
“Bonjour, Anabelle,” John said in American-accented French. He introduced himself and smiled at her broadly. “Would you like to step inside my office? I have some time now, as a matter of fact.”
Clémence inwardly panicked. This was turning awkward. She was just supposed to get his name and get out. But the man was in front of her now. And yes, Celine was right. He was certainly handsome, with his tanned skin, ocean green eyes, strong shoulders, and dirty blond hair. Americans weren’t known for their suits, which were boxy, but he was in an expensive European-cut black suit, which accentuated all the right places. His smile wasn’t too bad either.
She nodded and went in. Merde. What was she supposed to do now?
“Do you already have an account with us?” John asked.
“Er, yes.”
“What’s your last name, if I may ask?”
John was position in front of a computer, ready to key in her fake name. It was time to change directions.
“Actually,” Clémence said. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretenses. I’m not actually interested in starting an account or investments at all.”
John frowned. “Oh?”
“You see, well, I saw you across the street, and I found you incredibly handsome.” Clémence turned red as she said this. Nevertheless she kept a grin on her face, one she hoped was seductive.
She was no good at acting, but John seemed to be buying it. A cocky smile began to spread on his face.
“Wow. I didn’t know French women could be so forward. I’m incredibly flattered.”
“I don’t usually do this,” said Clémence. “But there was just something about you.”
John beamed. His face softened, and he looked at her with more interest. “Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night?”
He was American, and Americans didn’t waste time.
“Yes,” Clémence said.
John took her number and said he’d find a good restaurant and would call her as soon as he did.
When Clémence came out, the receptionist gave her the same conspiring smile.
“Tout va bien?” she asked. “It went well?”
Clémence nodded and smiled back weakly. She thanked her and went out the door. Her head felt light.
What had she done?
Did she just agree to go on a date with a potential murderer?
Chapter 12
When Arthur asked her what had happened, she simply said that she’d found out his name and position. She didn’t tell him about the hot date. For one, he would probably think that she was crazy.
Not that she cared about Arthur’s approval—she simply didn’t want him lecturing her again about putting herself in another potentially dangerous situation. She knew the risks involved. But it was just a date. John didn’t know her true identity, and meeting him this way could work in her favor. Under the pretense of a date, she would find out more about him.
Plus, now that she knew his name, she could find out more about him. The sooner, the better. Raoul was still being detained. After parting ways with Arthur, she walked back home and called her mother to find out more about what was happening with Raoul and their lawyers.
“I don’t believe they have too much on him,” her mother said. “Sure, there were eyewitnesses, but if there are no videos of Raoul giving Monsieur Dupont the éclairs that supposedly killed him, that should work in Raoul’s favor. The problem is, they can’t disprove it, either. Suppose they claim that Raoul gave him the éclairs outside of work.”
Clémence sighed. “I’d like to talk to Raoul. How can I?”
“One of my lawyers is supposed to see him this afternoon. Why don’t you go with him?”
“Okay, great,” said Clémence. “Please put us in touch.”
“I’ll give him a call right away, dear, then I’ll call you back. Imagine, another murder, and in connection with one of our employees, too. This is madness.”
“Everything will be fine,” said Clémence. She didn’t want her mother to worry. “Just have a good time in Asia. Did you have a good time at the hot spring?”
“Yes, but I had the murder on my mind. I know the store is up and running now, but I worried that there might be something in the papers?”
“Well, I didn’t see anything in the papers this morning,” said Clémence. In fact, she did see something on a gossip blog, but she didn’t mention it to her mother. The blogger didn’t seem to know much, anyway. The post had just mentioned that Damour was abruptly closed that morning and police had been spotted. It speculated theft, but not murder. They were lucky.
“Good,” said her mother.
“I think we’re fine for now. I’m working on it. I think there is someone else in connection with Dupont, but I have to find out more.”
“I trust you, Clémence. You did figure out who killed la gardienne. Just be careful.”
“Thanks, maman.”
Her mother didn’t know how much danger Clémence had been in before she solved la gardienne’s murder last month. And she wasn’t going to tell her. If she did, her parents would fly back right away and be worried for no reason.
So last time Clémence had been careless, but this time, she would definitely be more on her guard. Be in public places and not alone with potential suspects. She should also probably take some more self-defense classes.
At home, she played with Miffy a bit. Miffy’s portrait was still in the kitchen, drying on the dishrags. She propped it up against the wall and stepped back to look at it from different angles. It wasn’t half bad. Miffy’s face was mostly still intact and detailed.
She snacked on some madeleines and did some research on her laptop. She searched for John Christopher. There were several John Christophers on LinkedIn, but she found the right one fairly quickly since she knew where he worked.
John Christopher had an MBA from Stanford University. He spoke fluent English and French, and an adequate level of Spanish. He even put in the hobbies he enjoyed: swimming, tennis, and running. A normal guy—if normal meant a superior education on top of being athletic and generally good-looking. No wonder the other girls were crazy about him.
She wondered if other girls had been as forward as she had been, asking him out point-blank. Maybe he was used to girls hitting on him and giving him their phone numbers. He had been right—French girls were never forward. They were coy and coquettish. American girls were probably more blunt.
Clémence stopped her line of thinking. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation. She had to get focused.
She searched next for Alexandre Dupont on LinkedIn. Perhaps they’d worked together. However, the search came back with more than a dozen hits, and none of them seemed to be the right guy. Maybe Dupont didn’t have LinkedIn. A broad Internet search didn’t show what she wanted either. It would’ve been easier if she knew more about Dupont, like where he worked. That way she would be able to narrow down her search.
* * *
Clémence met the lawyer outside of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. Michel Martinez was a kind-looking man in his late fifties, with a friendly smile and salt and pepper hair. He wore round spectacles and carried a black briefcase.
They introduced themselves and shook hands. Michel came recommended by her parent’s lawyers.
Her parents had known Raoul for over two years and didn’t doubt his upstanding character. The police, however, were taking forever to figure this out. Cyril didn’t like to be wrong, and Clémence knew that it would take some convincing for him to let Raoul off the hook.
Clémence was dressed in a black pantsuit. She hoped to pass as Michel’s associate so they would let him speak to Raoul.
On the third floor, Clémence and Michel waited to be called in. After twenty minutes, they were shown in to a room where Raoul was sitting at a small table.
“Clémence.” Raoul had a shaved head and deep brown eyes. He stood up. “I really hope I don’t become an Amanda Knox, or that guy in The Shawshank Redemption.”
“We’re going to do our best,” Michel said.
“Yes,” Clémence added. “You’ll be out of here in no time. I have a good lead as to who the real murderer is.”
Michel looked at her in surprise. “You do? Do the police know?”
“I just need to gather more evidence,” said Clémence. “I’ll tell them if I find out anything more.” She turned back to Raoul. “Now I’m here to find out what you know. What’s this I hear about you getting into a fight with Dupont on the street?”
Raoul sighed. “The guy was a jerk. I’m sorry that he died and everything. I just mean that he really was a jerk. Every time he came in to the store, he’d sneer at me. I didn’t know why until I saw him on the street over a week ago. He called me racist names.”
“What did he say?” Clémence asked.
Raoul was of Portuguese descent. His skin was the color of dark caramel. He told her the offending word, and Clémence nodded in sympathy.
“I had just been taking a smoke break from work and walking around the neighborhood. He brushed past me and insulted me for no good reason. Of course I got mad and confronted him. It was a very public blowup, and I ended up punching him in the eye. I regret it now, of course. It was a very stupid thing to do, but my anger got the best of me.”
“And what did the police say when you told them that?”
“Well, they’re using it against me. They seem to think this is more reason to think I’m guilty.”
“This Dupont guy sounds like a piece of work,” said Clémence. “I can see why somebody would want to kill him.”
“He’s a jerk, through and through.”
“I just hope you don’t say this if you’re ever on trial,” Michel warned. “It doesn’t look good. You had been on the receiving end of his abuse and reacted in the heat of the moment. Poisoned éclairs are premeditated. However, they have no evidence that you had anything to do with them.”
“So you’re saying I have a good chance of being let go?”
Michel nodded. “Unless, of course, they find something else against you.”
“So what do you know about Dupont?” Clémence asked both Michel and Raoul.
“Nothing,” said Raoul. “Except he would come in and buy pastries all the time.”
“He worked at a PR company and lived not far from Place d’Iena,” said Michel.
“So he lived and worked near Damour,” Clémence mused. “When he ate those éclairs, he was probably taking a lunch break, taking a long walk around the park.” She turned to Michel again. “Can you give me the address of both his workplace and home?”
“I don’t know,” Michel said slowly. “That information is confidential.”
“You can trust her,” said Raoul. “She helped the police solve a murder last month. She’s good. Faster than the police, at least. I really don’t know what these guys get paid for.”
He launched into how she had found the person who killed la gardienne.
Michel looked at Clémence more closely. “What are you going to do with this information?”
“Nothing yet,” said Clémence. “I’m just trying to match some details together with the suspect I have in mind.”
Michel relented, nodding. “Okay. But don’t say where you got the information. Dupont was married with no kids. He was quite wealthy.”
“So he leaves a widow,” said Clémence.
“Her name is Florence. She’s a housewife, and she’s probably making the funeral arrangements. Are you going to talk to her?”
Clémence nodded. “I will as soon as I get some things settled. Thanks for the info.”
Chapter 13
At work the next morning, while in the kitchen, Sebastien and Berenice wanted the scoop on the investigation.
After Clémence filled them in, Celine came in. The salon de thé had not opened yet, and she had just changed into her uniform to start her shift.
“Who was that guy who was calling your name in the patisserie yesterday morning?” Celine asked. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”
Berenice perked up. Even Sebastien looked up from his tray of salmon éclairs.
“Arthur?” Clémence said. “We’re not dating. He just lives in my building.”
“Really? He’s pretty hot.”
“How hot?” Berenice said.
“He’s tall, dark hair—”
“Oh come on,” Clémence groaned. “He’s this obnoxious neighbor I keep running into. He’s the one I found the dead body with at the park when we were walking our dogs.”
“Why don’t you introduce him to us?” Celine grinned.
“Didn’t I just say he’s obnoxious?” Clémence replied. “Besides, you guys wouldn’t like him. He’s totally bourgeois, totally spoiled.”
“Yeah, but Celine says he’s gorgeous.” Berenice teased.
“You both are already dating great guys,” Clémence said.
Celine finally seemed to be getting over her crush on Sebastien now that she was dating Sam. At least, she seemed comfortable enough gossiping about other boys in front of him. Berenice was happily dating Ben.
“Seriously,” Sebastien said. “You’re three intelligent women. Don’t you ever talk about anything besides boys?”
Berenice shot her brother a dirty look. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t make us any less intelligent.”
“Yes, but you’re so obsessive.”
“Don’t tell me that you don’t talk about girls with your guy friends,” said Celine.
“We talk about other things, too,” said Sebastien.
“Like what?” Berenice asked.
“Politics, sports, stuff that matter.”
“We do talk about other things,” said Celine.
“But it’s more fun to talk about hot guys around you,” said Berenice.
Clémence tried to be more diplomatic. “I get what you’re saying, Seb, but love is the driving force for women. We’re more connected with our emotions than you men are, and we love to be in love. Sure, we get obsessed about, but it gives us a rush.”
Sebastien shook his head. “Fine, whatever. In general, I think girls talk too much.”
He turned back to his éclairs.
Celine looked at her watch. “I’ve got to start my shift.”
“Speaking of love,” Clémence said to Berenice. “How are things going with Ben, anyway? Has he kissed you yet?”
Berenice grinned and nodded. “He’s a good kisser.”
Sebastien groaned. He put on his iPod.
Clémence and Berenice laughed.
“We’re exclusive now,” said Berenice.
“That’s great! Ben’s one of the nicest guys I know.”
“Although I do find his novel a bit strange. He’s a super talented poet though. What about this Arthur guy? Why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him,” Clémence said. “He just gets on my nerves. He can say the rudest things, so I never know when he’s going to turn into a jerk.”
“You know,” Berenice said slyly. “Some great love stories begin with two people hating each other.”
“Ugh, come on. Arthur’s a total playboy. He takes a different girl home every week.”
“How do you know that?”
Clémence gave her a look. “He lives in my building. I know these things. Trust me. He’s not the guy for me.”
“All right. It just seems to me that you have a hard time finding guys who meet your standards. Maybe your standards are too high.”
“On the contrary. I think they are way too low.”
She told her about how she had accidentally gotten herself into a date with John Christopher, the murder suspect.
“No way!” Berenice exclaimed. She poked Sebastien on the arm.
“What?” Sebastien pulled down his earbuds, annoyed.
“Clémence is going on a date with the guy who might’ve poisoned Dupont.”
Sebastien raised an eyebrow at Clémence.
“It’s not a real date!” Clémence protested. “I’m just gathering information.”
“Where are you going?” asked Berenice.
“I don’t know yet. He’s going to let me know. Actually, I haven’t checked my phone all morning.”
Clémence reached into her purse. There was indeed a new text message from John. “He wants to have dinner at La Coquette.”
La Coquette was a chic restaurant not far from Damour at Place de Trocadéro.
“We’ll go there too,” Sebastien offered. “You can’t go on a date with a murderer without backup.”
“He’s right,” said Berenice. “For once. We’ll just sit at a nearby table and listen in.”
“I’ll be recording the conversation on my phone,” said Clémence. “I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Don’t be,” said Berenice. “What are you going to wear?”
“Yes,” Sebastien rolled his eyes, “because that’s the most pressing matter Clémence has to deal with.”
“Actually it is important,” said Berenice. “The right outfit can make him talk even more. Dress to kill. Not literally, of course.”
“I don’t have anything too sexy.”
“I’ll come over to your house with a couple of dresses. I’m meeting Ben, anyway.”
“Okay, great.”
“I have this red dress I bought recently that I think you’ll look good in. I even have a red lipstick to match it exactly.”
“Red?” Clémence was unsure. She usually wore black, white, beige—classic neutrals that Parisian girls gravitated toward. She wasn’t the type to like to draw too much attention to herself in a hypersexual way.
“Yes, get out of your comfort zone,” said Berenice. “Remember, you’re dressing sexy to save Raoul’s life.”
Sebastien groaned even louder. “Oh, please.”
Chapter 14
Clémence couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror. With black cat eyeliner, loads of mascara, and the red lipstick to match the very tight and very short red dress, she looked like…a tart. three fifteen p.m., Clémence went to the 8th arrondissement where Christie’s was located. She was on time for the nineteenth-century European painting auction.
“Va voom,” said Berenice. “You’re the hottest detective I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m extremely uncomfortable,” said Clémence. “Can I even sit down without my underwear showing?”
She walked over to the chair and sat down. It was very risky. She would have to cross her legs the entire evening. Luckily the restaurant was only a five-minute walk from her house. She had told John that she would meet him there.
Berenice was already in her outfit for dinner, which was a much less revealing, modest black dress so that she and Sebastien could stay incognito.
Clémence put on black pumps. Although she knew how to walk in four-inch heels, she didn’t do it often, and she stumbled a bit. Berenice made her walk a bit for practice.
“Sashay your hips more when you do,” she said.
“Is all this really necessary?” Clémence said. “It’s a date, not prostitution.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t look out of place at that restaurant. It’s full of millionaires with their model girlfriends.”
“True.”
“So let’s go.”
* * *
John was already waiting for her when she went inside the restaurant. She remembered to maintain an erect posture to display confidence. His eyes widened when he saw her. He was in what looked like his best Italian tux, with a pink handkerchief to match his silk pink tie.
He pulled out her chair for her at the table. She looked around the chic pink and black decorated restaurant. Fancy people, fancy food. There was even a waterfall on one wall.
Aside from Damour, she hadn’t dined in an expensive restaurant for a long time. During her travels, she preferred street food, unless her family came to visit her. Since she had been back in Paris, she hadn’t been on dinner dates at all. Instead, she’d go out with her friends to bars, especially in the less posh neighborhoods, where all the young people gathered.
It felt nice in a way to be on a nice date, even if there was a high chance that John was some sort of psychopathic killer. She looked at him, but he seemed a bit nervous when he smiled at her.
Nervous? Why would he be nervous? But perhaps it was because despite his education and self-made wealth, he’d grown up in a more humble environment. Clémence could relate to that. She hadn’t grown up in the 16th herself, and she never had really gotten used to mingling with the bourgeoisie. It took her a while to learn which wine went with what, which forks to use, and what the items on the menus even were.
The waiter came by with the menus and announced the specialties of the day.
“What will you have?” John asked.
“Um, perhaps the lobster pasta,” Clémence said. She’d been so nervous about the date that she’d lost her appetite, but now that she was here, she realized she hadn’t really eaten lunch and the hunger descended. “What about you?”
“The same,” he said.
After they ordered, they chatted about his work. He had been excited about the transfer, as he had learned French in school growing up and it had gotten a bit rusty.
“It’s been hard to get to know my French colleagues,” he said, sipping his glass of Moët champagne. “But they seem to be coming around.”
“Yes, the French are a bit harder to pry open,” said Clémence. “But once you’re in, you’re in.”
“I hope I’m in with you,” John looked at her in a sexy way. Under the dimness of the lights, his green eyes didn’t look cold at all, as Marie had claimed, especially when he smiled at her that way.
“We’ll see about that,” Clémence teased.
“So what do you do, Anabelle?”
Oh, right. Clémence had almost forgotten that her name was supposed to be Anabelle Bernard.
“I work in public relations,” she said. “At JJ Anders. Have you heard of it?”
John shook his head. “I haven’t, unfortunately.”
“What about Preston & Olivier? They’re our biggest competitor.”
Preston & Olivier was the name of the PR company Dupont worked for, where he was directeur de l’agence.
“Oh, yes,” said John. “It sounds familiar. Actually, I think I have a neighbor who works there.”
Clémence perked up. “Who?”
“I know his last name is Dupont, from the name on his buzzer. But I can’t remember his first name.”
“Is it Alexandre Dupont?” Clémence helped. “He’s the boss at Preston & Olivier.”
“Yes, that sounds right,” said John. “He mentioned working there. We had a nice chat in the courtyard. I guess he wanted to practice a bit of English.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” asked Clémence.
“Early this week?” he said. “He gave me all sorts of recommendations for stores and restaurants this neighborhood. He’s a man who loves to eat.”
Clémence frowned. “So you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Dupont is dead.”
She looked closely at his face. His expression twisted into shock.
“Dead? What do you mean?”
“You really didn’t know?”
“No,” he exclaimed. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Clémence lied. “Our company just received word that he’d passed last Thursday. It was also in the papers. He was poisoned.”
“What?”
Either John was a skilled actor or he was genuinely shocked. Weren’t sociopaths good at acting?
“Yes,” said Clémence. “By pistachio éclairs. The police are investigating who would poison him.”
“Oh, God,” said John. “That’s shocking. I was just talking to him a few days ago. I didn’t know. I’ve seen his wife lately, but she was always in a rush and didn’t seem as friendly as she usually is. Now I know why. But pistachio éclairs—were they from Damour?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because he had been talking about them, saying how they were just the best things ever created. He talked about them in so much detail that the next morning I rushed out to the patisserie and bought two of them before work.” John gave a nervous laugh. “I’m glad they weren’t poisoned. It’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder who would be out to get him?”
“He is a formidable man in the workplace,” said Clémence.
“Yes, it could be someone from work. Or one of his competitors.”
Clémence nodded. John could be right.
She was disappointed that John didn’t seem to be involved in the murder, although she did find out that he was connected to Dupont. This could be useful.
At least she wasn’t on a date with a dangerous killer, after all. Even if she was lying about her identity, it was a date, and she hadn’t been on one of those in a while.
They enjoyed the rest of their evening peacefully. Their food was delicious, and John continued to be an attentive date. She knew that Berenice and Sebastien were seated a table away, but at one point she turned to them and quickly smiled to indicate that everything was okay.
John was superficially attractive in the conventional sense, but she didn’t know whether they had much in common. The conversation flowed easily enough, however, and at one point Clémence thought she wouldn’t mind seeing John again.
After they finished their coffee at the end of the meal, Clémence said she’d better be heading home. They got up after John paid, and Clémence had trouble once again with her balance in her four-inch heels after sitting down for more than two hours. She stumbled a bit and lightly bumped into someone.
“Clémence?”
It was Arthur. Standing behind him was a hot blonde wearing a silver minidress even shorter than her red dress.
John looked between Clémence and Arthur, confused.
Clémence shot Arthur a look. “You must be mistaken. Je m’appelle Anabelle.”
John stepped in and introduced himself to Arthur. “How do you know Anabelle?”
“We’re neighbors,” Clémence said.
“Yes,” Arthur said slowly. “Just up the street.”
“Up the street?” John looked at Clémence again. “I thought you said you lived in the 8th.”
“I—I do,” Clémence lied. “But my parents live here.”
She looked at the blonde, and a feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. The girl had the poutiest red lips. She could’ve been a model if she had fewer curves. Clémence felt the food in her stomach churning.
“This is Lea,” said Arthur.
John was looking at her too, but trying not to. Lea smiled and thrusted her chest out even more. Arthur, however, gave Clémence a quick once-over. Clémence felt embarrassed. She must’ve looked so odd trying to dress up like one of the sexy girls.
“We’ll leave you to your dinner,” said Clémence, turning away. “Bonne soirée.”
She followed John out the door.
“Who was that?” asked John.
“Oh,” said Clémence. She quickly tried to come up with something. “We dated once, but he must’ve not remembered my name.”
“That was weird,” said John. “He seemed sure your name was Clémence.”
“He’s just a jerk,” said Clémence. “He probably forgets the names of all the girls he dates.”
“I don’t think he will forget the name of the girl he’s with tonight,” John joked.
Clémence nodded and forced a smile. She wondered if John was the bigger jerk to comment on the sexiness of another girl while he was on a date with her. She couldn’t wait to go home.
“I don’t live far from here,” said John. “Do you want to come over and have coffee?”
“But we just had coffee,” said Clémence. Then she realized what he was suggesting. “Oh. No. I really have to get home.”
She flagged down a cab, to continue on with the charade of living in the 8th.
“Well I had a great time,” said John. “I’ll call you.”
“Sure.” Clémence smiled weakly. She kissed him good-bye on both cheeks. She didn’t have it in her to keep up the pretense of enthusiasm anymore.
She got into the cab. She asked the cabbie to drive around the block once and then drop her off at 14 Avenue Kléber.
She was furious with Arthur. He had almost blown her cover.
That was what she was mad at him for, wasn’t it?
Chapter 15
“We saw the whole thing,” Berenice said the next morning in the kitchen. “Although we couldn’t hear much over the conversations in that restaurant.”
Clémence wasn’t feeling so well. She couldn’t sleep the night before. She had kept thinking about the blond bombshell that Arthur had taken out to dinner. How foolish she’d felt when her own date had drooled over Lea.
Was she jealous because John had taken an interest in the blonde or because Arthur was going out with her? She didn’t think she cared what Arthur did, but when she got home from the date, she couldn’t sleep. She kept imagining Arthur bringing his date back up to his little room on the top floor.
“What an evening,” Clémence said, sighing.
“But you looked like you were having a good time,” said Berenice. “So we gather that this guy is not the killer, after all?”
“No. But he is Dupont’s neighbor.” She explained how Dupont had recommended the pistachio éclairs to John, and that had been why he bought them.
“Weird coincidence,” said Sebastien.
Clémence nodded. “John bought two because he was going to give one to a colleague, but it was so good that he ended up eating both of them.”
“If that’s not a testimony to my baking powers, I don’t know what is.” Sebastien crossed his arms and looked proud.
“But I’ve hit a wall,” said Clémence. “I was really hoping it was John. Now I’ll have to look into Dupont’s enemies, although that’s what the inspector’s doing. How am I supposed to infiltrate his company? Poor Raoul. I just feel so responsible.”
“It’s really not your fault.” Sebastien’s voice was full of kindness and Clémence appreciated it
Lately she’d been too overwhelmed by everything and felt extremely frustrated.
“Ça va aller,” Sebastien continued. “It’s going to be all right. Raoul didn’t do it, and they’re going to figure it out, sooner or later. You’re not responsible for this man’s death. He just happened to love the éclairs so much that somebody took advantage of that. You don’t have to do anything. It’s the police’s job to catch the murderer anyway. Just relax.”
Clémence felt soothed by his words. There was something incredibly calming about Sebastien, and she felt better already.
“You’re right.” She blinked back the tears that were on the verge of forming.
“No need to fret,” said Berenice. “You know your hot neighbor last night?”
“Arthur?” Clémence made a face.
“Did you see his face when he saw you in your dress?” Berenice said. “He couldn’t stop staring at you.”
“You did look pretty good,” Sebastien admitted.
“Well, my date was drooling over his date,” said Clémence.
“We left shortly after you did, but Arthur was staring at you the whole time you walked toward the door. I was surprised he didn’t run after you.”
Clémence waved her comments away. “There’s no way. Arthur does not care one bit about me.”
“Didn’t you say he had coffee with you when you waited for John to appear outside the bank?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have much going on with his life. Apparently, he’s working on his PhD, but he seems to be going about it in a leisurely way. I see him going to the tennis court all the time.”
Berenice gave her a look. “How can you miss the signs? He’s into you. And it sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time together recently.”
“It’s just a coincidence. He lives in the same building, and we’re bound to run into each other.”
“I’m telling you,” Berenice said. “He’s into you.”
“Stop,” Clémence said. She was starting to get annoyed. Now she knew how Sebastien felt when Berenice bugged him about his love life. “Arthur would stare at anything in a tight dress. There’s nothing going on between us.” She took off her apron. “I think I need to take a personal day.”
Sebastien looked at her in sympathy. Berenice started to apologize, but Clémence shook her head.
“No, don’t apologize. I’m just stressed out, and I need a break to relax. I’ve been working every day this week, so I should just go chill out.”
Chapter 16
Clémence took a long walk along the river. She looked into the glimmering waters of La Seine as she headed toward Palais de Tokyo. The skateboarders were out in front of the huge museum, doing tricks near the fountain. People sitting in the museum’s outdoor café were chatting, laughing, and having a good time. Watching them, she felt a bit lonely.
She turned back to look at her old friend, la Tour Eiffel. There were a million things on her mind. She hoped the tower would give her guidance.
Maybe she wasn’t so good at solving murder cases, after all. The first one had just been luck—the victim had been someone in her building, and it was a lot easier to interrogate people. With this Dupont guy, it was probably best to let the police handle it. She would just have to pray that Raoul would be let go soon. She hoped that Cyril had some other leads and was not just putting all his energy into finding more evidence against Raoul.
Clémence wished she could do more, but she felt foolish enough going undercover as some cheap date. She was lucky that no one she knew had seen her. No one except Arthur, that was.
Arthur. The thought of him made her blush all over again. She had to admit it to herself: she was attracted to him. But she couldn’t understand why. He came from the worst kind of upper-class families and he slept around, plus he wore pink dress shirts and cashmere sweaters tied around his shoulders. Personality-wise, he was as abrasive as a cactus, he was a snob, and he was arrogant.
But he was also handsome, educated, and rich. Even Clémence had to admit that he was a catch for many girls; it was obvious why he had such an easy time finding girls to sleep with. She chided herself for liking a guy with such shallow taste in women. Then again, Arthur must’ve liked this Lea girl, if he would take her to such a good restaurant.
Clémence sighed. Arthur could also be kind sometimes. He liked dogs and was good with them. As far as she could tell, he was a good brother to his siblings. And he was doing something with his life, even though he was taking his sweet time with it. She had to admit he was reliable, since he was there when she needed help.
Maybe that was why she liked him: he had the potential to be a good guy. However, she couldn’t like someone because of misguided hope. She’d had one too many bad experiences to know that she couldn’t accept Arthur as he was, right now.
As she looked at la tour, she said a little prayer, asking to help her get over this little crush on Arthur. For good measure, she also prayed for this murder case to be solved, if not by her, then by the police.
Near Place d’Iéna, she turned back home. She enjoyed the rest of the walk along the Seine. People jogged, biked, or rollerbladed past her, and she felt as if everybody was happy to be in the sunshine. The sun had made a grand appearance after a cloudy morning. It put her in a good mood as she walked back up to the Palais de Chaillot.
As she made her way to the roundabout at Place du Trocadéro, a sight of a boy on a scooter caught her eye. He wore a blue helmet with a familiar frog on it. He was turning down Avenue Raymond Poincaré.
He could have been the same boy who had bought the two pistachio éclairs from her store. Even though he was only about eleven years old, there was no harm in asking him about it, so she did.
“Bonjour, excusez-moi!” She chased after the little boy.
He didn’t hear her and continued on his merry way. Clémence was wearing flats, so she was able to run and catch up to him.
The boy stopped when she blocked his path, looking wide-eyed at her. Clémence smiled to put him at ease. She explained that she worked at the Damour patisserie, and she’d seen him in there buying their products. She then lied and said that she was doing a survey on customer satisfaction and if he’d been willing to participate.
The boy nodded and asked if that meant he got a free treat from the store. Clémence laughed, surprised by his boldness.
“Sure, how about an éclair?” Clémence said.
“I don’t like éclairs as much as pains au chocolat,” he said.
“You don’t? But didn’t I see you buying two pistachio éclairs this week?”
“Oh, that wasn’t for me,” the boy said. “That was for someone else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A lady asked me to buy them for her and said that she’d give me five euros if I did.”
“Why?”
The boy shrugged. “I guess she didn’t want to wait in line. She said to meet her around the corner when I was done.”
“What did she look like?”
He thought about it. “She was wearing sunglasses, and had blond hair.”
“So you don’t know who she is?” she pressed.
“No.”
“How long was her hair?”
“Maybe here.” He put his hands to his collarbone to show the length.
“So this is not a lady that your mother would know?”
“No. She’s a stranger.”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” Clémence said, even though she was a stranger herself.
“She’s a lady,” said the boy. “Ladies aren’t dangerous.”
Or are they? Clémence thought.
“What was she wearing?” she asked.
“I think a black coat,” he said. “But I don’t remember. Can I get my pain au chocolat now?”
“Sure,” Clémence said. “Let’s go to the patisserie.”
This woman, whoever she was, must’ve wanted to be in disguise. Although it had been sunny that morning. Maybe the weather had warranted sunglasses.
The woman must’ve planned the poisoning. She hadn’t wanted to be seen buying the pistachio éclairs herself, so she hired a boy off the street to do it.
Whoever it was must’ve known that Dupont liked his pistachio éclairs. And by the sound of it, he had told whomever he ran into how much he liked them. This blond lady was the key. She might just be the murderer!
Chapter 17
“Who could this woman be?” Clémence asked Berenice in the employee lounge.
“What about the wife?” asked Berenice.
“I thought about her, but I saw a picture of Dupont and his wife on the Internet where they were at some fancy event, and the wife has short brunette hair. In any case, I should weasel a meeting with her.”
Berenice nodded. “For sure, but what are you going to say?”
“It’s awkward, isn’t it? Maybe she wouldn’t want to talk to just any girl off the street. I’m not a real inspector, and I can’t impersonate one. Otherwise Cyril will have a reason to lock me up.”
“Okay, what about John? You can get him to introduce you.”
Clémence groaned. “Haven’t I been through enough? He didn’t even text me.”
She checked her phone to prove it. To her surprise, there was a text from John.
Coucou beautiful, it was fun last night. Do you want to have drinks tomorrow?
“Tomorrow,” Berenice said. “He wants to see you again so soon. He must like you.”
“I can’t continue on with this charade however. I have to tell him who I really am.”
“You will?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. “He has a good sense of humor. I hope he’ll understand that I had to do what I had to do.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, but he’s bound to find out sooner or later. He works at the bank in this neighborhood, so there’s a high chance of running into him. I can’t pretend to be Anabelle forever.”
“True,” said Berenice. “And sometimes your pictures are in the gossip column for being the heiress of Damour. Why did you stop going to events, anyway?”
“I used to do that with Mathieu,” said Clémence. “He liked going to those fancy parties and making important connections. I was never into the whole socialite scene.”
“Too bad,” said Berenice. “I think it would be cool to have a famous friend.”
“I’d want to be famous for my accomplishments, not what my parents have achieved,” said Clémence.
Which reminded her that as soon as this murder case was solved, she could go back to her art. This thought prompted her to contact John right away. She wanted the case to be closed as soon as possible.
Can we meet? she texted him.
* * *
At the café across the street from the bank, Clémence explained everything.
John was shocked at first, but then his expression slowly melted into understanding.
“So you used me,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” said Clémence. “I had to be careful because I thought you were a killer.”
“Wow.” He laughed incredulously.
“I didn’t know you then.”
“So were you ever interested in me at all?”
Clémence hesitated. “Well, sure. I thought we had a good time. We had some good conversations, and you’re an attractive guy.”
“Just attractive?”
“Beau,” she said, smiling. “Comme un dieu.”
He smiled back. “Okay, flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Do you think that you can help me in any way?”
He rubbed his chin. “I was shocked after you told me that Dupont died. I can understand what you’re trying to do. You’re right. The police are useless here. When I got pickpocketed on the Métro the first week I was here, the police basically laughed at me and told me it was useless to get my wallet back.”
Clémence nodded knowingly. “Like I said, they’ve arrested my employee, and he’s innocent. I guess I can tell the police about what I found out so far, but I want to speak to the wife first. She would be privy to the secrets of her husband.”
“Unless this blonde is his mistress. Or what if the wife is the killer? Imagine, my own neighbor, a killer.”
“That’s why I want to find out in a non-interrogative way, but I can’t seem to find out anything about this wife online.”
“Well I can pay Madame Dupont a casual visit. She’s quite elusive, and I don’t see much of her, but Dupont’s funeral should be soon, and I can try to get an invite.”
“That would be great,” she said. “So you haven’t talked to her in the past?”
“I only run into her when she’s out doing the shopping, and we exchange friendly hellos.” John frowned, thinking of something. “I do remember that once I was meditating in the living room, and I heard them arguing.”
“Arguing?”
“Well, it was just Dupont doing the yelling. Maybe he’d been arguing with someone on the phone.”
“Did he do that any other times?”
John nodded. “A few occasions, yes, but then again, I only moved in there three weeks ago, and I’m usually at work or out exploring the city, so I’m not home all the time to know what’s going on. It does sound like Dupont has a temper.”
“I wonder who he was arguing with,” said Clémence.
“I guess we’ll find out, hopefully. After work, I’ll pay Madame Dupont a visit, and I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Great,” said Clémence.
“And hopefully you can be my date to this funeral.”
“It’s a date, then.”
“And if you do solve this case with my help, you owe me dinner, this time.”
Clémence looked at John, who was grinning in a teasing way.
“Fine,” she said. “I guess it’s only fair.”
Chapter 18
The lawyers were helping Raoul build up his defense, but even Clémence’s parents were worried that it had gotten to this point. Michel and the other lawyers had shown the police the security footage obtained from the store, arguing that there was no proof that Raoul tampered with the éclairs in any way. However, it also proved that Dupont didn’t even buy the éclairs. They could argue that Raoul had given Dupont the éclairs outside of the store.
Clémence was concerned for Raoul, as well. She hoped that John would come through with something. He had a charm that she was sure most women wouldn’t be able to resist. Sure enough, while she was eating dinner, he called to say that there was a funeral tomorrow.
“How did Madame Dupont act when you talked to her?” Clémence asked.
“She looked pretty tired,” said John. “I guess she’s still distraught. Wouldn’t blame her really. Her eyes were red, so she had probably been crying. She seemed really embarrassed to have me see her in that state so I kept the conversation short. She told me about the funeral, and that was it.”
After noting down the details, Clémence made plans to meet with John.
“If you wear a black version of the dress you wore on our last date, I’ll be happy,” he said.
“There’s zero chance of that happening,” said Clémence. “But I will wear black, if that pleases you.”
“That pleases the dead. I’m sure you’ll look hot in anything.”
“Thank you.”
Clémence hung up, a small smile still on her lips. John was wrong for her. She knew it, but she still enjoyed flirting with him.
As she turned off the lights in the kitchen to go into her bedroom to retire for the evening, her doorbell rang. Who could it be at this hour? She looked through the peephole.
Arthur.
“Yes?” She opened the door a crack.
He was in a gray V-neck T-shirt and jeans. He was dressed casually and he looked quite good.
“The new gardien mixed up some of our mail,” he said.
Since la gardienne, the caretaker of their building, had been murdered last month, they got a new caretaker, an older man in his late fifties. The mixed mail wasn’t a surprise, but what did surprise her was that Arthur came himself.
She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t one of your many maids be doing these kinds of errands?”
Arthur shrugged, stone-faced. “I might as well, since I know you. Plus I wanted an update as to how you were doing with this murder case.”
“Everything’s going well,” Clémence said.
She took the letters from Arthur’s hand. It was just a couple of bills for her parents.
“You need any help with it?”
“The case? No, I got it. You almost messed up my investigation, by the way.”
“Right, I realized that after. So that was the banker guy you had been stalking?”
“My lead, yes.”
“And your investigation required you to date?”
Clémence could feel her defensive wall going up.
“Yes, Arthur,” she said sarcastically. “If you’re going to call me a whore, go ahead.”
His eyes widened. “I wasn’t going to call you a whore. I was just surprised to see you dressed that way, that’s all.”
“Why? The girls you go out with dress like that. How is Lea, by the way?”
“We’re not going out,” Arthur said quickly. “She’s just a friend.”
“Sure. Anyway, thanks for stopping by.”
“Attends.” Arthur put a hand on the door. “Wait. This banker guy—”
“John,” said Clémence.
“John, whatever. Are you sure you’re safe around him?”
“Yes, he’s helping me. I only see him in public places, anyway.”
“You’re not going out with him again, are you?”
“If a funeral counts,” Clémence said, and then immediately regretted it. She didn’t want Arthur to get into her business again. “Look, he’s not the murderer, and I’ve already revealed my identity to him. He’s Dupont’s neighbor, and he’s going to help me get to know the wife.”
She quickly explained what she’d found out about John.
“So you think the wife did it?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”
“Well, it’s clear that you don’t know much at this point. This banker guy can still be a suspect. Remember when you almost got killed last time when you were left alone with someone you thought you could trust?”
It was true that Clémence had placed herself in a dangerous situation last month, but she had learned from it, and she was smarter this time.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said, although doubts were forming. Arthur did find her unconscious last time, and he even went to the hospital with her.
“Like I said, I’m willing to be your bodyguard. Just tell me where you’re going to be, and I’ll show up discreetly and watch your back.”
Clémence thought about it. She guessed it would be practical to have help in case anything went wrong.
“Fine,” she said.
“I’ll give you my number,” said Arthur, then pulled out his phone to take hers.
After they exchanged numbers, he left.
Clémence closed the doors and sighed. Spending more time with Arthur wasn’t going to help her get over him. Even though he claimed that Lea was just a friend, nobody wanted to be “just friends” with a blond bombshell. She was sure he was sleeping around, and she wasn’t going to be another notch on his belt.
She would just accept his help in this case, and that would be it.
Chapter 19
Paris was raining, a fitting day for a funeral. While Dupont’s burial was reserved for family and close friends, John had been invited to a restaurant next to the cemetery reserved for Dupont’s party to pay his respects.
Clémence met John in front of the restaurant. He looked handsome in his black suit. She wore a long, demure black dress with black tights and flats.
They peeked inside the windows. The place was full of people. She spotted Madame Dupont chatting with a couple of people in a corner. They went in. She looked around for any blond women at the party, and she spotted two. One was a bottled blonde in her forties. Her hair was cut to her chin. Another woman was younger, in her late twenties or early thirties, with wavy hair up to her chest. The little boy did say that the woman who paid him to buy the éclairs had long blond hair.
She texted Arthur a description of the woman, asking him to chat her up. Arthur was already there. His cover was a former employee at Dupont’s company.
“Who are you texting?” John asked.
“Just a friend,” Clémence said.
“Come on. Let me introduce you to Madame Dupont.”
“Okay.”
As the others paid their respects, Clémence waited for her turn. Madame Florence Dupont was a short, small-boned woman with sunken cheeks and gray-blue eyes.
“This is my girlfriend Anabelle,” John said after Madame Dupont greeted him.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Clémence said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t know why anybody would do this to my sweet husband.”
Tears dripped from her eyes, which she quickly wiped away with a white handkerchief.
“It’s tragic.” Clémence tried to tread softly. “Your husband sounded like he had a powerful position. Could it have been one of his competitors?”
“Maybe. But I heard from the police that they’ve already arrested someone.”
“Who?” asked Clémence, even though she already knew.
“Somebody who works at a patisserie. Apparently my husband had a spat with this guy.”
“What about?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Alex did have a temper sometimes. Maybe he went over the edge. His anger was his weakness, I suppose.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” said Clémence. “And he didn’t deserve to be killed this way.”
“No.”
“Did he have any enemies at work?”
“I don’t know,” said Madame Dupont. “Not as far as I know. I don’t know much about his work life except when I go to holiday parties, although I guess it could be someone from his work. He could be bossy with people. He was very demanding. But I still loved him.”
After exchanging a few more words, Clémence conversed with John about the exchange.
“She seems to be sincere,” said Clémence.
John nodded. “She is crying a lot.”
Clémence frowned. “It’s disappointing that she doesn’t know anything.”
She checked her phone. Arthur hadn’t texted her back, but she saw him chatting with the blonde in a corner.
Arthur’s body language was open—too open. He had a hand on the girl’s elbow, and he was looking down at her, nodding sympathetically. Clémence’s face burned. She hoped he wasn’t going to try to pick her up.
When the blonde took a phone call and moved away, she told John that she was going to the washroom. There, she called Arthur.
“Alors? Well?”
“She works at Dupont’s company,” said Arthur. “Her name is Lydia Baudet. She seems upset, but not upset enough. Many of his coworkers are here out of obligation. It doesn’t sound like Dupont was well-liked, but rather well-respected.”
“How do we get more information out of her?”
“Do you want me to ask her out on a date?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you jealous?” Arthur teased.
“Please. If you think you can get more out of her, be my guest and take her out. Just don’t come crying when she poisons you.”
“It’s only fair. You went on a fake date with a potential murderer, so now I get to.”
Clémence hung up. If she could admit it to herself, she didn’t want Arthur going out with the murderous blonde. She was just his type, except for the murderous part. If only she could just find out more about her on her own. Perhaps she could ask Madame Dupont what she knew about this Lydia Baudet.
Clémence came out of the restroom and looked around for Madame Dupont. She noticed her walking up to the second floor of the restaurant with an old lady. She hadn’t paid much attention to the lady until now. She was tiny, with powder white hair. Clémence followed them. Perhaps it would be nice to be able to talk to her in private after she spoke with the elderly lady.
When Clémence reached upstairs, she realized this floor was empty. Madame Dupont and the lady were speaking softly, and Clémence tiptoed along the narrow hallway that led to a private room.
“How did you learn how to cry like that?” the old lady asked.
Madame Dupont gave a low, bitter chuckle. “As if I didn’t cry enough living with that man.”
“Well good riddance, darling. Now you’ll get everything, and nobody suspects a thing. Well done, dear.”
“Yes, Mother. We’ll be able to live in peace.”
Clémence took out her smartphone to record the conversation. Unfortunately, just after she pressed record, her phone began to ring.
It was Arthur! Again!
“Shit,” she muttered.
“Someone’s out there,” the elderly lady said.
Madame Dupont and her mother poked their heads out to the hallway. Clémence hid her phone up her sleeve, hoping Arthur was listening on the other end.
“What are you doing here?” Madame Dupont asked.
“I was trying to find les toilettes?” Clémence said innocently, looking around and trying to act clueless.
But Madame Dupont wasn’t buying it. She narrowed her eyes at her. “How much did you hear?”
“Who is this?” the elderly woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Madame Dupont looked at Clémence sharply. “I should’ve known you were some sort of snoop, asking all those questions earlier.”
She was furious, but they were at a public event. Madame Dupont was cornered, and she looked a bit frightened.
“I work at Damour,” said Clémence. “So it was you! You were the one who hired a boy off the street to buy pistachio éclairs. Then you poisoned the éclairs.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She feigned ignorance.
“Come off it,” said Clémence. “I heard everything. You wore a blond wig when you hired the little boy, right? And I heard you talking about how you were fake crying tonight. About nobody suspecting a thing?”
“She was talking about something else,” the elderly lady said lamely
“And you.” Clémence turned to the old lady. “You should be ashamed of yourself, encouraging your daughter to murder her husband like that. Why?”
“All right,” said Madame Dupont. “Fine. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Dupont abused me for years. Like I said, his temper was his downfall. When I married him, I thought my life was like a fairy tale. This rich, handsome guy whisking me away, not caring about my lower middle-class background, but after a few months of marriage, he began beating me. Whenever he was frustrated with work, he’d beat me until I gathered into a ball, crying in a corner.”
“It’s true,” said the elderly lady. “He deserved what he got. My girl has a huge bruise on her back, and scars all over her body.”
“You see this face?” She pointed at herself. “Light bruises covered with heavy makeup. Sometimes I couldn’t wear short-sleeved shirts and skirts because of my scars and bruises. I hated him. And I didn’t want to go back to working in retail if I divorced him, so he got what he deserved.”
“So you just poisoned your husband?” Clémence. “You couldn’t just, you know, report that he’s abusing you?”
“No. I could’ve, but why would I, when I could get the ultimate revenge and get everything? The apartment, the summerhouse in Greece, and his stakes in his company? And you, little snit—you’re not going to ruin it for me.”
Madame Dupont lunged at Clémence, who screamed down to the lower floor for help. Arthur came running up with John behind him.
Arthur tore Madame Dupont away, and Clémence took out the phone from her sleeve.
“I have everything recorded,” she said. “And now, I’m calling the police.”
John held down Madame Dupont’s trembling mother as Clémence called Cyril.
Chapter 20
“She confessed on tape,” Clémence said to Cyril. “You have to let Raoul go now.”
Cyril’s face was red, but he took a deep breath. “Fine. It would be wrong to detain the wrong man. I just don’t know how you did it.”
“Somebody had to find the right killer,” she said. “And we both know it wasn’t going to be you.”
Clémence knew she shouldn’t rub her good luck in Cyril’s face, but she couldn’t help it. It was too easy.
“Congratulations,” he said sarcastically. “Come to the station.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” she said. “I want to enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.”
Cyril fumed and stalked away. Madame Dupont and her mother were handcuffed and escorted out of the restaurant.
Clémence went outside to get some air. Her heart had been beating wildly, but it had also been such a thrill. Now she needed to calm down again, take a walk around the block.
John followed her out the door. Arthur did too.
“That was amazing,” said John.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asked her.
“I just need to get some air,” said Clémence. But she grinned. “That was pretty cool wasn’t it? We did it!”
John turned to Arthur. “I’m sorry, but who are you again?”
Arthur’s face darkened as he met John’s eyes. “We’ve met. We ran into you at the restaurant.”
John slowly nodded. “Oh. Right. You were with a date. A blonde.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t a date. She was just a friend.”
“Anyway, what were you doing here?”
“Clémence needed backup,” Arthur said, his jaw clenching. “So she called me.”
“Actually, I didn’t call you,” said Clémence. “You offered your help—”
“Why would Clémence need backup, when she has me?” John asked, meeting Arthur’s intense stare.
“Because we weren’t sure who the killer was.”
John turned back to Clémence. “Did you still think I was the killer?”
“No. Arthur is just cautious. You see, last month I was hurt when I was trying to solve a murder case, so he wanted to protect me this time.”
“I hope both of you know by now that I’m not a murderer,” said John.
“Yes, of course,” said Clémence. “I’m sorry. Your help was invaluable. Wasn’t it, Arthur?”
“Whatever,” he said. “Come on, Clémence. Let’s go home.”
“I can walk my date home,” John said.
“Clémence and I live in the same building,” Arthur said. “So it’s much more convenient if she walks with me.”
“You do?” John said, startled.
Clémence didn’t know what John was getting worked up about. She wasn’t his girlfriend. And Arthur was acting strange, as well. He had wanted to go out with some murderous blonde just moments earlier.
“It’s been a crazy day,” said Clémence. “I think I’m going to take a walk around the neighborhood—solo.”
She turned on her heel, leaving the two guys with their jaws dropped.
Clémence did want to be alone. It had been not only a long day but also a very long and stressful week. Competition brought out the worst in men, and she didn’t have the energy to deal with that. John and Arthur were handsome, but both men were wrong for her. There was no denying that she did have feelings for Arthur, but now that the case was solved, she hoped their lives wouldn’t be as entangled and she would get over him.
She headed back to the Seine. She wanted to celebrate peacefully, and this included having a silent chat with la tour about her victory. She was proud of herself. Raoul would get out now, and she could finally go back to her routine of inventing new pastries with her bakers. She’d even have time to start painting again, since she was seriously considering Ben’s offer of putting on a show.
For now, she was free, and she took in the beauty of the city in the springtime.
* * *
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Éclair Recipes
The popular French éclair pastry is made with choux dough. It is topped with icing or glazing, and the dough is filled with cream. The dough is typically oblong in shape. It’s meant to be eaten in a few bites. To make different flavors of éclairs, start with the choux as a base.
Makes 9
Choux Recipe:
• 1/2 cup butter
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 cup water
• 4 eggs
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F (230 degrees C).
In a saucepan, combine water and butter and bring to a boil. Stir until the butter melts completely. Reduce the heat to low and add flour and salt. Stir vigorously until the mixture leaves the sides of the pan and begins to form a stiff ball.
Remove the pan from the heat. Add the eggs one at a time. Beat them in and incorporate completely.
Spoon or pour this mixture into a pastry bag with a large tip. Pipe onto a cookie sheet in 1 1/2 x 4 inch strips.
Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C) and bake for 20 more minutes. They should be hollow sounding when you tap them lightly on the bottom. Cool completely on a wire rack.
Now that you know how to make the choux shells, you are open to experiment with different sweet and savory recipes by changing the fillings.
Recipe 1: Easy Chocolate Éclairs
Makes 9
Ingredients:
• Choux shells
Filling:
• 1 package (5 ounces) instant vanilla pudding mix
• 2 1/2 cups cold milk
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla
Combine pudding mix and milk in a medium bowl according to the package directions.
In a separate bowl, beat cream with an electric mixer until soft peaks form. Beat in sugar and vanilla. Fold whipped cream into pudding.
Cut the tops off the choux shells with a sharp knife. Fill the shells with pudding mixture and replace tops.
Icing:
• 2 (1 ounce) squares of semisweet chocolate
• 2 tbsp butter
• 1 cup confectioners’ sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 3 tbsp hot water
Melt the butter and chocolate in a medium saucepan over low heat. Stir in the sugar and vanilla. Stir in hot water, one tablespoon at a time, until icing is smooth and has reached desired consistency.
Remove from heat and cool slightly. Drizzle over filled éclairs (or dip the top of the shell in the icing). Refrigerate before serving—that is, if you can’t resist biting into one right away!
Recipe 2: Pistachio Éclairs
Makes 9
Ingredients:
• Choux shells
• Pistachio Pastry Cream
• 1 1/2 cups whole milk
• 4 large egg yolks
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 3 tbsp cornstarch, sifted
• 1 jar (7 oz) Bonte Pistachio Cream
Fill a large bowl with ice cubes and water and set aside.
In a small saucepan, boil the milk and set aside.
In a medium saucepan, whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, and cornstarch. While whisking, drizzle one quarter of the hot milk over the yolks. Continue adding the hot milk, half a cup at a time, until it has been incorporated. Put the pan over medium heat. Bring to a boil while whisking vigorously. Keep at the boil (still whisking) until thick (about 1 to 3 minutes), then take off the heat and whisk in the pistachio cream.
Scrape the mixture into a large mixing bowl. Put the bowl over the ice bath and stir frequently. Cool the cream to 140 degrees F (60 degrees C).
Remove the cream from the ice bath, cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator.
Use the same chocolate icing as in Recipe 1, and sprinkle chopped pistachios on top.
Recipe 3: Salted Caramel Éclairs
Makes 9
Ingredients:
• Choux shells
• Salted Caramel Pastry Cream
• 3/4 cups sugar
• 1/4 cup water
• 2 cups whole milk
• 1/4 cornstarch
• 1 large egg
• 2 large egg yolks
• 2 tbsp butter
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/4 tsp fleur de sel or sea salt
Combine 1/2 cup of sugar and the water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, brush down the sides of the pan with water, and boil for 8 to 10 minutes, or until caramelized. Slowly stir in the milk. Return the pan to low heat and stir until smooth. Increase the heat to medium and heat to a simmer.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the cornstarch and 1/4 cup sugar. Whisk in the egg and egg yolks. As you whisk, add the hot caramel mixture and transfer the mixture back to the saucepan. Cook while whisking constantly over medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes, or until it thickens and just comes to a boil. Strain through a fine mesh sieve into a bowl and stir in butter, vanilla, and salt.
Caramel Icing:
• 2 tbsp butter
• 4 tbsp milk
• 3 cups icing sugar, sifted (also called confectioners’ sugar, powdered sugar, or xxx sugar)
• 1 1/2 tsp caramel essence (from specialty stores)
Melt butter in a saucepan over low heat. Add icing sugar, milk, and caramel essence and beat it over the heat until smooth over. Dip the top of each éclair in the icing and let it cool.
Recipe 4: Hazelnut Mocha Éclairs
Makes 9
Ingredients:
• Choux shells
• Hazelnut Mocha Filling
• 1 tbsp boiling water
• 2 cups heavy whipping cream
• 1/4 cup icing sugar/confectioners’ sugar
• 1/2 cup chopped hazelnuts, divided
• 1 tbsp instant coffee granules
Dissolve coffee granules in boiling water. Let cool. In a bowl, beat cream and sugar until stiff peaks form. Fold in coffee mixture and hazelnuts. Refrigerate.
The chocolate icing is the same as in Recipe 1.
Recipe 5: Savory Éclairs with Salmon, Cream Cheese and Fresh Herbs
Savory éclairs make great appetizers or snacks. Using the same choux shells, you can fill it with a variety of different ingredients.
For this recipe, you need:
• Choux shells
• 1 1/2 cups cream cheese
• Fresh dill, finely chopped
• Fresh parsley, finely chopped
• A few sprigs of green onions, finely chopped
• Some salt
• A few drops of lemon juice
• Salmon slices
Mix the cream cheese, sour cream, dill, parsley, and green onion in a bowl. Season with some salt and a few drops of lemon juice. Spread between the shells. Add slices of salmon.
More Savory Recipes
Here are some other savory combinations to try:
• Spinach, Gruyere cheese (or the cheese of your choice), and onion
• Ground lamb seasoned with cumin, salt, pepper, tzatziki sauce, and chopped black olives
• Beet puree with sour cream and horseradish
• Roasted eggplant and tomato sauce
• Shrimp, mushrooms, and shredded cooked carrots
• Chicken salad
About Harper Lin
Harper Lin lives in Kingston, Ontario with her husband, daughter, and Pomeranian puppy. When she’s not reading or writing mysteries, she’s in yoga class, hiking, or hanging out with her family and friends. The Patisserie Mysteries draws from Harper’s own experiences of living in Paris in her twenties. She is currently working on more cozy mysteries in her different series.
www.harperlin.com
All Books By Harper Lin
The Patisserie Mysteries
Macaron Murder: Book 1
Éclair Murder: Book 2
Baguette Murder: Book 3
Crêpe Murder: Book 4
Box Set for Books 2-4
Croissant Murder: Book 5
Crème Brûlée Murder: Book 6
Madeleine Murder: Book 7
The Emma Wild Mysteries
Killer Christmas: Book 1
New Year’s Slay: Book 2
Death of a Snowman: Book 3
Valentine’s Victim: Book 4
The Complete Emma Wild 4-Book Holiday Box Set
The Wonder Cats Mysteries
A Hiss-tory of Magic: Book 1
A Note From Harper
Thank you so much for reading Éclair Murder. It is the second book in The Patisserie Mysteries. The first book, Macaron Murder, is a free download.
If you like this series, you might also enjoy The Emma Wild Mysteries, a 4-Book holiday cozy series set in a small Canadian town. Killer Christmas, the first book, is a free download everywhere.
I also have another cozy mystery series for cat lovers called The Wonder Cats Mysteries, about three witches trying to use their powers for good in a small town near the mystical Niagara Falls.
If you want to be the first to hear about new book releases and early bird specials, sign up for my mailing list.
Follow my Pinterest boards to see the locations, fashions, and inspirations behind each book.
Connect with me on Goodreads or email me at harperlinauthor@outlook.com. I would love to hear about what you like about the books, what you'd like to see in future books, and whether you've tried any of the recipes.
Last but not least, visit my website for details about all my books.
Thanks and much love,
Harper
BAKE, BATTLE & ROLL
Lexy Baker Cozy Mystery Book 6
by Leighann Dobbs
This is a work of fiction.
None of it is real. All names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real names, places, or events are purely coincidental, and should not be construed as being real.
Bake, Battle & Roll
Copyright © 2013
Leighann Dobbs
http://www.leighanndobbs.com
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner, except as allowable under “fair use,” without the express written permission of the author.
Cover art by: http://www.coverkicks.com
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
Chapter 1
“According to Chef Dugasse, your pie crust is too thick,” Lexy’s assistant Deena said as she fitted a sheet of dough into a pie pan taking care to flute the edges the way Lexy had shown her.
Lexy glanced up at her as she worked the marble rolling pin over the dough, pounding it a little harder than necessary.
“I don’t think Chef Dugasse knows his pie crusts,” Lexy replied pushing down the anger she felt and wondering for the umpteenth time why she had agreed to fill in as pastry chef at the rustic lakeside resort.
When her grandmother Mona Baker, or Nans as Lexy called her, had phoned with the offer, it had sounded like fun … at first. The current pastry chef had been taken ill, they were desperate for a temporary replacement—and they were willing to pay very well for it.
Still, Lexy wasn’t sure why she had accepted. She had her own bakery to run where she was the boss and didn’t have to listen to a pompous overpaid head chef berate her baking. But the promise of a free two week vacation in a rustic cabin with her fiancé, Jack, had won her over …
… And she had regretted it every day since.
“How’s this?” Deena stood back, indicating the pie plate.
Lexy tilted her head, inspecting the work. Deena had a part time job in the kitchen for the summer and Lexy had been training the enthusiastic teen on various baking techniques. Deena reminded Lexy of herself at that age—full of energy and eager to learn everything about baking. Training her was one of the few things she’d enjoyed about the temporary job and Deena was turning out to be a quick study.
“That looks great.” Lexy squatted down so that her eyes were level with the table, then turned the pie plate and pointed to one section. “It’s a teeny bit higher here.”
Deena looked at the pie plate from table level and nodded. “Oh yeah. I can see that from this angle.”
Lexy shrugged. “It just takes practice. You did a really good job for your first try.”
Deena beamed with pride. “Thanks. If you ask me, Chef Dugasse is just being a jerk. Your pie crust is delicious.”
Lexy agreed. Chef Dugasse was a jerk. He had been a thorn in her side since she took the position. She wasn’t the only one that thought so, either. Most of the staff was at odds with him and it was no wonder with the way he was always yelling and screaming at them.
But he was world renowned, and his food was excellent, so he could do as he pleased and the resort kept him on.
Lexy glanced around the kitchen. The resort itself dated to the 1940s, but the kitchen had been recently renovated. Billed as a rustic-campy get away with five star dining, the meals had to be cooked to perfection so the kitchen, which sat inside a gigantic antique log cabin structure, was top notch.
It would be a pleasure to work in it … if it wasn’t for the domineering presence of Chef Dugasse.
Dugasse’s voice thundered from the other side of the kitchen as if sensing Lexy’s thoughts. “Theeze eggs are not up to our standards! You vill throw them out and start over!”
Lexy turned in the direction of the screaming. Dugasse was in a white chef’s outfit complete with a tall hat. His six foot frame carried a three foot wide body, his gigantic bulk towering over a terrified first year cook, Thomas, who cowered in the corner. She watched as the head chef picked up the warming tray full of scrambled eggs and dumped them in the trash, then stormed off toward the back door that led outside.
Lexy saw Sylvia Spicer, Dugasse’s long suffering sous-chef, rush over to soothe the cook’s ruffled feathers. Sylvia’s eyes shot daggers at the retreating back of the head chef before she started toward the door after him.
Lexy turned back to Deena who was still looking in the direction of the cook, wide-eyed with terror and her heart clenched for the poor girl. Lexy didn’t see why Dugasse had to run the kitchen this way, almost everyone was terrified of him and it created an unpleasant work environment.
“Uh hum …”
Lexy turned toward the throat clearing noise to find one of the chefs, Brad Meltzer, standing next to her. Brad worshipped Dugasse and the head chef often took advantage of that by sending Brad to do his dirty work, which Brad appeared to delight in.
Brad was as thin as Dugasse was wide. He had narrow, beady eyes and a pointed face which made Lexy think of a weasel. He didn’t seem to like Lexy very much, which was fine with her since the feeling was mutual. Lexy raised an eyebrow at him.
“Dugasse says you have to make the cornbread for the Chili Battle.” Brad jerked his head toward the back of the room where Dugasse had just disappeared.
“Excuse me?”
“The Chili Battle. They have it every year and it’s a huge deal. The winner gets their own chili label to be sold nationally in grocery stores. Everyone knows Dugasse has a prize winning chili recipe so he’s a shoe in. But he needs a cornbread side and that’s where you come in.”
Lexy felt her cheeks growing warm, anger causing her pulse to pick up speed. Having your own chili label was worth a lot of money, not to mention the branding opportunities for the chef. But she didn’t see why she should have to put in extra hours to help make him rich and popular—not someone as mean spirited as Dugasse. She was sure he wouldn’t do the same to help her if the tables were turned.
“That’s not part of my job. I’m up to my eyeballs in pies and desserts here. I don’t have time to make cornbread so that Dugasse can win some contest.” She punctuated the chef’s name by slamming her palm on the counter a little bit harder than she probably should have.
Brad’s eyes grew wide. He took a step backwards and spread his hands at his sides. “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
Lexy swiveled her head toward the back of the room. Dugasse wasn’t there—he must still be outside.
“Sorry, Brad. I know that. But I’m sick and tired of being bossed around by Chef Dugasse.” She spun on her heels and started toward the kitchen door. “And I’m going to put a stop to it once and for all.”
* * *
Lexy felt the eyes of the entire kitchen staff drilling into her back as she stormed over to the door. A blast of cold air from the giant freezer that stood next to it did nothing to cool her anger as she ripped the screen door open and stepped outside.
It was still early in the morning, but the heat of the day was starting. Lexy’s hands clenched at her sides as she stood just outside the door ready to lay into the head chef.
Where was he?
Her eyes darted around the area, her heart pounding with anger. Straight ahead the woods full of tall pines was empty except for birds and squirrels. Normally, Lexy would delight in watching them scamper and fly about, but this morning she was too mad to notice.
To her left was a short path that led to the parking lot, to her right the dumpster, surrounded by the stench of rotting food.
Did he go somewhere with Sylvia? She’d thought she had seen the sous-chef head out here after him, but where could they be? Lexy cocked an ear to listen for their voices but didn’t hear anything except the flies buzzing around the dumpster.
Tentatively, she picked her way around the end of the large metal container. She peered around to see if they were on the other side, her breath catching when she saw a pair of chef’s clogs. But instead of the soles lying flat on the ground, they were sticking up as if the person were lying down.
Lexy raced to the other side of the dumpster. Her heart lurched up into her throat when she saw what lay on the other side. Chef Dugasse, lay on the ground—a big, shiny mahogany handled chef’s knife sticking straight up out of his chest.
Lexy threw herself down beside him, her anger at the chef forgotten. “Chef Dugasse?”
No response.
Her mind whirled. What should she do? Should she pull the knife out and try to stop the bleeding?
Lexy realized she should check for a pulse. She placed her fingers on his neck.
Nothing.
She bent over him, putting her ear to his mouth to see if she could hear him breathing.
Nothing.
She tried his wrist.
Nothing.
Lexy sat back on her heels with a sigh, realizing there was nothing she could do.
Chef Alain Dugasse was dead.
* * *
A scream pierced the air, interrupting Lexy from digging her cell phone out of her pocket. She whipped her head around to see Sylvia Spicer standing just behind her, hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
“You killed him!” Sylvia rushed over to Dugasse’s other side, slapping his face and lifting his arm.
“What? I did not kill him. I found him like this.” Lexy narrowed her eyes at Sylvia who had given up on the face slapping and arm lifting and was now staring at her over the chef’s body.
“Where were you?” Lexy asked.
“Me? I was in the kitchen.” Sylvia turned her attention back to the chef. “Should we hide the body?”
Lexy stared at the sous-chef as she pulled out her cell phone. “Hide the body? We can’t do that. We have to call the police.”
“Right, of course, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Sylvia pushed herself up and backed away from the body as if she just realized what it was.
Lexy made the 911 call while Sylvia paced back and forth, a whiff of musky perfume teased Lexy’s nose every time the sous-chef walked by.
“Did you kill him?” Sylvia asked after she had hung up the phone.
“No. Of course not.” Lexy studied Sylvia’s worried face as she paced back and forth, wringing her hands. “Did you?”
Sylvia stopped and looked at Lexy. “Me? I wasn’t even here.”
“But I saw you come out after him.” Lexy gestured toward the dead chef. “Right after he reamed out Thomas about the eggs.”
Sylvia’s brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I was in the freezer, cooling off. I was really mad so I went in there otherwise I might have killed him.”
Lexy’s teeth worked her bottom lip. She could have gone into the freezer, it was next to the door. And Lexy hadn’t actually seen her come outside.
“But you have blood all over your shirt.” Lexy pointed to Sylvia’s chef’s coat which was smudged with red. Had it been that way before she knelt next to the body? Lexy couldn’t remember, she had been too distracted.
“So do you.” Sylvia nodded at Lexy’s shirt. Lexy looked down and her heart froze. She did have blood all over her—much more than Sylvia.
“Well, of course I do. I bent over him to see if he was breathing.”
Sylvia stared at her. “Well, if you did kill him, you did all of us a favor.”
Lexy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I didn’t do it.”
Sylvia looked off toward the road as the sound of sirens split the air in the distance.
“Well, I don’t care whether you did or didn’t kill him, but my advice would be to get your ducks in a row.”
“Why is that?” Lexy wrinkled her forehead at the other woman.
“Because I don’t think the police are going to be very understanding when I have to tell them that I came out here to find you leaning over a dead body with blood all over your shirt.”
Chapter 2
It didn’t take long for word to get around and the kitchen staff crowded outside to see what was going on. Lexy was doing her best to keep them back from the crime scene when the police arrived.
“What’s going on here? Don’t you people know this is a crime scene? Haven’t any of you ever watched TV?”
A short, round man flashed a badge and the crowd parted to let him and his entourage through. He stopped short when he saw Lexy and Sylvia with their matching blood stains.
“And who might you be?” He ping-ponged his dark eyes between the two women, his brows slightly dipped in a question.
Lexy stepped forward and introduced herself, Sylvia followed suit. The man’s handshake was firm. He introduced himself as Detective Payne and the man beside him as his associate, Detective Wells.
They made an odd couple. Wells was over six feet tall, where Payne must have been only five foot six. Wells looked to be in his late twenties, Payne nearing sixty complete with partial balding and a protruding stomach. Wells looked professional in a dark blue tailor-made suit. Payne looked like a dork in a light blue polo shirt, and blue and red plaid Bermuda shorts.
“So you two found the victim?”
“Not me. She did.” Lexy’s stomach lurched as Sylvia pointed to her.
Payne swiveled his eyes toward Lexy. “So that’s how you got the blood on you?”
“Yes. I saw him lying there and rushed over to see if I could do some sort of first aid. I must have gotten the blood on me then.” Lexy’s stomach churned as she looked down at her shirt.
“Hmm …” Payne cut his eyes toward Wells, then walked back to the edge of the dumpster and looked at the kitchen door. “So, why were you out here, on this side of the dumpster?”
“What?” Lexy furrowed her brow at him, then remembered why she had walked around the dumpster. “Oh, I came out looking for the chef.”
Payne raised his brows. “Do you normally find him behind the dumpster?”
“No.” Lexy bit her lip. This wasn’t going good. Maybe she should stop talking now, before she got herself into trouble. “I thought he would be just outside the back door. But when I didn’t see him there, I peeked around and that’s when I saw his shoes.”
Payne scrunched up his face and walked over to the kitchen door. He made a big show of looking around, then came around the side of the dumpster.
“Oh yes.” He nodded, pointing the pencil he held in his hand at the shoes. “They stick right out.”
Lexy did a half smile and nodded as Payne came back over to them.
“And you?” Payne fixed his attention on Sylvia. “How did you get the blood on you?”
“I came out and saw chef on the ground and ran over to him to try to revive him. I didn’t realize that Lexy had already determined he was dead.”
Payne looked up at the sky, pursed his lips together and tapped them with the eraser end of the pencil.
“Yes, but what made you come all the way over to this side of the dumpster?”
Lexy saw a cloud pass over Sylvia’s blue eyes and her brows wrinkle slightly. “Well … I …” She looked toward the door, then back at the body. “I came outside to have a word with Chef Dugasse and heard the commotion over here, so naturally I came over to see what was going on.”
Commotion? Lexy didn’t remember making any commotion.
Someone jostled Lexy’s elbow—apparently a crime tech who was trying to do their job of cataloguing the scene. It was getting crowded around the body and Lexy shuffled closer to the dumpster to give them room.
Payne looked around, wrinkling his nose as if suddenly becoming aware of the crime scene investigators swarming the scene and the stench of the dumpster.
Payne pointed to Lexy and Sylvia. “Let’s finish this inside,” he said jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. He turned and started toward the door, almost tripping over an investigator that was scouring the ground for evidence. Wells fell in step behind him.
Lexy exchanged a raised eyebrow glance with Sylvia and followed them inside. The kitchen staff, who had been gathered in a circle, quickly dispersed to their various stations as soon as they entered the kitchen. Lexy realized that with Dugasse gone, Sylvia was now in charge.
Payne rambled over to the least crowded spot in the kitchen—the table where Lexy had been rolling the pie dough—and leaned against it. Wells stood to the side as if awaiting orders.
Payne looked down at a small spiral bound flip pad he had taken from his pocket when they were outside.
“Now, where were each of you when the murder happened?” Payne poised his pencil above the paper and widened his eyes at Lexy.
“Oh, I was right here. I was rolling pie dough and I saw chef over there.” Lexy pointed to the end of the kitchen where she had seen Dugasse yell at Thomas. “Then I saw him go outside. I didn’t go out until a few minutes later and found him with a knife in his chest.”
“And someone saw you here?”
“Yes, several people. My assistant Deena and another chef, Brad.”
Payne scribbled on the pad, then turned to Sylvia. “And you?”
“Well, I’m not sure exactly when he was murdered, but I went over to Thomas after Dugasse yelled at him, then I went into the freezer for a few minutes. When I went outside, he was already dead.”
Payne’s eyebrows mashed together. “Who is this Thomas?”
“He’s one of our cooks.” Sylvia looked around the room, then spotted Thomas by the sink and pointed him out to Payne. Payne gave Wells a slight nod and the other man headed off toward Thomas, presumably to harass him with his own line of questioning.
“And why was Mr. Dugasse yelling at him?” Payne pronounced the chef’s name as de-gassey and Lexy stifled a giggle.
“It’s pronounced doo-gah-say,” Sylvia said.
Payne made a face. “What?”
“The chef’s name. It’s pronounced doo-gah-say,” Sylvia repeated, then continued. “He didn’t like the eggs Thomas had prepared, thus the yelling.”
“And did this chef yell a lot?”
Lexy and Sylvia both nodded.
Payne looked up at the ceiling and tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his lips. “So, would you say he was unpopular?”
Lexy and Sylvia nodded again.
“And who would have wanted him dead the most?”
Lexy looked around the kitchen. The rest of the staff, who had been craning to hear what was being said, suddenly developed a keen interest in their various tasks. She felt a shiver run down her spine. The head chef had just been murdered, yet everyone was going about their business as if nothing had happened. Then again, the resort couldn’t shut the kitchen down. The meals were included in the price for paying guests so the food service had to continue uninterrupted.
No one liked the recently departed chef, but would anyone here have disliked him enough to kill him? She turned to look at Sylvia. If they didn’t bring in anyone from the outside to replace Dugasse, she’d benefit the most. Was a head chef’s position worth killing over?
She shrugged. “No one really liked him that much, but I don’t think anyone here would kill him.”
Payne tapped his pencil on his lips while he looked around the room. He narrowed his eyes at Lexy and Sylvia, his gaze moving to their bloodstained shirts.
“You were both out there with the body. Either one of you could have had time to thrust the knife into the chef … or both of you together. It only takes but a second.”
Lexy’s stomach dropped, anger flaring at the detective. But then she realized he was only drawing the logical conclusion … she’d probably think the same thing herself. Except she knew that she didn’t do it. Sylvia, she wasn’t so sure about.
Payne twisted his face into a grimace, making exaggerated sniffing noises. “What is that smell? Is something burning?”
Lexy sniffed. She did smell something burning. She whipped her head in the direction of her ovens, her heart clenching when she saw smoke streaming out of them.
“My pies!”
She ran to the ovens and jerked the doors open. A dark cloud of smoke billowed out. She shoved her hands in some oven mitts and batted at the smoke. Choking and coughing, she reached inside the oven and brought out twin flaming pies.
She dumped the pies in the sink, running water on them to douse the embers.
“You bake the pies?” Payne gestured to the other pies on the counter, the ones that weren’t blackened hunks of coal.
“Yes, I’m the pastry chef here.” Lexy tore off the oven mitts and tossed them on the counter, her spirits sinking. She’d have to work fast to get the right number of pies out in time for dinner and Payne was taking up valuable time.
“What kind of pies are these?”
“Huh?” Lexy scrunched her face at the detective who gestured at two of the pies she had finished earlier which were cooling on the counter. “Apple and blueberry.”
“And this one?” he asked pointing to one in the back.
“Lemon meringue.” Lexy wondered what this had to do with the dead chef.
Payne tapped his lips with the eraser end of his pencil. “May I?”
Lexy’s brow creased deeper. Was this guy for real? He wanted a piece of pie? Now?
She nodded slowly.
Payne reached over and grabbed a chef’s knife, cutting a large slice of pie. He looked at the knife as he pulled it out.
“This looks similar to the knife that killed your chef.” Lexy’s stomach clenched as Payne turned his dark eyes on her. She glanced over at her knives, her shoulders relaxing when she realized they were all there.
“Well, all my knives are accounted for, so it wasn’t one of mine that killed him.” She nodded toward the knife rack on the counter, then remembered the mahogany wood on the handle. “Besides, that knife had a mahogany handle … mine are rubber.”
Payne narrowed his eyes at the knife, then grabbed a plate from a stack of clean ones beside him and plopped the pie on it. His eyes darted around the counter, looking for something to eat the pie with. Lexy held out a plastic fork hoping to speed up the process and get rid of him.
“Mmm…’s good,” he mumbled around mouthfuls. Lexy shuffled her feet impatiently.
“Detective … the murder?” Wells appeared at Payne’s side, eyeing the piece of pie he was demolishing.
“Right,” Payne said, swiping a gob of meringue from the plate with his sausage-like finger and then licking it off. He put the plate down and consulted his flip pad.
“Chef Dugasse was murdered.” He announced the obvious, looking up from his pad. “And someone in this room is most likely the killer.”
All work in the kitchen ceased. All eyes turned to Payne.
“How do you know that?” Lexy asked.
“Well, you all had opportunity.” Payne looked around the room. “Since you were all here in the kitchen, anyone could have slipped out to do the killing.”
“But what about motive?” A voice from the other side of the kitchen cut in. Lexy cringed, recognizing the voice as her grandmother’s. It would be just like Nans to run on down here upon hearing there was a murder. Her grandmother had an odd hobby. She investigated murders and, judging by the gleam Lexy saw in the older woman’s eyes, she was right on top of this one.
Payne’s eyes lit up. “Very good Ma’am. Who here wanted the chef dead?”
His question was met with silence.
“No one? You all loved the chef?”
Most of the staff looked down at the floor, some shuffling their feet and many of them murmuring, “no”.
“You all didn’t like him, then?”
Lexy saw Brad step forward. He gave her bloody shirt a pointed glance.
“Some of us liked him, but many didn’t. Especially her.” Lexy’s heart lurched as Brad pointed straight at her. “In fact, right before Chef Dugasse was murdered, I heard her say she was going to put a stop to being bossed around by him once and for all.”
Chapter 3
It took an eternity for Payne and Wells to leave. The short detective bombarded Lexy with a series of questions, then warned her not to skip town before demanding her blood stained chef’s shirt as evidence.
Lexy glared over at Brad who watched them with a satisfied smirk on his face before she changed her shirt and put on one of the kitchen aprons.
Somewhere in the middle of questioning Nans had left, but not before demanding Lexy’s presence once she was done with her baking. Her grandmother seemed practically giddy with delight and Lexy figured she’d probably have the large rustic cabin she shared with two of her friends turned into some sort of command center to use for running the investigation by the time she got there.
Lexy got busy rolling out dough. She needed twenty pies for the dinner service and all that questioning had taken up valuable pie-making time. She worked at breakneck speed since she didn’t want to waste the whole day in the kitchen.
“I can’t believe Brad ratted you out like that,” Deena said, cutting her eyes toward Brad.
Lexy pursed her lips. “Yeah, what a jerk.” Then looking up at Deena’s wide eyes, she added, “I didn’t kill him.”
“Oh, I know that,” Deena said, then leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Do you think it was someone in here?”
Lexy glanced around the kitchen. Sylvia had easily slipped into the role of head chef and was overseeing the food preparations. She had to admit that Sylvia was much more pleasant than Dugasse. Could she be the killer?
Everyone else seemed to be focused on their job. No one was acting like they had just stabbed someone.
“I don’t know. The police seemed to think so, but it could have been anyone, really.”
“Yeah, someone could have come from the woods and killed him. I bet a guy like that had a lot of enemies,” Deena said as she turned to put two more pies in the oven.
Lexy glanced out the kitchen window at the large section of woods behind the dining lodge. Someone could have come from the woods. There were several paths out there.
“I heard he was behind the dumpster. What was he doing there?” Deena started pouring the filling into more pie shells.
Lexy bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
What was he doing behind the dumpster? She’d assumed the chef had gone out for a smoke, but usually the smokers stayed right outside the kitchen door. There would be no reason for him to go behind the dumpster … unless he was lured there or had some sort of secret meeting and didn’t want to be seen.
Lexy finished rolling out the last of the pie dough, cut it into two circles, and quickly fitted them into pie plates for Deena to fill.
“Can you fill these and bake them, then set them to cool? I need to take off,” Lexy said as she untied her apron.
“No problem.” Deena nodded, getting to work with the pie filling.
Lexy bunched up her apron and threw it in the clothes hamper as she headed toward the door.
She was in a hurry to get to Nans. This case had a lot of angles to it and she’d feel much better if someone competent was looking into it. She didn’t know if she trusted the pie eating Detective Payne, but she did know that Nans and her friends were good at solving crimes. They’d even helped the police department back home—where her fiancé, Jack, was a homicide detective—solve several cases.
Plus, she figured, it couldn’t hurt to do some investigating of her own. It might help solve the case more quickly and she wanted to make sure the real killer was caught … especially since she seemed to be the one that was at the top of Payne’s suspect list.
* * *
Lexy stopped outside the dining hall, taking a deep breath to calm herself from the stresses of the morning. She was no stranger to dead bodies. In fact, she seemed to come across them frequently, much to the dismay of her fiancé … and the delight of her grandmother. But still, it was never pleasant to find someone dead … or to become the number one suspect.
Starting down the hill, she tried to push the image of Chef Dugasse with a knife sticking out of his chest from her mind. Instead, she focused on the scene in front of her.
The dining lodge was at the top of a hill with panoramic views of the rest of the resort. Lexy looked out over the pristine lake which was dotted with kayaks and canoes. Sunlight glinted off the deep blue waters. The peaceful sound of chirping birds filled the air and the smell of pine permeated her nostrils adding to the tranquil scene.
The resort was all about nature and relaxation. The roads were dirt, more like paths and people rarely drove cars on them—only to get to their cottages and to leave the resort. Most people walked or drove small golf carts inside the complex and the absence of the drone of car engines added to the peaceful feeling.
Quaint, rustic cottages painted in reds, blues, whites and greens—their shutters with cutouts of pine trees sat along the roadways. Most of them had porches complete with rockers and the yards were bursting with colorful displays of flowers. Lexy could see hammocks swinging in the breeze and wished she had time to relax in one.
Turning left on Aspen Lane, she headed toward Nans’ cottage which was one of the largest in the resort. It sat at the very end of the street and had a huge front porch on which Nans and her three friends, Ruth, Ida and Helen were waiting.
“Lexy, are you okay?” Ruth hugged her.
“Come inside dear, we made some tea.” Helen held the door to the cottage open and ushered Lexy inside.
“Tell us all about finding the body.” Ida scooted a chair out from the wide pine table that sat next to a large window on one side of the room, indicating for Lexy to sit.
Ruth appeared at her side with a steaming cup of tea and then all four ladies took their seats around the table, staring at Lexy with wide, excited eyes.
Lexy sipped her tea and looked around the room. It resembled the squad room from an episode of Castle. There was a giant white board with a picture of Chef Dugasse on it and different columns of information. Papers were piled up on a nearby desk. Nans’ iPad was charging on the coffee table.
“Where did you guys get that?” Lexy waved at the white board.
“Oh, Norman brought us to Staples and helped us with it,” Ida said referring to her fiancé who had accompanied her on vacation. They had a small cottage near the lake while Nans, Ruth and Helen shared this one. Lexy and Jack had their own cottage a few streets over, which they shared with Lexy’s white Poodle mix, Sprinkles.
The thought of her dog made Lexy smile and she glanced at her watch. She’d better hurry, she wanted to take Sprinkles for a walk before dinner and she should spend some time with Jack …
“Tell us everything you know about the murder.” Nans interrupted Lexy’s thoughts.
“There’s not much to tell. I went out to talk to Chef Dugasse—I had seen him go outside earlier. When he wasn’t outside the door, I looked a little further and I saw his shoes on the other side of the dumpster, toes up. I ran over and there he was with a knife in his chest.”
“You didn’t see anyone else, or hear anything?”
Had she?
“I’m not sure, I was so distraught at finding him like that, I really wasn’t thinking.”
“So he was already dead?” Helen went over to the white board.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And what time was that?”
Lexy gnawed on her bottom lip. “I’m not sure, I didn’t look at my watch or anything, but it was probably about five or ten minutes before I called 911.”
Lexy pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and looked through the sent calls. “The 911 call was sent at eight twelve.”
Helen wrote the time on the white board.
Nans got up from her chair. “So, you went out the door and looked for the chef?”
“Yes, I already said that.”
Nans held up her finger. “When you didn’t see him, you looked around the dumpster.” Nans mimed looking around an imaginary dumpster in the middle of the room.
“Yep.” Lexy nodded.
Helen scribbled something on the board.
“Then you saw his shoes and ran around to the other end of the dumpster?”
“Yeees ...”
Nans ran around the imaginary dumpster, threw her hands up in mock surprise and then knelt on the ground. “Like this?”
Lexy nodded and sipped more tea.
Ida went over beside Nans and looked down at the imaginary body. “You checked his pulse—he was dead. What else did you do?”
Lexy shut her eyes, trying to remember exactly what happened. “I checked his pulse—his neck and wrist and then I leaned over to see if he was breathing … and that’s when Sylvia came out.”
“Sylvia, the sous-chef?” Ruth wrinkled her brow at Lexy.
Lexy nodded.
“She was out there?” Ruth asked.
Lexy nodded again.
“Won’t she get the head chef position, now that Dugasse is dead?”
Another nod.
“Then she could be our killer!” Ruth went over to the white board and added Sylvia’s name under the ‘Suspects’ column.
“Which direction did Sylvia come from?” Ida asked
Lexy pursed her lips. “She came from behind me … I didn’t see exactly where, but I assumed she came out the kitchen door.”
“But she could have been hiding on the other side of the dumpster after killing the chef,” Nans said.
The ladies murmured their agreement.
“She had means, motive and opportunity!” Helen punctuated the last word by jamming the cap onto her white board marker.
“Well now, let’s not get too excited,” Nans said. “We can’t call the case closed without doing a proper investigation.”
“Right.” Helen took the cap off her marker and posed her hand over the white board. “Who else do we have for suspects?”
Everyone looked at Lexy.
“What?”
“Who else would have wanted your chef dead? Did he have enemies?” Nans asked.
“He was mean to everyone in the kitchen, but I don’t think that would be a reason to kill him … unless he really pissed someone off. He was yelling at Thomas right before he was killed but Thomas didn’t leave the kitchen.” Lexy’s eyebrows mashed together. “But I did see Sylvia heading toward the door after the chef.”
“Aha! So she was out there,” Helen said.
“Well, she said she was in the freezer. The freezer door is next to the door that leads outside. I didn’t actually see her open either of the doors.” Lexy shrugged.
“But she could be lying,” Nans pointed out.
“Sounds like we’ll have to do some digging to see if anyone besides Sylvia would have had motive.” Ida picked up the iPad and powered it on. “Are there any surveillance cameras in the kitchen? Ones we could use to see exactly where Sylvia did go?”
“I don’t think so. The kitchen is pretty old and low tech. But I can ask Thomas, he might have seen where she went,” Lexy offered.
“What about the murder weapon?” Ruth asked.
“It was a standard chef’s knife,” Lexy said. “Thankfully all of mine are accounted for, plus the handle on that knife was different from mine.”
“Yours are accounted for, but were anyone else’s missing?” Nans wrinkled her brow at Lexy.
“I don’t know.” Lexy bit her lip trying to picture the kitchen. Most of the chefs had their own personal set of knives, too bad she hadn’t thought to look to see if anyone was missing one.
“You should check that out tomorrow,” Ruth said. “In the meantime, we’ll see what we can dig up online about Chef Dugasse and ask around about any potential enemies.”
“What did you think of the detective in charge of the case?” Nans turned to Lexy.
Lexy made a face. “Not much. He seemed more interested in eating pie than finding the killer … which he seemed convinced might be me.”
“Well, don’t you worry. We’ll find the real killer in no time, isn’t that right, girls?” Nans turned to Ida, Ruth and Helen who all nodded.
Lexy stared at the four women, their cheeks flushed with excitement. She had to hand it to them. They were in their 80s and still sharp as a tack. With several successful investigations under their belts, they’d had great success solving murders back home. They’d even given themselves a name—The Ladies Detective Club.
Lexy felt a momentary pang when she realized this was supposed to be a vacation for them and she was causing them to have to work when they should be relaxing on the beach.
“I really appreciate you guys doing this, but I don’t want to ruin your vacation,” Lexy said taking her tea cup to the sink.
The ladies looked at each other and Nans spoke. “Don’t be silly. Vacations are nice and all, but to tell you the truth, we were getting kind of bored.”
“Yeah, we need to keep our brains active,” Ruth said.
“Who wants to lie on the beach when we could be tracking down a killer?” Ida rubbed her hands together.
“That’s right,” Helen said. “Now you run along and let us get to work.”
Lexy felt her shoulders relax. She smiled at the women. “Thanks, I do feel a lot better knowing you guys are on the case.”
She was in the middle of hugging them when the chirping of birds erupted from her pocket. She dug out her cell phone and her heart clenched. It was Jack.
She’d been dreading explaining the morning’s events to him. He took a dim view of her getting mixed up in murder cases, and they’d had more than one fight over her investigating cases with Nans and the Ladies Detective Club. This time she was going to have to put her foot down.
She was a prime suspect and didn’t want to depend on the bumbling Detective Payne to find the real killer. She hated to do anything that would jeopardize her vacation with Jack … or their engagement … but she was determined to investigate this one with Nans and the ladies, whether Jack wanted her to nor not.
Chapter 4
“… and I seem to be the prime suspect.” Lexy studied Jack’s handsome face as she steeled herself for a lecture on the dangers of getting involved in murder investigations.
She felt her brows knit together as Jack smiled at her. He’d listened patiently while she’d relayed the morning’s events, including the part about how Nans had turned her cottage into a crime investigation center. She’d expected him to be mad, but he was sitting there as calm as could be, changing out the reels on his fishing pole.
“So, you don’t trust this detective … what’s his name?” Jack asked.
“Payne. Do you know him?”
As a homicide detective himself, Jack knew a lot of the other detectives in the state. Lexy was hoping that if Jack knew Payne, he might be able to get some information on the investigation.
Jack shook his head. “Never heard of him. But if you and Nans are on the case, I’m sure you’ll ferret out the real killer.”
Lexy stared at him. “You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
Lexy narrowed her eyes. “Usually you get mad when I get involved in these types of things with Nans.”
Jack put down his fishing rod and came over to her, putting his hands on her upper arms.
“Lexy, I’ve come to realize that you’re going to do what you are going to do no matter what I say. I can’t fight it. So, I’ll just have to trust that you won’t do anything dangerous.” He put his thumb on her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. “Right?”
“Right.” Her heart melted at the look of concern in his eyes. He bent his head, brushing his lips against hers and her stomach flip-flopped. She snaked her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him.
“Woof!”
Her dog, Sprinkles, jumped at her leg, stealing her attention from Jack. Lexy reluctantly released Jack and bent down to pet the little dog who was pawing at her calf.
“Hi Sprinkles. You want to go for a walk?”
The dog barked, jumped in the air and spun around.
“I guess that’s a yes.” Jack laughed. “Let’s leash her up and take her out. I have a few hours before evening fishing.”
Lexy crossed their small cabin and picked Sprinkles’ harness and leash off the hook by the door, then put them on the small white dog which was quite a feat considering that Sprinkles was wiggling and jumping the whole time.
“Where do you want to go?” Jack asked.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I wanted to check out the trails behind the dining hall. Payne thinks the killer was someone in the kitchen, but the murderer could have come from one of those trails. There are several that lead right to the dumpster area.”
“So you’re thinking Dugasse might have had a rendezvous with someone, or he was lured back there?” Jack opened the cottage door for Lexy and Sprinkles tugged her outside.
“Exactly.” Lexy’s heart soared. Jack seemed eager to help with the case which was a huge win for both the case and their relationship.
“Okay, let’s take this trail.” Jack indicated a trail next to their cottage that led up the hill and Lexy started toward it.
Sprinkles led the way, prancing eagerly up the path, stopping every so often to sniff something. Lexy was grateful for the tall pine trees that provided a cool respite from the hot afternoon sun. She breathed in the thick woodsy smell, watching the chipmunks scurry through the leaves. Her flip flops slapped the backs of her heels as they navigated the path.
She’d walked this path before, but she’d never really paid attention. She looked at the slats of sunlight that filtered through the trees and realized the whole forest was a warren of trails.
“There’s so many paths, the killer could have taken any of them.”
“True, but the trick is finding which one is most likely. That’s assuming the killer did use one of the trails to make his getaway.”
“Well, what do you think? If this was your investigation, what would you do?”
“The paths are one angle to investigate. But I’d start where I always do—with the family.” Jack glanced at Lexy. “Did Dugasse have a wife?”
“I’m not sure.” Lexy pursed her lips trying to remember if she’d ever heard of a wife or any other family.
“Well, if he did, that’s a good place to start. Then find out if he had any enemies, look into his finances. That’s all pretty standard, I’m sure Nans has that covered.” Jack smiled down at her.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, stopping with Sprinkles whenever she found something interesting to sniff or wanted to mark her territory. Lexy wondered how the dog seemed to have an endless supply for territory marking.
Lexy could see a small clearing up ahead. “Isn’t that the dining hall?”
“Yeah, let’s check it out.”
Lexy turned in that direction and Sprinkles was only too happy to lead the way, her nose twitching in the air as she smelled the aroma of roasting meat from the kitchen.
Lexy stopped at the head of the path. She could see the dumpster about twenty feet away, roped off by yellow crime scene tape.
“So, that’s the scene of the crime,” Jack said it as a statement.
“Yeah, he was lying right there.” Lexy shivered and Jack put his arm around her.
“I’m sorry you had to find him like that. It must have been awful for you.”
Lexy shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t fun, but I guess I must be getting used to finding bodies since it didn’t affect me nearly as much as the others.”
Jack cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything.
Lexy looked around the area where four paths met. “So, Detective … which path is the most likely?”
“Well, the path we just came on leads out to the street near our cottage. The killer could have run down the path and no one would have noticed.” He pointed to the path across from them. “That one goes parallel to the parking lot, I think.”
“Yes, and you can see most of it from there, so the killer probably didn’t take that one. Plus you have to go past the kitchen door and someone would have probably noticed him.”
“That leaves these two paths here.” Jack pointed to two trails that forked off deeper into the woods.
“I don’t know where those go. Should we take one?”
“Well, if I was running the investigation, I’d have my people scouring each path for evidence.” Jack frowned at the crime scene tape over by the dumpster. “But it looks like Payne is only searching the dumpster area.”
Lexy’s brows knit together. It seemed like Payne wasn’t even covering the basics. Another reason to investigate it herself.
“Do you know if he had his people look at the paths?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know but I can ask around. Maybe I will suggest it to him.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that will impress him,” Jack said dryly, then started down one of the paths. “Let’s take this one and see where it leads. Keep a close eye on the ground and see if you can pick out anything unusual.”
“Unusual? Like what?”
“A button, a scrap of paper, a shoe print. Anything that wouldn’t naturally be there.”
Lexy followed him down the path. She stared at the ground looking for a clue which was difficult with Sprinkles pulling her this way and that. After a few minutes, they came to a dead end.
Lexy’s stomach dropped.
“That’s it? The path just ends?” She looked around for another path, but found only thick woods—too thick to walk through.
“I guess the killer wouldn’t have taken this one.” Jack shrugged and started back the way they had come.
“If he did take a path, then it must have been the fourth one,” Lexy said.
Jack stopped and looked at his watch. “Maybe, but I need to get back and get my fishing gear ready to go fishing this evening. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk that path alone this close to dusk. Maybe we could walk it another time?”
Lexy felt her back go stiff, her shoulders tense. She hated being told what to do, but Jack was right. It probably wasn’t smart to follow the path a killer might have taken alone.
Jack pulled her over to him. His right hand massaged her neck, melting all the tension she had felt a moment ago.
“Besides…” His left hand traced the waistband of her shorts. She sucked in a breath, her stomach tingling as he pulled the shorts away from her stomach just an inch and peered down. “I was hoping to get a look at your tan lines before I head out.”
Chapter 5
Lexy woke up early the next day. She had to make five batches of brownies and several dozen cannoli and she wanted to get a head start. Plus she wanted to get in early to get a good look at the knife situation.
She entered by the dining hall front door, then went through the double stainless steel doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. The doors opened to the end of the kitchen opposite from her baking station. Taking her time walking down the middle, she glanced around at each chef’s station feeling more disappointed the further she went. It looked like all the knives were in place.
Donning her apron, she gathered, flour, cocoa, eggs, salt, vanilla, sugar and butter and brought them over to the giant mixer on the counter. Unlike her bakery where she usually made small batches, the dining hall was set up to feed large groups of people at once. The kitchen was used for cooking in bulk and she could mix gigantic batches, then pour several pans of brownies and bake them at once.
Deena came in just as Lexy was measuring the last of the ingredients into the gigantic mixing bowl.
“Is that for the brownies?” Deena stood on her tiptoes to peer into the bowl.
“Yep. I came in a little early to get things started.” Lexy turned on the mixer. “But this will work out good because we can put the brownies in the oven and then get straight to work on showing you how to roll the cannoli shells.”
Lexy felt a smile tug the corners of her mouth when she saw the teen’s eyes light up. She remembered back to when her biggest worry was learning to roll the thin pastry correctly, unlike today when she had to worry about things like being arrested for a murder she didn’t commit.
Lexy checked the mixer to make sure everything was mixed thoroughly. The smell of chocolate wafted up and her stomach nagged her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She shut the mixer off and wrestled the bowl out of the stand.
“I’ll pour and you can hold the pans.”
Deena grabbed the side of an oversized brownie pan while Lexy struggled with the heavy bowl, somehow managing to pour the batter in without dropping the whole thing. They repeated the process for four other pans, then Deena ran them to the oven which Lexy had already preheated.
Lexy turned toward the fridge, intending to get the cannoli dough she had made the day before and bumped right into Thomas.
“Oh, sorry—I didn’t see you.” She put her hand on his arm to steady herself. “I hope you are doing okay after … you know … yesterday.”
“Oh yeah. That was disturbing.” The young man stepped back from Lexy, his eyes darting around the kitchen.
“Yes. Well, chef didn’t have any right to yell at you like that.”
Thomas' face turned red. “Surely, you don’t think that I … I—”
“Of course not.” Lexy interrupted him. “I know you didn’t even leave the kitchen. But I was wondering …”
Thomas raised his brows at her.
Lexy leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Did you see where Sylvia went after she talked to you?”
Thomas wrinkled his face, sucking in his bottom lip and running his teeth over it. “I don’t remember. I don’t think I was watching her … I was too busy trying to get more eggs made for breakfast.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks,” Lexy said.
Thomas nodded and scurried off. Lexy continued on to the fridge. She let out a sigh as she searched for the dough. If Thomas didn’t see where Sylvia went maybe someone else did. But who?
Deena was waiting at the table when Lexy returned with two balls of dough. She handed one to the teen. They floured the table and their rolling pins, then started rolling the dough.
“You didn’t happen to notice where Sylvia went yesterday … after that whole incident with Thomas, did you?” Lexy asked.
Deena stopped rolling, her brow creased in concentration. “No, I wasn’t looking that way. But I think my friend Jules was over near there. I can ask her if you want.”
“That would be great.” Lexy felt her heartbeat pick up speed a notch. She remembered being a teen and how they used to gossip about everything going on in the kitchen. The teen network here could be a valuable resource and she had an “in” with Deena. “Actually anything you can find out about that day … or Chef Dugasse would be helpful.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll ask around.” Deena looked up from rolling the dough and whispered, “On the sly.”
“Thanks,” Lexy said, giving her dough one final pass with the rolling pin.
“I like to roll the dough about one eighth inch thick.” Lexy held up the edge of her dough as an example. “That will make the shells nice and crispy.”
Deena nodded rolling her dough to the same thickness.
“Okay, good.” Lexy grabbed a round stainless steel cookie cutter from a drawer and handed it to Deena. “Now cut the dough with this … that will make the shells.”
Deena pressed the cookie cutter into the dough, cut a circle, then placed it down again as close to the previous cut as possible so as to make the most use of the dough they had rolled out. Lexy felt a swell of pride—she’d taught her well.
Lexy cracked an egg into a little bowl and beat it with a metal whisk, then added a teaspoon of water and beat it some more. She grabbed the cannoli form—a round stainless steel tube that was about one inch across.
When Deena was done punching out the dough, Lexy picked one of the circles up.
“Okay, this is easy. You just take the dough and wrap it around the cylinder.” She wrapped the dough so just a tiny piece of the edge overlapped.
“Then you take the pastry brush, brush some egg wash on the edges and press them lightly together so it doesn’t come unwrapped when you fry it.” She illustrated with the brush then handed the form to Deena.
“Now you try it,” Lexy said.
Deena gingerly picked up a form, then a circle of dough. Lexy watched her wrap it, a little off center but still not bad for a first try. She was dipping the brush in the egg wash to help wet the edges when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Looks like we’re having cannoli for dessert!” Nans navigated the kitchen, carefully stepping on the rubber mats. Ida, Helen and Ruth followed along behind her.
“Hi!” Lexy greeted the ladies. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, you know, we were in the neighborhood …” Nans gave the kitchen a sweeping glance, then leaned in toward Lexy and lowered her voice. “We were wondering if you made any progress.”
Lexy frowned. “Not really, but I’m working on it. Do you guys want some brownies? I’m just about to take them out of the oven.”
Nans held her hands at chest level, palms out. “None for me, thanks.”
Ruth, Ida and Helen shook their heads. Lexy narrowed her eyes at them. It wasn’t like the ladies to turn down a dessert.
She left Deena to the cannoli shells and went to the oven. She was bent over, trying to lift the large pan out when she sensed someone behind her. Straightening, she spun around, her heart jumping when she saw Brad standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a not very friendly way.
“I see you’re still here even after yesterday,” he said.
Lexy put her hands on her hips, anger pulsing in her veins. “And why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s awfully suspicious that you stormed off after chef yesterday and then he ends up dead … with his blood on your shirt.” Brad glanced over toward her knife set.
“Yes, my knives are all there,” Lexy said taking the brownie pan out of the oven and slamming it on the counter. “So my knife was not the one that killed Dugasse.”
“Really?” Brad raised an eyebrow at her. “It sure seemed like you were mad. And you had the opportunity. You could have used any of the knives from the kitchen …”
Lexy ignored him, turning back to the oven.
Brad glared at her. “What’s a’matter? Don’t have a snippy answer for that one eh?”
“Don’t you have some work to do?” she shot over her shoulder.
Brad started toward the front of the kitchen then turned back to Lexy. “Enjoy what time you have left in the kitchen … I heard Payne is here and he might be ready to make an arrest.”
Lexy’s heart clenched. Surely Payne didn’t have any evidence to arrest her with?
“What was that all about?” Nans stared at Brad’s retreating back.
“I have no idea. Yesterday he made a big deal out of telling Payne that I had stormed out after Dugasse vowing to stop him once and for all … or something like that.”
“And did you?”
Lexy cringed. “Well, I guess I did … but I didn’t mean I was going to stop him by killing him!”
“Oh, so you didn’t kill him?” A voice behind Lexy made her jump and she whirled around coming face to face with Detective Payne in a white polo shirt and a new pair of plaid Bermuda shorts—these in purple and yellow.
“No. I. Did. Not,” Lexy said, taking another tray of brownies out of the oven and slamming them on the counter.
Payne’s eyebrows went up. “Are these brownies?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Are you going to cut them?”
“Yes.”
Payne grabbed a plate from the stack near the sink and held it out to Lexy who felt her mouth hanging open. Was he serious? She was about to give him a piece of her mind when she remembered Nans’ old saying about catching more flies with honey then vinegar. Maybe if she kept giving the detective pastries, he wouldn’t want to arrest her.
She took the plate, grabbed a knife—not a chef’s knife like the one that killed Dugasse, a smaller one—and cut neat rows in the pan. Then she removed an extra-large brownie, put it on the plate and handed it to Payne, forcing herself to smile in the process.
“So, Detective … what brings you here? Do you have more questions?” Lexy asked after he’d taken a few bites and mumbled his approval.
“Mmmm …” Payne put the plate down and blotted his lips with a tissue he took from his pocket. “Yes, of course. I did come here for a reason. It seems some new evidence has come to light.”
Lexy’s stomach clenched. “It has?”
“Yes.” Payne turned to face the rest of the kitchen and raised his voice. “There is a new suspect … someone who has been seen sneaking up to the kitchen on several occasions.”
The kitchen grew silent, everyone stopping their tasks and turning to look at Payne. Lexy’s heart thudded with anticipation.
“And that person is in the room right now.” Payne slowly looked at everyone in the room, his pencil poised in the air as he surveyed the area.
“Who is it?” someone asked.
“It is …” Payne suddenly stopped, then whirled in the direction of Nans and her friends. He stabbed his pencil out toward them.
“Ruth Weston!”
Chapter 6
Payne’s words hit Lexy like a punch in the gut and she whirled around to look at Ruth along with everyone else in the kitchen.
Ruth’s hand fluttered around her throat, her face turning an unhealthy shade of red.
Nans, Ida and Helen all said “Ruth!” at the same time.
Lexy turned back to Payne. “That’s got to be some sort of mistake. Why would Ruth be sneaking up to the kitchen?”
“It is no mistake. I have it on good authority.” Payne picked up the plate and shoved the rest of the brownie in his mouth.
Lexy narrowed her eyes at the room wondering who would have said such a thing. Her gaze came to rest on Brad who was leaning against the sink, arms crossed on his chest, a smirk on his face.
“Ruth, tell him that’s not true,” Nans said.
“I … well … I can’t,” Ruth stammered.
“What? Why can’t you?” Nans asked.
“Because,” Ruth looked down at the floor, “it’s true.”
“What?” Ida gasped. “But why would you be sneaking around here?”
Ruth’s chest heaved as she took in a deep breath. She looked up at Nans. “I was sneaking rolls.”
“Rolls!” Helen said sharply.
Ruth’s face turned even deeper red.
Lexy’s brow creased. “Why would you have to sneak up to the kitchen for rolls?”
“Oh, it’s this darn Paleo diet. It’s killing me!” Ruth said.
“What? What Paleo diet?” Lexy cut her eyes to Nans.
“We’ve been on the Paleo diet. You know eating like a cave man? It’s supposed to be very good for you and help slow down aging. God knows we can use all the help we can get in that area,” Nans said.
“So, we’re sworn off baked goods. We agreed to eat only meat, fruits, nuts and vegetables. Didn’t we Ruth?” Helen turned to Ruth whose face got even redder.
That explained why they didn’t want the brownies, Lexy thought.
“But what’s that have to do with Chef Dugasse?” Lexy asked.
“Nothing,” Ruth said. “I didn’t even know the chef. I was just sneaking over for rolls. Jules would give them to me.”
Lexy looked at Payne. “This seems pretty flimsy. Why does that make Ruth a suspect?”
“My source told me she was very sneaky like she didn’t want to be seen. In my book, that’s suspicious.”
“Well, maybe Jules can corroborate Ruth’s story.”
“Which of you is Jules?” Payne bellowed out into the room.
A young, blonde girl stepped forward, her eyes flitting around the room.
“I am,” she squeaked.
Payne made circling motions with his pencil. “Well, tell us. Did you give Ruth the rolls?”
“Yes, she came the past three mornings. Early. Said not to tell anyone.”
“And did she fraternize with Chef Dugasse?”
“No, sir.” Jules picked at the strings fraying from her apron pocket. “She just poked her head in the door and asked for a couple of rolls and some butter.”
“At the back door?” Payne pointed his pencil to the door that led out to the dumpster.
Jules nodded.
Payne turned to Ruth. “And did you see Chef Dugasse … or anyone else out there?”
“No.” Ruth shook her head.
Payne looked up at the ceiling, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on his lips in the familiar gesture that Lexy took to mean he was “thinking”.
“What time was this?” he asked.
Ruth glanced at the other ladies. “I wanted to eat the rolls and get back before Helen and Mona got up so I always came at seven thirty on the dot.”
Payne did more pencil tapping on his lips. “The medical examiner places the time of death between seven forty-five and eight fifteen. So that would be too early to kill the chef … unless you lurked around the dumpster, killed him and then went back to your cottage.”
“That’s impossible.” Nans cut in earning a raised eyebrow look from Payne. “We have our alarms set for seven fifty am precisely and Ruth was already there when mine went off. So she wouldn’t have had time to kill the chef and get back to the cottage.”
Ruth turned to Nans, Ida and Helen. “I’m so sorry if I let you down. But I just couldn’t go without bread!”
Helen grabbed her hand. “That’s okay, Ruth. To tell you the truth, I snuck a Mounds bar the other day.”
“I ate some animal crackers at the beach,” Nans added.
“And I snuck one of Norman’s scones,” Ida confessed.
“Ladies! Ladies!” Payne waved his arms. “Let’s stick to the morning of the murder.”
Nans, Ruth, Ida and Helen turned their attention back to Payne.
“Now, you came from the parking lot to the back door?” Payne asked.
Ruth nodded.
“You didn’t come up the path by the dumpster?”
“No.”
“And did you see anything unusual while you were there?”
Ruth scrunched up her face. “I’m not sure this has anything to do with your investigation, but the parking lot is usually quite empty at that time of morning … except yesterday there was a very unusual car in the lot. It stuck right out.
Payne made impatient circling motions with his pencil. “Are you going to tell us what it looked like?”
“It was a pink Cadillac. I’ve never seen one before. It was quite striking.”
“Who here has a pink Cadillac?” Payne said looking around the room.
No one fessed up.
“No one knows who owns such a car?”
Everyone shook their head. Payne scribbled in his notebook. Lexy tapped her foot impatiently.
“Are we done here?” Lexy asked.
“Not quite …” Payne eyed the brownies.
“But Ruth is free to go, right?” Nans asked.
“Yes, I suppose she is in the clear,” Payne said reaching into his pocket and producing a business card which he handed to Ruth. “If you remember anything else that might be useful, give me a call.”
Ruth took the card and the women started toward the door with Nans miming instructions to Lexy to meet her at their cottage when she was done.
Lexy tried to go back to cutting the rest of the brownies only to be interrupted by the annoying detective.
“I do have some bad news for you,” he said to Lexy. “Sylvia Spicer says she found you standing over the body so if there’s anything you want to tell me …”
Lexy felt her cheeks grow warm, she glanced over at Sylvia her stomach tightening with anger.
“Why would I kill him?” She turned back to Payne. “If you ask me, Sylvia had more of a motive—with Dugasse gone, she gets promoted to head chef … and I saw her heading in the direction of the door right before I went out and found him dead.”
Payne’s brows shot up, he scribbled in his book. “She said she was in the freezer.”
Lexy shrugged. “Well wouldn’t you say that, too, if you didn’t want to be suspected of murder?”
Payne tapped the eraser on his lips. “Yes, I guess I would.”
He reached over, took another brownie and then started in the direction of the door. After taking two steps, he turned around jabbing the brownie in her direction.
“I still have more clues to put together, but I’d say it doesn’t look so good for you. I’ve done some digging and I know you’ve been involved in other murders.”
Lexy started to protest and he held his hand up to silence her.
“I know, you were never charged with any of them, but it seems rather suspicious to me that you’re always around when a dead body shows up.” He leaned in toward her, his dark eyes drilling into hers. “I’m going to be looking into you very carefully. Rest assured that if you had something to do with this murder, your detective boyfriend won’t be able to get you out of it this time.”
Chapter 7
It was noon by the time Lexy and Deena stuffed the last cannoli shell with her sweet ricotta recipe. She threw her apron into the bin, said good-bye to Deena and grabbed a cannoli on her way out the door.
She took the same path to Nan’s cottage as she had the day before. This time she was more focused on the sweet creamy pastry than the scenery. The hours spent over the Fry-O-Lator had paid off. The shell was perfectly crunchy. They were sure to be a big hit at tonight’s dinner. Speaking of which, Lexy realize she’d better hurry if she wanted to have some beach time with Jack before they had to come back to the dining hall to eat.
She shoved the rest of the cannoli in her mouth, wiped her hands together and sprinted the rest of the way to Nans.
The four ladies turned as Lexy tapped lightly on the screen then let herself in. She glanced at the white board and noticed they had added a column labeled ‘clues’ and put ‘pink Cadillac’ under it and had updated the ‘Dugasse’ column with the time of death.
“Did Payne say anything enlightening after we left?” Nans was all business.
“Not really.” Lexy sunk into the old slip covered sofa that faced the white board and studied the columns.
“Let’s go through the board and you can tell us about any new information,” Nans said to Lexy.
“Did you find out about any enemies or any rumors about Chef Dugasse?”
Lexy shook her head. “Nothing so far. I have Deena asking around. You know how teens are, they see a lot more than the rest of us.”
Nans nodded, then pointed to the ‘Crime Scene’ column. “Do you know what they might have found for evidence?”
“Other than the knife? No. But Jack said, if it was his case, he would be scouring the trails for evidence and it doesn’t look like Payne is doing that. We walked a couple of them yesterday and didn’t find a thing, but there’s one more I want to check out … maybe you guys could go with me?”
“Sure,” Nans said, looking at the others who nodded their agreement.
“I wish we knew if they found anything out by the dumpsters,” Helen said. “It sure is a lot easier investigating these things when you have an ‘in’ at the police department.”
Lexy nodded her agreement. Back home, Jack usually knew everything about the cases they were working on and he would give them tidbits of information. She didn’t think they’d be getting the same courtesy from Payne.
Nans pointed at the murder weapon column on the white board. “This knife could be a clue … if we could verify whose knife it is.”
Lexy shrugged. “Most every chef has a set of knives, but I did notice that knife was a very high end one with a mahogany handle. I haven’t seen any like that in the kitchen but I’ll keep looking.”
Ida stepped out from the other side of the board and tapped her finger on the heading of the next column, ‘Sylvia’. “This is probably where we should focus our efforts.”
“Yes, she seems to be our most likely suspect,” Nans agreed.
“She claims she was in the freezer, that she never went outside until after I found him,” Lexy said. “Thomas, the chef she was talking to right before the murder said he didn’t see where she went, so I can’t place her at the scene … yet.”
“She stands to gain the head chef spot and she probably hated him just as much as anyone,” Helen pointed out.
“I bet when she saw him yelling at the other chef, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back and she got so mad that she ran out there and shoved the knife into his chest!” Ida clasped her hands together and arced them in the air in front of her, making stabbing motions.
Ruth nodded. “Pent up aggression for how he treated everyone.”
“A crime of passion,” Helen added.
Helen's words triggered something in the back of Lexy’s mind. “Or maybe …”
The four women raised their eyebrows at her.
“What if there was more going on with Sylvia and Dugasse than just a chef and sous-chef relationship?” Lexy asked.
Nans eyebrows shot up. “Did you see something to indicate that?”
“Well, sort of. I did see them in some conversations that seemed to be more personal then professional. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now …”
“A lover’s quarrel!” Ida’s eyes lit up.
“Well, I don’t know. It’s one thing to look into, I guess. There’s another thing too.” Lexy’s brow wrinkled. “When Sylvia saw me with the body, she asked if we should hide it.”
“Hide it?” Nans said. “Why would she ask that if she didn’t kill him?”
“I have no idea,” Lexy said. “And then there’s the matter of Brad.”
“Who’s Brad?” Helen asked.
“Another one of the chefs. He’s the one that told Payne I had stormed off to ‘stop Dugasse once and for all’. And he was needling me today about being the killer.” Lexy pressed her lips together. “I have no idea why he would do that, unless he just hates me.”
“It could be a love triangle!” Ida said.
Lexy made a face. “I’ll have to ask around and see if anyone else noticed anything.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll add Brad to the board.” Nans added his name under the ‘Suspects’ column.
“There’s another thing to consider,” Ruth said. “How did his body get behind the dumpster?”
“He might have been dragged there to buy some time for the killer. If the feet weren’t sticking out he might not have been found until hours later.” Nans pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “The smell of the dumpster would have masked any smells from the body.”
“And that would imply the killer wanted to get far away … so maybe it wasn’t someone from the kitchen,” Helen said.
“Or, he was lured to the other side of the dumpster by the killer, who stabbed him, then took off down the path,” Ida added.
“Either way, that indicates we should also consider suspects that weren’t in the kitchen,” Nans said.
“Which ties in with what I found online.” Ruth held up the iPad.
Lexy’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you find?”
“Well, it seems your chef was involved in some sort of chili contest,” Ruth said.
Lexy nodded remembering Brad’s order that she make the cornbread was the catalyst for her finding Dugasse in the first place. “Yes, I know.”
“Well, it seems this chili contest can be quite lucrative and it’s very competitive … some newspaper articles describe it as ‘cutthroat.’”
“Why?” Helen asked.
“The usual reason. Money. The winner gets a national brand so not only will they get the money from chili sales, but their name will become a household word which will lead to other endorsements, cookbooks etc. …” Ruth looked up at them. “Winning that contest could be worth millions.”
“Did he ever talk about the contest? His rivals, or anything?” Nans asked Lexy.
“I never heard him say anything.” Lexy spread her hands wishing she’d paid more attention to Dugasse, the truth was she kind of zoned out whenever he started droning on.
“Well, that’s something to look into then.” Ruth crossed to the board and added ‘Chili Contest’ to the list.
“And that brings us to the pink Cadillac.” Helen pointed to the words on the white board.
“Too bad we can’t ask Jack to just look that up in the database,” Ida said.
“Well, luckily a pink Cadillac is unusual, so I’m going to start by doing a search on newspaper articles. Then if that doesn’t pan out, I’ll hack into the motor vehicles database.” Ruth looked up at them and widened her eyes, putting her hand over her mouth. “Ooops … I mean I’ll look elsewhere.”
The other women laughed, then gathered behind Ruth to look over her shoulder as she searched.
After a minute she said, “Got it!”
She held the iPad up. “Here’s a picture of the exact same car I saw in the parking lot. The article is about a semi-celebrity that’s staying in the area at the Sheraton Hotel. You know the fancy five star one, on the side of the mountain?”
“Yes,” Nans, Ida, Helen and Lexy all said. Everyone knew that hotel. It was the height of luxury.
“Well, apparently she loves pink. Pink car. Pink clothes. Pink purse. Even a pink dog.”
Lexy wrinkled her brow and bent closer to the iPad. Sure enough, it showed a middle-aged blonde with gigantic pink sunglasses holding a furry dyed-pink Pomeranian.
“What’s that have to do with our case?” Nans wondered.
Lexy grabbed the iPad and scanned the article. Her heart jerked in her chest when she looked at the caption under the picture. She sucked in a deep breath and looked up at the four women.
“The owner of the pink Cadillac is Victoria Dugasse … Chef Dugasse’s wife.”
Chapter 8
“Thanks for making the cake, Lexy,” Nans said as she slid into the backseat of Ruth’s gigantic Oldsmobile beside Lexy.
Lexy looked down at the red velvet cake on the seat beside her. She’d had to cut her beach time with Jack short to make it yesterday afternoon and he’d been unusually understanding. In fact, he seemed strangely disinterested in the case and the fact that she was a murder suspect.
“Lexy?”
“Oh sorry, I was just thinking how Jack seems only interested in fishing, he didn’t even care that we were going to visit Victoria Dugasse today. Normally he’d have all kinds of warnings about butting into police stuff.”
Ida turned in the front seat to face her.
“Oh, that's how they get. When it comes to fishing they become obsessed. I know Norman is. He has only fishing on his mind … well that and one other thing.” Ida winked at Lexy who shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unwanted pictures of Ida and Norman bubbling up in her mind.
Ruth maneuvered the car out of the resort and headed up the highway. Lexy wondered how she managed—her eyes barely cleared the top of the steering wheel. Lexy tested her seatbelt to make sure it was fastened properly.
“Do you really think she’ll buy our ruse of wanting to give our condolences?” Helen asked.
“I don’t see why not. It’s the proper thing to do,” Nans replied. “Besides, we’ll make it seem like we are on official business from the resort, then she’ll be more likely to talk to us.”
“Hopefully we can get her to open up enough to tell us where she was that morning,” Ida said. “Because if she wasn’t in the kitchen …”
“… She could have been out by the dumpster with Dugasse.” Nans finished the sentence.
“Well I doubt she’s going to tell us she killed him.” Lexy cringed as Ruth turned into the parking lot for the hotel, her back tires going up over the curb and crushing a bed of petunias.
“No, but hopefully we’ll be able to tell if she’s hiding something,” Nans said as Ruth parked the car.
Everyone got out. Lexy grabbed the cake and followed the four women into the gigantic hotel, happy to have gotten there in one piece.
The lobby was sumptuous. Lexy’s sandals sunk into thick carpeting in a dark blue and gold pattern as she walked past the giant marble table that held a vase of flowers which must have been six feet tall and three feet wide. A crystal chandelier sparkled above the flowers.
Nans walked past the oak paneled front desk and straight to the elevators. Ruth had somehow gotten the room number so they knew just where to go. They rode the elevator up to the eighth floor, turned left and walked the fifty feet to room 845.
Nans knocked on the door. Lexy heard the safety chain slide, then the door opened a crack. A baby blue eye peeked out at them.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Dugasse?” Nans asked.
“Yes.” The door swung open to reveal a tall blonde who raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows at them. Lexy noticed she was wearing an expensive pink silk sleeveless shirt and white capri-length pants. Her bare feet sported petal pink painted toenails and gigantic pink diamonds glittered in her ears.
“We’re from Lakeshore Resort. We’d like to express our condolences,” Nans said as Lexy shoved the cake in Victoria’s face.
“Oh. Do come in.” The door swung open and they stepped inside while introducing themselves.
“Please call me Victoria,” their host said as she took the cake from Lexy. “Would you like a piece?”
“No thanks,” Nans said and the rest of them shook their heads.
Victoria put the cake on a sideboard and gestured them further into the opulent suite. They settled in the living room—Victoria, Nans and Ida picked out chairs while Ruth, Helen and Lexy shared the sofa. The room was decorated with French provincial furniture in off white. Pink curtains and throw pillows accented the white upholstered sofa and chairs. Lexy wondered if the hotel just happened to have a pink room or if Victoria had redecorated.
A white Pomeranian with pink tipped fur pitter patted into the room.
“You dyed your dog’s fur?” Lexy asked.
“Yes, well, just the ends.” Victoria picked the tiny pooch up—a girl Lexy assumed by the pink bow—kissed the top of her head, then set the dog on her lap. “My hairdresser says it is quite safe.”
A motion to Lexy’s left caught her attention. She turned her head and felt her eyebrows shoot up. It was a maid, in a black and white uniform. Who has a maid in a hotel room?
“Oh Myra, why don’t you bring us some lemonade.” Victoria glanced at Nans and the rest of them who nodded. “Six lemonades, then.”
Myra disappeared and Nans put her hand on Victoria’s arm. “We’re so sorry about the loss of your husband.”
“Thank you.” Victoria dabbed at her eyes with a tissue even though there were no tears. Lexy noticed that pink and white diamond rings were stacked on almost all of her fingers. Her wrist displayed a flashy Rolex watch.
“You knew Alain?” She asked after the appropriate amount of eye dabbing.
Nans nodded. “We enjoyed his food. Lexy here is the pastry chef in the kitchen at the resort.”
“Chef Dugasse will be missed,” Lexy said forcing a smile at Victoria, then crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping not to get struck by lightning.
The maid came in saving Lexy from having to say anything more. She handed out crystal glasses filled with lemonade—pink lemonade, of course.
With the formalities dispensed, Nans got right to the point. “You were there that morning, right?”
Victoria’s eyes went wide. “Well … I …”
“I noticed your lovely pink car,” Ruth said. “It’s quite distinctive … hard to miss.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose I was there. Earlier.” Victoria took a sip of lemonade.
“To see your husband?” Nans asked.
“Yes.”
“And you had a fight.” Nans persisted.
Victoria’s eyebrows mashed together. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, one hears things …” Nans waved her hands. “It must be very disturbing to you to have been fighting right before he … well, you know.”
“Yes, it is very sad for my last memory to be of that fight. Although I doubt Alain would feel the same way.”
Nans looked at Victoria over the rim of her lemonade glass. “Why do you say that?”
“Because, Alain was having an affair.”
* * *
Nans eyebrows shot up. “An affair? What makes you say that?”
Victoria shrugged. “He had been sneaking off at around two in the morning on several nights. He thought I didn’t notice that he got up early and left.”
“And you confronted him about that?” Ida asked.
“Yes, of course. I used it as leverage to stop him from curtailing my spending.” Victoria waved her hand around the room. “I need to be kept in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed.”
“What did he say when you confronted him?” Lexy asked.
“He denied having the affair. Typical cheater.” Victoria studied her frosty pink nails. Lexy noticed that she didn’t seem very upset about the affair or his death.
“Do you have any idea who he was having the affair with?”
“Nope. It could have been anyone,” Victoria said.
“So, you were using the knowledge of the affair as leverage to keep your spending habits, but why? How would that help you?”
“It’s all in the prenup. Alain would lose a lot of money if he had an affair.”
Lexy saw Nans exchange glances with Ida, Ruth and Helen.
“But, if you killed him, then you’d get to keep all the money either way,” Nans said.
Victoria’s back stiffened.
“Is that what you think? That I killed him?” She dumped the pink pooch on the floor and shot out of her chair. Storming over to the door, she held it open gesturing for them to leave.
Lexy took the hint and got up from her chair as did Nans, Ruth, Ida and Helen. They filed out the door.
Victoria stood in the doorway and watched them go.
“And for your information,” she yelled after them, “I didn’t need, or want to kill him. The truth is Alain would have made even more money after he won the Chili Battle. So, you see, he was worth much more to me alive than dead.”
* * *
“She didn’t seem too upset about her husband being dead,” Lexy said once they were strapped into Ruth’s Oldsmobile and heading back to the resort.
“But she sure got upset when she thought we were accusing her of killing him,” Ida added.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she killed him.” Ruth looked at Lexy in the rear view mirror.
“I doubt she is the killer,” Nans said. “If Dugasse was going to become even richer because of winning the Chili Battle, it wouldn’t be in her best interest to kill him.”
“Unless he was going to divorce her and leave her out in the cold,” Ida ventured. “Maybe that's what they argued about.”
Lexy pressed her lips together. “I wonder who he was sneaking off to see in the early morning. That seems like an odd time to meet a secret lover.”
“I bet it was that Sylvia Spicer. They had a lover’s spat and she killed him,” Ruth said.
Lexy blew out a whoosh of air. “Maybe. There’s a lot of things we still need to look into. Like where that other trail leads and if Sylvia really was in the freezer when Dugasse was being stabbed. And we need to find out more about this chili contest. How come everyone is so certain that Dugasse was going to win?”
“Good question,” Nans said. “We do have our work cut out for us.”
Ruth rolled down her window and stuck her hand out to signal for the turn.
“Ruth, you know that most everyone uses the directionals on the steering column now, right?” Ida turned around and rolled her eyes at Nans, Helen and Lexy in the back seat.
Ruth ignored her and made the turn, almost clipping the outer corner of the sign for the resort.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your cottage, Lexy?” Ruth asked.
Lexy glanced at her watch. “Actually, why don’t you drop me off at the dining lodge? I have to make tarts today, but I’m going to do a bit of poking around first … to see if I can get any of these questions answered.”
Chapter 9
Ruth dropped Lexy off at the main entrance to the dining hall. The dining room was empty at this time of day and Lexy skirted her way down the cedar log wall, in between the rustic tables, and past the giant window that had a panoramic view of the lake. She turned left at the two story stone fireplace, then ducked into an obscure hallway that led to the restaurant offices.
Lexy stopped at a large office. Prescott Charles, the restaurant manager, was sitting at his desk in a crisp white short sleeved shirt and light blue tie. Lexy tapped softly on the door.
Prescott looked up from the paperwork he had been studying. “Hi, Lexy. Come on in.”
He half stood indicating for Lexy to sit in a faux leather chair across from his desk. Lexy noticed a musky scent lingering in the air as she entered the room. It niggled something in her memory, but she didn’t have time to dig deep enough to figure out what it was.
“So, what can I do for you?” Prescott steepled his fingers together, his light green eyes questioning her from behind his mahogany desk. Behind him, Lexy noticed a wall of bookshelves filled with various books on subjects ranging from restaurant management to log cabin building to decorating. Family photos of Prescott with his wife and kids dotted the shelves.
Lexy shifted in her chair, suddenly thinking maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Prescott raised his brows.
“Um … Well, I was wondering if there’s any type of surveillance in the kitchen. You know cameras that record what’s going on,” Lexy said.
“Surveillance? Why would you want to know about that?”
“Well, umm … Detective Payne seems to think I’m his best suspect for Dugasse’s murder and I was thinking the cameras would prove I was in the kitchen when it happened,” Lexy lied. She didn’t want to tell him the real reason was that she wanted to know if Sylvia Spicer really was in the freezer like she claimed. She didn’t want to cast any aspersions on Sylvia if she was innocent.
“We don’t have anything like that in the kitchen,” Prescott said, avoiding eye contact with her.
“Oh, okay.” Lexy got up to leave, then turned at the door. “You didn’t happen to notice anything strange going on with Sylvia Spicer and Chef Dugasse, did you?”
Prescott jerked in his chair. His elbow hit a cup full of pens and they spilled out on to the floor. He bent down to pick them up and Lexy walked back to the desk and squatted down to help.
Prescott looked at her from under the desk. “Why do you ask that? I didn’t notice anything.” His voice was choppy, nervous.
“Well, it’s probably nothing, but she said something kind of funny to me when we were out at the dumpster after I found Dugasse.” Lexy handed him the pens she’d gathered and they both stood up.
“What was that?” Prescott wrinkled his brows at her.
“She asked if we should hide the body.”
Prescott sucked in a breath, his eyes going wide, the pencil holder clattering to the floor, pens spilling out all over again.
“What?” He stared at Lexy, his face growing red. He reached up to loosen his tie.
Lexy had a momentary pang of guilt. She felt bad talking about Sylvia … but it was true and asking around might be the only way to find out what really happened.
“She was probably just so distraught …” Lexy bent down to help with the pens again but Prescott waved her off.
“I can pick these up.” His eyes slid to the door inviting her to leave. “Please close the door behind you.”
“Okay, well … thanks,” Lexy said, not sure what she was thanking him for.
She backed out of the office, closing the door quietly behind her. She stood there for a minute, thinking about Prescott’s reaction. Why had he been so nervous when she asked about Sylvia and Dugasse?
A faint rustle in the hallway behind her and the scent of musk caught her attention. She whirled around. The hallway was empty, but she had turned just in time to see the doorway to the first office slowly closing.
She crept over to the door which was open just a crack. Someone was standing just behind it. Hiding. Lexy reached out, grabbed the knob and wrenched the door open, her heart jerking wildly in her chest as she looked up into the face of Sylvia Spicer.
* * *
Sylvia stood in front of her, eyes wide, mouth forming a surprised “Oh.” She held something behind her back. A chef’s knife? Images of herself as the next victim flashed through Lexy’s mind and she took a step backward into the hall.
“What are you doing here?” Lexy asked.
“What are you?” Sylvia’s eyes darted around the room and out into the hall.
“I came to ask Prescott about … something.” Lexy leaned to the left to get a view of what Sylvia had behind her back.
Sylvia whipped her hand out from behind her back in one fluid motion and Lexy’s heart jumped into her throat.
“I came to drop off this invoice,” she said, indicating the piece of paper she’d been holding behind her back.
Lexy’s shoulders relaxed and she leaned against the doorjamb. Sylvia shot nervous glances at Prescott’s door.
“Hey Sylvia, I was wondering something,” Lexy said.
“What?”
“When we were out by the dumpster, you said something about hiding Dugasse’s body. Why would you say that?”
Sylvia’s eyes jerked over to Prescott’s door again before she louvered them back at Lexy.
“I did? I must have been so distraught that I didn’t know what I was saying.” Sylvia shrugged. “Why would I want you to hide the body?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Lexy said, then she narrowed her eyes at Sylvia. “Did you get the head chef job … to replace Dugasse?”
“Yes. Prescott … I mean, Mr. Charles promoted me to head chef.”
“Congratulations. So it looks like Dugasse’s death was good for you in that respect. But I bet you miss him.”
Sylvia wrinkled her brow and Lexy leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “I heard you were very close with someone here.”
Sylvia’s face turned red and her eyes did more darting around. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Well, you know sometimes men in a position of power can be very attractive … even if they are married.” Lexy gave Sylvia her best ‘you can confide in me’ look.
Sylvia’s eyes grew wide. “What did you …”
“Well, sometimes things go wrong and people get hurt. And that might cause the wounded party to do something they wouldn’t normally do … you know out of passion.”
Sylvia glared at her. “Are you implying I killed Chef Dugasse because I was mad at him?”
“Oh no, I’m just saying bad things can happen sometimes when you get involved.” Lexy’s heart leapt into her throat when she saw the menacing look on Sylvia’s face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I do know that Dugasse got what he deserved … it just wasn’t at my hands.” Sylvia spat out the words, then brushed past Lexy and stormed off down the hall in the opposite direction of Prescott Charles' office, the invoice apparently forgotten.
Lexy stared after her wondering what she meant by ‘Dugasse got what he deserved’. Was Dugasse involved in something that got him killed?
Lexy stood in the hall, her lips pursed going over her exchange with Sylvia when she thought she saw a shadow moving under the door to Chef Dugasse’s office.
Who would be in there?
She crept down the hall. The door was open just slightly and she craned her neck, her heartbeat picking up speed at what she saw inside. Brad Meltzer had one of the desk drawers open and was rummaging through it.
Lexy held her breath. She stood off to one side and prayed Brad wouldn’t look over and see her. She watched as he pawed through the drawer, then moved on to the next drawer, then the next and finally started leafing through cookbooks that were stacked on the desk.
What was he doing?
Lexy stepped closer to the door and pushed it open. Brad jumped away from the desk, jerking his head in her direction. His eyes narrowed when he saw Lexy standing there.
“Looking for something?” Lexy asked.
She saw a ripple of anxiety cross Brad’s face, then he composed himself and looked down at the desk.
“I needed the schedule … chef made it out on Monday.” Brad picked up the sheet of paper that had been lying in plain sight on the desk and then started out of the room brushing past Lexy who was standing in the doorway, arms crossed against her chest. She stared after him as he went off down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Looking back into the room, she felt an icy chill run up her spine. All of Dugasse’s notes and personal effects were in here and, in light of the fact that he had been murdered, she didn’t think anyone was supposed to be in his office … much less rummaging around in the drawers. The schedule was important, but it had been sitting on the top of the desk, surely Brad didn’t need to rummage around to find it.
Which begged the question … what exactly was Brad looking for?
Chapter 10
Deena had the day off, and Lexy was able to whip up the tarts for that evening’s dessert at record speed since she didn’t have to take time out for giving instructions. Once finished, she threw her apron in the laundry basket and headed off for some well-deserved beach time.
At her cottage, she changed into a white and blue striped one piece and threw on a long sleeved white shirt as a cover-up. Tossing Sprinkles a treat, she shoved a towel in her oversized beach bag and headed down to the small beach at the end of her street.
The beach was dotted with colorful blankets and beach umbrellas. Kids played at making sand castles, parents sat in beach chairs next to coolers and teens ran through the water laughing and diving.
Lexy spotted Jack lying on a lounge chair about ten feet from the edge of the water. She slipped off her flip flops to feel the warm, course sand on her feet and started toward him.
“Hi handsome, is this spot taken?” Lexy spread her towel down beside Jack who peered over the top of his book at her.
“I suppose you can sit here, but only until my wife comes down.”
Lexy laughed, then bent over to kiss him before plopping down on the towel.
“So how was your visit with the widow?” Jack asked.
“Interesting.” Lexy dug in her beach bag for suntan lotion. “She said Dugasse was worth more to her alive than dead.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well, he was a shoo-in to win that Chili Battle. You know, the one they are having here at the fairgrounds.” Lexy pointed in the direction of the open field in the middle of the resort. “Anyway, I guess winning that means you get a lot of money thrown at you.”
“Hmmm.” Jack pursed his lips.
“Oh, and she also said that she thought Dugasse was having an affair because he snuck out in the wee hours of the morning.”
“But she was there the morning he was killed, right?” Jack asked.
“Yes, but she said she didn’t kill him.”
“They all say that.” Jack dog-eared a page and then closed his book. “But she might have a point about him being worth more money. Does she have an alibi?”
Lexy’s brows mashed together. She dumped out the contents of her bag, still unable to find the suntan lotion. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem very hospitable after Nans practically accused her of killing Dugasse, so we got out of there fast.”
Jack laughed. “Well, maybe you could check the hotel. Or maybe Payne has already done that. The room keys record when people come and go so if she was back in her room at the time of death, it would show that.”
“Well, I don’t think Payne is going to share any of that information with me. He’s not as nice as you are with that sort of stuff.” Lexy grabbed the copper colored bottle of sun tan lotion and opened the top. Squirting some on her arm, she started rubbing it in. “But I don’t think the wife is the killer.”
“Oh, why not?”
“I ran into Sylvia Spicer when I was at the dining lodge and she was acting really funny. Nans and the ladies were thinking she might be the one Dugasse was having an affair with, so I kind of hinted around about that and she got really mad.”
Jack chuckled. “Well, wouldn’t you, if someone was hinting around that you had an affair and murdered someone?”
“Yeah, probably.” Lexy pressed her lips together. Maybe Sylvia was only reacting to her accusations. “But I found out some other strange things today too.”
“What?” Jack took the bottle from her and started rubbing lotion on her legs, venturing into parts that were already covered by her suit and causing her to almost forget what she was saying.
“What? Oh … when I was at the dining hall I talked to Prescott Charles, the manager, and he was acting kind of strange about the whole Dugasse thing and then I caught Brad Meltzer sneaking around in Dugasse’s office!”
Jack finished with the lotion and looked at her. “Well, it sounds like you have a lot of things to follow up on before you can get a picture of what is really going on.”
“Right.” Lexy bit her bottom lip. There was a lot to figure out … could she, Nans and the Ladies Detective Club handle all that?
“You know what I’d do?” Jack prompted.
“What?”
“I’d start with one clue and follow it through to the end. Knock off each of your questions one by one until they are all resolved and then you’ll know the truth.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Lexy opened her bag and started putting the contents that she had spilled on her towel back inside it.
“It’s not that hard if you take it one at a time,” Jack said. “Did you ever get back to that other trail?”
“No, I was planning on doing that later today. Wanna come?”
“I wish I could, but I’m going fishing.” Jack peered over his sunglasses at her. “You’re not going alone, I hope.”
“Oh no, Nans and the ladies will be with me so I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“That’s great. I’m sure you won’t get into any trouble with them,” Jack said dubiously as he pushed his sunglasses up on his face and flipped over on his stomach.
Lexy leaned back on her elbows and watched the lake lap at the shore. A little bird ran along the edge of the water pecking for food. Out on the lake, people paddled on kayaks and canoes. The occasional motor boat sped by in the deeper waters. It was calm. Relaxing.
Lexy’s stomach twisted to think a murderer could be running loose right in this very resort. And, since Payne didn’t seem to be doing a very good job, it might be up to Lexy and the Ladies Detective Club to catch the killer.
Chapter 11
Lexy had just finished showering and was wrestling Sprinkles into her harness when Nans, Ruth and Helen appeared at her cottage door.
“Where’s Ida?” Lexy asked.
“Oh she begged off,” Nans said.
“Claimed she had to do something with Norman before he went out fishing tonight.” Ruth giggled.
Lexy made a face and held her hand up. Considering Ida’s comment earlier that day about the two things fishermen were interested in, she didn’t want to know anymore.
“Will you guys be okay? This could be a long walk and a lot of it is uphill.” Lexy realized the three women were clutching their giant patent leather old ladies purses. “You’re not bringing those purses, are you?”
“We bring these everywhere,” Helen said.
“They’re loaded up with all kinds of useful items,” Ruth added.
“You never know when something in here is going to come in handy.” Nans opened her purse and angled it toward Lexy.
“They look heavy,” Lexy said. “Why don’t you leave them here and you can pick them up on the way back? You’ll be able to walk the path easier without them.”
The three women looked at each other. Nans held her purse out by the handles as if judging the weight, then nodded.
“You may be right, dear,” she said and put her purse on the table. Ruth and Helen did the same with theirs.
“Okay, let's get this show on the road.” Nans opened the door, leading the way outside.
They followed the same path Lexy and Jack and followed the other day. When they got to the top of the hill, Lexy had to stop to catch her breath.
“You guys don’t even seem winded.” She stared at Nans, Ruth and Helen.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Nans said. “We do yoga, Pilates and water aerobics … a little hill like this is child’s play.”
“Maybe you should consider joining us in our regular workout.” Ruth frowned at Lexy. “You seem a bit out of shape.
Lexy looked down at her slim body. Out of shape? Well, sure she was a bit winded after the climb but she still looked good. At least that’s what Jack had said down at the beach.
“You’re not in your twenties anymore,” Nans added looking her up and down. “And you won’t be able to keep that cute shape without having to work at it for long.”
“Yeah, you don’t think our girlish figures come without a price, do you?” Helen ran her hands up and down the sides of her body and everyone laughed.
“Okay, where’s this path?” Nans asked.
“Over here.” Lexy pulled Sprinkles to the end of the path and walked the short distance to the back of the dining hall where the trails intersected.
Nans glanced over at the dumpster, still marked with crime scene tape. “Is that where …?”
“Yep, that’s where I found him.” Lexy shivered despite the warm afternoon air.
Ruth walked right up to the crime scene tape. “Maybe we should take a little look around. The police may have overlooked a clue.”
“Good idea,” Helen said. She held the tape up while Nans and Ruth scooted under, then ducked under it herself.
The smell of old fish, sour milk and rotting cabbage assaulted Lexy and she pinched her nose shut.
“Can you guys hurry up?” she said, except it came out as ‘hubby up’.
Nans bent down, scuffing at the debris under the dumpster with her shoe. “Come take a look at this.”
Ruth and Helen bent over to take a look. Lexy pinched her nose even tighter and got as close as she dared, craning over the crime scene tape to see what they had found.
“Is that …?” Ruth asked.
“I do believe it is,” Helen replied.
Nans worked at something with her shoe, sliding it out from under the dumpster. She pulled a kleenex out of her pocket, then bent over to pick up the item. She stood holding it in the air, careful to touch it only with the kleenex.
“Is that blood?” Lexy asked. The item Nans held up looked to be a swatch of fabric—plaid flannel. It was about one inch square and a rust colored smear on it that looked suspiciously like blood. But, whose blood?
“I think so,” Nans said. Wrapping the fabric in the tissue, she slid it into her pocket.
“Is that Dugasse’s blood?” Ruth asked.
“It could be. But the fabric was wedged under the dumpster so it could have been there before he was murdered.”
“Or it could have come from the killer.”
“I wish we had our own forensics lab.” Nans pressed her lips together. “I don’t trust that Detective Payne not to fumble this up. He didn’t even find that fabric when he searched the area!”
“True. He seems like a dope,” Ruth said.
“I don’t see anything else. Do either of you?” Helen asked.
“Nope. Let’s move on,” Ruth answered and the three of them scurried under the crime scene tape and then joined Lexy at the intersection of the paths.
“So which path?” Nans looked at Lexy.
“Well, this one goes to the front parking lot so I doubt the killer used that one,” Lexy said pointing to the path on the left. Then she turned and pointed to one of the middle paths. “And this is the only other one I haven’t walked on.”
“Well, let's go!” Ruth started in the direction of the path in a power walk and Lexy trotted after her.
“We should slow down and look for clues … you know anything unusual,” Lexy said remembering Jack’s advice.
“Yes, we know what clues are, dear,” Nans teased.
They walked leisurely letting Sprinkles make her various pit stops. They were only about twenty feet down the path when Sprinkles found something she must have thought was irresistible. Lexy tugged on the leash, but Sprinkles insisted on sniffing whatever it was she had found under a small shrub.
“What have you got, Sprinks?” Lexy bent down to investigate hoping it wasn’t a dead animal. It wasn’t. Lexy picked it up and held it out for the ladies.
“What is it?” Nans narrowed her eyes at the thin strip of leather with stainless steel spikes sticking out of it.
“I think it’s a bracelet,” Ruth said.
Lexy wrapped it around her wrist and it snapped closed with magnetic clasps on each end. Ruth was right. “Who would wear a bracelet like this?” Lexy asked.
“Maybe one of the teenagers?” Nans said. “Their ever changing fashions always baffle me.”
“Maybe.” Lexy put the bracelet in her pocket and started forward. “I’ll just keep it … it could be a clue.”
The ladies nodded and followed her down the path. Like the previous day, the tall trees provided welcome shade. The birds chirped, chipmunks scurried in the leaves and the smell of the woods made the walk relaxing and pleasant. Until they came to a section that became very dense … and dark.
Lexy hesitated, looking at the others. “Is it getting dark out?”
“No, it’s just the woods are really thick here.” Nans looked back behind them. “The trail narrows, but it keeps going.”
Nans forged ahead and Lexy followed. They had to walk single file since the trail was so thin and dense forest on either side made it impossible to stray. They walked in silence, Lexy’s nerves getting more jittery with every step.
Nans stopped abruptly and Lexy almost rammed into her.
“There’s a clearing up ahead.” Nans pointed. Lexy craned around her to see. It looked like the path ended in a clearing with a small camp in the middle.
“Let’s check it out,” Helen whispered.
They scuffled up to the end of the path where they could get a better view of the small house. A picnic table sat in between the path and the camp and there was a large campfire pit in front of it. Six motorcycles were lined up next to the house. No one seemed to be there except a large Boxer dog that lay snoring on the porch.
Nans motioned for them to crouch down behind a bush and they all obeyed.
“I wonder who stays here?” She whispered.
Lexy shrugged. “Do you think they take the path to the dining hall?”
“I don’t know. Someone does.”
The Boxer lifted its head and started sniffing.
Sprinkles sniffed too and wiggled around. Lexy pulled the dog tight beside her. “Shhh..”
Lexy’s heartbeat kicked up a notch when she saw the Boxer get up from his place on the porch. He lifted his nose in the air, sniffed, then turned in their direction.
Sprinkles started to growl.
The Boxer started walking toward them.
Lexy shushed Sprinkles again.
The Boxer came even closer and Sprinkles let out a yelp, then darted out from behind the bush, yanking the leash out of Lexy’s hand and running in the direction of the Boxer.
Lexy jumped up, her heart jerking in her chest.
“Sprinkles come back!” She started off toward the dogs ready to grab Sprinkles from the clutches of the menacing Boxer. Sprinkles stopped in front of the Boxer and the two dogs calmly started sniffing each other.
Lexy felt her shoulders relax, then the door of the cabin exploded open and two burly guys in leather vests burst out. One of them had a shotgun and the other a knife.
Lexy’s heart pounded against her ribcage as the largest guy—the one with the bandana on his bald head and spider tattoo on his neck—pointed the shotgun at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Lexy’s mouth went dry. She tried to swallow but it was like drinking sandpaper.
“I told you we should have brought our purses.” She heard Nans whisper from behind the shrub.
The big guy narrowed his eyes in the direction of the shrub. “Who’s that? Is someone behind that bush?”
Lexy looked back over her shoulder and her heart sank as she saw Nans, Ruth and Helen all stand up, their hands held up next to their heads, palms out.
“We’re just some little old ladies from the resort.” Nans nodded at Lexy and Sprinkles. “I was just taking my granddaughter and her dog for a walk.”
The two guys cut their eyes to the dogs who had gotten around to sniffing each other’s back ends. Lexy thought the dogs seemed to be making friends a lot easier than their owners.
“Hey, looks like Brutus found a friend,” the smaller guy said.
The big guy narrowed his eyes at the dog, lowering the gun slightly then jerked it back up in Lexy’s direction. “Who sent you?”
Lexy’s brows mashed together. “Sent me? No one.”
The two guys exchanged a glance. The smaller guy put his knife away and shrugged.
“They’re grandmas,” he said pointing his chin in Nans direction.
The big guy nodded, but kept his gun trained on Lexy. “I suggest you take your dog, get on out of here and don’t come back.”
Lexy ran over and grabbed Sprinkles leash. “Right. No problem. Sorry.”
She turned and sprinted back toward the path, making sure Nans, Ruth and Helen got away ahead of her.
She glanced back over her shoulder every twenty steps and her heart didn’t stop racing until they were a full five minutes away.
“What was that all about?” Nans asked.
“I’m not sure but it seemed like a gang of unfriendly bikers to me,” Ruth answered.
“Do you think they could have had something to do with Chef Dugasse’s murder?” Helen asked.
“I bet they either had something to do with it, or they know something,” Lexy said.
“Just because they are bikers and acted like they didn’t want us in their camp is no reason to assume they are killers,” Nans admonished.
“It’s not just that.” Lexy pulled the bracelet she’d found at the head of the trail out of her pocket and held it up in front of her. “The guy with the knife had this exact same bracelet on and, since this one was found only twenty feet from the dining hall, I think it’s safe to assume one of them has been to that kitchen at least once before.”
Chapter 12
Lexy dipped her spoon into the thick custard and brought it to her lips. The sweetness from the sugar and the unmistakable flavor from the real vanilla bean she’d added danced on her tongue. The creaminess of the custard was like velvet in her mouth. Perfect.
She pulled over a tray of the small puff pastries she’d made to house the custard and set the bowl of chocolate she’d drizzle on the top next to her. Spooning the custard into a piping bag, she picked up a pastry, squeezed some custard inside then set it on another tray. She continued until she had one tray completed, then spooned the chocolate on top for a perfect set of miniature bite-sized éclairs.
She popped one into her mouth letting the flavorful explosion thrill her taste buds. They were just the way she wanted. She pulled another tray of puff pastries over and started repeating the process.
As she filled the pastries she thought about the previous evening’s excursion with Nans and the ladies. Could the biker gang have something to do with Dugasse’s murder? Why would Dugasse be involved with them? It didn’t make any sense.
She was trying to figure out how she could find out more about the bikers and what they were doing there when a grating voice cut into her thoughts from across the room.
“Miss Baker, what a surprise to find you here in the kitchen instead of pestering suspects.”
Lexy’s stomach tightened as she watched Detective Payne make his way over to her. He wore his usual plaid Bermuda shorts and had his spiral bound notebook and pencil in hand. His eyes slid from hers to the tray of éclairs.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Lexy said feigning innocence.
“You went to visit Victoria Dugasse?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
“My grandmother and I paid our condolences.”
“Hmm … well, she seemed to think you were doing more than that.” Grabbing an éclair from the tray, he stuffed it into his mouth before continuing. “I’d appreciate it if you left the police business to the police … besides the wife didn’t to it. The hotel records show that she was in the hotel gym at the time of death.”
Lexy’s eyebrows shot up. That was one person she could cross off her suspect list. She decided to test out Payne to see how much he knew.
She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “So, she didn’t kill him because of his affair with Sylvia Spicer?”
Payne’s forehead collapsed in a network of wrinkles. “Spicer? What makes you think they were having an affair?”
“They seemed awfully close. In fact Sylvia came right out after I found him and was very upset.”
“Well, of course she would be upset. Her boss was dead.” Payne glanced around the room looking for Sylvia, no doubt. “Maybe you are just implicating Sylvia because she has the damaging statement of finding you leaning over the dead body.”
Lexy pressed her lips together and leaned even closer. “Well, there is the matter of her getting promoted.”
Payne nodded. “Yes, yes. We know all about that. We are the police you know. But Spicer wasn’t having the affair with Dugasse.”
“How do you know that? The wife told us he was sneaking off.”
Payne waved his hand around dismissively. “Sneaking around does not necessarily mean an affair. Like I said, you should leave the detecting to the detectives. You are, after all, one of the suspects.”
Lexy felt irritation spark in her chest. Why did Payne keep defending Sylvia and insisting that Lexy was a suspect? It was becoming clear that she was going to have to dig out the clues herself if she wanted to get her name off his radar.
“So I have your word you will leave this Chef Martino Marchesi alone?”
Lexy’s heart skipped. Who was Chef Martino Marchesi?
Payne must have caught her confused look. “Don’t try to play dumb. I know that you already know Marchesi is the favorite to win the Chili Battle.”
“Chili Battle?” Lexy’s brows mashed together. Did Dugasse’s death have something to do with the Chili Battle?
Payne flapped his arms in exasperation. “Look Baker, you’re still high up on the suspect list, but I’m working to cover all the bases and make sure I get the real killer. If you continue to meddle in this case I will have no choice but to stop you … even if I have to throw you in jail.”
Payne grabbed another éclair, popped it into his mouth and pointed the eraser end of his pencil at her and said, “Consider yourself warned.”
Then he turned on his heel and stomped off toward the exit.
* * *
Lexy finished the éclairs as fast as she could and then ran down to Nans’ cottage.
“You guys won’t believe it … I just found another clue!” Lexy burst through the front door of the cottage. Nans, Ida, Ruth and Helen were seated at the table shoveling cheeseburgers onto large plates of salad.
“Would you like a cheeseburger salad?” Nans asked.
Lexy narrowed her eyes at the plates. “No buns? Are you guys back on the Paleo diet?”
Nans waffled her hand over the table. “We’re just trying to cut down on the carbs.”
“Did you say something about a clue, dear?” Ida speared a piece of lettuce, a tomato and then a chunk of burger and brought it up to her mouth.
“Yes. Payne came to the kitchen to yell at me about visiting Dugasse’s wife and he let a clue slip. Something about another chef that was connected with the Chili Battle contest.”
Nans narrowed her eyes. “I knew the chili contest had to figure in here somewhere. What was the chef’s name?”
Lexy pursed her lips together wishing she had written the name down. “It was Italian sounding … I think it was Martin Parcheesi. Does that ring a bell with anyone?”
The ladies looked around at each other shaking their heads.
“No, but we can Google him.” Ruth got up from her chair and went over to the iPad. Lexy watched as her fingers tapped on the screen.
“I don’t find any Chef Parcheesi. Let me look up this chili contest.”
Nans, Ida and Helen munched away at their salads while Lexy went to look over Ruth’s shoulder.
“So, is this Parcheesi guy another suspect? Along with the wife, the sous-chef, and the bikers?” Helen asked.
“Seems like we’re really piling them up.” Ida cleaned the last of the salad out of her bowl and brought it to the sink.
“Actually, the wife has been cleared. Payne let it slip that she has an alibi for the time of the murder,” Lexy said.
“Oh good.” Ida walked over to the white board. “I’ll cross her off the list then.”
“Do you mean Chef Martino Marchesi?” Ruth looked up at Lexy.
“Yes!” Lexy snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”
“Well, he is involved with the Chili Battle. He’s one of the front runners,” Ruth said.
“So Payne thinks he might have killed Dugasse to win the contest?” Nans stood up and brought her and Helen’s bowls to the sink.
“He just warned me to stay away from him. He didn’t say why but he said I should stay away from the suspects, so I assume Marchesi is one.” Lexy watched Ida write ‘Marchesi’ on the whiteboard in the suspect column.
“Seems a little drastic to kill someone to win a contest,” Helen said.
“Apparently not if you are this Marchesi guy.” Ruth tapped the iPad with her finger. “He has ties to organized crime and there’s some articles here that put him in a questionable light.”
Nans raised her brows. “Is he here in town now?”
“I’d have to check local hotels,” Ruth said.
“Do you think he could have some involvement with those bikers we saw yesterday? Maybe he hired them to do his dirty work or something,” Helen offered.
“Maybe.” Nans studied the white board. “What about Sylvia? Did you find anything more about her supposed affair with Dugasse?”
“That’s another thing Payne said. He seemed sure Sylvia was not the one having the affair with him. But she acted so strangely when I confronted her yesterday,” Lexy said.
“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily take what Payne says as gospel.” Ruth rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t seem that competent if you ask me.”
Lexy nodded. “You can say that again. I think I might need to have another talk with Sylvia.”
“Yes, and we need to figure out if Marchesi was in town when Dugasse was murdered and talk to those bikers to find out why the bracelet was near the dining hall,” Helen said.
“How are we going to talk to the bikers?” Lexy asked. “They didn’t seem very friendly when we were there yesterday.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I think I have that covered.” Nans winked at Lexy. “Meet us here tomorrow at two p.m. and I’ll show you how to get even the most adversarial suspect to open up.”
Chapter 13
Lexy paced back and forth in her small cottage. Nans and the ladies were at bingo and Jack was out fishing. Which left her with too much alone time on her to think about Dugasse’s murder.
Sprinkles lay on the floral cushion that was fitted to the seat of the green wicker rocker. Her eyes followed Lexy as she went back and forth.
“If the killer was this Chef Marchesi, then how come no one saw him in the kitchen?” she asked the little dog.
“Did he hide out by the dumpster and wait for Dugasse to come out? Or maybe he lured him out there?”
She looked at Sprinkles who raised an eyebrow.
“I still think Sylvia Spicer is up to something. She’s been acting way to jumpy.”
Sprinkles let out a little bark.
“And she asked about hiding the body!”
Sprinkles beat the side of the rocker with her tail.
“Do you have to go out?”
The little white dog jumped off the rocker and ran to the door. Lexy saddled the dog up in her harness and led her out through the porch and into the woods beside the cottage.
It was dusk and the air had cooled considerably. It was a perfect summer night, with peepers peeping and flowers perfuming the air. Lexy looked up and sighed at the perfectly round moon and abundance of bright stars.
Sprinkles rummaged around in the leaves and pine needles and Lexy’s thoughts turned to Brad Meltzer rummaging around in Dugasse’s desk. Just what had he been looking for?
She had to admit, she’d never liked Brad. He always seemed like he was pulling something over on you. But just because he was a pompous jerk didn’t mean he was a killer.
Still he had tried awfully hard to make her look guilty in front of Payne and he was looking for something in Dugasse’s office. She didn’t fall for that excuse of him looking for the schedule. Surely he would have seen it right on the desk. No, he was up to something, Lexy was sure of it.
She glanced up the hill at the dining hall. At this time of night it would be empty. All the meals had been served and cleared, and the chefs and waitstaff would have gone home.
Maybe she should poke around in Dugasse’s office herself. If she discovered what Brad had been looking for, that could be a valuable clue—maybe even the clue that cracks the case.
Lexy dragged Sprinkles inside and changed into a pair of black jeans and a black tee-shirt. She tied her hair up in a ponytail, then slipped on a pair of black Keds sneakers. Grabbing a small flashlight, she slipped out her front door and headed up the path to the dining hall.
* * *
Lexy fingered the key to the kitchen’s back door in her pocket.
Should she?
It wasn’t too late to turn back. But she did have a key, so it wasn’t like she was breaking and entering. Just entering. If anyone asked, she could just say she had to check on some stuff for the next day’s desserts.
She slid the key into the lock and clicked the door open.
The kitchen was dark. Lexy didn’t want to turn any lights on so she switched on her small flashlight and angled it at the floor.
Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as she made her way down the back passageway that led to Dugasse’s office. The passage was more of a storage corridor. It had no windows and was pitch black, but she didn’t want to risk going through the dining room with its giant windows to get to the main hallway.
Rounding the corner to the main hall, she found Dugasse’s door closed. Her heart squeezed.
What if it was locked?
She reached out for the knob, turned it slowly and then breathed a sigh of relief when it twisted open. She cracked the door and slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
As she approached the desk, she could hear Jack’s voice in her head telling her how dangerous it was to come here alone. But he’d also said she should check each clue one by one and this was the perfect time for her to look here. She might not get another chance.
With a shrug, she pushed Jack’s nagging voice out of her head, opened a drawer and pointed her flashlight inside. She hunted around in the drawer for a few minutes but found nothing except old papers, pencils and pens.
She moved to the next drawer and came up empty with this one too. Lexy chewed on her bottom lip as she looked around the room. It wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t find anything in the desk drawers, she’d already seen Brad look in there and he hadn’t found what he was looking for.
Maybe she should look somewhere that Brad hadn’t already looked?
A filing cabinet in the corner captured her attention. She opened a drawer, slowly so as to not make any noise. Putting the flashlight in her mouth, she leafed through the folders, feeling deflated when all she found was old recipes.
Recipes? Her heart pinged.
Could Brad have been looking for a recipe? The recipe. The one for Dugasse’s famous chili that everyone thought was going to win him the contest? Maybe Brad had plans to enter the contest on his own with that recipe. Winning the contest would be life changing for a low-level chef like Brad, but was it life-changing enough to kill Dugasse for?
A sudden noise in the hall startled Lexy causing her to drop her flashlight which turned off when it hit the floor.
Who would be here at this time of night?
Lexy’s heart hammered against her ribcage as she dropped to her knees and groped for the flashlight. Her hand connected with the cold metal and she clutched the light in her fist.
Then she crouched under the desk and waited.
* * *
Lexy held her breath expecting someone to burst in the room at any second. She waited several minutes listening to only the sound of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears before she climbed out.
Was someone in the hall?
She crept over to the door and put her ear to it but didn’t hear anything. No light came in under the bottom of the door. She cracked the door open slowly and peeked out. Nothing.
Pulling the door the rest of the way open she slipped out into the hall. She was just about to head out the way she had come when a light at the other end of the hall caught her eye. It was coming from under Prescott Charles' door. Someone was in his office!
Lexy tiptoed back down the hall and stood to the side of his door. Shadows moved in the light that spilled out from underneath and she could hear the low murmur of voices. She leaned closer, straining to hear.
“… Killed him …”
“You …”
Snatches of conversation drifted out from the office and Lexy pressed even closer. Were they talking about the murder?
“… No … stabbed …”
Lexy felt her heart jolt … they were talking about the murder. Who was in there? She stepped up next to the door, her heart lurching when a floorboard gave her away with a loud groan.
The voices in the room stopped and she froze in her tracks.
“Is someone out there?” She heard a woman say from inside the room.
“No one should be here at this time of night.” A man’s voice this time, laced with panic.
Lexy’s mind whirled. Should she make a run for it, or stay still?
The door jerked open causing her heart to plummet.
Lexy’s eyebrows mashed together as her eyes registered the scene in front of her. Sylvia Spicer stood directly on the other side of the door, her beige silk shirt untucked and rumpled. Prescott Charles stood close behind her, his eyes wide, face turning beet red.
“You!” Sylvia pointed at Lexy who backed up a step. “What are you doing here?”
Lexy felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar until she realized she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Me? What are the two of you doing? I thought I heard you talking about killing Chef Dugasse.”
Lexy blurted it out without thinking then realized maybe she shouldn’t have said it. If they really were the killers then they’d already killed once and there wasn’t much to stop them from killing her. Lexy felt a pang in her stomach as she realized no one knew where she was.
“I didn’t say I killed the chef, I asked Prescott if he killed the chef.” Sylvia looked down, noticed her rumpled shirt, turned red and started smoothing it and tucking it in.
“Why would he kill Chef Dugasse?”
Sylvia and Prescott exchanged a look. Lexy wondered if she should make a break for it.
“I wouldn’t … I didn’t … but …” Prescott stammered.
“What is going on?” Lexy demanded.
Sylvia sighed and turned to Prescott. “We might as well tell her. She’s so nosey, she’s not going to stop until she finds out the truth and it’s better that we give her the real story.”
Nosey? Lexy’s back stiffened and she raised her eyebrows waiting for the ‘real story’.
Sylvia ran her fingers through her blonde hair and looked at Lexy. “You were right about me having an affair.”
Lexy’s eyebrows shot up. She knew it!
“But it wasn’t with Dugasse,” Sylvia added.
Lexy’s eyebrows fell back down and mashed together.
“It was with Prescott.” Sylvia turned to Prescott and he nodded.
Lexy felt her mouth fall open. She ping-ponged her eyes back and forth between the two of them. “But why did you act so squirrelly about Dugasse’s death?”
Sylvia sighed, collapsing into the guest chair. “Dugasse found out about our affair and he threatened to blackmail us.”
“So when he ended up dead … we each thought the other might have done it,” Prescott added.
“So that’s why you asked about hiding the body?” Lexy turned to Sylvia. “But why would you think I would want to hide it?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. When I saw him dead, I panicked.”
Prescott put his hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. “So you see, we were acting strange because we were covering for each other.”
Lexy narrowed her eyes. “That’s what you say, but how do I know the two of you weren’t in on it together?”
“We both have alibis.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” Sylvia said. “Justin was in the freezer at the same time I was that morning. We discussed the way Chef had yelled at Thomas.”
“And I was in a meeting with eight other people,” Prescott added.
Lexy felt her stomach deflate. Sylvia had been her best suspect and now she’d have to find someone else. But who?
“Hey, what are you doing here this time of night, anyway?” Sylvia interrupted her thoughts.
Lexy felt her cheeks grow warm. “Oh, umm … well, I caught Brad Meltzer going through Dugasse’s office the other day and I wanted to see what he was up to.”
“Meltzer? He’s been acting really strange since Chef Dugasse died,” Sylvia said.
“How so?”
“Like a jerk. I mean he was always kind of a jerk but now with chef gone, he’s being rather disrespectful and refusing to do the tasks I give him.”
“Do you think he wanted the head chef job?” Prescott asked.
“Maybe. But since I was the sous-chef, he would know that I would be the likely candidate for that job. I can assure you, I won’t be making him the next sous-chef.”
“Maybe he is just upset at Dugasse’s passing. He really seemed to adore him,” Lexy suggested.
Sylvia pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. He followed Dugasse around but he didn’t seem to admire him … It was more like he was stalking him.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Dugasse’s murder, do you?” Prescott asked.
“I don’t think he could have been the killer,” Lexy said. “He was standing right in front of me about the time the chef got murdered. Or shortly after. I would think he’d have had blood on him … or been unsettled. But he wasn’t.”
“Well I don’t know who could have done it … if it wasn’t you.” Sylvia looked pointedly at Lexy.
“It wasn’t. You have more of a motive than I do.” Lexy’s voice rose along with her anger.
“Ladies!” Prescott cut in. “Let’s say it wasn’t either one of you. Who would have had the strongest motive?”
“Maybe the wife?” Sylvia answered.
“According to Detective Payne, the wife has an alibi,” Lexy said.
Sylvia sighed and glanced at Prescott. “I just hope the killer is found soon so people don’t dig too deep into the goings on here and find out about us.”
Prescott cleared his throat. “Yes, umm … Lexy. I hope we can keep each other’s secrets.”
“Secrets?”
Prescott gestured out into the hall. “We won’t tell that you were in here after hours looking around if you keep quiet about our relationship.”
Lexy stared at the two of them. The last thing she needed was someone telling Payne she was sneaking around in here—it would make her look guilty of something. And since she didn’t really care about their affair she figured that was a good deal.
“Sure, I’ll keep quiet. But I might need your help.”
“With what?”
“Victoria Dugasse said her husband kept sneaking out at night presumably to meet his lover,” Lexy said.
Sylvia and Prescott shrugged. “So?”
“I thought he was meeting Sylvia, but if he wasn’t, then where was he going and who was he meeting?” Lexy asked.
“I would have no idea.” Prescott spread his arms, palms out and shrugged.
“Wait a minute,” Sylvia said. “I might.”
Lexy raised her brows at the other woman and gestured for her to elaborate.
“A couple of nights ago when I was leaving here after … umm … meeting Prescott, I noticed someone cooking in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure it was Dugasse.”
Lexy felt her heartbeat kick. “Did you see anyone else with him?”
Sylvia’s cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was here, so I didn’t go near the kitchen, but I’m sure I heard him talking in there.”
“That’s odd. Why would he meet his secret lover in the dining hall kitchen and cook?” Lexy wondered.
“Stranger things have happened,” Prescott said. “I can tell you one thing though—if we can figure out who he was meeting, we may have found our killer.”
Chapter 14
Lexy cracked one eye open just as the sun was just starting to rise. She closed her eye and rolled over, stretching her back. Feeling the weight of someone staring at her, she opened both her eyes and looked straight into a pair of deep brown orbs which were gazing at her with expectant adoration. Sprinkles.
Lexy felt her lips curl in a smile and reached out to pet the dog who reacted by leaping off the bed and running circles on the floor.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get up,” Lexy whispered, then swung her legs over the bed.
She padded into the small kitchen, filled Sprinkles’ bowl with dog food, then set it down. Lexy leaned against the counter while Sprinkles dug into the food. She was excited to tell Nans what she had learned from Sylvia and Prescott the night before, but it was too early—she wouldn’t have time to pop over there before work so it would just have to wait until their meeting at two.
Suddenly in a hurry to get to the kitchen and get her baking done for the day, Lexy grabbed Sprinkles’ leash and dashed outside with the dog who quickly did her business then ran back inside and jumped in bed with Jack.
Her dog duties accomplished, Lexy threw on a tee shirt and jeans, planted a kiss on Jack’s sleeping cheek and then headed off to the kitchen.
She hurried up the path, the tantalizing smell of bacon blanketed the resort causing her mouth to water. Slipping inside the back door, she took a detour past the griddle where the bacon was sizzling and grabbed a piece, crunching it into her mouth before continuing on to her area.
She assembled the flour, butter, sugar, baking powder, salt and milk for biscuits she would use as the basis for a strawberry shortcake that would be served for dessert at that evening’s dinner. She was just measuring the last of the ingredients into the giant mixing bowl when Sylvia appeared at her side.
“I’ve done some poking around and no one here knows who would have been in the kitchen late at night,” Sylvia said in a low voice.
Lexy glanced around the kitchen. Only about half the staff was in, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if no one else admitted to knowing anything either.
“Where’s Brad?” Lexy’s brow creased as she looked around for the irritating chef.
Sylvia checked her watch. “He’s not in yet.”
“Oh, well it probably wouldn’t help to ask him, but I think we should try to keep an eye on him between the two of us. I’m making up the biscuits and whipped cream for strawberry shortcake, but I have to leave around one thirty,” Lexy said.
Sylvia nodded. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
“Open for what?” Deena asked as she came up behind them.
A look of panic crossed Sylvia’s face.
“Anything that might have to do with Dugasse’s murder,” Lexy offered, putting Sylvia at ease and answering the teen’s question.
“Oh.” Deena looked at Sylvia suspiciously. As head chef, Sylvia was probably too much of an authority to be trusted from Deena’s point of view and Lexy found herself wishing the other woman would leave. She could see that Deena was bursting at the seams to tell her something.
It must have been Lexy’s lucky day because Sylvia turned away from the counter and said, “Well, back to work,” as she headed off toward the front of the kitchen.
As soon as Sylvia was out of earshot, Deena whipped her head back around to Lexy. “I may have found something out that will help you.”
Lexy felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach. “Great. Let’s start this batter up and then get the ingredients for the flavored whipped creams. Then you can tell me.”
Lexy indicated for Deena to finish measuring the ingredients into the bowl while she got heavy cream from the fridge. She stopped by the pantry for some sugar and flavored extracts so that she could make some flavored whipped creams for people to put on their strawberry shortcakes. The shortcake, cut up strawberries and whipped cream would be refrigerated separately and then assembled at the last minute before dessert.
She dropped the ingredients on the counter next to the mixer that was already beating the dough.
“These will be easy. We’re just going to make three bowls—one vanilla, one coconut and one almond flavored. So we’ll just whip the cream, sugar and extract together.” Lexy handed the brown vanilla extract bottle to Deena. “You do the vanilla.”
Deena followed Lexy’s lead, matching her measurements and adding the extract carefully. They picked up their bowls and whisks and started hand whisking the cream.
Lexy raised her eyebrows and glanced around to make sure no one could hear them. “So, what did you find out?”
Deena pressed her lips together, her arm quivering as it worked the cream in the bowl.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.” She looked solemnly at Lexy.
“I promise.”
Deena glanced around. “Some of the kids … we hang out on the trails at night. Sometimes we have a bonfire. But anyway, one of them told me that she saw a guy coming up the trail and being let in the back door of the kitchen. And it happened more than once.”
Lexy stopped whisking, her heartbeat picking up speed. “What trail?”
“One of the middle ones. Not the one that goes to the parking lot or the one that ends up by the cabins.”
“Do you know what time of night?”
Deena made a face and lowered her voice so that it was barely audible. “Don’t tell anyone but it was a few hours after midnight … my friend snuck out of her cabin. Her parents don’t know.”
Lexy’s heart beat even faster—that was the same time Dugasse’s wife said he was sneaking off. “Did she say what he looked like?”
“She didn’t really have a description. She said he looked big and tough. And one thing was strange.”
“What’s that?” Lexy’s brows creased together as she started whisking the cream again.
“He wore a thick leather jacket—a biker jacket. She said he must have been real hot in that in the middle of summer.”
* * *
Lexy and Deena hurried through making the whipped cream, a batch of blondies and some moon pies. By the time she left it was quarter to two. She rushed down the path to Nans and burst through the front door to find all four women of the Ladies Detective Club sitting around the table drinking tea.
Nans peeked at her watch. “How nice of you to join us, I thought maybe you might not make it for our little excursion.”
Lexy felt her face flush. “Sorry, I had to finish the baking. But you’ll be glad you didn’t leave without me because I have some interesting news.”
Four sets of gray eyebrows shot up.
“Do tell,” Ida said.
“Last night, I went back to the dining hall to look in Dugasse’s office,” she started.
“Alone?” Helen interrupted.
Lexy felt a twinge. “Yes, I know it was a bit dangerous but I wanted to see if I could figure out what Brad was looking for.”
“And did you?”
“Not really, but I found something very interesting.”
“What’s that?” Nans asked.
“Sylvia Spicer and Prescott Charles,” Lexy said, proud of her late night discovery.
“What about them?” Ruth asked.
“They were there … in the middle of the night … in secret,” Lexy said. “It turns out Sylvia was having an affair, but it was with Charles—not Dugasse.”
“Ohhhh.”
“So, she didn’t kill him in a fit of passion?” Ida looked disappointed.
“No,” Lexy said. “And they both have alibis that can be corroborated by other people.”
“Well, darn. We sure are running out of suspects.” Helen went over to the white board and erased Sylvia’s name.
“So what was Brad looking for in Dugasse’s office?” Nans asked.
“I don’t know.” Lexy shrugged. “The only thing in there is recipes … so I was wondering if he could be looking for that famous chili recipe.”
“Ha! Things are all starting to point to that chili contest. It usually comes down to money.” Ruth shook her head knowingly.
“Maybe … or maybe not,” Lexy said. “I also found out something that might tie the bikers to Dugasse.”
“Oh?”
“My assistant told me that the teens hang out in the woods there behind the dining hall and one of her friends said she saw a man that fits the biker’s descriptions being let in the back door of the kitchen.”
“By Dugasse?”
“She didn’t say but it was in the middle of the night about the same time that Dugasse’s wife said he was missing from home.”
Helen scrunched up her face. “Why would a biker be meeting Dugasse in the middle of the night?”
“Maybe they were having an affair!” Ida wiggled her eyebrows, apparently delighted with the thought.
Lexy scrunched her face together, the image of Dugasse and a burly biker having an affair in the kitchen made her queasy.
“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Nans stood up and went over to the fridge. “Are you guys ready to go make some new friends?”
“I guess so,” Lexy said, “but I’m curious … what is it that you think will get them to talk to us?”
“Why, one of my famous mile high apple pies, of course,” Nans said, bending over and grabbing something out of the fridge. She turned around holding out a beautiful golden-crusted apple pie.
“No man alive has ever been able to resist my apple pie, and I’m sure these biker gentlemen are no exception.”
Chapter 15
They stopped by Lexy’s cottage and Nans got Sprinkles into her harness while Lexy changed clothes.
“Do you have the bracelet that you found on the trail the other day?” Nans asked.
“I think so.” Lexy looked around the room for the jeans she had been wearing that day. She found them in a pile on the chair and dug into the front pocket producing the bracelet.
“Here it is.” She held it up and Nans reached out and took it.
“You never know when this might come in handy,” Nans said, putting it in her pocket. Then she grabbed the pie off the table where she’d set it when they came in and led the way out the front door.
The five of them walked the same path they had the other day. They each took turns holding the pie.
“What, exactly are we hoping to learn from this excursion?” Ida asked and Lexy remembered she hadn’t been with them the other day.
“Well, at the end of the path is the biker camp we told you about. In light of the bracelet Lexy found and what Deena told her, it seems pretty likely they are involved or they know something,” Nans said handing the pie to Ruth.
“Are they dangerous?” Ida asked.
Lexy chewed her bottom lip. “Well, they did have a knife and a gun … but they didn’t seem too keen to use it on us.”
“But they also weren’t that happy to see us.” Ruth handed the pie to Helen.
“Which is why I baked the pie, to sweeten them up,” Nans said.
“Do you think they killed him?” Lexy asked.
“I’m not sure what the motive would be,” Nans answered. “But he could have been having an affair with the biker that was visiting him and they had a falling out.”
“I can’t picture any of those tough bikers being gay.” Helen handed the pie to Ida.
“Maybe Dugasse was having an affair with one of the bikers’ girlfriends and they had it out over her?” Ruth offered.
“Either way, the best thing to do is just make friends and then use our investigative skills to find out the truth,” Nans said taking the pie from Ida.
They got to the clearing where the camp was and Lexy’s stomach twisted up in a knot.
The same dog was on the porch and he lifted his head when he heard them approach. Lexy hesitated but Nans forged ahead, walking right up to the door and knocking. Lexy followed, watching as Sprinkles and the Boxer re-acquainted themselves.
The door jerked open and Lexy’s heart surged into her throat. A large, bald man growled at them from the other side of the door. Inside Lexy could see five other bikers gathered around a table. She recognized the big guy with the gun from the other day. He came over to the door and peered out at them.
“It’s those grandmas!” Another guy said from inside.
The two guys stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind them.
“What do you want?” The first guy eyed them suspiciously, then glanced over his shoulder at the closed door.
Lexy’s heartbeat skittered. What was he hiding in there? She could smell something cooking in the air and wondered if they had a meth lab or some other illegal operation going on inside.
“Did he send you?” The guy from the other day asked.
“What? No, we told you no one sent us,” Nans replied.
“So you aren’t in cahoots with that chef?”
Cahoots?
“What chef? Dugasse?” Ruth asked.
The two guys looked at each other. “You know Dugasse?”
Lexy’s heart flipped. “We did.”
“And you’re not from the other chef?”
“Noooo.” Nans drew the word out.
One of the guys looked down at the dogs who were laying side by side watching the conversation.
“Looks like our dogs get along like old friends,” he said.
Nans shoved the pie up in their faces. “And we just want to be friends, too.”
“Is that apple?” the biggest guy asked.
Nans nodded and his eyes lit up. “That’s my favorite.”
He glanced at the other guy. “Should we let them in?”
The other guy shrugged. “Okay, but if we find out you are up to something you’ll be sorry.”
He opened the door and they shuffled in. The bikers that were sitting around the table all stood up and a round of introductions ensued. They seemed like regular guys … except for the abundance of leather and tattoos. And the names like Snake, Weasel and Rat.
Lexy gave herself a mental warning not to get too comfortable around them—one of them might have killed Dugasse.
The cabin was one large room with a counter and sink unit on one wall, a big picnic table in the middle, and an old sofa and mismatched chairs on the opposite side of the room. A fridge sat against a wall behind them and a stove was at the end of the counter. One of the guys was at the stove stirring the steaming pots with a wooden spoon.
Nans went to the counter and set her pie down. “Do you guys want a piece? I’m famous for it you know,” she said proudly.
Snake and Rat practically fell over themselves getting a knife for her. Nans cut the pie and Rat held out paper plates for her to dish the slices out on. He passed them around with plastic forks and the guys dug in.
Snake rolled his eyes back in his head. “This is so good. Just like my Gam used to make.”
“Thanks,” Nans said. “You know Lexy here is the baker at the resort. She makes the best desserts. I don’t recall ever seeing you guys eating there.”
“Oh, this isn’t part of the resort,” Rat said as he crunched down on a piece of pie crust.
“Oh, it’s not?” Nans screwed up her face. “That’s funny because I know at least one of you has been to the kitchen.”
Everyone stopped chewing and stared at Nans. Lexy’s stomach dropped. Her muscles tensed.
“What makes you say that?” Rat asked.
“Well, someone saw one of you walk right down the path and go in through the back door late at night,” Nans answered.
The seven guys all looked around at each other. Chairs creaked as they squirmed in their seats.
Nans held up her hands. “Now don’t get all nervous. If one of you was having an affair with Dugasse we certainly won’t tell.”
Snake shot up out of his seat. “What?!”
Lexy’s heart leapt and she moved to get between him and Nans.
“I’m not saying any of you killed him,” Nans continued, then reached in her pocket. “But we did find this bracelet right at the head of the trail not twenty feet from where he was killed.”
“Now you look here old lady,” Weasel said advancing on Nans, the veins in his neck straining against his spider web tattoo.
“Wait!” Rat jumped up from his chair and grabbed Weasel’s arm.
Weasel shook off Rat’s arm. “We can’t let her say stuff like that about us.”
“It’s okay,” Rat said holding up his hand. “That bracelet is mine.”
“You were the one having an affair with Chef Dugasse?” Ida stared at Rat.
Rat shook his head. “I wasn’t having an affair with Dugasse, but I did go there to meet him. Several times.”
“But why?” Nans asked.
“Because he was my father,” Rat looked down at the ground, his eyes moist. “He was teaching me to cook.”
Chapter 16
“Dugasse was your father?” Lexy stared at Rat. “But I didn’t even know he had any kids.”
“No one knew. We actually just found out a few months ago ourselves when my mother died. They weren’t married and she never told me who my father was until right before she passed. The funny thing is, I always wanted to be a chef …” Rat let his voice trail off, looking out the window toward the path that led to the dining hall.
“A chef?” Ida sized him up.
“Yeah, you don’t think bikers have regular jobs? Snake here is an accountant, Weasel’s an architect and Stone owns a coffee franchise,” he said waving his hand at the others as he talked about them.
Lexy felt her eyes widen as she looked at the men—dirty, unshaven and loaded in leather and tattoos. She couldn’t imagine hiring an accountant named Snake or an architect named Weasel.
“These aren’t our real names,” Snake said catching her incredulous look. “I’m Arty, and that’s Devon, James, Zander, Ricky and Rusty. The other names are just our biker nicknames.”
“And we clean up real good,” Weasel said looking down at himself.
“So you didn’t kill Dugasse?” Ruth said to Rat, aka Ricky.
“No, of course not.”
Ida let out a sigh of frustration. “Well if it wasn’t the wife, and it wasn’t Sylvia Spicer and it wasn’t one of you, then who the hell did kill him?”
Rat rubbed his face with his hand. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Did he have any enemies? Did he mention anyone he thought might want to harm him?” Nans asked.
“Well, there was this one other chef that Dad said was threatening him. He wanted to buy Dad’s chili recipe for the Chili Battle and when Dad refused, he got pretty mad.”
“Chef Marchesi?” Ruth asked.
“Yes, that’s him!” Rat narrowed his eyes at her. “How do you know him?”
“We don’t.” Ruth shook her head. “But we heard he was a rival for the chili contest and Payne mentioned him as a possible suspect.”
“Is that who you thought sent us?” Lexy asked.
“Yes. We knew he wanted to get his hands on the recipe and thought he might send someone to try and take it … but we thought it would be by force, not with pies.” Snake chuckled.
“And you guys have the recipe?” Nans raised her brows.
Rat nodded. “Dad and I were going to enter the chili contest together but now that he’s gone, I’ll enter it myself … in his honor.”
“We’re cooking up a test run now.” Snake pointed to the stove. “Would you like a taste?”
Nans went over to the stove, lifted one of the lids and stuck her nose in. “Oh, this smells good.”
Snake and Weasel handed out bowls and everyone lined up at the stove where Rat proudly ladled out the chili.
Lexy took her bowl over by the window and brought the spoon tentatively to her lips. It was good—sweet and with just enough of a spicy kick.
“This is delicious,” Ida said.
“Umm.” Helen, Ruth and Nans agreed.
“I don’t get why this Marchesi guy would kill Rat’s dad over a chili recipe,” Snake said.
“Well, everyone seems to think Dugasse’s chili would win the contest and winning that contest could be worth millions.” Nans slurped the rest of her chili.
“Millions?” Rat’s eyebrows mashed together.
“Yeah, your father didn’t tell you?”
“No. He just seemed happy that we were working on something together,” Rat said looking even sadder than before.
“The good news is that now you might be the one to win that contest,” Helen said.
“And the millions,” Ruth added.
“Unless Marchesi gets to you first,” Nans cautioned.
“We can’t be certain he’s the killer,” Lexy said.
“No, but he certainly had a motive,” Nans replied. “And right now he’s the best candidate we have. We just have to prove he did it.”
“How can you do that?” Rat asked.
Nans shrugged. “We’ve caught killers before. Usually we just snoop around and something always comes up. I don’t see why this would be any different.”
Ida turned to Rat. “What time do you start setting up for the Chili Battle?”
“We get our assigned spots tomorrow night and we can set up our tables and canopies then,” Rat said.
“The next day, the contest grounds open at noon. We can start cooking then and the general public is allowed in around 4 pm,” Snake added.
“Boy, it sure would be great to get in early and snoop around his tent,” Ruth said.
Rat looked at her and snapped his fingers. “I know! You can meet us tomorrow night and we’ll get you in with V.I.P. visitor passes … if you want.”
“Oh that would be perfect!” Nans put her chili bowl in the sink and started washing the dishes.
“Oh, hey, you don’t have to do that … you’re a guest.” Snake took over the job of dish washing and Nans raised her brows at Lexy who shrugged.
“I feel much better knowing you guys are helping find out who killed my dad,” Rat said. “I didn’t have a lot of confidence in that detective Payne.”
“Neither do we, actually,” Nans replied.
“So he knows about you then.” Lexy cut her eyes to Rat.
“Yes, he was here the other day,” Rat said. “Weasel’s cousin is on the police force here but he didn’t know I was Dugasse’s son. I guess Payne figured that out on his own somehow.”
Lexy raised a brow. Maybe Payne wasn’t as much of a bumbling idiot as he appeared to be.
“Well, I guess we better get going.” Ida pushed herself up from the table where she’d found a seat in between Stone and Rusty.
Lexy noticed the men exchanging a look and her muscles tensed. What was that about?
Rat raised his eyebrows at Snake and Snake nodded.
“Is something wrong?” Lexy ventured, her nerves on high alert.
“No … we just …” Rat looked at the others. “Should we?”
“Should you what?” Nans stood near the door, her hand on the knob.
“Yeah, go ahead.” Snake and the others nodded at Rat.
“Well, I was wondering if you ladies would like to go with us to biker bingo tonight … it’s a lot of fun, the biker camps from all around the lake go and tonight’s the big game where you can win the grand prize.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun!” Nans raised her brows at the other ladies. “Do you want to go?”
Ruth, Ida and Helen nodded. The women loved bingo and never passed up a chance to get in on a big game.
“What’s the grand prize?” Ida asked.
Snake’s eyes lit up. “A Harley.”
“Count me in!” Ruth said. “I always wanted a Harley.”
Chapter 17
Lexy didn’t go to biker bingo. Partly because she wanted to spend the time with Jack, but mostly because she didn’t want to have to explain to him how they’d befriended a gang of bikers. He’d been really understanding about her crime solving activities on this trip and she didn’t want to push her luck.
Jumping into the shower, she washed her hair then fluffed it dry letting the natural wave take over before changing into a short turquoise colored sundress. By the time Jack got back from fishing, she had beer in the cooler, steaks on the grill and Jack’s favorite coconut cream pie in the fridge which was, strangely enough, located on the porch.
She was sitting in one of the rockers on their screened-in porch enjoying the view of the lake through the trees when Jack joined her, fresh from the shower. He’d given his hair a rough towel dry so it stuck up around his unshaven face. The rumpled hair and stubble gave him a handsome bad-boy look, causing Lexy’s pulse to beat a little faster.
She handed him a beer from the cooler and he sank into the second rocker. Sprinkles adjusted her position so that she was lying on the floor in between the two rocking chairs and Jack bent down to scratch behind her ears.
“How was fishing today?” Lexy asked, hoping the subject of fishing would distract Jack enough so he didn’t ask about her day.
“Good. I caught a four pound bass, which beat Norman’s best catch of three point eight pounds.” Jack smiled. “Plus a few smaller bass and some pickerel.”
“You’re really getting into vacation mode … too bad we only have a few more days here.”
“Yep. I haven’t relaxed this much on vacation in years. But it will be good to get back home and back to work.” Jack ran his finger lightly up Lexy’s arm sending tingly shivers down her spine. “Until we go on our next vacation … just the two of us.”
“Next vacation?” Lexy’s eyebrows mashed together.
Jack tilted his head at her. “Our honeymoon? We are getting married, right?”
Lexy laughed. “Oh, sorry. Yes, of course … but I guess there’s a lot of planning before that can happen.”
“Well, I think you should start planning right away, as soon as we get back.”
Lexy’s heart lifted at the thought. They’d been engaged for several months, now, but sometimes it seemed like Jack might be having second thoughts. He sounded so sure about it now that Lexy figured she’d just been acting silly and vowed to put the plans into action right away.
“How is the Dugasse case going?” Jack pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Well, it wasn’t the wife.” Lexy watched Jack pad out to the grill in his bare feet and flip the steaks over. The smell of grilling meat combined with the sizzling sound they made when he flipped them caused her mouth to water.
“How do you know?” he asked through the screen.
“Payne said she had an alibi.”
“He shared information with you?”
“Only by accident.” Lexy grimaced. “He came to the kitchen to lecture me about bothering suspects and let it slip that the wife wasn’t the killer.”
“Well that sounds familiar.” Jack returned to his rocker and laughed as he settled back in with his beer. “So do you think it was the other chef … Sylvia?”
“She wasn’t having the affair with him and she also has an alibi.” Lexy felt a pang of guilt in not telling Jack the whole story about Sylvia’s affair with Prescott Charles but it wasn’t relevant to the murder case and she’d promised not to tell.
“So you’re out of suspects?” Jack raised a brow at Lexy, then grabbed the platter and headed out to the grill.
“No, we have one other.” Lexy got up and started setting out plates and a salad on the small table they had set up for eating on.
“Who is this other suspect?” Jack prompted as he dished steaks onto their plates.
Lexy glanced out the window to make sure no one else was around. “Another chef—one who was threatening Dugasse about his chili recipe.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know he was getting threats. That sounds like something to investigate. I hope Payne is aware of that.”
“I’m sure he is.” Lexy put a small chunk of steak in her mouth and it practically melted on her tongue. She rolled her eyes back in her head. “Nummy … this is sooo good.”
Sprinkles put her paw on Lexy’s foot and stared at her as if to say “don’t forget to give me some.” Lexy’s heart surged and she threw her a small piece.
“Anyway,” Lexy said. “Dugasse’s son said this Marchesi guy—that’s the other chef—tried to buy the chili recipe and when Dugasse refused he got mad.”
“Wait … Dugasse has a son?”
Lexy nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was kind of a secret …” She let her voice trail off not wanting to get into the details of how she found out about the son.
“Speaking of the chili recipe … are we going to the big Chili Battle tomorrow night?” Jack asked.
“Of course. It should be interesting, considering what happened to Dugasse.” Lexy purposely forgot to tell him about Dugasse’s son entering the contest with the recipe.
“That’s for sure. And I heard there were going to be fireworks after. How about we bring a big blanket and spread it out on the hill? We can gorge ourselves on chili and then lay back and watch the fireworks.”
“Sounds good.” Lexy’s stomach flipped wondering how she’d manage to eat chili with Jack and stalk Marchesi at the same time.
Jack finished off the last of his steak and salad, then took a long pull on his beer.
“The thing is, I’m not really sure how to go about getting clues that prove Marchesi is the killer,” Lexy said, wiping her plate clean and stacking it on top of Jack’s.
Jack leaned back and took another sip of beer. “I would try to establish a timeline … where was Marchesi when the murder happened? Do you think he did it himself or did he have an accomplice?”
Lexy pursed her lips. “I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it.”
“One technique we like to use is to simply follow and observe … we do it with suspects or people that seem to know too much about the case. Usually something shakes out. Criminals like that are dumb and all it takes is watching them a bit to find a clue.”
Lexy settled back in her chair. She’d have to have Ruth find out where Marchesi was staying and then maybe one of them could follow him around while Lexy was working tomorrow morning.
“But you need to be careful if you follow this guy around … he could be a killer. You’d be smart to leave that part to Payne.” Jack’s eyes drilled into hers as if he was reading her thoughts.
“Oh, of course,” she said, then stood up and walked to the fridge, thinking to distract him from giving her the usual lecture about messing in police business with his favorite coconut cream pie.
She opened the door, enjoying the blast of cool air. “I have your favorite pie for dessert,” she said, looking at him over the top of the door.
Jack got up and walked over to her, pulling her out from behind the door and closing it. He slid his arm around her waist, dragging her to him. He dipped his head, his lips brushing lightly against hers.
“Actually, I had something else in mind for dessert.”
Chapter 18
Lexy was halfway through frosting a batch of miniature cupcakes when Nans, Ruth, Ida and Helen showed up in the kitchen the next morning. She glanced nervously out the window, half expecting to see a shiny new Harley in the parking lot.
“How was biker bingo? Did you guys win anything?”
“Ida won a hundred dollars, Helen got a gift certificate for a pedicure and Ruth and I got skunked.” Nans shook her head.
Lexy made a face. “A gift certificate for a pedicure? Who would have thought bikers would want that as a prize?”
Nans shrugged. “I guess one of the bikers has a salon and he donated it.”
“So you didn’t win the Harley?” Lexy eyed Ruth.
“No.” Ruth laughed. “I guess I’ll have to make do with my Oldsmobile.”
“Probably safer,” Lexy offered.
“For everyone,” Helen added and Nans and Ida snickered.
“But we did get the V.I.P. passes,” Ruth said to Lexy. “We’re supposed to meet Snake, Rat and the gang at the field around five.”
“Okay.” Lexy checked her watch. “I’m tied up here this morning but I was thinking it might be smart to follow Marchesi around today. If he is the killer and he’s still after the recipe, he might do something suspicious.”
“Good idea. I’m sure he must be in town by now for the contest,” Ida said.
“Did you ever look into that?” Nans asked Ruth.
“Not yet. Shouldn’t be too hard though.” Ruth leaned in and said in a low voice, “I have a great program that hacks the hotel guest databases.”
“Easy peasy. We’ll just find out where he is then stake out his hotel and put a tail on him if he leaves.” Lexy thought Nans looked quite pleased that she’d been able to fit lots of police jargon in that sentence.
“Okay, but don’t confront him. He could be dangerous,” Lexy said, then wondered if she’d been listening to Jack too much.
A splash of vibrant color at the front of the kitchen caught her eye and her heart sank when she saw Detective Payne in a bright pink shirt and pink, white and blue plaid shorts making his way down the aisle toward her.
“What is it?” Nans turned to see what was causing the look of distaste on Lexy’s face. “Oh. Well, time for us to go.”
Nans, Ruth, Ida and Helen turned abruptly and scooted off in the other direction before Lexy even had time to say good-bye.
Payne smiled at the cupcakes, then frowned at Lexy. “Miss Baker, I hear you’ve been making the rounds.”
“The rounds?” Lexy tried on her best wide-eyed innocent look. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Payne narrowed his eyes at her then grabbed a little cupcake and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He brought the spiral notebook and pencil out of his pocket.
“I think you know we have a new suspect,” he said, studying her reaction. A glob of blue frosting rested on the corner of his mouth.
Lexy raised an eyebrow. She didn’t point out the frosting.
“It seems Dugasse had a son,” Payne announced.
“I knew that,” Lexy said. “But the son didn’t kill him.”
“Oh really? And how do you know that?”
Lexy pressed her lips together. She was already in enough trouble with Payne and didn’t want to tell him she’d scouted out the biker camp on her own or that she’d found the bracelet at the head of the trail.
“Rumors around the kitchen.” She waved her hand around the room.
Payne looked at the ceiling and tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his lips. The glob of frosting quivered but stayed in place.
“Seems like you know an awful lot about this murder … for someone who isn’t really involved.”
Lexy’s stomach sank. Whenever she talked to Payne she seemed to get herself in more trouble. All the more reason to investigate this herself, she thought.
Payne picked another cupcake off the tray and shoved it in his mouth. This one with chocolate frosting. “I trust you’ll be going to the Chili Battle?”
Lexy nodded. What an odd thing for him to ask.
“Good, then all my favorite suspects will be in the same area at once.”
And with that he turned and walked off leaving Lexy to wonder what he meant.
* * *
The fairgrounds at Lakeshore Resort where the Chili Battle was being held was a giant field with barns at one end. Today, a big section was roped off and Lexy could see canopies being set up in rows. Two men in khaki shirts guarded the entrance.
Nans pulled the V.I.P. passes out of her giant purse and handed them out so each of them could show their ticket and be let inside. Since the event wasn’t open for the general public, there wasn’t a lot of people, but those that were there seemed to be quite busy.
It was sectioned off into booths each about ten by twenty and with a post that held boxy electrical outlets. The contestants were setting up their tents and tables and getting their cookware in order. Lexy remembered that Rat had said they weren’t allowed to start cooking until noon tomorrow. She figured most of the contestants wanted to make sure they had everything in good order tonight so they could get right into cooking first thing the next day.
“So you didn’t find out anything today when you followed Marchesi?” Lexy said once they were far enough away from anyone who might overhear.
“No,” Nans said. “It was boring. Helen fell asleep in the back seat.”
“He stayed in the hotel and went out once to the grocery store. Bought a lot of beans,” Ida added.
“But you got a good look at him, right? So you’ll recognize him if you see him here.”
“Oh we got a good look,” Nans said, craning her neck to scan the area. “But I don’t see him here.”
“How about we go logically down the rows and check out each booth?” Ruth asked.
“Okay, we’ll start at this end.” Lexy pointed to a booth in the corner. “Then go up and down the rows.”
They started toward the end and Lexy felt a tingle at the base of her neck. Was someone watching her? She turned around but didn’t see anyone. Probably just nerves about what might happen if they have a run-in with Marchesi, she thought.
They walked the rows methodically. Lexy noticed a lot of the contestants had special canopies with their names. Probably not unusual considering the amount of money at stake. She wondered if some of them were professional contestants or just people that liked to make chili.
Nans stopped in front of a booth that had a tropical looking canopy with “Chilin’ Chili” written on it in scrolly letters. The canopy was turquoise and pink and the contestants inside had matching aprons. Even their crock pots were turquoise.
“This looks like a fun booth,” Nans said.
One of the aproned contestants smiled over at Nans. “It is. We even give out small margarita samples.” She nodded to the stack of cups.
A second lady glanced up. “Be sure to come back tomorrow for the tasting … and vote for us!”
Nans winked at Lexy as they continued down the row. “I know the first place I’ll be heading to tomorrow night.”
They passed more interesting booths. “Hot to Taught” was manned by teachers and “It’s a Gas” claimed to have the hottest—and gassiest—chili in the contest.
As they walked the rows, Lexy couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She kept looking behind her, but didn’t see anyone.
They found Rat, Snake and the others in a booth in the third row. Nans rushed right over and Lexy watched the four older women exchange high-fives with the six bikers.
Lexy noticed their tent was a plain white color with Dugasse written in script on an awning that hung on the front. The guys wore plain black aprons and Rat shuffled around inside, placing items in one spot, then moving them a few seconds later.
“What’s that for?” Ruth asked pointing to a large grill they had set up in the corner.
“We’re going to warm the cornbread up on it so it will be lightly grilled.” Rat smiled proudly. “It’s going to be the best cornbread in the contest.”
“Over here we have the crockpots … this is where we’ll start the beans in the secret sauce right at noon.” Snake pointed to a table with rows of mismatched crockpots on it. Lexy wondered if the boys had attended every yard sale in a ten mile radius to amass the odd collection.
“And over here we’ll cook up the meat.” Weasel walked over to a stove plate that sat on another table.
“Then we mix it all together with vegetables and put it back in the crockpot to simmer for a few hours,” Rat said.
“Sounds like you guys have it all worked out.” Nans looked around the booth, then lowered her voice. “Have you seen Marchesi?”
“No, we were afraid he might come by and bother us, but nothing so far. I’m not sure he even knows who we are.” Rat shrugged.
“But if he tries anything, he’ll be sorry,” Snake said, pointing to a stack of baseball bats in the corner.
“I heard his booth was in the very last row,” Rat said.
“We should go check it out. He doesn’t know who we are so maybe we can interrogate him and get him to slip up,” Ida said.
Lexy mashed her brows together. “Interrogate him? That might not be such a good idea.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean in an obvious way, dear,” Ida said. “You know us old ladies have a way of interrogating people without them realizing it.”
Lexy gave a half nod. She had to admit, being an octogenarian did have its advantages, one of which was that people paid little attention to what you asked and tended to spill their guts before they even realized what they were saying.
Nans clapped her hands together and started toward the aisle. “Shall we?”
Ruth, Ida, Helen and Lexy said a quick good-bye to the bikers and followed her out. She made her way down to the end of the row and skipped over the next one heading straight for the last row of booths. Lexy followed along, ignoring the feeling that she was being watched.
She rounded the corner to see Nans standing in front of one of the booths.
“Here it is.” Nans pointed up at the awning which said Marchesi in block letters along with a black and white line drawing of the chef.
“No one is here.” Ida looked deflated.
Lexy glanced around. The booth was blocked off, with tables set up around the edges where one would normally enter. The back had tables too and those were loaded with high tech stainless steel crockpots and racks of spices. On one of the tables close to them was a picture of Marchesi in his chef’s uniform in the kitchen.
Lexy picked up the picture. “So this is him?”
Nans looked over her shoulder. “Yep. Looks like he’s in his restaurant or something.”
“Who’s that other guy next to him?” Helen asked.
“I don’t know … wait a minute.” Nans grabbed the picture from Lexy and held it close to her face.
“It couldn’t be …” Her voice trailed off as she set the picture down and dug in her purse. She produced something wrapped in a tissue, her eyes lighting up as she unwrapped the tissue and looked inside.
“It is!”
“Is what?” Lexy asked.
Nans laid the object flat in her palm and Lexy recognized it as the bloodied scrap of fabric she’d found under the dumpster.
“The pattern on this fabric matches the pattern on that guy’s shirt in the picture … exactly.” Nans emphasized the last word by stabbing her index finger at the man standing next to Marchesi in the picture.
Lexy squinted, comparing the two fabrics and her stomach lurched … Nans was right.
Ida gasped her eyes riveting between the scrap of fabric and the picture. “That’s it! He’s the killer!”
* * *
“Shhh!” Nans looked at Ida. “This doesn’t prove that he’s the killer … just that he has the same shirt.”
“Actually, we don’t even know that swatch is from the killer,” Lexy said.
“It could have been there before the murder,” Ruth reminded them.
“We probably shouldn’t have taken it.” Lexy’s stomach sank. “Now Payne will have no way to tie this to the scene of the crime.”
“Yeah, it’s unlikely that he’ll believe us if we suddenly come forward and say we found it there,” Ruth said.
“Maybe the best thing to do is to give this to Weasel. He had a cousin on the police force. He might know what to do about it.”
Nans frowned down at the swatch. “Yeah, probably. I guess we’ll just have to find some other evidence or get Marchesi to admit to it.”
“Too bad we couldn’t catch him trying to steal the recipe or threatening Rat and the gang.”
“Does he even know that Rat is Dugasse’s son?”
“Not according to what Rat said earlier,” Lexy answered.
“So, for all we know, he thinks he’s got the contest all tied up since Dugasse is dead,” Ruth said.
“Which is good because when killers think they are in the clear, they tend to let their guard down,” Ida added.
“Well, let's get this swatch back to Weasel.” Nans wrapped the fabric back in the tissue and put it in her purse. “We can come back to the booth tomorrow when Marchesi is sure to be here and see if we can get him to admit to being the killer … or at least having his henchman do it.”
As they turned to head back down the aisle, Lexy’s heart jolted when she caught a glimpse of someone ducking out of sight at the end of the row.
“Hey! You!” She ran toward the person but when she got to the end no one was there—just a crowd of people milling about the area looking in the various booths.
“Damn!” She stopped and waited for Nans and the ladies to catch up.
“What is it?” Nans asked.
“I thought I saw someone watching us.” Lexy stood on her tip toes scanning the crowd. “I’ve had the feeling someone has been following us all night.”
Nans pursed her lips together. “Interesting … why would someone follow us?”
Lexy shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with Dugasse’s murder.”
Chapter 19
Lexy kept herself busy the next day making extra batches of brownies and cupcakes to keep her mind off the chili contest that night. She was jittery with the feeling that something was going to happen and a little nervous at what Nans might do to try to expose Marchesi.
She’d expected detective Payne to show up and read her the riot act about the swatch of fabric. The bikers had been happy to hear about how they had found it and the picture that showed Marchesi’s friend wearing it. Weasel had even whipped out his cell phone and tried to call his cousin on the spot, except there’d been no cell phone service.
Payne hadn’t graced the kitchen with his appearance by the time Lexy was done with her kitchen duties and she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know if that meant he just didn’t know about it yet or if she was off the hook, but either way she wasn’t going to have to deal with him today … at least not until they could get a confession or some other clue from Marchesi later on that night.
Rushing to her cottage to change, Lexy wondered how she was going to get away from Jack to go to the Marchesi booth. Jack wouldn’t approve of Nans interrogating him and she certainly wasn’t going to let Nans and the ladies go without her. God only knew what kind of trouble they could get into.
She showered and changed into a blue tank top and faded jeans. She fed Sprinkles and dug out a big blanket for them to sit on to view the fireworks which were supposed to start shortly after dark.
Lexy felt the corners of her lips curl in a smile thinking of how romantic it would be to lay on the blanket with Jack and watch the fireworks … and also of how leaving Jack on the blanket to ‘save their spot’ would provide the perfect excuse for her venturing off with Nans.
* * *
By the time Jack finished showering, Nans, Ruth, Helen, Ida and Ida’s fiancé Norman had come to collect them. They put Sprinkles in her harness and then they all started off toward the field.
“I figure Norman and Jack can get some chili and then save our spots on the blankets.” Ida winked at Lexy. Apparently the older woman had the same idea Lexy did.
They made their way into the event and walked around to a few booths. Lexy wasn’t surprised when Nans went straight to the “Chilin Chili” booth and grabbed margaritas for everyone. The salty tang of the drink flirted with Lexy’s taste buds as the pungent tequila soothed her nerves.
The air was filled with a festive vibe and the smell of spices. Lexy felt good walking hand in hand with Jack and surrounded by her grandmother and friends, but she still couldn’t shake that niggling feeling that she was being followed.
“It’s getting crowded up on the hill.” Ida pointed to the hillside which was starting to fill up. “Why don’t you and Jack grab some chili, then take the blankets and save us a seat? Us girls wanna walk around a little more.”
“Okay by you?” Norman asked Jack who nodded. Jack and Norman both loved fishing and the two of them had spent most of the vacation doing just that and becoming close friends in the process.
Lexy knew Jack wasn’t much for milling around in crowds so he was more than happy to take the blanket and Sprinkles and set out for more spacious territory. He gave Lexy a quick peck on the cheek and off they went.
“Now, let's get down to business,” Nans whispered after they were out of hearing range. She turned and walked briskly toward the very last row where Marchesi’s booth was. Taking a detour to breeze by Rat’s booth, she stopped only long enough to wish him good luck, then continued on to the last row.
Lexy felt a jolt of apprehension as they turned into the last row. The crowd had thinned and it made her feel exposed. She got that hair standing up feeling on the back of her neck again and wished she’d had two—or more—margaritas.
Her heartbeat picked up speed as they approached the Marchesi tent. The crowd seemed oddly disinterested in it which was strange considering Marchesi was supposed to have one of the best chili recipes. As they got up closer to the tent, Lexy found out why.
The tent was closed.
“What the heck?” Nans turned around to face them her arms extended at her sides, palms out.
“Is anyone in there?” Lexy tried to lift one of the flaps but the tent was buttoned up tight as a drum. She managed to lift a corner flap to get a peek inside.
“It’s empty.” She shrugged at Nans and the ladies.
“Well, where could he be?” Ruth looked around.
“Maybe out killing someone else that he thinks might steal the win from him,” Ida whispered.
“Let’s look inside.” Nans tugged on the corner of the flap that Lexy had opened and a few more snaps unsnapped making the opening big enough for them to squeeze in.
Lexy’s heart pounded against her ribs as she followed Nans inside. She looked around at the tables—crockpots were simmering and the tent smelled deliciously like molasses and spices. She noticed Chef Marchesi had all the most expensive equipment from the stainless steel crockpots to the high tech convection ovens. Everything was top notch right down to the premium mahogany handled knife set.
Lexy’s stomach lurched and she sucked in a breath as she stared at the knife set … the handles were identical to the knife she’d seen sticking out of Dugasse’s chest.
“What is it?” Nans turned to her.
“This knife set—it matches the one that killed Dugasse.” Lexy pointed to the set. “And it’s missing the chef’s knife.”
“It’s too bad you’re so nosey.”
Lexy whirled toward the sound of the familiar voice, her heart jerking in her chest when she saw who it was.
Brad Meltzer … and he had a gun pointed right at Nans.
Chapter 20
Lexy’s heart hammered in her chest. Too late, she realized they’d made a mistake coming into the closed off tent—no one could see them. But would they hear her over the din of the event if she screamed?
“Don’t even think about screaming or the old lady gets it,” Brad said as if reading her mind.
“Old lady?” Nans bristled at Brad.
“Shut it!
Brad let out a low whistle and a flap on the other side of the tent opened. A large man wheeled in dollies stacked with boxes and burlap sacks. Lexy’s blood froze when she recognized him as the man with the plaid shirt in the picture—the killer.
Nans, Ida, Ruth and Helen stood frozen in their tracks
Lexy’s heart jerked as Brad started toward the ladies. She lunged toward Brad to prevent him from getting to them, but plaid shirt came at her from the left. She turned to the left, leaping at him to catch him off guard but he lowered his head and smashed into her mid-section sending her plummeting to the ground.
She kicked out and heard a grunt as her foot connected with hard bone. His knee. It merely slowed him for a second and he reached out and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head back.
Lexy felt his arm squeeze around her neck as her clouding vision registered Brad advancing on Nans and the ladies. She struggled against him but he was like a brick house.
She tried to cry out for Brad not to hurt Nans but the hold on her throat was too tight.
And then everything went dark.
* * *
Lexy opened her eyes but she couldn’t see a thing.
She was rolled up in something and she was moving. Then, the movement stopped. She strained to hear something—anything—that would give her a clue as to where she was but all she could hear was the sound of her heart thumping in her ears and heavy clanking metal. Like chains.
Next thing she knew she was falling, a fall which ended in an explosion of pain in her right shoulder and hip. Then the sound of a door slamming shut and more metal clanking.
Where was she?
She tried to sit up but was restrained by whatever it was that held her. She wiggled, feeling the coarse fabric that was loosely around her. Raising her hands up, she realized she wasn’t rolled up in something … she was in a burlap sack!
Fumbling for the top, she managed to push it open and poke her head through. She was in what looked like some sort of dark, windowless shack. She could barely make out four large sacks lying beside her.
Nans!
She wriggled out of her sack and ran over to the one beside her. She could hear grunts from inside and see movement—at least they were alive. She undid the strings and looked in.
“Where the hell are we?” Nans blinked up at her.
“I have no idea. In some building.”
“Hey, help me out of here,” A muffled voice said from one of the other sacks and Lexy rushed over to free Ruth while Nans unwrapped Ida. Helen managed to get out of hers by herself and they all stood looking around.
“What is this place?” Ruth asked.
“Anyone have a light?”
Helen rummaged in her purse, producing a box of matches. Lexy took them, striking one against the side. The smell of sulfur spiced the air and the match provided a swatch of light which Lexy used to look around the place.
“It’s some sort of storage shed.” She walked toward the rows of shelving looking at the boxes. Bringing the match closer to a box, she read the writing … her heart seized and she dropped the match stepping on it as fast as she could.
“Shit!”
“Lexy, dear. There’s no need for that kind of language,” Nans said.
“This place is full of fireworks! I could have blown us up.” Lexy’s hand shook as she picked up the match.
“Oh, this must be where they store the fireworks. I think the ones they are using for tonight are already set up though so these must be extra,” Ruth said.
“Why do you think they brought us here?” Ida asked.
“I heard Brad say something about getting us out of the way until after the contest when they can dispose of us.” Helen rubbed her hands on her upper arms.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not going to wait for them to come and dispose of us,” Nans said.
“Let’s see if we can ram the door open.” Ruth went over to the door and pushed her shoulder against it. It didn’t budge.
“Let me try.” Lexy took a few running steps and leapt into the door. It opened a tiny crack, but the door was solid and secured by something. She remembered the sound of metal chains.
“I think it’s chained shut. We’ll never get it open.” Lexy felt her stomach drop. How were they going to get out of there?
Lexy pressed her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear anything.
“Does anyone know how far we are from the field?”
A chorus of “no’s” answered her.
She pounded on the door. “Help!”
Ida stared at her. “Lexy, I doubt anyone can hear us. The killers aren’t that stupid … are they?”
“Wait a minute.” Nans turned around and squinted at the shelves. “Gimme those matches … I want to see what we have to work with here.”
“No way. You could blow this thing sky high and us with it!” Lexy shoved the match box into her pocket.
“How about we just use the flashlight app on my cell phone?” Ruth held out her phone and everyone stared at her.
Lexy felt her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “You have a cellphone? We can just call someone for help!”
“Oh right.” Ruth fiddled with the phone. “Ughh … no cell service.”
“Damn!”
“Shine the flashlight over here,” Nans said.
Ruth pointed the end of her cell phone at the shelf and a beam of light illuminated the boxes. Nans walked down the rows, telling Ruth where to point. Finally she found a box she liked and picked some firecrackers out of it, then brought them back to the front of the shed.
“Ida do you have a tube of lipstick?” Nans asked.
“Sure.” Ida rummaged in her purse, then produced a gold colored metal lipstick.
“Thanks,” Nans said. “Does anyone have any duct tape?”
Helen reached into her purse. “Right here.”
Nans grabbed the duct tape and Lexy watched in fascination as she ripped the lipstick out of its container and threw it on the floor.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Ida frowned down at the lipstick. “That’s my favorite shade—coral passion.”
“All for a good cause,” Nans said as she ripped open the fireworks pouring the powder into the lipstick container top, then jamming the bottom on. “Lexy, see if you can find a nail and something hard to pierce a hole in this.”
“Oh, I have some nails in my purse,” Ruth offered.
Lexy found a large rock in the corner and set the lipstick on the floor. She took a nail from Ruth and balanced it on top, then bashed it with the rock to pierce through the metal.
“Perfect.” Nans ripped off some duct tape with her teeth and used it to seal the tube closed, then she threaded the fuse from the fireworks into the hole Lexy had made in the top.
Nans held the modified lipstick out to show them. “Well, who wants to light it?”
“Light it? That thing could blow us up!” Lexy stepped back.
Nans waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly. There’s not a lot in here. I figure we wedge it in the crack of the door and it will be enough to blow the lock off and we can get out of here.”
Lexy felt her stomach drop as she looked at Ruth, Ida and Helen. It sounded dangerous to her, but waiting around for Brad and plaid shirt seemed pretty dangerous too.
“Okay.” she shrugged and cracked the door open. “Stick it in.”
Nans stuck the lipstick in the crack and Lexy let go so the force of the door would hold it in place.
“You guys stand back.” She motioned to the other side of the room as she took the matches from her pocket.
Holding her breath, she struck the match then backed up as far away from the lipstick as she could while still being able to touch the match to the fuse. Her heart leapt into her throat as it caught and she ran back to where Nans and the ladies were huddled. She turned away from the door and covered her ears.
Boom!
The door blew open and the five of them tumbled out of the shack coughing and batting at the thick smoke that hung in the air.
Lexy tilted her head to the side, trying to get the ringing in her ears to stop. It started to subside, but was replaced with a low drone which got louder and louder until she realized what it was … motorcycles!
Rat, Snake, Weasel, Bug and Spike came roaring out of the woods behind them.
“Get on! Marchesi’s getting away!”
Lexy looked at Nans and the ladies who shrugged and then hopped on the back of the motorcycles as they raced off in the direction of the chili contest.
Lexy looked back over her shoulder as they sped off and her heart clenched.
“The shed door, it’s on fire!” she shouted.
Rat glanced back over his shoulder but kept racing forward. “We don’t have time to go back. Marchesi’s making a run for it!”
Chapter 21
Lexy felt the sting of bugs smacking her face as they raced over to a wooded patch directly behind Marchesi’s tent. As they approached, she could see the fat chef, Brad and the guy in the plaid shirt making a run across the field toward the woods.
Something moved at the edge of the contest area and Lexy’s eyes widened when she saw Detectives Payne and Wells racing across the field along with another uniformed officer after Marchesi.
Rat and the gang pushed their bikes to go even faster and Lexy felt her heartbeat racing along with her as they gained on the chef.
Marchesi was getting closer to the woods but Payne was gaining ground as Lexy and the bikers flew out into the clearing. They aimed their bikes toward Marchesi who jerked his head over his shoulder in their direction, his mouth forming a surprised ‘O’ as he saw the five motorcycles racing toward him.
With a final push, the motorcycles flew across the field and circled around Marchesi and his accomplices preventing their escape. Marchesi dodged and weaved trying to make it to the woods but the bikes were too quick for him and cut him off at every turn.
And then, just when Lexy thought she’d seen it all, Detective Payne made a running leap. He flew through the air in a colorful blur of pastel shirt and plaid pants, landing right on Marchesi and bringing the big chef to the ground.
Wells and the uniformed officer wrestled with Brad and the third man while Payne whipped out his handcuffs and locked them on Marchesi’s wrist.
“Chef Martino Marchesi … you’re under arrest for the murder of Alain Dugasse.”
Lexy jumped off the bike and approached Payne. “So, he really is the killer?”
“Not the actual killer, but the mastermind behind it.” Payne turned to Brad and the other man. “And those are his accomplices.”
“So one of them killed Dugasse?”
Payne nodded. “Marchesi sent Brad to work in the kitchen in order to get close to Dugasse and try to get the recipe. When it became clear that wasn’t going to work, and Marchesi’s threats didn’t scare the chef, Brad lured Dugasse out to the dumpster somehow where the other gentleman was waiting to kill him.”
Lexy felt a shiver despite the warm weather. The killer had been out there lurking behind the dumpster that morning and anyone could have stumbled across him.
“I think Brad might have been trying to frame you for it,” Payne said to Lexy.
“Yeah, and for a while it seemed like you were going to believe him.” Lexy narrowed her eyes at Payne. “So how did you figure out what really happened?”
“Actually, it was all thanks to you.” Payne stood, heaving Marchesi up off the ground. “After our talk the other day, I had you followed … you led us right to the clues in Marchesi’s tent.”
“The knife set?”
“Yep, that and the scrap of fabric your grandmother found tied the whole case together. Then we just waited for him to come back to the tent here to arrest him. He ran as soon as he saw us but … well, you know the rest.”
“So you knew we were here in the tent? Why didn’t you help us?” Lexy fisted her hands on her hips.
Did Payne actually let Brad kidnap them?
“Unfortunately, my guy lost you, so I didn’t know you had been kidnapped until these gentlemen here called me.” Payne thrust his chin toward Rat and Snake. “Surely you don’t think I’d let the bad guys kidnap you and your grandmother?”
Lexy frowned. Would he?
“Wait. How did Rat and Snake know we got kidnapped?”
Rat overheard her and walked over. “We got worried when you guys didn’t come back so we did a little snooping around. We saw Brad and that other guy bringing some really big sacks of beans to the shed.”
Snake joined them. “We thought that was pretty strange and after we asked around and found out it was the fireworks storage it clicked in that they had put you in the sacks!”
Rat laughed. “But it looks like you guys didn’t really need us to rescue you.”
Lexy felt the corners of her mouth curl and she looked at her grandmother. “Yeah, Nans and the ladies have a lot of tricks up their sleeves … or should I say, in their purses.”
“I’ll say.” Snake shook his head. “I never would have thought of a lipstick bomb.”
“Well, I hope all this didn’t ruin your chances in the chili contest,” Lexy said to Rat.
“I have some of the other guys handing out the chili.” Rat looked at his watch. “But I better get back there and make sure everything is in place for the judging!”
Lexy watched him and Snake rush off toward their bikes as Wells and the other officer took Marchesi from Payne.
“We would have figured it all out without you Miss Baker,” Payne said. “But I do appreciate you helping to speed things up. That being said, I hope you will be going back to your bakery in Brook Ridge Falls soon … where you will be out of my hair. If you want to meddle in the police business of your boyfriend, well that’s his problem.”
At the mention of Jack, Lexy’s heart lurched.
How long had she been gone?
“Right. Nice meeting you too.” She stuck her hand out at Payne who shook it and then she ran off to gather Nans and the ladies.
“We better get back to the blanket before Jack starts asking questions.” She tugged on Nans arm.
Nans raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you don’t want to tell him about our exciting excursion?”
“Well, it’s not that I want to lie or keep things from him, but sometimes it’s better if he doesn’t know every little detail.”
“I agree,” Ida said. “We girls have to keep a little mystery in the relationship.”
“Well, let's get a move on then.” Nans hooked arms with Lexy and Ruth. Ida and Helen joined in on either end. “I want to get back there in time to see who wins the Chili Battle.”
Chapter 22
“Where have you been? Your chili is cold.” Jack wrinkled his brow at Lexy as she plopped down on the blanket beside him.
“Oh, we were just walking around. Lost track of time,” She said, feigning intense interest in the chili so he wouldn’t ask for any details.
“What’s with your hair? It’s all wild.” Jack reached up and picked something out of her hair, then held it in front of his face. “A beetle.”
Lexy’s hands flew up to her hair, fluffing and brushing away any other bugs that might have gotten trapped in there. “It’s the humidity.”
Jack leaned over sniffing her hair. “You smell like gunpowder.”
Lexy’s stomach tightened.
“That smell must be from one of the grills in the tent,” she squeaked.
Her heart crunched as Jack frowned at her.
“Shhh.” Nans saved her from further scrutiny. “They’re judging the chili now.”
Lexy put her bowl down and Sprinkles jumped on it like she hadn’t eaten in days. Lexy didn’t mind—turns out cold chili isn’t that tasty.
She shielded her eyes from the setting sun and squinted toward the stage. The judges were sitting behind a table and the three finalists stood before them. Her heart surged for Rat who was one of the finalists.
She strained to listen as the judges made comments on each of their dishes. Rat got extra brownie points for his cornbread.
“Yay!” Nans clapped her hands together.
The judges droned on.
“Just get on with it,” Ruth muttered after several more minutes of chili talk.
“Come on Rat!” Ida yelled.
“Rat?” Jack wrinkled his forehead at Lexy who grimaced.
“Long story,” she said patting his leg and her stomach flip-flopped as he took her hand in his.
Finally, the judges got down to tallying up the votes. One of the judges stood up, retrieving a giant check that had been leaning against the tent wall behind them.
“And the winner of the fifth annual Chili Battle is …”
Lexy held her breath while the judge paused for effect.
“In honor of the late Chef Dugasse, his son, Rick Monroe!”
The field erupted in applause. Lexy, Nans, Ruth, Ida and Helen clapped and high-fived each other.
“Way to go!” Nans yelled.
Helen let out a loud wolf whistle.
Ida sucked down a margarita and Lexy craned her neck to see behind the older woman, wondering if she had a stash of them.
Amidst the din of the applause and whistles, Lexy thought she heard the distinctive sound of bottle rockets. The applause started to die down and she realized it was bottle rockets along with a series of loud bangs.
Jack swiveled his head around, looking at the sky. “Why are they starting the fireworks now? It’s still light out.”
Lexy’s heart skipped and she exchanged a look with Nans remembering how the fireworks storage shed had been on fire when they’d roared off on the motorcycles.
Lexy flinched when she heard another round of loud bangs and saw flashes of light in the sky.
Jack’s forehead wrinkled as he looked up. “I hope that wasn’t the finale … you can hardly see anything.”
“Oh, I bet that was just a little preview.” Ida giggled, sloshing part of her margarita on Lexy.
“Hey, isn’t that your detective friend?” Jack pointed down toward the parking lot and Lexy swiveled her head in that direction, glad to have something distracting Jack from the fireworks.
In the parking lot, Payne and Wells were stuffing Marchesi, Brad Meltzer and their accomplice into separate police cars.
“Yes,” Lexy said. “He’s arresting the killer.”
“So, it was that other chef?” Jack asked.
“Yep, guess so.” Lexy smiled at Jack.
Jack brushed his lips against her forehead and she felt her stomach flip at the tender gesture.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said.
Lexy narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Well, you’re up here and the arrest is happening down there.”
Lexy glanced down at the parking lot. “So?”
“So, that shows you’re finally learning to leave the dangerous stuff to the police.” Jack took both her hands in his. “Isn’t it much easier … and less dangerous this way?”
Lexy glanced over Jack’s shoulder at Nans who made a ‘zipping up the lips and throwing away the key’ motion, then turned back to Jack.
She smiled up at him, her heart melting at the love in his eyes, her stomach suffering a twinge of guilt for not telling him exactly the whole truth.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”
The end.
* * *
Want to read about more of Lexy’s and Nans’ adventures? Get the rest of the Lexy Baker series for your Kindle.
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A Note from The Author
Thanks so much for reading my cozy mystery “Bake, Battle and Roll”. I hope you liked reading it as much as I loved writing it. If you did, and feel inclined to leave a review, I really would appreciate it.
This is book six of the Lexy Baker series, you can find the rest of the books on my website, or over at Amazon if you want to read more of Lexy’s and Nans’s adventures.
Also, if you like cozy mysteries, you might like my book “Dead Wrong” which is book one in the Blackmoore Sisters series. Set in the seaside town of Noquitt Maine, the Blackmoore sisters will take you on a journey of secrets, romance and maybe even a little magic. I have an excerpt from it at the end of this book.
This book has been through many edits with several people and even some software programs, but since nothing is infallible (even the software programs) you might catch a spelling error or mistake and, if you do, I sure would appreciate it if you let me know - you can contact me at lee@leighanndobbs.com.
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About the Author
Leighann Dobbs discovered her passion for writing after a twenty year career as a software engineer. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband Bruce, their trusty Chihuahua mix Mojo and beautiful rescue cat, Kitty. When she’s not reading, gardening or selling antiques, she likes to write romance and cozy mystery novels and novelettes which are perfect for the busy person on the go.
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More Books By Leighann Dobbs:
Mystic Notch: Cat Cozy Mystery Series
Ghostly Paws
A Spirited Tail
-------
Blackmoore Sisters: Cozy Mystery Series
Dead Wrong
Dead & Buried
Dead Tide
Buried Secrets
Deadly Intentions
-------
Lexy Baker: Cozy Mystery Series
Lexy Baker Cozy Mystery Series Boxed Set Vol 1 (Books 1-4)
Or buy the books separately:
Killer Cupcakes
Dying For Danish
Murder, Money and Marzipan
3 Bodies and a Biscotti
Brownies, Bodies & Bad Guys
Bake, Battle & Roll
Wedded Blintz
Scones, Skulls & Scams
Ice Cream Murder
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Kate Diamond
Adventure/Suspense Series
Hidden Agemda
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Dobbs “Fancytales”: Regency Romance Fairytales Series
Something In Red
Snow White and the Seven Rogues
Dancing On Glass
The Beast of Edenmaine
The Reluctant Princess
Sleeping Heiress
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Contemporary Romance
Sweet Escapes
Reluctant Romance
CUPCAKES, PIES, AND HOT GUYS
A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #1
by Pamela DuMond
Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys
(A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #1)
Copyright © 2012 Pamela DuMond
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 148012138X
ISBN-13: 978-1480121386
Cover Art Design: Michael James Canales www.michaeljamescanales.com
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
To Cheree Dussair Plank
You are a force of nature and a fierce friend. I’m honored. All my gratitude and love, forever.
1. Bliss
“Mmm. You’re killing me, baby. Whatever we’re doing right now is probably outlawed in eight states,” Detective Raphael Campillio said as he lay back on Annie Rose Graceland’s sofa. He was shirtless, totally buff and wore an “I Heart Cupcakes!” blindfold while he nibbled on Annie’s index finger.
Annie, straddling him, wore her typical baking attire—yoga capris and a lacy cami top. Not so typical: The cami’s straps dangled down past her shoulders courtesy of the very fine Detective Rafe—her new boyfriend.
She smiled and tossed her long auburn ponytail over one shoulder. Despite the fact that her marriage tanked and she was almost divorced (Hallelujah, she’d welcome that day), she’d managed to score the most smokin’, sweet, honest, available man in all of Los Angeles.
“You might be a hot shot detective in the City of Angels,” Annie said. “But I am still bound by my code of ethics (Ethics/shmethics—she’d just made that up) to put your detecting skills to the test.”
Rafe slowly pulled her finger from his mouth. “I detect fresh butter cream frosting,” he said. “While I’ll happily endure all of your tests and quizzes, please share the name of the board whose standards you are holding me to?”
Annie got the shivers. This man could quite possibly stop her heart from his sheer yummy factor. “The Board of Super Important People located in an ultra secret underground location. Probably close to Dick Cheney and Beyonce’s bunkers,” she said.
“Dick Cheney and Beyonce have adjoining underground bunkers? Fascinating. Next test, please.”
She dipped her middle finger in a bowl of frosting that sat on the couch and dragged it across his lips.
He circled his tongue around her middle finger.
Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. “Absolutely. Important people have underground bunkers for nuclear events, obnoxious behavior, or even bad hair days,” Annie said. “Get real, Rafe. We’re living in L.A. One minute you’re a smart detective who solved a celebrity murder. The next, someone’s snapped a photo of you in your boxers and posted it on Twitter.”
He frowned and bit down on her finger.
Oh dang. Trouble. Time for damage control. “What are you going to do? Confront the media hoopla? If you’re a celebrity, you hide in your underground bunker while your people deal with the firestorm.”
Rafe frowned. “You did not take a photo of me in my boxers. And you definitely did not post it on the Internet. I am not going to be the next Weiner-Gate.”
Annie leaned back and checked that her cell phone was still safely hidden under the couch. “Getting back to the matter at hand,” she said. “Identify the two most delicious ingredients that you’re currently tasting.”
Rafe nibbled on her middle finger. “You. And let me think. You.”
“Wrong!” Oh jeez, he was frickin’ killing her. “Oreos and Kahlua are the main ingredients in that frosting. But I'll give you another shot, ’cause I appreciate the fact you are here to serve and protect.” As well as the fact that he was spicier than Wisconsin cheese fondue spiked with jalapeños.
“Yes, ma’am. But I have other jobs I’m very good at.” Rafe tickled her waist, and when she giggled, seized the opportunity to tug her cami higher, run his fingers up her back and caress it. Repeatedly.
“I sense you are not taking this detecting test seriously.”
“You're wrong. LAPD’s detectives are the finest officers in all of the country. Produce the evidence immediately.”
Annie tapped her frosting-swathed finger on his lips.
He wrapped a muscular arm around her back and pulled her smack dab on top of him. “Mmm.”
With her remaining ounce of willpower, she pulled her other hand off him. “Report of findings, please.”
“White chocolate frosting with tiny bits of fresh raspberries,” he said. “Almost better than sex.”
“Wow. You’re good. Good at anything else? Three, two, one…?” Who would have guessed getting divorced could be this much fun?
“I thought you’d never ask.” He ripped off the blindfold and flipped her beneath him.
“Whoa!” She stared up into his dark dreamy eyes just two inches away from hers. “I like that move. Where’d you learn a move like that?”
Rafe pulled her cami bra straps further down her arms with his teeth. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”
Brinnnng! Brinnnng! Annie’s land-line phone rang on the bookcase, two feet away from her head. Yes, she lived in the smallest, grungiest apartment in Venice Beach, California. And unless you were a famous artist or a zillionaire actor, small and grungy was normal for Venice. “Ignore that call,” Annie said. “It’s probably Nordstrom’s Rack with another sales announcement.” Or another bill collector.
“Ignored.” Rafe trailed his kisses down her throat and headed south.
Brinnnng! Brinnnng!
“Changed my mind. Answer it,” he mumbled somewhere in the vicinity of her belly button.
She stretched her arm off the couch, snagged her phone’s receiver and slammed it back down.
Rafe lifted his head off her stomach. “Are you the only woman on the Westside of L.A. who doesn’t have a fancy ring tone? No Pink. No Fergie. Not even Avril Lavigne?”
“Just a ten-year-old phone-answering machine combo with a speaker button. Return to more important matters, please.”
He shook his head. “That phone’s going to ring again in four seconds. One, two, three….”
Brinnng! Rafe pressed his face against her belly and laughed.
“Fine, you’re right. You detected. Just stay there and enjoy the two hundred crunches I did this morning as well as the chocolate cupcake I ate for breakfast.” She reached behind her and punched the speaker button. “Who is this and what do you want? And it better be important.”
“Is this the way you speak to the woman who nearly died from eighteen hours of excruciating contractions before she gave birth to you?” Nancy Graceland, Annie’s mom, hissed through the phone’s speaker.
“Sorry, Mom,” Annie said.
“You had a big head. If I knew beforehand that you had such a big head, I would have let Doctor Know-it-All schedule his CD selection,” Nancy said.
“C-Section, Mom.” Rafe smothered laughter into her stomach. “You’ve caught me at an inconvenient time. Can we talk later?”
“Before you moved to L.A., my calls caught you at inconvenient times. After you moved to L.A., my calls still catch you at inconvenient times. Will there ever be a convenient time to talk to your mother?”
Good old-fashioned Midwestern guilt. “I’m sorry, Mom.” She wriggled from underneath Rafe and plunked down on the floor. “What’s up?”
Rafe grabbed his shirt from the back of the couch, pulled it on and buttoned it.
Annie mouthed, “No,” and shook her head.
He pointed to his watch and resumed buttoning.
“I know you’ve been dying to come back and visit Wisconsin. Me. Your brother, Carson. Your auntie. Your grandpa.”
Annie knew she had to visit her mom, but also knew she hated traveling. She loved her family, but would rather shove pins under her fingernails than go back to the Midwest, especially in the humid, hot summer. Or the cold, frigid winter. That left about a three-month window that was relatively safe to venture back to the Midwest. If you didn’t count the tornadoes.
“Yes. Definitely planning a trip soon. Completely looking forward to it.” She was not planning a trip back to Wisconsin in the near future.
“Well, my darling daughter, you might as well thank me now.”
Rafe grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll call you later.” He kissed her on the lips. For a second she forgot she was on the phone.
“Annie,” Nancy said, “I hear heavy breathing. Are you all right? You had a bout of asthma when you were ten. Is it the asthma?”
Rafe pulled away, smiled, and gave her cat, Theodore von Pumpernickel, a scratch on his enormous white fuzzy head before he exited her front door.
“Just allergies, Mom. What am I thanking you for?”
“I have not only handled all your travel plans, I got you a one hundred percent free, all expenses paid, luxury trip back to Wisconsin.”
A red alert button fired in Annie’s brain and she broke out into a drenching sweat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Even though it was summertime, it was seventy-four degrees on the temperate Westside of Los Angeles. Annie’s forehead was suddenly so damp she had to wipe the moisture away with the hem of her top. Was it her hormones? Was it a dreadful disease? Or was it another of her stupid psychic reactions? Because Annie was psychic—kind of.
Technically, she was empathic. She could feel in her body and brain the thoughts and feelings that belonged to other people. “Mom, you’re at home right?”
“No. I’m lounging on the Lido deck on a Regis and Kelly cruise in the Caribbean. Of course I’m home. Might I remind you that Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, is also your hometown.”
“I know that. What’s the temperature in Oconomowoc right now?”
“A mere ninety-nine degrees.”
Annie walked into the kitchen, grabbed a towel and mopped her forehead. “What’s the humidity?”
“Do I look like The Weather Channel? I’d venture a guess and estimate ninety-five percent.”
“Do you have the AC on, Mom?” Annie asked.
“I bought one of those cute little hand fans when I visited Chinatown in Chicago, last year. It saves on the electric bill, big time,” Nancy said. “And I recently read that sweating is healthy. It opens the pores. Releases toxins. Keeps one youthful.”
“So that means no on the AC.” Annie dabbed the rivulets of sweat that pored down her cleavage. Thank God Rafe had left. Thank God he didn’t witness this. She hadn’t been dating him forever, and she hadn’t shared her deepest secret with him. This profusion of sweat wasn’t a hot flash, or an allergy. Technically this sweat didn’t even belong to her. It was an empathic reaction. Annie’s body was picking up on the fact her mom was drowning in perspiration back in the scorching hot and humid Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, in June.
“I didn’t call to discuss the weather,” Nancy said.
And just as fast as the heat wave started within Annie, the sensation disappeared. That’s what being empathic was about. The feelings showed up. They created havoc. They left. And Annie dealt with the fall-out. “What’s up, Mom?” She asked.
“Oconomowoc is having an extra special Fourth of July celebration. The town is hosting a statewide baking contest. They were looking for celebrity judges and, of course, I thought of you. Almost famous after your recent brush with the law.”
Oh, that was what “heavy petting” was called these days. “That’s nice of you.” Annie threw the kitchen towel into a laundry hamper in the corner of the room.
“I called all my friends. We voted for you. I just got word—Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Pies Contest picked you to be a celebrity judge! Can you believe your good fortune?”
Alert! Abort mission! Danger, stranger! The warnings bounced off each other as they rattled around Annie’s brain. Traveling back to Oconomowoc during tornadoes, ninety-nine degree weather with ninety-nine percent humidity on a national holiday weekend did not seem like good luck. More like a recipe for disaster.
“That’s four days away, Mom. I can’t just pick up and leave L.A. for a week. I have work. A life. A cat. I have… (A sizzling new boyfriend who needs a little, um, nurturing…) I have important things in L.A. I must attend to.”
Theodore, Annie’s long-haired, blue-eyed Himalayan wound around her legs, meowing loudly. Annie stepped into her kitchen, cracked open a can of cat food. She emptied it into his bowl and placed it on the floor. He pounced on it.
“Lost Angeles will always be there. Unfortunately. You need to come home and reconnect with your roots. The contest guaranteed first-class travel accommodations and tons of media coverage. Maybe this will help you break out of that deli you’re slaving in. You could start your own business again. And bonus, you can bring one friend for free. As long as it’s not She-Who-Cannot-Keep-Her-Legs-Together.”
“Mom, be nice. Julia’s completely changed since high school.”
“And I’ve got beachfront property on sale for pennies on the dollar. You haven’t been home in almost a year. I could die tonight and you would never forgive yourself.”
How bad could a trip back home to judge a baking contest be? “Okay, Mom. I’ll do it. Tell the Wisconsin Hot Pies Contest people I’ll do it. Send me the info, the tickets and the itinerary.”
“I already accepted on your behalf. The package should be on your doorstep tomorrow. This will be your best trip back home ev—” Nancy said.
Annie picked up the phone from the machine and put it to her ear. “Mom?” She smacked the phone with the heel of her hand. “Mom?” But the line was dead.
2. Already Blew It
It was nighttime in Venice, California. Annie’s place was smack dab in the ’hood. A woman screamed loud and long. A grisly murder? A drug deal gone bad? Or simply an average Jane who couldn’t deal with the traffic or gas prices in Los Angeles one second longer?
Annie voted for the latter as she chopped limes on a wooden block and poked the wedges into the open tops of cervezas frias. She walked the few feet into her living room and handed them to her best friends, Julia and Grady. They sprawled on her couch and watched TV.
“Share the remote, please,” Julia said, a curvaceous late thirties blonde. She snapped her fingers at Grady. “If I see one more ep of Nancy Grace, I swear I’ll put a fork in someone’s eye. Probably yours.”
Grady held the remote up high in the air past Julia’s reach. “Promise that I don’t have to watch a Housewife, a Kardashian or one of those fake blondes with the fish lips who slept with Hefner.”
Julia pouted. “But I heart Holly.”
“Promise,” Grady insisted.
“Fine,” she grumbled.
He handed Julia the remote. She flipped to The Bachelorette.
“Nooo!”
“What kind of sicko doesn’t believe in true love?” Julia huffed.
Grady sighed and his shoulders dropped. “You have anything to eat around here?”
“I’m perfecting margarita-inspired cupcakes.” Annie swirled the frosting on the cupcakes so there were little dips and swells. She knew they tasted great. She wanted them to look gorgeous as well. She winked at Grady. He was handsome and smart in a film geek kind of way. But he batted for the other team and she was more than fine with that. “Feedback, please.”
She handed them cupcakes. They noshed enthusiastically.
“Outstanding,” Grady said.
“1800 Tequila?” Julia asked.
Annie knew Julia had met many “friends” and experienced too-many-to-count, let-alone-remember fun make-out sessions, all thanks to 1800 Tequila.
“You inspired me,” Annie said. “I might even name this cupcake, The Julia 1800 Smooch. Hey, I’m headed back home for a dealie on the Fourth. I’ve got one extra ticket.” She waved the official “Friends of Oconomowoc” eight by ten envelope in front of them.
Grady waved back at her. Annie tossed him the envelope. He caught it. Opened and perused its contents.
“What’s the dealie that could force you go back to Wisconsin in the summer?” Julia asked. “Your hair frizzes, your skin breaks out. I’ve never seen you crabbier than when it’s ninety-nine degrees out with ninety-nine percent humidity.”
“Mom signed me up as a judge in Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Pies Contest,” Annie said. “Sweet, huh? Apparently she thinks that after my “brush with the law” I’m a local celeb.”
“Did you share what your “brush with the law” really entails?” Julia asked.
Annie smiled and thought about Rafe and icing.
“Thanks for the super fun offer but I have to pass,” Julia said. “I’m definitely working that weekend. Another Smooch cupcake, please.”
Annie tossed Julia a cupcake, which she caught.
Grady flipped through the paperwork. He frowned at first. Then he smiled. “Um, Annie?”
“Yes, you can have another cupcake too.”
“I’ll skip the cupcake, but I’ll take you up on your offer to be your Plus One at the July 4th dealie,” Grady said.
“Sold!” Annie said.
Julia eyed Grady suspiciously. “You’re hiding something from me.” She zeroed in on the contents of the envelope that lay in Grady’s lap and lunged for them. But Grady hugged the envelope and its contents to his chest and curled up into a ball on the couch.
“Give!” Julia tickled him.
“You already blew it.” He giggled.
“That’s the title of Julia’s future memoir,” Annie said, dang curious what this fight was about.
Julia wrestled the paperwork away from Grady, leapt off the couch and leaned back against Annie’s front door while she flipped through the pages. Her face turned white. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.
“What? What!” Annie asked as Theodore cowered on the floor, his head hidden under her couch while the rest of his fat long fuzzy body stuck out.
“Your mom didn’t sign you up to be a celeb judge for a Hot Pies Contest,” Julia said. “She signed you up to be a judge for Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest. You’re going to get up-close-and-personal access to the most smokin’ guys in the Dairy State. I am so your Plus One.”
“Hot guys?” Annie asked. “How could Mom get that confused with—?”
“Get real!” Julia said. “Has anything changed since high school? I formally accept your invite to accompany you back to Oconomowoc for the Fourth of July festivities.”
“No, no, Missy,” Grady said. “You have to work, remember? You already passed. I am a more deserving Plus One than you.”
Their bickering escalated as Annie contemplated what her mom had done. So what if the contest was about Hot Guys instead of Hot Pies? Did it matter? She was already happily involved with Raphael Campillio, her own personal hot guy. It was a chance to visit home on the cheap. She’d get in. See her family. Do the judging thing. She’d get out.
Really, how difficult could it be?
Grady won the coin toss and got to be Annie’s Plus One. But Julia was not about to let an event this tantalizing slip through her twitchy fingers. She snagged a couple of vacation days from work and planned to cash in a hunk of frequent flier mileage she’d inherited from her stepdad.
Annie asked for a week off work, and her boss gave it to her. Even though her mom insisted she stop slaving at Mort Feinberg’s Famous Deli, Mort was simply the nicest boss she’d ever had. She had finally graduated from the deli’s Back Back Kitchen to the Back Kitchen. Not that it really mattered. She still dressed like a beekeeper, baked desserts all day long and got hit on by guys half her age. There were worse ways to make a living.
After a romantic tryst that involved dark chocolate and peanut butter, Annie told Rafe that her Mom had signed her up to judge a hometown contest. She’d be back in L.A. in no time.
There was just one small glitch. Apparently Rafe had planned to introduce her to his family at their family reunion on the July 4th extended weekend. Annie didn’t know this before she made her travel decisions. Now she felt awful. “Should I cancel?”
“No. Go home and see your family. Family’s important,” he said. “Besides, with the contest, it’s a free trip. You can’t beat it. You can meet my crazy relatives some other time.”
“Okay,” she said. “But I feel bad.”
“Do you have old boyfriends you’re dying to see back home?” Rafe asked.
“That would be a definite, no,” Annie said.
“So you’ve got nothing to feel bad about,” he said and kissed her. “Don’t forget me when you’re gone.”
“I could never forget you,” Annie said.
It was the morning of June 29th. Annie’s luggage was packed. Small liquidy things were stored in see-through plastic bags that could easily be tossed into a plastic container for a trip through the airport’s X-ray machines.
Julia and Grady convened at Annie’s place, as it was closest to the LAX airport. Grady ordered the cab, which screeched to a stop in front of Annie’s 1950s style apartment complex and honked twice.
Annie had her obligatory carry-on. Her one big suitcase was stuffed with all the makeup, hair products and fancy outfits she’d assumed she’d need to be a contest judge. She’d never been a judge before, but had watched enough seasons of American Idol and X-Factor to know Paula, Nicole, Kara and J-Lo were totally glam.
After a little drama about how many suitcases Julia could bring (she’d packed four) they piled into the cab’s back seat and were on their way.
Annie frowned. “I hope Theodore’s going to be okay while I’m gone. The cat sitter seems nice but a little flighty.” Annie spotted an eerie blue light emanating from the passenger seat next to the taxicab driver. The light turned into wisps of blue smoke that twisted around each other. They wove back and forth, curlicued around each other, grew thicker and finally coalesced. In their midst a familiar shape of a tall half-naked blue man wearing a silver thong took form. That man was the ghost of Dr. Derrick Fuller.
Derrick shook his immaculate head of thick, albeit dead, groomed hair and glanced down at his silver thong. “Well, congratulations to me! Not only do I look superb, just like I did before I died, but if there are no limos available and I am forced to ride in a cab, at least now I can sit in the front. Not be stuck in that disgusting, germ-ridden, vinyl back seat located behind the smudged I-doubt-it’s-bullet-proof Plexiglas partition.”
“Whatever, Derrick,” Annie said. Great, she thought. She was headed out of town to be a judge at a beauty pageant. The last thing she needed right now was the narcissistic ghost of the self-help author-guru who not only ruined her marriage, tanked her bakery business when he was killed with one of her signature cupcakes, but then haunted her to solve his crime. And when she finally nailed his killer, asshat Derrick Fuller still didn’t pass to the Afterlife.
“Derrick’s here?” Grady asked and eyeballed the cab’s interior.
“You told him that he can’t come to Wisconsin with us, right, Annie?” Julia rifled through her purse. “Who needs a blue ghost in a silver thong when there are so many red-blooded live men? I can’t find my lip plumper. I think I forgot my lip plumper.”
“No, Derrick’s not coming to Wisconsin with us,” Annie said. “He’s working very hard on performing good deeds so he can pass to the Afterlife.”
“Say the word and I’ll try my best to travel with you,” Derrick said. “It might count as a good deed.”
“The word is No.”
“You’ll miss me in Wisconsin, cupcake,” Derrick said. “A disaster or debacle will ensue. You’ll be pulling your cheaply dyed hair out of your large head as you frantically attempt to reach me for advice. But I will be too busy helping other people.”
“I will have you know my hair dye costs $8.99 a box,” Annie said.
“What if the recycled airplane air sucks the hydration from my lips and I arrive looking wrinkled?” Julia asked. “Do you think they have lip plumper at the airport stores?”
“What airline?” the cab driver asked as he turned onto Lincoln Boulevard heading south toward LAX.
“One second.” Grady flipped through their itinerary. “Damn! Excuse me, driver. Pull over for a moment, please?”
The cabbie pulled to the side of the crowed zooming six-lane thoroughfare. “Meter running, you know.”
“What’s up?” Annie asked.
“We’re going back for my lip plumper?”
“We’re not leaving from LAX.” Grady grimaced.
“Long Beach?” Annie asked.
“John Wayne Airport?” Julia chimed in.
“No,” Grady said.
Julia’s Margarita Smooch Cupcakes
Yield = 12 cupcakes
Ingredients:
1/2 stick butter (1/4 cup) softened
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs - room temperature
.75 Tsp vanilla extract
3 Tbsp canola oil
One large lime, zested
1.5 cups cake flour
.75 Tsp baking powder
.5 Tsp baking soda
1/4 Tsp salt
3 Tbsp tequila
3 Tbsp lime juice
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line standard-size muffin pans with paper liners.
Cream butter and sugar together 5 minutes or until smooth. Add vanilla then add eggs one at a time. Add tequila and lime juice. Mixture will look curdled. Add oil.
In a separate bowl combine dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and pudding mix. Add zest.
In a small bowl, whisk together 1/2 cup milk and sour cream thoroughly
Add dry and milk/sour cream mixtures to the mixing bowl in two additions, scraping down sides and bottom of bowl. Mix until smooth.
Divide the batter evenly between the prepared liners, filling each about two-thirds full.
Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through baking. Let cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
Margarita Frosting Ingredients:
4 oz. butter, room temperature
4 oz. cream cheese, room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar
1 tablespoon lime juice
2 tablespoons tequila
Frosting Instructions:
Add butter and 1/2 of the powdered sugar to large mixing bowl. Combine on low speed.
Add tequila and lime juice and gradually add remaining powdered sugar. Once combined, increase mixer speed and whip until light and fluffy. Add additional powdered sugar if stiffer consistency is desired. Garnish with lime wedge and sprinkle of sea salt.
Recipe courtesy of Cupcakes-A-Go-Go in Madison, Wisconsin. Co-Owner – Laura Devries (Address, store hours and links at book’s end.)
3. Hoofing It
Annie pulled her wheelie suitcase as she looked up at the Blackhoof Bus Station sign in downtown L.A, located square in the middle of skid row. The scorching summer desert sun blasted down on her and seared every pore on her face. “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!” She held one hand high overhead and attempted to shade her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Grady said. “When I saw it was the Hot Guys Contest, I totally blanked on the location of our departing venue.”
“Midwest Airlines versus Blackhoof Busline?” Annie asked. “The pristine pain-in-the-ass security riddled gargantuan airport versus the teensy urine and taco scented bus station in downtown L.A.?”
“Again,” Grady said, “I might have experienced a tiny brain fart.”
Julia yanked enormous black sunglasses out of her over-sized designer purse and slid them on her face. “You all stay out here and acquire a little more sun damage. I’m going inside to buy my ticket. Then I’m hitting the pharmacy across the street for lip plumper and some SPF 60. Because when I hit fifty, I want to continue to look thirty, darlings.” She walked off.
Two days later, Annie watched Julia and Grady as they practically melted down the bus’s stairs in front of her.
Julia’s hair was in a bun that stuck to her skull and didn’t budge.
“Hey, look Julia,” Grady said. “Your head’s been Saran-Wrapped.”
Julia flipped him the appropriate finger.
Annie clomped down the bus’s enormous stairs and glanced around at their destination. It was hard to miss the banner hanging from the station’s roof, “Welcome to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Home of Lac LaBelle: Stay and Play a While!” It was a hundred degrees outside and felt like a steam room inside of a sweat lodge.
The bus driver quickly unloaded the passengers’ bags and set them on the curb. Arriving passengers walked past travelers who wiped their dripping brows as they boarded the bus. One big fellow wearing a muscle T-shirt was red as a tomato, wet like he’d just taken a shower and looked like he might explode at any second.
“So help me God, if this is what that flippin’ brochure meant by ‘Hot Guys,’ I will kill someone.” Julia pinched Grady’s arm.
“Ow. Is there some reason you always have to take it out on me?” he asked.
“Yes. You’re always the closest.”
“I learned the hard way back in high school not to be anywhere in arms’ length of Julia when she’s crabby,” Annie said.
“Grady, be a love and help me with my luggage.” Julia tossed her carry-on over her shoulder. “Where’s the nearest AC?” She fanned herself and headed for the bus station’s front doors.
Grady wiped his glistening face with a tissue. Its remnants stuck to his two-day face stubble like TP on the bottom of someone’s shoe. “Why should I help?”
“Because you always do,” Julia said.
He sighed, grabbed Julia’s three other bags, as well as his one, and stumbled after her. “My back hurts. I’m not having fun yet.”
“I didn’t force you to come here.” Annie ran her hands through her hair which felt as sticky and crusty as an old cinnamon Danish.
As she searched for her suitcase in the smallish line of bags perched on the curb she felt a zit erupt on her forehead. An old hunched geezer toddled off with his blue suitcase. A tatted teenage girl grabbed her enormous backpack, hoisted it onto her shoulders and hiked away. There were only four suitcases left on the curb. But none of them were hers.
“Where’s my suitcase?” Annie started to panic. That bag had all of her fancy contest judge clothes, as well as her makeup, yoga mat, and her book, How Not to Stress.
The bus huffed, puffed and lumbered out of the parking lot. Her bag had to still be on it. She frowned. “Stop!” She chased after the bus. “You have my luggage!”
But the bus didn’t slow down. It belched a big puffy gray cloud of exhaust smoke into Annie’s face. She coughed and stumbled after it.
“Stop! I need my fancy clothes! I beg you, please!” Her eyes teared.
An older van, with a satellite dish on its roof and a green and yellow sign emblazoned with “WNOC,” screeched into the Blackhoof parking lot. It barely missed Annie and separated her from the bus and her luggage.
“No!” Annie smacked her palm on her forehead.
A coiffed thin young woman with teased big blonde highlighted hair that hadn’t wilted from the heat stepped out of the van’s door. She wore a tight Ralph Lauren knock-off summer suit, clutched a microphone and strode toward Annie. The woman glanced back at the van as an older schlubby blond man eased out the driver’s door carrying a video camera. “Olaf, pick up the pace, my strudel,” she said.
Olaf grunted, bent down and rubbed his knee. “Yeah there, Stephanie,” he said. “Right after my third double bypass.”
Annie watched the bus rumble, puff and belch away with her luggage and everything she needed to be a contest judge. How could she do this gig without all her proper clothing and accessories? She couldn’t. She hunched over and covered her eyes with her hands.
“Yay!” Stephanie jumped up and down in front of Annie and clapped like a cheerleader. “You’re Annie Graceland Piccolino in the flesh.”
“Annie Graceland.” She stood back up. “I’m losing the Piccolino forever when my divorce finalizes.” She hacked. Her mouth tasted like she’d been sucking on an exhaust pipe. “So nice to meet you, but I have a wardrobe emergency. The bus just left with my luggage and I’m a judge—”
“You’re a judge in the Hot Guys Contest! You’re one of my inspirations,” Stephanie said. “A local girl who made it good.”
“More like made it semi-medium,” Annie said. “But thanks.”
“I had to be the first to welcome you back. I’m Stephanie Storms and I officially represent WNOC, the local premiere cable news station.” She grabbed Annie’s free hand and shook it enthusiastically.
“Awesome to meet you.” Annie extricated her hand from Stephanie’s zealous grip.
“Olaf-kins,” Stephanie said. “Contact HQ. Tell them to send the intern to intercept the No.154 bus on its way toward Appleton and search for Annie Graceland’s luggage. Top priority.”
Olaf sighed and pulled out his Blackberry.
“That’s sweet of you,” Annie said. “Tell me that thing’s not on?” She pointed at the mic.
“Not until Olaf gets here,” Stephanie replied. “Professional courtesy. But honestly, I would very much appreciate a heads up on the dishy details during the Hot Guys’ Contest.”
Annie frowned. How was it possible Stephanie hadn’t broken a sweat while Annie’s complexion was most likely gray from the exhaust smoke and she sported armpit stains that headed toward her knees? “Don’t know. The contest people might have rules or conditions about press leaks that I don’t know yet.”
Stephanie opened her timeless Coach bag and pulled out several documents.
Stephanie had a vintage Coach bag? Annie loved Coach.
“I thought of that,” Stephanie said. “Legal at WNOC drafted this document that grants you permission to share color commentary contest information with me. As you can see, the Wisconsin’s Hot Guys’ contest president signed here, the VP here, and legal counsel, here.” She pointed to their signatures.
“Oh.” Annie scanned the documents and felt a stab of envy that she wasn’t that organized.
“Obviously you can’t share voting results with me, but you’re not privy to that information anyhow. This copy’s for you. You can call the station and speak to my supervisor if you have any questions.”
“Okay,” Annie said. “Let me get settled at my hotel and give me a shout. Especially if you find my luggage.”
“Absolutely!” Stephanie jumped up and down. “This will be, like, so much fun!”
Annie wanted to bond with Stephanie, so she managed a hop. When she heard a tiny but robust engine rev and a couple of pop-pop-pops.
In Venice, California, those metallic sounding pops could be auto backfire, gunfire or fireworks. Right now in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, they were gunfire. A dirt bike sped through the Blackhoof parking lot. Its driver, a smaller leather-clad figure wearing a helmet aimed a handgun at Annie and Stephanie.
Stephanie heard the gunfire and screamed. Annie tackled her. They landed on the pavement—Annie smack dab on top of Stephanie and sweating like a married politician sneaking out of a cheap motel room. How was it possible Stephanie still hadn’t broken a sweat? Was she a creature from another world that was secretion-less?
Pop-pop-pop! More gunshots rang out.
Annie caught a glimpse of the bike’s skinny wheels and heard the squeal of rubber on blacktop as the driver pulled a Youie and sped off. “You okay?” Annie asked as her heart raced.
“Frick!” Stephanie said. “I mean, dang. Except for the fact your knee might be in my kidney, I think so. Is Olaf okay? Tell me Olaf’s okay. He’s the only cameraman I have access to.”
Annie looked over her shoulder. Olaf had one knee on the ground and his camera aimed at the fleeing biker. “Hot damn!” he said. “This is what news should be.”
Instead of relaxing at the contest’s swank accommodations at The Lake Lodge on the shores of Lac La Belle and sampling its many luxurious amenities, Annie spent her first morning and afternoon back in Oconomowoc at the city police station.
Neither Grady nor Julia had witnessed the shooting. They were briefly questioned, quickly released and cabbed it to the lodge. Julia was probably getting a mani/pedi and Grady writing a treatment for a screenplay about the driveby gunshot incident, even though he hadn’t seen it.
Annie sat on a plastic chair in a tiny sterile air-conditioned squad room waiting to be interviewed by a local police officer. She put her head on the metal table in front of her. She should have followed her instincts. Something warned her not to come back. There wasn’t even a dead body and she was already in a police station. She banged her head on the table several times.
The door to the interrogation room swung opened. “A smart girl once told me that head banging should be reserved for punk rockers who don’t care about losing brain cells,” a man said, “—because they’ve already lost theirs.”
Annie raised her head off the table. A tall, built, early thirties, dirty-blond man walked into the room. She blinked. Maybe the Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, PD had a time machine warp room, because the guy resembled a younger Brad Pitt.
“Annie Graceland. It’s been a couple of years, hasn’t it?” the man asked.
She squinted at him. He was handsome in that high cheek boned blue-eyed kind of way. And he looked familiar. “I have no idea, mister…?”
“Detective,” he said, pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table from her, sat down and smiled. “How are you?”
That wasn’t the first question she expected to be asked by an Oconomowoc detective. “You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“I’m dehydrated, haven’t slept in three days. I have a contusion on my knee from rescuing this Stephanie TV person.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “My hair might have worms. My luggage with all my clothes and important business stuff is missing and I’m seriously wondering if I’ve made a really bad decision coming back to Wisconsin on a holiday weekend. Why do you look so familiar?”
“Stephanie’s a hometown pain. We’ve been hoping and praying for years that she’ll head to bigger pastures.” The detective got up, walked to a mini fridge in the room’s corner and opened it. He snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and a blue bag from the freezer. He walked back and pressed the ice pack onto her knee. “This will decrease swelling and stop your new bruise from becoming a big one.”
She shuddered and felt something chilly, wet and slimy slither down her back. She shook her head. The Officer hadn’t placed an ice pack anywhere near her back. Just on her knee. “Thanks.” She was having an empathic reaction. Oh, frick.
“You’re overly tired and will probably sleep like the dead tonight after you spend a couple of hours with Nancy.”
How did he know about her mother, Nancy? Right. She was back home. Everyone knew everybody in smallish midwestern towns.
“Your hair could use a wash,” he said. “But I don’t see any worms wiggling onto your shoulders.”
She shuddered and involuntarily flinched. “That’s a good thing.”
The detective handed her a big bottle of electrolyte-enhanced Lac LaBelle Mineral Water. “Drink this.”
She chugged the water. Immediately felt a little better. “Thanks. I have to help host opening ceremonies for a contest tonight. No time to see my mom until after.”
“Got it,” he said. “In regards to you coming back here for July 4th—we’ll be arresting our obligatory roster of idiots. Drinking and driving, drinking and boating, drinking and drinking, illegal fireworks, a couple of car crashes, a few druggies, and of course the town flasher. What were you thinking coming back for a summer holiday?” The man leaned back in his chair and regarded her.
Annie took a swig of water and stared at him. “I was thinking I’d see my family. I wasn’t thinking I’d end up at the local P.D. when I haven’t even broken a single law. What’s your name, detective, and why do you look familiar?”
“My name’s Detective Jamie Ryan,” he said. “You babysat me when you were in high school and I was ten.”
Good God, it all rushed back and flooded her noggin’, filling up all the little wrinkles and crevices in her brain like a tsunami. Little Jamie Ryan with his skateboards, dogs, video games and addiction to Harry Potter books. Goofball Jamie Ryan, who used to stick tadpoles down her back and giggle so hard he’d lose his breath. He had grown into Detective Jamie Ryan with the dangerous crystal blue eyes.
“Oh. Right. I babysat a lot of kids,” she said. “You grew up nice, Jamie. I mean you grew up to be a law-abiding, nice young man, Detective Jamie Ryan.”
“You grew up nice, too, Annie,” he said. “Sorry about the tadpole thing. I was a little obsessed with girls and frogs back then.”
Annie knew that statement described the majority of boys. She slugged back some more water. “I’m a judge at—”
“Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guy Contest,” he said. “Technically I’m in favor of the contest. But honestly a little concerned it will objectify men.”
Annie burst out giggling. “You’re still hilarious.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Like every single beauty contest for women doesn’t objectify them?”
“Well… but… kind-of…it’s completely different.”
“Ha-ha! Hiding any frogs, buddy?” Annie laughed so hard she clutched her stomach. And then like any pageant judge, she pulled it together. “I’ve got to be at work by six p.m. What do you need to know?”
“Let’s start with the idiot shooter in the parking lot.”
There really wasn’t that much to tell him. A couple of gunshots that seemed to be aimed at Stephanie. The shooter was a person on a dirt bike who wore leather in ninety-nine degree weather and, therefore, must be completely deranged. Since Annie had never met Stephanie until today, she had no idea who would want to harm her.
Annie then mentioned her luggage was either stolen or still on the No.154 Blackhoof Bus headed towards Appleton, Wisconsin.
“Did you have a chance to fill out a missing luggage—”
“No,” she said. “That’s when I nearly got run over and the shooting started.”
“I’ll handle that for you,” Jamie said. “Make some calls.”
“Thank you.”
“You need a ride?” Jamie eyeballed her.
A memory popped into Annie’s head like it was yesterday. Jamie’s folks hired her to babysit and dog walk while they attended a Clean the Lakes event at the supper club. Sixteen-year-old Annie walked their German shepherd down their long blacktop driveway surrounded by thick woods.
Half way down the blacktop, ten-year-old Jamie burst out of the bushes on his skateboard dressed like a ninja warrior. He yelled, “Hai Ku!” and spooked Sasha the dog, who bolted toward the woods like she was possessed. Annie tried to hold onto her leash, but ended up falling onto her butt and dragged down the sloping pavement.
“Sasha, no!” she yelled over and over, finally letting go of the leash. The dog stopped its panicked flight, panted heavily and looked at her, confused. She padded back to Annie who lay face up, her legs half on the driveway and the rest of her in the leaves and moldy dirt. Sasha leaned in and licked her face.
Annie gained a nasty case of road burn on her toucas as well as her first exfoliating dog-wash facial. Jamie wheeled up to her on his skateboard, held out his chubby pre-pubescent hand and said, “Hey, lady. Need a ride?”
“No, thanks.” She spit out a few dog hairs. “I think I’ll wing it.”
Now Annie looked at Jamie’s hand. It was muscular. Had long fingers. A couple of scars. No wedding band. “No thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll wing it.”
It was late afternoon when Annie left the Police Department clutching her fourth bottle of mineral water, her Coach purse and her tote. She walked out the double doors into the parking lot and called Rafe on her cell. His voicemail answered and she felt a little sad. “Raphael. It’s Annie. I miss you. We’re officially in Wisconsin. Yay! A little drama. Fill you in later. I hope all is great in your world. Mwah!”
Annie craved a bath, a salt scrub and possibly a delousing. She spotted a vintage baby blue Cadillac convertible polished to an impossible shine turn into the police parking lot.
Her mom owned three cars. One was an ancient clunker. Another was an inexpensive newer model that got great gas mileage. But the vintage blue Caddie was Nancy’s favorite, which she only unveiled on special occasions.
But a strange woman with bright red, short spiked hair, sporting enormous dark sunglasses and hot red lipstick was behind the wheel. Not her mom.
Annie’s mom was blonde, had always been blonde, even though now technically she should be silver. The Cadillac’s driver looked like her mom’s younger wild cousin, Gert. The one who ran off twenty years ago to Lithuania with the crazy artist dude.
“Annie Graceland!” The firecracker red-headed woman hollered. “I can’t believe I had to find out on the KNOC news that you landed in town.”
“Gert?” Annie asked. “How’s Lithuania and where’s Mom?”
“First things first.” The woman put the Cadillac in park. Turned off its engine and tossed Annie the car keys. “Put your suitcase in the trunk. Only one tiny bag?”
“I had a tote and one large suitcase.” Annie placed her tote into the trunk and slammed the car’s trunk. “Blackhoof lost my most important bag. All my beautiful pageant outfits were in it. Without them, people will think I’m an idiot. A moron. A loser.” She got in the passenger seat and handed the keys back to the glamorous older redhead who fired up the engine. “So, when’d you get back in town, Gert? And where’s mom?”
The woman cracked a smile and instead of backing up to exit, circled the Cadillac slowly around the parking lot and waved to several police officers in uniform. “Gert left that whack-a-doodle artist and moved with her younger boyfriend to a nudist colony in Costa Rica years ago. She opened a Mr. Softie Custard shop on the beach. Made a fortune. Thanks for the compliment. But I’m not Gert.”
Oh, my God, Annie thought and stared at the woman. The firecracker wasn’t Gert. It was her mom, Nancy, with radically new hair, something different about her face, but the same attitude. “Mom?” she asked. “Are you all right? Do you have a disease? Do we need to go to Mayo clinic? I swear we’ll figure it out together.”
Nancy waved her hand. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” Annie asked.
Her mom laughed. “Seventy happened, darling.” She revved the engine and gunned it. Annie flew back into the cushy Caddie seat as they squealed out of the parking lot. “And seventy is the new fifty.”
4. Time Of Our Lives
Annie’s mom pulled onto the two-lane street. The lake side had a wide grassy shoulder. The opposite side swept past houses, driveways, and relatively thin grassy shoulders that dipped down into leaf filled mossy ditches. “Like, wow,” Annie said. “You didn’t tell me you had some work done.”
“I haven’t told a soul except for my Wild Women’s Group. I wanted a little tiny uplifting so my face and my spirits matched. It’s called a ‘Time-of-Life’ lift. Minimal cutting. Local anesthesia. You can go back to work in three days!”
“You don’t work.”
“You can go back to Bible Study in three days!” Nancy tapped her finger on her cheek that was closest to Annie. “Daughter’s kiss goes right here.”
Annie smooched her mom’s freshly minted face. It was still her mom and it felt warm and wonderful. Like mini-marshmallows in hot chocolate. “Are you driving me to the Lake Lodge?”
A tiny frown squirmed its way onto Nancy’s face. “Yes, dear. Considering I haven’t seen you in a year, I’m more than happy to pick you up like a Tibetan Sherpa and schlep you to your destination.”
“The contest’s opening ceremonies are tonight.” Annie looked at her watch. “We’ll have a ton of downtime to catch up and hang out and—what time is it here?”
“I stopped keeping track of time a while ago.” Nancy hard turned the steering wheel to the right and whipped the Caddie onto the picturesque, tree-lined, two-lane road that circled Lac LaBelle. “Gloria, my Wild Women’s tribal leader, says when you count time all it does is make you depressed that so much has passed. We should simply pay attention to where the sun is in the sky.” Nancy eyeballed the sun. “I’d say it’s about five-ish.”
Wild Women? Tribal leader? Five-ish? Oh shit. Opening ceremonies for Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guy Contest started at six p.m. Annie was exhausted. Once she realized they were taking the bus, she had planned on a nap as well as plenty of downtime to prepare before the opening ceremonies. Annie reached up and tilted the rearview mirror toward her and gazed into it. She looked like a creature who had just escaped the third realm of hell.
She had fresh pink zits, grimy hair and errant eyebrow hairs that were attempting to unite in the uni-brow look she sported in junior high. This would not do. She was a pageant judge. She was supposed to look coiffed and glamorous. Somewhat like Paula Abdul. Or Stephanie.
“Hurry, please. Pedal to the metal, Mom. Remember the multiple conversations we’ve had about how slow drivers can be as dangerous as fast ones?” Annie pulled out her cell phone and hit one number for speed dial.
“I was only driving slowly because I lost my license a couple of months ago.” Nancy punched the gas.
Annie’s head started throbbing and she felt the one visible vein on her forehead pulse. She placed her phone to her ear.
“Hot Guys Central. How can I be of service?” Julia purred on the line’s other end.
“I’ve been at the police station the entire day, my suitcase is stolen or missing. No bitchin’ clothes for the contest, no makeup, no fancy hair doo-dads. Mom picked me up and we’re headed for the lodge. I’ve got to look presentable and coiffed like a beauty pageant judge in approximately forty-five minutes. Tell me that you and Grady have had less than three drinks apiece and can save my ass?”
The Caddie’s engine revved. Her Mom swerved down the middle of the two-lane road that curved around the lake. Small non-suicidal forest animals dodged its wheels and dove for safety.
“Hold on,” Julia said. “Grady, put the strawberry daiquiris in the fridge.”
“But I just picked the berries from the Lodge’s garden,” he whined.
“They’ll keep. Annie needs us to be kind-of sober.”
“Then why are we on a road trip to Wisconsin? I don’t know anyone who vacays in Wisconsin who stays kind-of sober.”
“Save the drama for Los Angeles,” Julia said. “God knows that town needs it like oxygen.”
Annie’s heart skipped a beat ’cause in that statement she knew Julia was re-connecting with her Midwestern roots.
“Julia?” Annie asked.
“We’re on it. Mission Pageant Judge. Heads up? Skip the lobby,” Julia said. “It’s packed with swooning women, men who aren’t frightened of who they really are, as well as those who are still in the closet. Park on the lake entrance. Between the wedding gazebo with the plastic white rose cascades and the Bait and Tackle shop with the enormous smiling trout. Take the back elevator to room 303. Do the secret knock.” She hung up.
“I don’t remember the secret knock!” Annie shouted into the phone as she and her mom in the Caddie blasted down Lac LaBelle Lane.
“I do,” Nancy said. “That’s the one Julia did on your bedroom window junior year in high school every time you were sneaking out to go to a party.”
“Oh, that secret knock,” Annie brain-strained for the memory. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, my only daughter.”
A little over an hour later, Annie teetered toward a conference table podium in the Lake Lodge’s packed ballroom. It was outfitted with a long white table skirt with red white and blue emblems celebrating the Contest. She knew the following: she flunked the secret knock three times until Julia threw open the door and yanked her inside.
Her friends stripped off Annie’s road clothes and pushed her into the shower. They ruthlessly scrubbed and exfoliated her from head to toe and even managed to shave her legs. Annie survived with just one bleeder—a nasty razor cut on her calf that would not clot.
She reached down and rubbed the drying blood over her leg in the hopes it would make her look tan, not like she needed to go to the ER.
Julia and Grady dried her off with multiple cushy three hundred-thread count lodge towels. They slapped sparkly self-tanning moisturizer on her entire body, plumped her lips, plucked her uni-brow, transforming it into two eyebrows, teased and sprayed her hair to enormous proportions, rimmed her eyes with kohl and made her drink two cups of coffee spiked with just a tad of Kahlua.
She squeezed into one of Julia’s spandex one-size-fits-all outfits—a skimpy off-the shoulder leopard print dress. And the absolute worst? They made her wear really tall heels. Everyone who ever met Annie knew she was petrified of tall heels.
Annie caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the hallway on the way to the ballroom. “I look like Tarzan’s girlfriend, Jane.”
“You’re welcome,” Julia said.
“I totally appreciate all your efforts, but you know I can’t walk in heels.” Annie wobbled, her arms extended out to her sides for support, as she pushed off the hallway’s walls.
“Own the heels, work the attitude and be the totally cool contest judge that we know you can be.” Julia grabbed Annie and smooched her on the cheek. “Kill them, babe.”
Grady smooched Annie on her other cheek. “I’m writing all this down you know.”
“Change my name this time,” Annie said.
“I changed it last time.”
“You called my semi-fictitious character Fannie Laceland. Everyone with half a brain figured it out.”
“Considering that spec script went nowhere, I think you’re still off Hollywood’s radar.”
Annie teetered toward the conference table where the other contest judges were already seated. She spotted Stephanie on the sidelines, picture perfect and posing in front of Olaf’s rolling camera. They were the only video camera crew in attendance. In L.A. this place would have been infested with news crews.
She couldn’t wait to meet her fellow judges. They were probably Nicole Scherzinger or J-Lo types. Gorgeous, hip, cool. She felt lucky to be included in their company. She took her seat at the conference table. Phew. She’d arrived. She hadn’t fallen. And she didn’t feel any bugs crawling in her enormous hair. Disaster averted.
An older woman sat next to Annie. She had silver hair, looked like someone’s beloved Nana and smelled like overly sweet roses that had been dipped in lilac water. Annie’s nose crinkled. The woman placed her paper-thin skinned hand on Annie’s arm.
Annie felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. She flashed to the ancient grandmother character in Titanic and felt a sense of dread.
“Welcome home, Annie Graceland,” the older woman said. “Frankly, I never expected to see you again, unless it was on an episode of TMZ or Primetime Live. But here you are. Congratulations, you proved me wrong.”
“Mrs. McGillicuddy?” Oh frick, Annie thought. Mrs. McGillicuddy was her English teacher sophomore year in high school. In high school, Annie had an aversion to the classics. She despised reading Dickens. The Iliad was like taking a sleeping pill. She loved Ann Rice, Sidney Sheldon, Louisa May Alcott and Cosmo. But every book report that she wrote about commercial fiction, Mrs. McGillicuddy would always give her a grade of C minus, tops. It was a miracle she passed that class. “It’s lovely to see you here.” She offered her other hand to greet her former teacher.
Who ignored it and pursed her lips. “I’ll be evaluating your entire contest performance and will submit your final grades to Hot Guys Nationwide Pageants. Anything under a B plus, and you’ll never get another sweet gig like this again.”
Annie shook her head. This grading thing was a surprise. “Uh—okay?”
“Tonight I give your outfit a D, but at least you weren’t completely tardy. You get a C for that.” Mrs. McGillicuddy filled in forms attached to a clipboard.
“What do you mean a C? I’m here. I’m on time. Surely that’s worthy of an A?”
“You were supposed to show at least fifteen minutes ahead of time. Did you not read your pageant judge’s manual and itinerary?”
“That was in my suitcase which is currently lost,” Annie said.
Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned in and checked her piece of paper again. “I’m giving you a C on preparation skills.”
Great, Annie thought. Mrs. McGillicuddy still hated her. She’d figure out her former teacher’s weird grading thing later. Now, what to say to make nice? “Awesome to reconnect with you, Mrs. McGillicuddy. Can I Facebook you?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy sniffed and looked away.
Another woman sat to Annie’s right. She looked a little older than Annie but a lot harder. She smelled like store-bought generic brand fruit jam that had exceeded its shelf life. She futzed with her short, bleach blond, overly processed hair with her fake acrylic, French manicured nails.
“Hi,” Annie stuck out her hand. “I’m Annie Graceland.”
The woman shook her hand and smiled sweetly. Then she sunk her razor sharp talons into Annie’s palm. “I know exactly who you are,” she hissed. “Don't think for one tiny second that you will steal my thunder.”
Annie winced and tried to pull her hand away. “I’m not a big fan of thunder. We don’t get a lot of thunder in Los Angeles. But on the rare occasion it happens, my cat totally freaks,” she said. “And then we go and hide in a dark corner together. I promise. I will not borrow, let alone steal, your thunder.” But the woman did not release her death grip. “Um, who are you?” Annie asked.
The woman’s face didn’t crack a millimeter. Not one wrinkle. Only the side of her upper lip turned up. “Like you don’t know.”
Annie racked her brain but could only wonder if the woman had drawn blood yet. “Sorry. I don’t.”
“You’re not the only baker from Oconomowoc. We went to high school together. I’m Suzy Mae DeLovely . Of the DeLovely Bakeries and Coffee Parlors.”
“Oh, wow,” Annie said. “You were a couple grades ahead of me. You were an amazing baton twirler. And your family owns a Midwest baking institution. You’re an empress with an empire. You’re….” Annie fought for nice words. But as Suzy Mae’s acrylics poked painfully into her palm, all she could think was, ‘You’re a dragon lady who suffers from Queen Bee Syndrome. For God’s sake, go to a therapist or get laid – immediately. Or even better—both!’
But Annie sucked it up. “You are lovely indeed, Suzy Mae.”
Suzy released her death grip. “As long as we know who’s in charge here. I’m Simon. You’re not Paula. You’re not even Nicole.”
“Yes, Suzy.” Annie checked her palm and spotted four deep square indentations.
Sitting at the far end of the table was a man with a full head of orangey-brown hair with a touch of salt at his temples. She could only make out his profile. He smiled a lot and waved to many people. It seemed he was the last of her fellow judges. She prayed he was on the positive scale of normal and didn’t hate her for something that she totally didn’t realize or remember.
The ballroom’s lights flashed on and finally someone she recognized in a heartbeat stepped up to the mic at the podium.
5. Hot Stuff
Detective Jamie Ryan, handsome in his police department dress uniform (not that Annie even remotely registered that) picked up the mic to thunderous applause.
“Yo, Oconomowoc,” he said.
The crowd cheered. Jamie smiled and the flashes from the cameras caught the blue in his eyes and made them sparkle. “People that aren’t from our fair city think Oconomowoc is kind of a third cousin to bigger and more exotic Wisconsin towns. I beg to differ. Yes, Madison has an awesome Big Ten college. Spring Green boasts the architectural genius Frank Lloyd Wright and the famous House on the Rock.”
“But we have Lac LaBelle, one of the most beautiful lakes I’ve ever seen. Oconomowoc has fishing, boating, hunting, and amazing winter sports. We have five-star restaurants and a band shell with free concerts. Our high school has The Rudy Timmel Music Scholarship Fund, a scholarship for kids who want to become musicians.”
“I went to Rudy Timmel’s music camp! It was awesome!” Annie blurted.
Jamie nodded at Annie and cracked a smile. “An endorsement from one of the Hot Guys judges. Nice! Like a lot of you, I grew up here. I’m used to all the Wisconsin quirks that we are known for and sometimes made fun of. Being called a Cheesehead, hunting, Packer football, boating, tobogganing, baseball, sports, music, parades, parties, lakes, rivers. I cop to it all, no pun intended, because growing up here was paradise.”
The crowd applauded.
“When I heard Wisconsin was sponsoring a contest where all the monies went to charity—and I mean all—I rallied Friends of Oconomowoc to pull it together, fill out and send in the scads of paperwork and make this contest happen here, in my home town.”
A few people whistled.
“Now we have deserving charities, great contestants, awesome judges—” Jamie looked at Annie and winked, “—and some fun activities for the July fourth weekend.” He paused and regarded the crowd a little sternly. “Most of you already know that I’m a police detective.”
There were a few catcalls and several boos from the audience.
Annie watched Jamie as he took it in stride.
“I advise you not to drink and drive or drink and boat,” Jamie said. “Play it cool this holiday weekend and we’ll all have fun. On that note—let the festivities begin!”
The crowd in the ballroom whooped, hollered and clapped. Annie had no idea what to expect. So when the clapping grew louder, she slapped her hands together and went along with it.
Donna Summer’s classic disco song “Hot Stuff” blared from the loudspeakers. Multi-colored ground-level twinkly lights and overhead flashing beams lit a raised runway. It was fashioned to figure eight through the Lodge’s auditorium. The fifty men voted into Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest strutted down the runway through the audience, just hands distance away from their adoring fans.
They were decked in their finest fitting suits. Their ties were custom made and had the names of their hometowns on them. They waved. They winked. Some, more savvy than the rest, worked the crowd, extending their arms to high five or shake hands with audience members. They walked across the stage in front of the judges.
The Hot Guys were just feet from Annie. She was inundated by sharp cheekbones, dimpled chins, heads filled with beautiful hair and shimmering bald-heads. Mesmerized by thin men, medium men, big men and muscular men. White men, brown men, black men, yellow men. Blue eyes, black eyes, hazel eyes and brown eyes.
One incredibly Hot Guy was in a wheel chair. Each contestant smelled different. One was like Old Spice, another Versace, a third firewood, a fourth summertime grass after a hard rain. This was the most sensory experience since the first time she went to second base under the bleachers with Scott Puddleman when she was sixteen after the semi-final football playoffs with Wauwatosa High School.
Mr. Oconomowoc stared at her as he walked past. A shiver went down Annie’s spine. He was gorgeous, over six feet tall and his finely cut suit could not conceal his muscular physique. He had wavy black hair and brown eyes so yummy a girl could get lost in them. She remembered his name—Frank Plank. Another kid she babysat when she was in high school.
A wolf whistle pierced the air. Annie looked at the audience and spotted a gorgeous, young, scantily clad brunette with a killer body blowing air-kisses at Mr. Oconomowoc. At least Annie thought she was blowing air kisses.
The Hot Guys circled back on the runway, past their adoring, cheering, screaming audience. They waved at their fans and disappeared back stage.
The spotlight shone again on Jamie. “See you all back tomorrow at eleven a.m. sharp at the picnic area for the Hot Guys Brunch and the announcement of the top ten finalists.”
The crowd screamed.
“Have fun. But be careful out there!” Jamie turned off the mic and exited the stage.
Mrs. McGillicuddy hunched over the table, eyeballed Annie, covered her scorecard with her arm and scribbled on the paper.
“Do we vote now?” Annie asked Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The top ten have already been picked by the contest’s organizers. We’re just here to contribute to the finals,” she said. “I can’t believe you didn’t read your judge’s itinerary.”
Frank Plank carefully hung his suit and “Mr. Oconomowoc” tie in the closet. He was relieved to be home, in his converted lakeside boathouse on his family’s property. He pulled on his favorite athletic sweats and faded short-sleeved T-shirt. Picked up the dumbbells from the floor mat and faced his workout bench.
The opening ceremonies for the contest tonight were a little crazy, but Frank knew he had to be consistent with his workouts or he wouldn’t be hot for very long.
When his grandpa, Hank Plank, passed away, his mom and dad sold the boats and converted the boathouse to a library and a billiard room. But his dad, Heck Plank, ignored it. He spent all his time watching sports on his big screen TV, playing online blackjack and taking his mom to Vegas.
After years of spiders crawling over the books and the pool table drowning in clutter, Frank moved back to Oconomowoc from college, cleaned the place out and installed a small but serious gym. Frank was born muscular, had always been admired for his looks and wasn’t about to let his body go to pot just ’cause he’d hit the ripe old age of thirty.
He knew he had lucky lot in life. Some day he would inherit the family business: Plank’s Franks and Sausages. Meanwhile, he ran the company and worked hard to uphold its spotless reputation. His passions lay elsewhere, which made him a little sad, but he was okay with that.
Frank would have loved to work for the Peace Corps, an orphanage or a deserving charity. But his folks needed him. He sponsored a monthly “Plank’s Billiards Blast” at his converted boathouse. All proceeds went to the winner’s favorite charity. His events became the place to see and be seen. Soon, folks who wanted invites besieged Frank and he became even more popular.
His friends, especially Jamie, who had recently been promoted to detective at the police department, nagged him to enter Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest, even though Jamie knew Frank didn’t crave the spotlight. His buddies insisted that since the contest was going to be held in his beloved hometown, and with all the monies going to charity, he couldn’t say no. So he filled out the application. And in a landside write-in ballot, Frank was voted Mr. Oconomowoc.
So tonight he walked the runway in Lac LaBelle’s Lodge with the forty-nine other men even though it just about killed him. There was no way he could have missed Lila. Good God, she was the poster girl for trouble with a Double D. He had so far, at least this time, resisted her many charms. He also knew this contest would stretch his comfort zone in too many ways. There were some catcalls. Several “sausage” comments. But he wanted to help. And that’s why Frank Plank was still working out hard at two a.m.
Frank loved lifting weights in his small unassuming gym. Unlike his day job, it was blissfully quiet. He leaned forward over the weight bench as he held the fifty-pound dumbbell and methodically pulled his elbow back, activating the muscles between his shoulder blades, completing his final set of upper back rows.
He paused between exercises to catch his breath. He heard several small creaks and peered up at the roof. Raccoons? God he hoped not, because he’d have to take the time to trap them, drive twenty miles into the woods and set them free. Besides the sausage business, there would be no blood on Frank’s hands. When he was a kid, his dad made him try hunting. He hated it.
The creaks sounded like they were made by some winds kicking up outside, ushering in a much needed summer thunderstorm. The storms could create havoc, but would chill the God-awful heat wave for a little bit. He replaced the barbells in the rack, picked up some lighter ones and moved on to his chest workout.
He replayed the night’s events in his head as he pushed the barbells in a semicircle over his chest and grunted. The crowd was crazy. He spotted about ten of his friends in the lodge’s ballroom. That was nice; they showed up. He knew everyone had busy lives. They were obviously trying to support him. And again, there was Lila—brazenly tempting him. She was a vixen, a wild child, and a braniac rolled into the face and body of a super model. Lila—the love of his life. The girl he let get away. Frank wondered if he was a complete idiot for letting her go.
On a happy note, Frank spotted his former babysitter—Annie Graceland. She was a contest judge! He still remembered her, would never forget her. Every boy he went to grade school with had a crush on Annie—the cute, funny babysitter who always smelled like desserts.
When Frank was a kid, his folks were always busy entertaining potential clients on business dinners. Frank had a couple of babysitters, but Annie was his favorite. When he was really young, she read stories to him and taught him how to ride a bike without training wheels. On occasion, she’d let him watch a scary movie, which he loved. When he got too scared, she covered his eyes with her hands during the gory parts so he wouldn’t have nightmares.
He strained on the twelfth repetition and exhaled loudly several times as he squeezed the barbells together high over his chest. He heard a squeak. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door open and realized someone had entered the room. He couldn’t see the door from his bench. “Who’s there?” He dropped the weights.
Two gunshots sliced through the air. Frank never got an answer. He felt something that burnt like crazy rip through his chest. “Why?” He gasped and his eyes glazed. His dumbbells bounced off the rubber mat on the floor, and in a foggy haze he watched them roll away. “Why?” he asked as everything faded to black.
6. Oconomowoc Rocks
The hotel clock on the dresser in Annie’s room at the lodge read 2:30 a.m. Julia and Grady slept soundly in each of their double beds. Grady had pulled the “Ow-my-back hurts” card and scored his own bed. Annie tried sleeping in the same bed as Julia, but Julia kicked hard, and frequently. The last thing Annie needed was more bruises.
Annie glanced down at the simple cotton short nightie with tiny pj bottoms that she had purchased at the gift shop minutes before it closed. “OCONOMOWOC” was printed on the top half of her nightie. She rotated her hip up and craned her neck to see that “ROCKS” was lettered on the back of her pj bottoms, emblazoned right across her ass.
She lay on a fold-out cot next to the window, which was cracked open several inches. Hotel management supplied the cot as a courtesy when Annie called the front desk and confessed that she had broken the rules again and brought a Plus Two. It wasn’t the lodge’s fault there was no extra room at the inn. The Hot Guys Contest was a sell-out.
The metal bars running through the cot poked into Annie’s back and ribs like tiny torture devices and she felt her neck spasm on the one-inch thick pillow. She pushed herself to sitting and the cot creaked in complaint. “Back at ya,” she whispered.
She gazed out the window at Lac LaBelle. It was beautiful. Palatial estates, forests, beaches and marinas snuggled up to its shores.
During the summer, this fresh water lake was filled with swimmers, fish, fishermen, boaters and water-skiers. It was the lake she grew up on. Where she had the toboggan accident with her mom. They catapulted down the icy snow packed hill, when they hit a large bump. Annie flew off the toboggan, crashed onto the ice and hit her head. She woke up minutes later feeling like someone was sticking a huge tongue down her throat. Turns out this was her first empathic moment. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw Julia leaning over her face, looking concerned and holding her hand.
Paramedics concluded Annie had a mild concussion. After Annie learned Julia had french kissed Greg Finklestein minutes prior to her accident, she concluded she’d been empathically feeling Finklestein awkwardly kissing Julia. She had suffered not only a concussion, but she’d gained empathic ability. She could feel in her body what others’ were feeling in theirs.
Julia hacked, snorted, moaned and interrupted Annie’s stroll down memory lane. She tossed and turned on her double bed like she was attempting a Zumba workout. “Misterrrrr…Wiskin Swells,” Julia mumbled.
Perhaps Julia wasn’t attempting Zumba but a more familiar cardio activity.
Also asleep, Grady cried out, “Noodles!”
Annie loved them both, but she desperately needed a good night’s rest with some REMS before she turned into a zombie. She could think of only two places where she might be able to do that. One was back at her place in Venice Beach, California, nearly two thousand miles away. The other was…
Minutes later under a dark sky filled with puffy clouds sliced by slivers of moonlight, Annie pedaled down Lac LaBelle’s two-lane road on a vintage bicycle. She’d talked the night clerk into lending her the ride.
Her white nightgown draped down her cleavage and its hem landed just above her knees. Her Coach bag was slung over her shoulder. She pedaled. And pedaled. And pedaled. She was so tired her skin tingled. The lake’s waters lapped against the shores and the hint of a warm evening breeze tickled her face. She smiled because in spite of the weather, the hellish bus ride, her missing luggage, the gunshots and the scary contest judges, she was secretly thrilled to be back home in Wisconsin.
Annie turned onto a side lane and rode past older, simple and pretty houses set back from the street. There were tall fat pine trees, gigantic oaks and grassy manicured yards. She pedaled past white clapboard homes and gingerbread houses until she spotted a tiny, energy-efficient car parked in a freshly blacktopped driveway next to an unassuming two-story brick residence.
The car sat at an odd diagonal; most of it was on the driveway, but its left front wheel rested squarely on the side lawn. She knew the blue Caddie was carefully parked in the garage, a protective cover already draped over it. An old oak tree towered in the front lawn, a wooden swing hung from thick ropes looped over a solid branch above.
Annie coasted into the driveway, hopped off the bike and looked for someplace to lock it. Then realized she was in Oconomowoc, not Los Angeles. She pushed the bike into a thick green hedge of bushes next to the house and nudged the kickstand down with her foot.
She quietly climbed the three short concrete steps that led to the porch. She fished around in her purse, pulled out her key chain, held it up the to sky and squinted at the keys. She found the one she was looking for. It was plain brass, worn and had been duplicated a thousand times.
She gingerly opened the screen door and slipped the key in the lock of the front door. It opened readily. ’Cause this was Annie’s childhood house, the home she grew up in. Where she learned how to bake perfect chocolate chip cookies, got her braces, snuck out to go to parties with Julia. Where she swung on that wooden swing under the big tall oak and wondered what her life would look and feel like when she grew up.
She tiptoed through the living room. Mouthed a silent hello to the thirty Hummel figurines trapped in the glass-encased tchotchky tower located close to her mom’s fat low-def, state-of-the art TV that she’d bought fifteen years ago.
She made her way quietly to the staircase that led to the second floor. The wall adjacent to it featured framed family photos, as well as the two hideous chalk drawings of Annie and her brother Carson, that her mom had commissioned an artist to sketch when they had vacationed at the Lake of the Ozarks, twenty-five years earlier.
Annie snuck up the stairs, making sure to avoid the fifth step, as it always creaked. The last thing she wanted was to scare her mom or wake her up. Her plan was to get a little uninterrupted sleep. She’d slip out of her family home in the early morning refreshed and ace her duties as a contest judge.
Annie reached the second floor. Her mom still left a nightlight on in the hallway. She tiptoed down the hall to the very last bedroom. The door was ajar. She slipped inside and quietly shut it.
The moon shone through the cotton drapes with multi-colored hearts on them, revealing a small girly bedroom. There was a twin bed piled with stuffed animals, a bookcase stocked with Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy books, a petite Early American style wooden desk, bulletin boards filled with photos, cheerleading photos and ribbons as well as a Madonna Vogue poster.
A hot pink alarm clock with fat silver colored bells sat on the desk. Annie set her purse next to it, picked up the clock and wound the knob on the back. She set the current time, as well as her wake up time for eight a.m. She’d get back to the lodge, hopefully claim her missing luggage and dress super fine for the eleven a.m. Hot Guys brunch.
She picked up her stuffed animals from the bed and placed them on the floor, leaning each of them against the wall, except for Walla the koala bear—her favorite. Annie noted, that devoid of the animals, the bed’s covers were neatly pulled back. She crawled between the sheets, hugged Walla the koala to her chest, sighed and fell asleep.
Frank Plank woke up from his unexpected nap on his weight lifting bench. Very strange. The only time he’d ever fallen asleep on that bench was approximately four years ago when he was twenty-six. He’d gotten drunk at a BBQ and made out with a hot younger girl, Lila , in front of all her friends.
This was not his m.o. He’d never been a player. And worse, according to his friends, Frank announced loudly to the entire party that Lila was the future Mrs. Plank. The next day, after he sobered up, Frank decided he was a complete ass. That the best way to handle the situation was not handling it. He decided to never call that girl back. Big mistake.
Months later he ran into Lila at a local bar and she taught him a lesson. They went outside to talk—okay—neck. Lila slipped him a mickey, gave him a hickey and accompanied him back to his boathouse. She had her way with him on the pool table, the couch, the floor, inside a kayak, against the door, underneath the Green Bay Packers poster, and eventually on the weight bench. When he passed out, she took pictures of him and threatened to post them on the Internet unless he became her love slave or helped her escape her life.
It did not matter to Frank that the candid photos she took would only enhance his reputation as being a man’s man, a woman’s man, or in other words, endowed. The woman who so callously seduced him was the daughter of Suzy Mae DeLovely and the heir to the DeLovely ’s Bakery and Coffee Shoppe empire.
But Lila didn’t want to bake. She wanted to model, become a pop star, travel the world, be a groupie, excavate the ruins of Ercolano outside of Pompeii and learn to speak the romance languages: French, Italian and Portuguese.
Frank was crazy about her. Batshit insane loco for this girl. But he had no idea how to handle her, so he procrastinated. He didn’t encourage her to follow her dreams, or agree to accompany her on her adventures. Frank had a family business to maintain. Responsibilities. Push came to shove and even though he loved Lila, he didn’t propose. He just waited.
Eventually Lila couldn’t contain her frustration and ran off to Europe. He’d see her in the occasional designer ad, modeling something hip and cool. She’d pop up in the pages of a gossip rag that someone left in the waiting room of his parent’s company office. She’d be on the arm of Clooney, Jagger, some billionaire, politician, or famous rapper.
Frank didn’t realize Lila was back in town until this week when she e-mailed him, called him, texted him and finally scrawled a note in red lipstick on his car’s windshield indicating her desire to catch up. He surmised that “hook up” was the more accurate term. But the Hot Guys Contest was this week and he had to stay focused.
Frank spotted Lila in the crowd at the lodge earlier. She was now a gorgeous twenty-three year-old brunette in a short tight skirt with killer legs in high heels. She threw him a kiss, a wink, a sexy come-hither smile. There was an older man with multiple chins sitting next to her, his hand proprietary on her knee. He wore a dress uniform jacket covered in medals. Frank knew what American military uniforms looked like. So many of his friends, including Jamie Ryan, had been deployed and served in the Iraq War. This man wasn’t wearing an American uniform, so Frank assumed he was possibly European. This man also didn’t seem perturbed when Lila not so subtly sucked on her index finger and beckoned to Frank with her other hand. Perhaps the man was far-sighted.
Lila tempted Frank. But there was so much to do for the contest. He wasn’t going to place or even win if he kept falling asleep on his weight bench. Frank sighed, got up, walked closer to the mirror and flexed his biceps. There was a big red stain on his T-shirt. Did he spill ketchup on it earlier when he was eating his obligatory protein burgers to help him build muscle? He leaned into the mirror to examine the stains. His breath caught in his throat. Because something wasn’t right.
There was a big, beefy, tall guy dressed just like him, sprawled next to his weight bench. Red stuff was splattered all over this person, all over the dumbbells, weight bench and even dripped down his beloved autographed Green Bay Packer poster on the wall.
Frank shook his head, confused. He heard a knock on the door. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
“Frank?” his mother Patsy asked. “Frank, are you okay? We heard a strange sound. Son? Are you having one of your parties?”
Again, Frank tried to answer. But no sounds came out of his mouth.
She knocked louder. “Frank, I’m a little worried about you. Tomorrow’s a big day.” The door to the boathouse opened. Patsy Plank walked inside armed with a shotgun and racked it.
‘Everything’s fine, Mom,’ Frank said. Wow, finally he was able to talk.
But his mom didn’t hear him. Patsy gasped, dropped the gun and ran to the figure next to the weight bench. She put her ear to his chest, then placed her mouth on his mouth and did a couple of rounds of CPR. She stopped, horrified. And screamed. “Heck, call the police! For the love of God, someone shot Frank!”
No, Frank thought. His mom was confused. He walked toward her and tried to explain that everything would be okay. But then he saw the figure slumped across the weight bench. It was indeed him.
Patsy shrieked, grabbed Frank’s dead hand, collapsed on the ground next to his body and sobbed. He tried to reach out to her, but she didn’t see him. “I’m sorry Mom,” he said. “I love you. I always tried to do my best.” And then Frank wondered two things:
If he was really dead—what was he still doing here in the family boathouse? And who in the hell had killed him?
7. Cinnamon Buns
Annie woke up and blinked. Sunshine beat through the bedroom window. She extended her arms over her head, kicked off the sheet and stretched her legs. She did wrist circles and ankle circles, and wondered where her cat, Theodore, was. This was his prompt to jump up on her chest and knead her head or stomach.
But there was no Theodore. The air suddenly felt clammy and Annie realized she was not in L.A. She was in Wisconsin. Her eyes popped open. She pushed herself to sitting and saw Walla the koala lying on the ground, face down, like he’d taken a header during a night of debauchery.
Her eyes swiveled and registered on the clock. It read ten p.m. How could that be? It was light out? Oh shit. Annie realized she’d totally messed up the a.m./p.m. thing on the clock. Which meant it was ten a.m. and Annie had only an hour to prepare for the contest. If she was lucky, her luggage would have arrived at the Lake Lodge by now.
But she wasn’t going to have time to bike back, shower, and get dressed. She jumped out of bed and hid behind her bedroom door. Opened it an inch, peeked through the crack and checked for her mom. She heard Nancy singing The Hills are Alive downstairs. Pots and pans clattered, the oven door creaked and the scent of cinnamon wafted through the air. Mom was baking her killer cinnamon buns. So not fair! But Annie couldn’t partake in any or she’d blow her cover.
She realized her mission. It would not be pretty. It would not be comfortable. But she was a Midwestern girl. And when the going got tough, Midwestern chicks would suck it up and get the job done. Then afterwards they’d celebrate with a cupcake or cocktail—or both.
She snuck out the door and tiptoed down the hall. She was going to raid her mom’s closet for clothes and accessories and fashion them into a fabulous outfit that even J-Lo would be jealous of.
Seven minutes later, Annie exited her mom’s bedroom wearing an enormous blue muumuu, belted around her waist. She snuck down the stairs carrying platform seventies-styled shoes. Her hair was pulled back from her face with a headband she’d fashioned from a few inches of material that she’d ripped from the bottom of the dress. She’d borrowed an old pair of huge black Jackie O sunglasses she found in a box labeled “Fabulous Sunglasses.” Nice of her mom to be so organized.
She waved bye-bye to the Hummels, gently opened the front door, snuck outside and shut it. She crept to the bike and wheeled it quietly down the drive. After she passed the next-door neighbor’s house, she hopped on the seat and pedaled off.
In the lodge’s parking lot Annie passed a shiny van with a satellite dish on top. I-CHIC with a snappy logo was painted on the van’s side. Illinois Chicago Cable News was stenciled underneath. A pretty, late thirty-something brunette woman dressed in a summer suit put on a little lipstick from the inside of the van. She hopped out and strode toward her video crew, already set up on the lawn’s sidelines. More reporters were on the scene. Hmm.
Annie held her head high, trying to look cool and official as she strode through the massive crowds, past ten large tented booths set up on the Lake Lodge lawn. Nearby Lac LaBelle’s waters lapped onto the shoreline.
Though the finalists had already been chosen, all of the contestants had prepared a special treat for the brunch. The winners could gain fans, media exposure and even land lucrative endorsement deals.
Stephanie Storms from WNOC was already interviewing Mr. Bloomer on camera. He cradled several large bouquets and leaned down toward the mic.
“I believe a great brunch should always have beauty. What’s prettier than freshly cut flowers? I grew these roses. Added some peonies, daisies. A lovely talented girl like yourself deserves beautiful flowers.” Mr. Bloomer smiled at Stephanie and offered her a huge bouquet.
Stephanie giggled. Raised the flowers to her nose, closed her eyes for a theatrical second, then re-opened them and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Bloomer. You’re such a gentleman. Good luck! I’ll be rooting for you.”
“And cut!” Olaf said.
“Bye-bye, now,” Stephanie waved to Mr. Bloomer, who walked off, a satisfied look on his face.
Stephanie sneezed and tossed the bouquet onto the ground. “Jeez, my allergies. Remind me to stay away from Bloomer. Who’s next? One of the judges?”
Annie picked up the flowers, positioned them next to her face and walked past Stephanie, incognito. She headed for the exhibition area set up nearby.
Each tent was the size of your average car dealership sales event and housed five Hot Guys, as well as their concoctions. The aromas and the lush displays were intoxicating. Annie was drawn to one arena.
Mr. Milwaukee, a buff African-American man, wore his hometown’s baseball jersey. His booth was stuffed floor to ceiling with huge ice-filled coolers filled with varieties of Wisconsin beers. Smart guy, Mr. Milwaukee.
Mr. Richland Center was dressed in hunter camouflage and stood with ramrod straight posture next to a table topped with an enormous wooden platter filled with appetizers. A large poster board proclaimed his food items to be an assortment of locally processed, organic and gluten-free deer jerky. He enthusiastically passed out samples, stabbed with little toothpicks that sported tiny plastic deer heads.
Mr. Appleton manned his booth from his wheelchair. It had a dozen huge apple pies and endless trays of mini pies. “Pies!” he shouted. “Get your free Appleton pies!” He flashed his pearly whites and shook hands. “Vote for the apple of your eye, Mr. Appleton.” He handed a mini pie and a small plastic fork to each person standing in the long line in front of his booth. Annie had a feeling Mr. Appleton would be running for office some day.
There was a large banner over a booth that read, “Mr. Oconomowoc.” Annie felt her skin tingle. A massive shiny red grill was filled with briquettes sprinkled with wood chips. But it hadn’t been fired up yet. A huge poster for “Plank’s Franks and Sausages,” featuring the company’s food items as well as its proprietor, the hunky Frank Plank, hung from the tent’s wall. But Frank, aka Mr. Oconomowoc, was not attending the booth. Where was he, Annie wondered? He was obviously the hometown darling.
The food on the poster looked like comfort food. Food you could incorporate into stews and soups. Pasta dishes, simple BBQ fare, even franks and beans. Good Lord, look at the size of that kielbasa, Annie thought, as she leaned in and placed her hand on the poster to get a better look.
She felt a sharp sudden pain in her chest. She gasped and hunched over for a second, dropping the flowers. Had she cinched the belt too tight around the muumuu and damaged an internal organ? Annie fumbled with the belt and let it out a notch. The sensation passed. She stood upright and shook her hands, grounding herself.
She spotted the judges’ booth in another tented area on a dock that jutted out onto Lac LaBelle. A huge banner plastered on the tent read JUDGES’ BOOTH. Suzy yakked with the female reporter from I-CHIC. Mrs. McGillicuddy checked her watch, glared at the empty chair next to her and leaned in to scribble on a piece of paper.
The coiffed male judge was drowning in Polo attire, his back to her as he conversed with another man, also dressed designer. They looked smug and beyond boring.
Annie checked her watch. She had two minutes to make it to her chair before Mrs. McGillicuddy would grade her tardy. She broke into a trot, pushing politely past exhibitors, fans, Hot Guys, sponsors and advertisers when someone grabbed her elbow and spun her around. She came face to face with Stephanie, her microphone and Olaf with his camera.
“Roll camera. On three, two, one,” Stephanie said. “Here we are at Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest with local girl Annie Graceland. She moved to star-studded Hollywood but has returned to be a judge.” Stephanie smiled into the camera and batted her eyes.
“Actually I live in Venice, California, a funky beach community that’s miles from Hollywood. But thank you, Stephanie,” Annie said. “Must run!”
“I follow TMZ. Julia Roberts, Viggo Mortenson, Frank Gehry, Dylan McDermott and other celebrities all lived in Venice. Share your thoughts about last night’s contest kick-off.”
“Um,” Annie said. She hated cameras. She thought for a moment and realized Stephanie was just chasing after her until she found a bigger more appealing fish. “Happy to share after the top ten announcement!”
Annie bolted and slid into her seat at the judges’ table with seconds to spare. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Stephanie frown as she sliced the air with her finger, motioning Olaf to stop filming.
“You were always tardy in high school.” Mrs. McGillicuddy shot her a look.
“I was not always tardy in high school.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Mrs. McGillicuddy pulled a stash of papers from her clipboard. “That’s why I pulled your records and made copies.” She held out a thick manila envelope to Annie. “When in doubt, check the paperwork.”
Annie huffed, took the envelope and shoved it into her Coach bag. Polo judge took his seat on the far side of the table. He smiled at Annie. Waved at her, friendly. He looked like an older, worn-torn Ryan Gosling. He used to be handsome but had crossed the line to suave and a little oily. She knew him. But from where?
The other fancy man grabbed the microphone, flipped a switch and tapped the mic’s head a couple of times. “Testing, testing,” he said. All eyes and cameras swiveled their attention onto him. “I’m Earl Dussair, your official contest announcer. Welcome back to Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest! The winner of the brunch competition will receive a free weekend winter rental of two snowmobiles as well as a free weekend summer rental of two jet skis courtesy of Lac LaBelle’s House of ’Biling and Boating.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically.
Annie spotted Julia and Grady hanging next to Mr. Wisconsin Dells in his booth. Mr. Dells wore board shorts, was ripped, sun-kissed tan and standing next to a mini water slide that ended in a cushy, blown up, water-filled pool. Julia wore a tube top that prominently featured her girls as she leaned into Mr. Dells’ arm, squishing them against his moist bulging biceps. Grady sat on the slide and looked a little confused about what was supposed to happen next.
Inside Mr. Dells’ booth were an assortment of water toys: pistols, rifles, even water machine guns. It looked like Julia had met her match in the toy department. But both of Annie’s friends appeared happy and waved at her. Maybe this trip to Oconomowoc would turn out de-lovely, indeed.
“And the winner of the brunch competition is…”
The crowd hushed.
Earl paused for dramatic effect, ripped open an envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. “Mr. Appleton—George Schnitzius!”
The crowd applauded and wolf-whistled.
“Thank you, thank you.” George Schnitzius beamed at his fans and waved from his wheelchair.
Suzy grabbed the mic from Earl, practically tongued it and crooned, “Your pies are to die for, Mr. Appleton. Please contact me for potential employment opportunities after the contest is over.”
“Thank you, Ms. !” Mr. Appleton saluted her.
Enough sucking up and kow-towing, Annie thought. Cut to the chase—announce the top ten so she could retire to her room and claim her luggage that had to be there at this point. Like really, how long could her luggage be lost?
She’d shake out her outfits, put them on the cedar wooden hangers in the closet. She’d take a long hot bath, maybe get a hot stone massage, do some contest stuff and find time to hang with her family.
Earl yanked the mic back from Suzy and handed it to Polo judge. Suzy frowned but allowed Polo to take center stage. Earl ripped open another envelope, pulled out a paper and handed it to Polo. “And now, the announcement you’ve all been waiting for! The top ten finalists in Wisconsin’s Hot Guys Contest are…” He paused.
A drum roll sounded. The audience stood on tiptoes, leaning with anticipation toward the stage.
Mr. Appleton’s Apple Pie
Ingredients:
Two 9” pie crusts
Eight medium to large Granny Smith apples
½ cup dark brown sugar, packed
¼ cup granulated sugar
One ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Juice of one lemon
Just under 1 tablespoon vanilla extract (Recommend the real stuff, not artificial.)
½ teaspoon salt
Slightly under 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
Three tablespoons (almost ½ stick) unsalted butter
Mr. Appleton’s Secret Concoction:
Four tablespoons granulated sugar
Almost ¾ cup all-purpose flour.
Two tablespoons unsalted butter
Almost ½ cup butterscotch chips
Egg Wash:
One egg
Almost two tablespoons water
Instructions:
Peel and slice apples ¼ inch thick. In a separate large bowl combine and mix the flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, lemon juice, vanilla and salt. Place applies slices in this mixture and stir.
Melt the butter in a large sauté pan. Add apple-flour-sugar and stir until the apples are soft. Avoid burning. Remove from heat and cool.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Pre-bake the bottom piecrust for 10 minutes. (Don’t pre-bake the top crust.)
Combine ingredients in Mr. Appleton’s Secret Concoction. Mix thoroughly.
Whisk the egg wash in a small bowl.
Place cooled apple mixture in pre-baked piecrust. Top with Secret Concoction. Place the reserved piecrust on top of pie. Crimp edges to seal the pie. (Don’t have too much top crust hanging down from pie edges as it will fall and burn off during baking.) Smooth egg wash onto top crust. Make four or five slashes in top crust to allow pie to vent.
Place pie in oven. Bake for 45 minutes. Check on it once in a while to make sure the top isn’t burning. Remove and let cool for 30 minutes before serving. Goes great with fresh vanilla ice cream.
(Note. For those who like it less sweet? Cut back on the sugar a little during preparations.)
8. Odd Ducks
“Mr. Sheboygan! Mr. Richland Center! Mr. Madison!” Polo exclaimed to thunderous applause. “Please report to the stage.”
Sheboygan, Richland, and Madison hollered and jumped up and down. They high-fived a couple of friends and bolted toward the podium.
Mrs. McGillicuddy grabbed Annie’s hand. “Stand up!” she hissed. “Why do you think they picked you to be a judge?”
“My charming personality?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy pinched Annie’s arm and she jumped to her feet.
“Ow!”
“You’ve always been a bit of an odd duck. A character. Like that Kara girl they dumped on American Idol.”
Annie frowned as Mrs. McGillicuddy dragged her towards the mic, just yards away. “I liked Kara.”
A mother duck with her ten fat ducklings waddled in formation in front of the judges’ booth, quacking loudly.
Annie glared at them. “Whatever.”
Polo handed the mic and the list of the finalists to Mrs. McGillicuddy. She futzed with her glasses and fumbled the piece of paper.
“Hot Guys! Hot Guys! Hot Guys!” The crowd clapped and took up the chant.
Her former teacher’s hands were shaking. Mrs. McGillicuddy just needed some time. But the crowd was getting out of control. Almost like that bloodthirsty mob in the Gladiator movie during one of the many Coliseum scenes. Annie always fast-forwarded through that bit with the poor tiger because she felt the big cat was totally mistreated and technically should have eaten the gladiator.
Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned toward the mic but it towered over her. Earl adjusted the height so it was a little lower. She leaned in again, her voice hushed and a little stern, “I hope all of you gathered here today are having a lovely time. I encourage you to study hard in school, support your local libraries and please practice safe sex.”
Several audience members booed. Which pissed Annie off. So she started a chant and clapped along with it. “Safe sex. Libraries yes! Safe sex. Libraries yes!”
Julia discretely fondled Mr. Wisconsin Dells’ arm. Grady was now in the shallow end of the blow-up pool and still looked confused. They rallied and took up Annie’s chant but got it a little wrong. “Safe sex in libraries, yes! Safe sex in libraries, yes!”
Unfortunately, that chant caught on.
Mrs. McGillicuddy squinted at the paper and found her bearings. “Ahem!”
Annie circled behind her, put her finger to her mouth and mimed Shhh! to all corners of the stage. The crowd quieted.
Mrs. McGillicuddy hunched into the mic, “Mr. Madison and Mr. Wisconsin Dells. Congratulations. Your mothers will be very proud. Report to the stage.”
Madison cracked a tiny smile, shook hands with some of his fans and walked toward the stage.
Mr. Dells whooped, picked up a water gun and shot at the people in his booth, who laughed and shot back at him. He jogged toward the stage pumping his fist.
The crowd loved it and hollered. The remaining Hot Guys regarded each other nervously. Mr. Viroqua smoothed his super shiny hair. Mr. Milwaukee pulled his shirt up and peered at his six-pack abs. Mr. Kenosha ran his tongue over his teeth compulsively. They knew the herd was being thinned.
Suzy flexed her fingernail talons like a cat. She snatched the mic as well as the document from Mrs. McGillicuddy, who flinched, her eyes widening as she checked her hands, probably for blood.
Suzy perused the paper and her upper lip twisted a little. “Mister Appleton! Congratulations. Mister Milwaukee—Yes! And in a surprising twist—Mister Bloomer.”
Annie smiled and clapped. It was finally her turn to announce the last of the top ten finalists. She was nervous but knew she had to do this—it was all part of being a pageant judge.
If she could ace this, it would be a great step to getting her confidence back. Maybe one day she’d have enough chutzpah and dough—the green kind—to open her bakery business again. She took a deep breath and held out her hand so Suzy Mae could pass her the paper that listed the names of the remaining two finalists.
But Suzy didn’t pass her the document. Odd. She was probably just so excited that she’d lost herself in the moment. So Annie swirled her hand around in front of Suzy’s face, sporty-like. To the casual observer it might have appeared like she was practicing Chi-Kung or drying her freshly polished finger nails.
But Suzy didn’t catch her prompt and clenched the paper. “The last two finalists are…” She peered at the document.
Mrs. McGillicuddy pinched Annie’s arm and she jumped.
“Don’t be tardy,” she hissed.
Annie glared at Suzy Mae. And realized she would not give up that paper without a little encouragement. Or a swift kick to her designer pantsuit-clad behind. “Ms. DeLovely . Time to pass the baton, please,” she said.
But Suzy ignored her. “Mr. Butternut. And…Mr. Oconomowoc!” she announced and attempted smiling. But her eyes were round as Cheerios and her twinkle wrinkles were frozen in her crepey face.
Annie imagined what Jimmy Hoffa would look like if they finally found him, most likely buried under a concrete parking garage next to a Costco or a mini-mall. Unlike Jimmy, who had an excuse for his frozen expression, Suzy had overdone the Botox.
The contest fans screamed their approval. Nine of the top ten Wisconsin Hot Guys approached the stage, high-fivin’ their friends, family, fans and each other. Julia and Grady jumped up and down like they were on springs as they cheered Mr. Wisconsin Dells.
But not for Annie. She was tickled for the pageant finalists, but also felt a little off. She had failed to stand up to yet another bully—Suzy Mae. A shiver circled around the base of her lower back, worked its way up her spine and exploded into goosebumps all over her body.
She turned and caught Mr. Oconomowoc staring at her as he stood next to his booth, behind his company’s kielbasa poster. His gaze was endearing, sweet and a little sad.
Annie’s face flushed and she broke into a sweat. His look seared her soul, and a few tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away and realized why she was so verklempt, so emotional. Frank Plank was decidedly dead. But did he know that yet? Her hand flew to her chest and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Annie thought she heard her mom’s voice cry out from the audience, “Is it the asthma? Do you need an inhaler?” But Annie couldn’t answer as she was gripped by chest pain and dropped to her knees on the judges’ stage, wheezing and clutching her chest. Oh, God, no. Not another empathic reaction.
A large strong male hand reached out to her. “Let me help,” Frank said.
Frank’s booth was yards away from the judges’ platform. How had he gotten to her so quickly?
“Okay.” She took his hand and like magic, he hoisted her upright.
“Breathe,” he said.
She did. “Thank you.” He looked a little blurry except for his exceptionally fine muscular physique, which couldn’t be missed in a deep fog, a standing-room-only David and Sean Cassidy Blast-from-the Past concert, or a packed crowd during a Meet Justin Bieber and touch his arm event.
“Call me Frank. You’re Annie Graceland. You used to babysit me. You were the best babysitter, ever.”
“Thank you, Frank.” Annie’s vision focused. “That’s sweet.” But there was something wrong. Thick red stains saturated Frank’s T-shirt over his chest while crimson drips trailed down onto his arms and legs. “Congrats on making the Top Ten in the Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest! However—”
“I need to tell you something,” Frank said.
Officer Jamie Ryan, looking tired and edgy, strode up to the judges’ stage, vaulted up the two steps and grabbed the mic. “Quiet, please. I have bad news.”
But the fans were too wound up, screaming with excitement. Clapping like crazy people. They paid him no attention.
“Quiet. Please,” Jamie said in a stern voice.
They hushed and all eyes riveted on him.
“I regret to inform you that one of our Hot Guys finalists has been found dead. It appears to be a homicide.”
The raucous revelers fell silent. A few people cried.
“I’m the last person who wants to put a damper on this contest, but the police need to question everyone here. The interviews should be conducted in a timely manner. Remain calm, stay where you are and bear with us while our officers get your names, numbers and information.”
“Oh, my God!” Suzy Mae swooned and toppled sideways. Polo caught her before she crashed onto the ground.
“Who is it?” Mr. Appleton asked.
“Yeah—who is it?” Mr. Milwaukee balled up one hand into a fist and smashed it into his palm. “Who was killed?”
Annie looked at Frank and his stained T-shirt. “It’s you, isn’t it Frank? Someone killed you?” She gazed up into his beautiful brown eyes.
He blinked. “Yeah there. I’m only thirty years old and I’m a good guy. But someone killed me. And I’m still here on earth. I need to know who wanted me dead. And why.”
“Frankie,” Annie whispered, stunned. “I don’t know if I can help you.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. Then just stared at her. “You were there for me during all those years my parents were gone. When I watched The Exorcist and couldn’t sleep because I thought my head might rotate like a salad-spinner? You held my hand and told me stories about cupcakes and cookies and a guy named Luke Skywalker who was scared too, but he became a hero. You practically raised me.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I’m freaked out of my mind right now. I never wondered if I’d live a long life—just assumed that was normal and I would. But normal’s not happening.”
“But I’m not an experienced ghost talker. I’m not very organized when I investigate bad guys. I flounder around,” Annie said.
“Listen to me! I tried to talk to my mom. She just cries. I tried to talk to Jamie after he saw my body and examined the boathouse. He grinds his teeth and swears under his breath. I think you’re the only person who can see me, hear me. I don’t care if you’re perfect. I trust you, Annie Graceland. If you can’t help me, who can?”
Annie glanced over at Jamie, who looked down at his feet. His jaw was clenched so tight that his facial muscles twitched. He pulled back his shoulders, composed himself and faced the crowd. “The victim is Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc.”
“No!” Several people in the crowd cried out. Others screamed and burst into tears.
Mrs. McGillicuddy’s face blanched white. She stumbled for a second and then sat back awkwardly onto her chair.
In the crowd of spectators, a gorgeous young woman with long jet-black shiny hair wearing short shorts burst into tears. Lila careened through the masses, heading toward the exit, her pretty face collapsed into one trembling hand. A much older doughy fellow huffed after her.
Suzy recovered from her swoon and stood up, ramrod straight. “Don’t leave, Lila! Mommy’s here!”
A police officer intercepted and gently restrained Lila.
Frank swiveled and stared at her. “Lila. I’m sorry!” But only Annie heard him.
“You don’t touch her!” Suzy jumped off the stage and pushed her way through the audience toward her daughter.
Annie plopped down on the floor of the judges’ booth, her head in her hands and cried. “What if I let you down?”
“Then at least you will have tried.” Frank held her hands as she blubbered.
Jamie Ryan knelt down next to Annie on the judges’ stage and placed his hands on top of hers. Actually on top of Frank’s.
Dead Frankie released Annie’s hands just in time for the very much alive Jamie to pick them up.
“He was a really sweet kid,” Annie hiccupped.
Jamie wrapped his arms around her. “I know.” He pulled her tight to his chest and hugged her for a few seconds.
The hug felt warm. It felt comforting. It felt… Annie pulled away.
“Frank was my friend. I encouraged him to enter this stupid contest,” Jamie said. “We need to find his killer and bring him to justice during the competition.”
“You’re not shutting it down?” Annie asked.
“Hell, no. I think Frank’s killer is here. And you, my….” Jamie stared into Annie’s eyes.
“Former babysitter?” she prompted.
“You, my friend—” He leaned in close to her face and whispered. “You are going to be my behind-the-scenes informant to help me figure out who killed Frank and bring that asshole to justice.”
“I’m not the greatest investigator.” Annie gazed across the Lake Lodge lawn. Cops and deputies descended onto the place looking deadly serious as they prepared to interview everybody at the festivities, including the gnats.
“From what I remember, you’re great with just about everything.” Jamie squeezed her hands, stood up and walked off, leaving Annie sitting cross-legged on the judges’ platform. All alone except for Frank Plank, the dead guy, the beautiful ghost who hadn’t yet passed. He squatted next to Annie and watched the commotion.
“Thank you,” Frank said. “Thank you for helping me.”
“I’m going to try. I promise you, Frankie. I’m going to try.” She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
9. Pageant Pizzas
The Oconomowoc City PD and associates worked fast. Every Hot Guy, judge, advertiser and sponsor was questioned. Each lusty fan and participant was interviewed and ID’d. Their information and accounts of everything they saw, thought they saw or overheard (especially anything that might be construed as suspicious) was recorded, logged and already being investigated by the forensic experts—aka—the brainy underpaid assistants.
Hours later, around three p.m., it was still ninety-nine degrees with ninety-nine percent humidity. The fans were expecting a fun afternoon—not interrogations. They had grown testy, emotional and angry. The eighty-year-old Polson twins’ argument over who got the last orange juice had escalated to hair pulling. Not good for Charles Polson. His thin combover was an easy target for his grabby sister, Estelle.
The pageant crew tried not to freak. They brought in bottled water and coffee dispensers. But the crowd wasn’t just thirty. They were hungry.
In an effort to keep the peace several contestants banded together. They passed out their remaining appetizers, beers, mineral waters and fruit juices. Misters Sheboygan, Richland Center, Madison and Milwaukee upped the ante and ordered a truckload of three for-the-price-of one pizzas from Pepe’s Pizzeria and Pies on their own dime.
But the Pepe’s driver was held up for a half hour, stuck in gridlock traffic. By the time the pizzas got to the booths, they were cold, which further incensed the crowd.
Annie’s arms were a medium pink, headed toward carnation red. Her sunscreen was safely packed in her luggage that most likely waited for her in her comfy hotel room. She’d crawled under one of the judges’ folding tables an hour earlier to avoid being completely fried, and ate a slice of cold pizza from a paper plate.
“This contest is doomed.” Frank sat in front of her, his legs crossed in a meditation position as he rocked gently. His bloodstains hadn’t deepened on his T-shirt. And although he was dead, he was still handsome.
“Why do you care?” Annie asked.
“Because a lot of people worked very hard to make this contest happen. All the proceeds go to charity. Research shows many people still contribute to their favorite charity even if they’re not sure they can pay their mortgage this month.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “All the work that went into creating the Hot Guys Contest? All the man and woman power, the sacrifices, the late nights, the sponsors, the contributions? The contest will die here, right now, just like me—unless someone picks the ball up and runs with it.”
“Why?”
“These people.” He pointed to the fans.
“The guy who’s peeing in the bushes? The woman who’s aiming her index finger at her temple and pretending to fire? The guy who’s shirtless, stripped down to his jockeys and wearing his pants wrapped around his head like a turban?”
“My people,” Frank said.
“Your people appear disgruntled, irritated and pissed off.”
“They have every right. They didn’t come here to be quarantined, starved and interrogated.”
“Okay.” Annie nodded and offered a piece of pizza to Frank.
He reached for it but couldn’t pick it up. She pushed the slice closer to him. He tried again. But the pizza transfer didn’t happen.
Annie’s eyes grew huge.
Frank’s eyes grew huge.
“Sorry.” She pulled the slice away.
“Me too,” Frank said. “Apparently there’s no more pizza for the dead guy.”
“I believe in God. And God wouldn’t be that cruel. There’s got to be pizza in heaven,” Annie said.
“But I’m not there. Whatever,” Frank said. “Except for the obligatory weirdoes, the people that shelled out the bucks to attend Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest felt like they could make a difference. They could contribute and have a great time.”
“Got it,” Annie said.
Frankie took her hand. “But because I’ve been murdered, their minds are now fixated on Linda Blair’s rotating head. How will you make them think of Luke Skywalker? How will you do this so quickly that they don’t abandon this contest and remember this as their worst day ever?”
Annie frowned. She didn’t have an answer. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”
“Not for a babysitter,” Frank said. “And definitely not for a pageant judge.”
Annie face-palmed her forehead into the heel of her hand. What could she do? What rabbit could she pull out of her non-existent hat? When something whizzed through the air under the table and impaled her ear. “Ow!” She pulled a skinny paper dart out of her ear and regarded it quizzically.
“Ahem!” Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned her head upside down under the table and peered at Annie. “I apologize for the unorthodox delivery. My rheumatism prohibits me from kneeling down to properly hand this to you. It is, however, past time you possess a copy of the pageant’s itinerary. So you won’t be tardy. Again.”
Annie unfolded the dart and gazed upon the official judges’ itinerary. A smaller folded paper fell onto her lap. “Thank you, Mrs. McGillicuddy.”
“Thank me after you’ve read it. And check the fine print on that one as well.” She pointed to the paper square in Annie’s lap. “I’ve included a little something else for your reading pleasure. May the saints be with Frank Plank and his family.” She crossed herself and toddled off.
Annie perused the document. It didn’t include details on Frank’s untimely demise or the police investigation. But it did list the next activity scheduled after the brunch, several hours after the announcement of the finalists.
She unfolded the other part of the dart—several skinny long papers stapled together. Eyed them. And cracked her first smile since Frank died. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and hit one button.
It rang. “Pick up. Pick up,” she muttered, as she crawled out from under the table. She placed her hand over her eyes to block the sun as she scanned the crowd.
Annie spotted Julia. She reclined semi-submerged in Mr. Wisconsin Dells' medium sized pool that resided in a tented shaded area. She sipped a large drink, the rim spiked with chunks of fruit. Grady lay next to her in the water, his head rested on her shoulder, drifting toward her right boob. He was either napping or passed out. Annie couldn’t tell from this distance.
Julia picked up. “Now do you understand the importance of a lip plumper?” She asked. “Probably the only reason I haven’t been debilitated by an ugly heat blister is due to its nourishing vitamins and organic emollients.”
“I bow to your supreme knowledge of beauty products. I’ve got a situation.”
“A situation like you scheduled two blind dates at the same time on the same night?”
“No. That’s your kind of situation.”
“Right. A situation like you need more appropriate pageant judge clothes?”
Annie looked down and regarded her mom’s muumuu. It was still festive. “My clothes dilemma seems to an on-going theme. But that’s not my current situation.”
Grady woke up or regained consciousness and ripped his head off Julia’s chest. “Balloons!” He rubbed his neck and cracked it. “Where am I? Did I dream we’re in Wisconsin?”
“No. Annie’s got a situation,” Julia said.
Grady rubbed his temples. “If I’m not dreaming, where’s the beer? And why am I so thirsty?”
“Here.” Julia handed him her drink.
Grady guzzled it and gagged. “That’s not beer!”
“Did I say it was?”
“Daiquiris vs. beer,” Annie said. “Can’t you just be happy you’re drinking something yummy? By-the-way, did you not hear me say I have a situation?”
Grady grabbed Julia’s phone. “Did you not hear me say I was incredibly thirsty?”
“I saw the daiquiri disappear down your throat like a magic act. Don't play the victim card on me,” Annie hissed.
“Fine,” Grady said. “Provide me with your situation’s color-coded threat level.”
Frank looked at Annie and dropped his face into his hands. “Your friends are beyond weird. I’m not going to heaven, hell or even purgatory. I’m going nowhere. This contest is doomed. And I’ll never eat pizza again.”
“You need to stop with the negative attitude.” Annie said. “We talked about this when you were a kid. Remember in the third grade when Jimbo the bully with the enormous feet kicked you to a pulp?”
“Yeah.” Frank flinched.
“Where’s Jimbo now?”
“Serving time in a minimum security facility for stealing hubcaps.”
“What happened to Stacey? The cute girl with the freckles in the fifth grade who let you hold her hand after detention, but then dumped you for the captain of the dodge ball team?”
“She’s on husband number four and sells time-shares in Bikersville, South Dakota.”
“Bikersville?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I love you, Frankie. Stop complaining. My friends and I get things done.”
Frank nodded and hunched his muscular shoulders forward.
“You’re talking to some pageant attention-hog while you keep me waiting?” Grady harrumphed. “It’s not a red carpet event in L.A., you know. Rudeness will not be tolerated.”
“I’ve got a situation and it’s kind of dicey.”
Grady frowned. “What situation? Your latest frosting recipe didn’t turn out as sweet as you planned?”
Perfect, Annie thought. Grady was coming out of his writer’s cave, showing some backbone and getting a little riled. If she could combine Julia and Grady together they would so make her perfect Plus One.
“It’s kind of like a code red—but for dead guys.”
Grady leapt out of the pool, swiveling his neck as he glanced around. “Holy crap, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Did the Packers totally blow their march to Super Bowl 2012 in the post-season NFC game with the Giants?”
“I’m already depressed about the no-pizza thing and you bring up the suckiest Packers’ loss in recent history.” Frank held out his arms, exposing his blood drenched chest. “Shoot me again.”
Annie turned to Frank. “Stop! You have to trust me.”
“I heard that!” Grady said. “You advised the vic, um, I mean, the newly minted ghost—Frank Plank, ‘You have to dust me.’ It’s code dead! What can I do? I want to help. Let me help. Please, can I help?”
“Yes. I want both yours and Julia’s help,” Annie said.
“Julia’s too busy flirting,” Grady said.
“Which is exactly why I want her,” Annie said. “Mr. Dells—he’s already in board shorts. How do you think he’d look in board shorts, shirtless, dripping wet and on the judges’ podium in say… five minutes?”
Annie squinted at Mr. Dells’ booth.
Grady leaned over the pool and whispered into Julia’s ear.
She took the phone, turned and gave Annie two thumbs up. “Congrats on nailing the latest stiff.” Julia stifled a few giggles, reached behind her and grabbed an enormous Uzi styled squirt gun. “That’s usually my job.” She hoisted the gun to her waist. “Oh, Hubbard! I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Grady turned with the phone next to his ear and spotted Annie. “Code Dead is on. Commencing. In one, two… ”
Annie clicked off her phone and turned to Frank. “We just found our Han Solo. And Chewbacca.”
“Huh?” Frank asked.
10. Wet Dreams
Annie sidled up to the microphone, which was currently abandoned. Strange to see it sitting all by itself, all shiny and lonely, no one clutching it in their sweaty palms, refusing to let it go.
While the Hot Guys Contest was designed to benefit charities, as well as to offer a golden opportunity for the participants, it was also a Petri dish for attention hogs.
The female reporter from I-CHIC was interviewing a Hot Guy on camera.
Annie spotted Stephanie. She sat on a beach towel on the ground next to the judges’ stage.
The towel was covered with images of frolicking kittens. Stephanie held a large compact mirror in front of her face and applied a fresh coat of industrial strength powder to her cheeks.
Annie leaned down. “Psst. I’ve got a scoop for you.”
Stephanie jumped to her feet and pinched her false eyelashes, still drying on her right upper eyelid. “For real?”
“More real than any of Suzy DeLovely’s last thirty orgasms,” Annie said. “But just as quick.”
“Give me one minute.” Stephanie ran toward Mr. Richland Center’s sausage booth squeezing her eyelid. “Olaf! Put down the jerky. Need you on set.”
Annie grabbed the microphone and thought about the mayhem she was about to create. And smiled. She gazed at the sad, anxious crowd, flipped the mic’s on/off-switch into the “up” position and tapped its head. “Hello, Wisconsin!”
Her words screeched, amplified by the sound system. A couple of fans dropped to the ground and covered their ears.
I-CHIC’S camera swiveled and honed in on Annie.
“Sorry!” She held the mic further from her face. “Hello faithful fans of Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest! My name is Annie Graceland. I can’t speak for you, but today’s been really tough for me.”
More than a few people turned and eyeballed her. A few of them jeered. A couple booed. But most seemed interested in what she had to say. Annie met their looks. She wanted them to give the contest another chance.
“What do you want?” a sunburnt guy asked.
“I want to thank you for attending the contest,” Annie said.
“Like that turned out so well,” the sun burnt man said.
“Actually, it still could.”
Olaf’s camera rolled as he and Stephanie raced up to the judge’s podium. She smoothed her hand over her coiffed do. “On three. One, two… This is Stephanie Storms reporting for WNOC. Earlier today we received the heinous news that Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc, was found deceased. I’m on the scene with pageant judge, Annie Graceland, who has an announcement.”
Annie faced the camera and nodded. “Thank you WNOC, Stephanie Storms and talented cameraman, Olaf. You all might not remember me, but I grew up in Oconomowoc. When I was a teenager, like most kids, I worked a variety of part-time jobs. I made donuts at Stuey’s Donuts-Are-Nuts.”
“I loved the ones with the chocolate icing and sprinkles,” the sun burnt man yelled.
“I loved the glazed.” Annie said. “My God, how could anyone with half a taste bud pick only one?”
“Baker’s dozen!” The man blurted and plunked down on the grass, his attention now completely focused on Annie.
“When I was a student at Oconomowoc High, I babysat a bunch of local kids. Frank Plank was one of them.”
A few cries and moans emanated from the fans.
“I’d like to share a few things I know about Frank.” Annie wiped a tear from her eye. She cleared her throat. “Even when he was only ten years old, Frank was a sweet kid. Other boys his age were brats, trouble-magnets, shoving tadpoles down my shirt—”
She spotted Jamie Ryan, looking one hundred years tired, as he walked through the crowd toward the stage. He stopped and looked remorsefully at Annie.
“Um…” She broke his look. “But not Frank! He was honest and usually well behaved. He loved Oconomowoc and was proud of Wisconsin. When he grew older, Frank dedicated his time and money to his beloved charities. He didn’t want to earn a paycheck to simply hoard it. He wanted to help those who, for whatever reason, couldn’t help themselves. That’s why you and I are here today.”
“Here for what?” Stephanie thrust her mic closer to Annie’s face.
Annie glanced down at Grady, Julia, and the very buff, shirtless Mr. Wisconsin Dells, who were crouched behind the judges’ podium. Julia whispered into Mr. Dell’s left ear. Grady whispered into his right.
“Frank wanted Wisconsin’s Hot Guys Contest to be an example of how normal people—not millionaires or celebrities—but people like you and me could have fun while contributing to charities. I know that despite Frank’s death, he would not want this mission, his passion, to die too.”
“How do you know this?” Stephanie asked.
Annie paused. Dear God, if her mom saw this footage she’d hire members of the Sunday School Riders, the local Harley-Davidson club, to kidnap and ship her back to church summer camp. Just like junior year in high school when she caught her—
“Again. How do you know this?” Stephanie demanded as the cameras rolled.
Annie cleared her throat, reached down into her cleavage and extricated two paper items from the vintage bra she had borrowed/stolen from her mom. She pulled out the sweaty receipts, blew on them and fanned herself with them. Then punched those papers high in the air.
“Because I have proof that Frank Plank secretively paid for the swimsuits and tuxes for the contest’s top ten finalists.”
The audience gasped.
“The receipts from Lloyd’s Men’s Department Store prove that. According to the pageant itinerary, swimsuit competition was supposed to take place right about now. Instead we are mourning. But if you support Frank Plank’s wishes? If you back his dream to encourage normal people to give to charities? We will make this pageant not only survive—but thrive.”
A few people applauded.
But a few people weren’t enough. She needed a bigger reaction. It was never easy, Annie thought. Not for a babysitter. Not for a pageant judge. Not for an empathic cupcake baker who unfortunately could yak with ghosts and was therefore canoodled into finding their killers. “Pageant organizers have rescheduled the swimsuit competition for ten a.m. tomorrow,” Annie said.
Suzy Mae glared at Annie. “That’s a lie!”
Annie rolled her eyes. “You have different information?”
Judge Polo jumped onto the stage. “Yes, she does. The swimsuit competition will be held at eleven a.m. tomorrow morning.” He turned and winked at Annie.
She felt a little creeped out.
“It will be held next to the Lodge’s Olympic-sized pool,” Polo continued. “Premiere seating is offered on a first come basis.”
“Like whoa,” the sun burnt man said.
Annie nodded to Polo. “Agree.” She snapped her fingers at Julia and beamed at Grady. “In honor of Frank Plank, I am pleased to announce a special preview of the swimsuit competition. Please give it up for the smart, the handsome—Hubbard Summer. Mr. Wisconsin Dells!”
Pumped, shirtless and dripping wet, Hubbard leapt up the stairs onto the stage as Grady and Julia squirted him from below.
Annie applauded, but kept an eye on her two best friends. It appeared Julia aimed for Mr. Dells’ nether regions, while Grady was more of an all-around kind of shooter. Nice that Mr. Wisconsin Dells was a good sport. He smiled a lot and posed like he was being shot for a racy cover of Vanity Fair.
The audience oohed and awed and applauded enthusiastically.
“See you tomorrow. Thank you fans and supporters!” Annie waved to them and slipped the mic back into its holder.
Judge Polo made a beeline toward her. “Annie!”
She pretended she didn’t hear him, skipped down the steps, off the stage and jogged the few yards toward Julia and Grady.
Julia said. “I’m sorry about Frank—”
“Who would have thought you’d know the vic?” Grady pulled Annie close and whispered into her ear. “When can I meet him?”
“Later. Thanks for the help.”
“Anything for you, sweetums.” Julia yanked Annie in the opposite direction and practically swallowed her other ear. “I’m totally in love with Mr. Dells.”
“You’ve known him for less than seven hours,” Annie said. “Why don’t you re-connect with some of our old classmates from high school?”
“I came back for the Hot Guys. Not a high school reunion . Promise you’ll help me bag him.”
“Fine.” Annie spotted Polo Judge making his way down the steps and headed toward her. “Must run.”
Two hours later, Nancy and Annie stood inside the entrance to Oconomowoc High School’s cafeteria and checked out the scene. It was a food circus. Like an ancient Roman bacchanalia but without the nudity. Except for Herbert, the town’s octogenarian pervert, who wore his low rider jeans on his tiny behind which simply could not hold them up.
Annie shuddered at the sight. “Mom, I don’t think I can do this.”
“Close your eyes. Don’t look.”
Annie did.
“Follow my lead.” Nancy led Annie safely past Herbert.
The Plank family had requested privacy for several days in order to grieve and find their bearings. But Oconomowoc’s residents were itching to help them in some way. Annie’s always helpful Aunt Susan brainstormed that way.
She’d logged into Facebook on her smartphone and created the “Help Frank Plank’s Family” page. Since Aunt Susan volunteered at Oconomowoc’s high school her directions included dropping off food, helpful items, and other donations to the school’s cafeteria.
“I know this isn’t what you expected for a homecoming trip, Annie.” Nancy held tight to Annie’s arm and maneuvered her into the middle of the cafeteria. They walked down an aisle, past tables bearing practical staples that included batteries, flashlights, earplugs and tissues.
Then there were the tables brimming with food. There were homemade casseroles, spaghetti concoctions and gallons of pure filtrated alkaline water. There were Thai dishes, macaroni and cheese casseroles, Mexican enchiladas, mushroom-cheese lasagnas, homemade croissants. Stuey’s Donuts-R-Nuts had dropped off several baker’s dozen boxes. Pepe’s gifted a half dozen pizzas.
Donations to Frank’s favorite charities were posted on three enormous corkboards that had been drilled into a cafeteria wall.
Annie glanced around her. Where was Frank? He would love to see this outpouring of care and concern.
The large cafeteria was filled with sweet, loud, nervous people who wanted to help. The late afternoon sun shone through large industrial styled windows, but the air was still muggy. All the yummy food odors intermingled and wafted through the air.
Annie closed her eyes, inhaled and imagined she was in an exotic buffet in a scorching hot Kushiel’s fantasy novel by author Jacqueline Carey, or at super fine food court like the one at the trendy outdoor mall in Century City, California.
Nancy pinched Annie’s arm, breaking her reverie. “Do you remember that woman?” She pointed to an older woman with peach-tinted hair who placed a Pyrex container onto a table next to fifty other desserts.
Annie squinted. “Peaches Monaco?”
“Good eye,” Nancy said. “In 1990, Peaches’ cobbler won best dessert at the Wisconsin State Fair, beating out Suzy DeLovely’s sweet fig bars. Peaches assumed she’d cemented her title of queen bee of Oconomowoc bakers. But Suzy, who always has to be right, believed the prize was ripped from her flour encrusted fingers and has not only shunned, but back-stabbed Peaches ever since.”
“Old grudges, Mom,” Annie said. “Really. What do they matter?”
“There’s nothing scarier or more vindictive than someone who holds tight to an old grudge. Would you help your Auntie and me wrap and transport everything to the Plank house?”
Frank walked up to Annie and shook his head. “I can’t deal with my family yet.”
“Sorry. I’ve got to get back to the lodge, Mom. Official pageant stuff,” Annie said.
“Got it.” Nancy walked away. Stopped. Turned and eyeballed Annie. “I could swear I have a dress just like the one you’re wearing.”
Annie flinched. “Doesn’t surprise me. I am your daughter after all.” She stepped forward, leaned down and kissed Nancy’s cheek. “Tell Aunt Susan she’s doing an amazing job.”
“She always does.” Nancy strolled off.
Annie glanced around the packed cafeteria and thought about old grudges. Who in the world would want to hold a grudge in this cornucopia of casseroles, desserts and dreams? “Frank, do you get a vibe? Do you think your killer’s lurking here?”
“Yes.” Frank pointed to Herbert who flashed the room as he leaned forward to sniff a pot roast. “Herbert the Pervert. Death by buttock-sicosis.”
“Seriously?” Annie asked.
“Seriously,” Frank said. “Don’t sample the cheese blintzes. Your colon will shut down for three days.” He touched her elbow and guided her out of the cafeteria. “Come on. We’ve got more important things to check out.”
Annie and Frank wandered through Oconomowoc High’s narrow hallways. The floors were covered in worn linoleum scuffed by the thousands of kids who had matriculated here. The walls were lined with dull industrial grey-taupe lockers. Annie remembered this whole scene from twenty years ago when she went to school here.
“I don’t think this is the time for a stroll down memory lane,” Annie said.
“You’ve been gone too long. You need a refresher course on your history and your hometown. Clean the pipes, tune the piano and get up to speed. It will help you investigate my murder.” Frank pointed to a simple classroom wooden door with a skinny enforced glass window embedded at eye level. “Do you remember?”
She placed her hand on the door and closed her eyes. Excitement and giddiness flooded through her body like a steamy cup of hot chocolate laced with espresso. “Freshman year,” Annie said. “American Style and Beauty with Professor Tonya Blum. Tonya was like a fairy. Petite, fiery and inspired everyone in her class. Half the kids had a crush on her.”
“I was one of them,” Frank said.
“I wanted to grow up and be just like her.” Annie walked a few more feet down the hall and was drawn to another door. She stood still in front of it. A sudden chill sank into her body. She shook her hands and regarded Frank, curious. “Something or someone mean is behind this door.”
“Touch it,” Frank said. “Double dare you.”
She leaned her head against it. Shivered and felt queasy, uncomfortable. Like her skin was itching. She scratched her forearm.
“It’s just one of your psychic reactions, Annie,” Frank said.
“How do you know about that?” She glared at him.
“One. Because I’m dead but you can hear me. Two. When I was a kid and complained about a tummy ache—you clutched your stomach, shot me the stink-eye and asked how much junk food I’d downed in the last half hour. Then you rubbed my tummy until I felt better.”
“I did that?”
“You did that.”
“Sophomore year.” Annie’s eyesight grew blurry as she concentrated on the memories. “American History 201 with Professor Freezal. He always twirled his greasy moustache ’cause he was dying to be like Mark Twain. Gave spot quizzes on detaily crap that no high school kid, let alone a history scholar, would remember. Freezal caught me passing a note and sent me to detention.”
Frank inhaled sharply. “Not the note?”
“It was high school.” Annie shrugged. “There were millions of notes.”
“The one where Freezal was depicted as a cartoon weasel with a big oily moustache? He munched on students’ arms and legs while test papers marked with giant Ds and Fs piled up on the floor?”
Annie nodded. “I didn’t draw it, I just passed it.”
“Legend!” Frank fist-bumped Annie, but their clenched hands passed through each other’s.
Annie shivered and pulled her hand back against her body. “Sorry. I should know better.”
Frank pulled his hand back. Remorse wore on his face. “Add it to the list of things dead guys can’t do or have. No pizza. No fist bumps.”
“There will be fist-bumping and pizza in heaven, Frank. I’m relatively new to this ghost passing over thing, but I think we have to find your killer first.”
“Sorry. I’m stressed,” Frank said.
“Stress is supposed to end after death.”
“You’re talking to a dead guy. I’m telling you I’m stressed.”
“This probably sounds self-indulgent, but I really want my luggage. I need my pageant clothes.” Annie face palmed her forehead into her hand. “I’m stressed too, Frankie. When I’m stressed I bake, read a book, watch TV or I exercise. If I don’t do one of the above soon, I will explode.”
“There’s the pool back at the Lodge.”
“No one wants to see me swimming in my mom’s underwear,” Annie said.
“I think you’re wrong.”
11. We Care
Annie arrived back at the lodge and made a beeline toward the front desk. Only to discover that her luggage still hadn’t arrived. She called Blackhoof’s twenty-four hour Customer We-Care-line from the hotel’s lobby phone. (No way she’d be using her roving minutes.)
For the first five minutes on hold she did jumping jacks. After the sedentary bus ride and cartons of junk food consumed to survive that trip, she desperately needed more cardio. She performed squats and deep knee lunges for the next ten minutes while she remained on hold. She segued into yoga poses, still holding the phone while she waited another fifteen minutes. She was in Downward Facing Worrier pose when a telephone rep named Pradeep answered the line and informed Annie that her luggage was last spotted in Bikersville, South Dakota.
She vaulted upright. “South Dakota?” she spat. “Do you not understand, Mr. Pradeep, that I need—”
“Yes, Miss,” Pradeep said. “There is notation to return luggage to Lake Lodge in Oc. Oc. Oco...”
“Oconomowoc.” Annie sighed. “When do you think—”
“Notation says most likely tomorrow, Miss. Thank you for choosing Blackhoof. Servicing your travel needs.”
Annie took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Thank you, Pradeep.”
“Why fly when you can hoof it with—”
“Bye-bye!” Annie hung up the phone. She walked toward her room and passed the indoor bar, The Duck Blind. She spotted a thirsty, somewhat anxious crowd chatting, drowning their sorrows and toasting Frank. She caught a glimpse of Julia hanging on Mr. Dells’ arm. Good for her. Hopefully she’d seal the deal herself and wouldn’t need Annie’s help.
She slid the key card into the door’s lock and entered her room. It was blessedly quiet, thank God, as today was becoming the longest day in her existence. She pulled off her mom’s muumuu in the bathroom and extricated herself from the vintage bra. She wrapped a large cushy towel around her naked body. Plucked the Country Fresh detergent sample from the little basket neatly tucked into the counter’s corner, poured it into the sink, added water and hand washed the muumuu.
She hung the dress up to dry outside on the balcony’s fence. Then showered quickly, slipped into her Oconomowoc Rocks pjs and collapsed on her cot next to the window.
Her mind churned over possible suspects who wanted Frank dead. A business competitor? Possibly. But the timing was shaky. Another Hot Guy? Very likely. Motive: ambition. This meant Annie couldn’t rule out any of the contestants, especially the top ten finalists. A scorned lover? A random robbery? She drifted, exhausted from the day.
A loud knock-knock-knock on the door woke her. Annie bolted upright and stared at the clock. It read one thirty a.m.
“Open, please. Misplaced my key. We’re moving the party in here,” Julia said.
Annie shuffled to the door and peered through the peephole.
Julia’s distorted reflection smiled back at her like a circus funhouse figure. Seven Hot Guys and their entourages giggled and slurred as they swayed behind her.
“No, no. I’m a pageant judge. I need my sleep,” Annie said.
“It’s only a couple of minutes, max.” Julia placed her mouth next to the peephole and whispered, “You promised to help me score Mr. Dells.”
Frowning, Annie unlatched the door.
“I told you she’s a trooper.” Julia winked and stepped inside their room, the crowd following her, yapping like little dogs on her heels.
After that, half naked partiers made multiple trips to the ice machine. They did shots, cheered, yelled and bounced off Annie on her cot next to the window. When Mr. Butternut sidled up next to her with more than butter next to his nuts, Annie knew that she was done.
At two thirty a.m., Annie wore her white mini pjs, her Coach bag slung over her shoulder and pedaled down Lac LaBelle’s two-lane road on a vintage bicycle. “It’s only a couple of minutes, max,” she mimicked Julia. She should know better by now.
She coasted into her home’s driveway, pushed the bike into a hedge of bushes and finagled the key in the front door’s lock. Entered the house, snuck up the stairs and avoided the creaky fifth step. Slipped into her former bedroom, quietly shut the door and set the big pink alarm clock for a decent hour. She climbed into her twin bed, hugged Walla the koala to her heart, pulled up the covers and fell into a sleep as deep as the dead.
Annie blinked her eyes open. The sun streamed through her bedroom window. She squinted at her corkboard on the wall that was smothered in cheerleader photos, high school game schedules and other memorabilia. She wondered if Scott Puddleman was going to be at the big game tonight.
He was so cute and always passed her funny notes in American history class taught by creepy Professor Freezal. She and Scott had tongue-kissed on several occasions and she hoped they might soon be an item. Like, officially, girlfriend-boyfriend. And it dawned on her—OMG! Scott Puddleman would probably ask her to be his date at Homecoming!
The smell of fresh homemade pancakes wafted through the air. Her mom was in the kitchen, just downstairs, adding freshly picked blueberries to the steaming bubbling batter. Annie smiled. She was sixteen years old and her life was perfect!
Then she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror and reality crashed her party. She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old cheerleader who had already gone to second base for ten seconds with Scott under the bleachers during a football game. The jerk not only didn’t become her boyfriend, but dumped her a week later for a trampie baton twirler. Asshat. Hey wait a minute—wasn’t that twirler Suzy Mae DeLovely? Whatever, she wasn’t about to carry an old grudge. Not here, not now.
She needed to get back to the lodge in time for swimwear competition. Again, all she had to wear was her pjs. A sinking feeling descended into her bones as she realized her mission.
Annie opened her bedroom door and peeked out—the hallway was clear. Her mom hummed in the kitchen below her, oblivious that she was in the house. If Nancy knew Annie was in the house at 1130 Maplewood Drive, there would be hell to pay.
Nancy would sign her up for incessant interrogations, lectures and excruciating mom guilt trips about why Annie hadn’t moved home since she and her husband had broken up. Paper and e-pamphlets for divorce support groups, dating support groups and why divorced women should move back to their hometowns would magically appear in Annie’s purse, mailbox and e-mail accounts.
The pancakes smelled killer. Annie hadn’t eaten a thing since the few slices of cold pizza yesterday. She was in jeopardy. Had to exercise extreme caution. She snuck down the hallway when her stomach rumbled like a garbage truck on pick up day and nearly blew her cover.
All kitchen noises ground to a halt. She heard her mom walk toward the staircase.
Get a grip, she admonished herself, and put a hand on her stomach. She tiptoed down the hallway and eased into her mom’s bedroom.
Annie bicycled down the road that hugged Lac LaBelle. Even though it was only a little after ten a.m., the temperature had to be pushing the upper eighties. She was happy she’d borrowed her mom’s cute, short-sleeved, floral peasant top, but regretted choosing the lime green polyester elephant pants that kept getting caught in the bicycle’s spokes.
Sweat dripped down her forehead from under her mom’s floppy straw hat. She wiped it from her eyes. The enormous slacks caught again. She tried to pedal with one foot and extricate her pant leg from the bike, but veered into traffic. She wobbled wildly, barely staying upright. A few horns blared. Cars swerved around her, their back drafts pitching dust, a few pebbles and a couple of fat juicy bugs into her face.
A whup-whup-whup of a police siren wailed behind her. Aw, frick. She glanced back and spotted the rotating police dome light on the top of a black and white SUV, emblazoned with OCONOMOWOC CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Annie put one foot on the ground, using the bike as a second leg, and hopped to the side of the rode. She frowned, perched on the muddy narrow embankment and peered down into a soggy leaf and frog-filled ditch.
She balanced on one foot and leaned forward to free her pants leg from the bike. But the mud gave way, she slipped and tipped over. “Aw, crap…”
When strong male arms circled her waist, broke her fall and hoisted her upright. “Drinking and biking, Ms.?”
She glanced over her shoulder and identified her rescuer—Jamie. “Dude. I mean. officer.”
“Detective,” he said.
“Detective. It’s not even noon. Do I look like a person who drinks before noon?”
“I’m not answering that. Besides, it’s the Fourth of July weekend. Trust me, we’ll be seeing everything,” Jamie said. “Allow me.” He knelt down. Pulled, stretched and finessed Annie’s pant leg out of the bike.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. Want to take a Breath-a-lyzer?”
“Right after you do a cleansing wheat juice enema.”
He nodded. “Just kidding.”
“I wasn’t,” Annie said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little stressed. Why do you want to heap more stress on the girl who is already over-stressed?”
“Right.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. Aren’t you supposed to be at the pageant?”
“Bathing suit competition starts at eleven a.m.”
“Judges are supposed to be there early for photo ops and TV interviews. And in case you forgot, per our agreement, scoping potential killers. I’ll give you a ride.”
She hesitated and her eyes narrowed as she remembered the slick, slippery sensation of gooey amphibians sliding down her back.
“No frogs this time. Promise.” Jamie hoisted the bike into the back of the SUV.
“One of the things I love about Venice, California?” Annie leaned her face against the SUV’s air vent, her hair blowing past the brim of her mom’s hat. “When it’s eighty-five degrees outside, it’s really eighty-five degrees. Not one hundred and ten degrees when you factor in the ninety-nine percent humidity. Can we make this really cold?” She snapped her fingers at the SUV’s thermostat.
Jamie flipped the dial and the vents immediately pumped out frigid air.
Annie sighed. “Sweet! Thanks.” She caught Frank’s reflection in the rearview mirror as he sat in the back seat, not wearing a seatbelt. “Click it or ticket, buddy.”
“Huh?” Jamie asked.
“Oh.” Annie patted her seatbelt. “Sometimes I remind myself.”
“Got it.” Frank fumbled for his seatbelt. Found it but couldn’t pull it over his shoulder, let alone make it lock. “Apparently another thing dead guys can’t do.”
“Do you have any leads?” Annie asked.
“Yesterday I interviewed Mr. Shine, a contest sponsor. Shine owns a local automobile custom cleaning company. He confessed that his former CPA, Mr. Sven Lindberg, increased his prices for the past two years without doing anything demonstrably different.”
“Devious,” Annie said. “Does this information relate to the investigation?”
“We interviewed Mr. Lindberg. He complained that Mr. Sheboygan attempted on multiple occasions to write off his hefty dating expenses by categorizing them as business entertainment on Quicken.”
“Something I might do. I mean—if I was a popular guy and dated a lot,” Annie said. “But I’m not. And I don’t.” She wasn’t a guy, she’d never be popular, and she was only dating one guy—Raphael Campillio.
“Mr. Sheboygan complained that Mr. Shine’s auto technicians nicked one of his expensive hubcaps during a detailing. Mr. Shine not only never offered a refund, but also didn’t credit a dime towards Sheboygan’s next auto service. So we’ve come full circle. And still we have nothing.”
Annie found herself gazing at Jamie. When he was young, he was a cute kid. Now that he was grown up, his cuteness had worn off and he owned a different kind of look— handsome. He was thirty-two and he was a man’s man. Clean, groomed, definitely not metro. But based on the dark circles under his eyes, Jamie appeared about ten years older today than he had yesterday. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I got a couple hours before I got the call about Frank.”
“You need some sleep,” Annie said. “Even seasoned cops need to sleep.”
“Thanks, Annie Graceland, babysitter extraordinaire.” Jamie flashed his badge to the Hot Guys security guards at the barricade separating the lodge’s driveway from the parking lot behind the main building. The guards scurried and opened the barriers. Jamie drove past them to the rear parking lot just yards from the pool.
“I’ll get some sleep as soon as you, my mole, deliver a few leads on this strange murder scene. I hope it’s just another pissed-off hunter, jealous land-dispute issue or a scorned lover. But my gut tells me it’s not.” He hopped out of the SUV and opened her door. She stepped out.
“By the way, the bullets that killed Frank appear to be from the same gun which someone used to shoot at Stephanie.”
“That’s creepy.”
He walked around to the back and pulled the bike out. “I didn’t see you tackle Stephanie in person, but Olaf gave us the video as evidence. I’ve watched it about a hundred times. You’re cute when you tackle people. I’d totally recruit you for my flag football team should you move back to town. I’ll return this to the front desk.”
She nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”
Frank materialized outside the SUV and eyed the crowd. “Thanks, Jamie.”
“You’re welcome.” Jamie wheeled the bike next to her.
“I love this town,” Frank said. “I love the people, the food, the enthusiasm and the camaraderie. I love it when it’s really hot. I love it when it’s so cold my fingers ache and turn blue. But it’s slipping away. Soon I’ll just be a memory. What am I left with after this, Annie?” He wiped his eyes, turned and walked into the crowd.
“Frank?” Annie said. “Frankie!”
“No. I’m Jamie.” He paused and cocked his head and peered at her. “You okay?”
“No. I’m pissed off and I’m sad.”
“Good. So am I. Now go find Frank Plank’s killer.” Jamie left with the bike.
Nancy’s Blueberry Pancakes
Ingredients:
Two cups Bisquick®
One cup milk OR ½ cup buttermilk and ½ cup milk
Two eggs
One tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 cup granulated brown sugar
½ tsp. lemon rind
Two cups fresh or frozen blueberries (thawed)
Instructions:
Pre-heat non-stick skittle to medium temperature. Mix all ingredients (except for the blueberries) together in a bowl with a wooden spoon until there are no lumps. Now add and stir in the blueberries.
*Note that thicker batter makes a cakier pancake. Thinner batter makes a thinner pancake. If the batter seems too thick, add ¼ cup of milk or water.
Pour scant ¼ cupfuls of batter onto the skittle. Allow the cake to bubble on the top. After this happens flip once.
Best served warm with fresh syrup.
Recipe courtesy of Charlotte and Zach’s Mom.
12. Man-kini
Annie took a deep breath for courage, turned and faced the packed crowd surrounding the pool. Yes, she was still dressed in her mom’s clothes. Yes, she knew the only way she could pull off this look was by acting confident and secure. Yes, she realized down to the hem of her mom’s lime green elephant pants that she’d totally have to fake it. But no matter what she was wearing, whose vibes she picked up, there was really only one thing that mattered right now: Who wanted Frank Plank dead?
She took off her hat, peeled her sweaty hair off her face and replaced the hat on a slightly jaunty angle. Perhaps now she appeared moist and tropical instead of feverish and contagious. She spotted Stephanie interviewing sponsors. Olaf looked bored as he filmed not only Stephanie, but panned the audience as well.
Maybe he wasn’t simply bored. Maybe Olaf was angry? He was always behind the scenes, never in front. No one paid any attention to him. Was he jealous of Stephanie? Could he have hired the biker who shot at her? Would that get him attention? Or would he get more attention if he killed the hometown favorite?
She watched the judges eye each other furtively when they thought no one was looking. Polo Judge chatted with some hot young thing wearing next to nothing on top of her dark tan. Was that jealousy on Suzy Mae’s face? Perhaps Suzy and Polo shared dark secrets. Maybe Frank Plank discovered their clandestine dealings that Suzy needed to hide. A secret juicy enough to kill for?
Annie watched the top ten Hot Guys huddled together in an area cordoned off from the crowd. They preened, flexed, prayed, meditated and applied body moisturizing sunscreen on their nearly naked selves. Mr. Sheboygan stared at Mr. Milwaukee’s biceps and his eyes grew squinty. He started pumping his arms. Overly competitive, dude? Enough to make you kill? Not just another contestant, but Oconomowoc’s golden boy?
There was an unfamiliar face in their midst—a new Hot Guy. Frank was out of the picture, so the runner-up made it into the contest. Was there anyway finalist number eleven could have discovered the vote the night before Frank’s demise? How tight was the pageant’s security? Who was tabulating the votes? She doubted PriceWaterhouseCooper was on the case.
She gazed at the small judges’ stage erected next to the pool and strode toward it. Her polyester elephant pants alternately stuck to her clammy legs, and the next second ballooned around her ankles. Mrs. McGillicuddy sat hunched over on a folding chair, pulled up next to a long foldout table. She stared at her watch, then back at her magazine.
Suzy Mae DeLovely flexed and extended her taloned fingers as she huddled with Polo Judge, their heads practically touching as they conferred.
The sun burnt man from the day before sat in the fourth row behind the Olympic-sized pool. “Hey, Annie Graceland! I’m back!”
“You got here early.”
He nodded. “Rolled in at dawn.”
“Well, the early bird gets the…” She shut up, smiled and gave him a thumbs up. She shimmied up the two short stairs to the stage and plunked down in a fold out chair next to Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“You’re five minutes early,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said.
“Yes.” She stretched her lime green, slightly ripped pant leg out in front of her.
Mrs. McGillicuddy sniffed. “Pageant clothes are supposed to be pristine. You are a judge. The audience holds you to a higher standard.”
“I’d love to look my finest, let alone do a great job. But Blackhoof lost my luggage and I have no clothes. I’m here on a dime. I don’t have money to buy fancy new clothes.”
Mrs. McGillicuddy hunched forward and marked a sheet of paper. “Noted,” she said. “I am sorry about Blackhoof. The pageant organizers needed to scrimp a little. I get a twenty-dollar gift certificate to the local bookstore for all the hours I spend on this contest.”
Annie sighed. “Thanks.” Someone finally understood. It felt like a respite from the judging, her own as well as others.
Suzy Mae pulled up a chair next to Mrs. McGillicuddy and sat her toothpick self down. She wore a crimson cotton, above-the-knee sundress with a cute matching shrug wrap. She struck a pose that showed off her bottle-tanned orange legs, flipped open a gorgeous red silk fan, smiled and fanned herself. “Annie.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think you’re taking this contest seriously. Your wardrobe is inappropriate for a pageant judge.”
Again, Annie thought? “I traveled two thousand miles for almost forty-eight hours on a bus to get here. My luggage was last spotted in South Dakota. I’m mourning the death of a boy I loved. I could be working right now in L.A. and paying my rent and having hot sex—I mean, sweet kissing dates with my new boyfriend who misses me.”
“I’m certain Mrs. McGillicuddy agrees with me.” Suzy smiled.
Annie looked at Mrs. McGillicuddy.
Suzy eyed Mrs. McGillicuddy.
She ignored both of them, finally sighed and turned over her magazine. It was a copy of Vogue UK.
“Annie’s wearing retro,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “I’ve subscribed to Vogue UK for more years than I can remember. Apparently, retro is back in style. It’s hip and cool and other buzzy words I’m not familiar with.”
“Thank you.” Annie felt her jaw spasm like she’d just bitten into a rock-hard piece of candy. She inhaled sharply.
“Fine.” Suzy ground her teeth so hard her jaw muscles popped. She stared off into the audience. “Lovely midwestern summer day.”
“Peachy.” Mrs. McGillicuddy covered a smile.
“Yeah there,” Annie said. Her jaw spasm was actually an empathic hit. It wasn’t technically her jaw spasm—it was Suzy Mae’s. But just ’cause something wasn’t hers didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. She jabbed her cheek with her knuckle and massaged the muscles.
Polo Judge jogged up to the mic. Strange, Annie thought. He looked even tanner and his skin was shinier. How did his skin get shinier? Was it the heat? Had he deep-exfoliated? Taken a quick trip to his dermatologist for an emergency chemical peel?
Polo’s leaned into the mic. “Welcome back to Wisconsin’s Hot Guys Contest!”
Whoa! Something impossibly bright flashed, temporarily blinding her. She jumped and clamped her hand over her eyes. Early July 4th Fireworks? An alien invasion? She opened her eyes. It wasn’t ET—it was Polo’s teeth. They were four shades brighter than they were yesterday.
“Thank you, fans who stepped up to the plate to continue Frank Plank’s history of charity. Mr. Bitterhausen is first-runner up and will be joining the top ten. Without further adieux, let the bathing suit competition commence!”
The crowd surrounding the swimming pool roared as Mr. Sheboygan, Mr. Richland Center, Mr. Milwaukee, Mr. Madison and the remainder of the top ten guys burst out of a cordoned, heavily guarded tent and strutted around the pool.
They waved to the audience. Mr. Appleton winked and flexed his pec muscles while he wheeled his chair. Mr. Milwaukee alternated squeezing both his wrists with his hands to show-off his bulging bicep muscles.
Annie’s eyes bounced between the Hot Guys—the name of their respective towns embroidered in white on the bottom of their board shorts. With the exception of Mr. Bitterhausen. His town’s name was embroidered on his Speedo. Her eyes stopped bouncing. There wasn’t a lot of room on his teensy suit and his title wrapped from his hip across the lower part of his ripped abdominals and circled around to his very pleasant backside.
A collective gasp rose from the audience as Mr. Bitterhausen passed by them and smiled.
“This isn’t a Vegas show,” Suzy hissed. “Did Bitterhausen not get the memo? We specifically recommended tasteful bathing attire.”
Annie said. “At least it’s not a thong.”
“I think he’s cute.” Mrs. McGillicuddy pulled eyeglasses from her purse, slipped them over her eyes and leaned forward to get a better look. “A strapping young man. Thousands of men wear similar suits on hundreds of European beaches.”
Annie nodded. “I’d lay dollars to donuts that the Pope wears one when he does laps in his private Vatican pool. He lives in Italy, after all.”
“Mr. Puddleman will put a stop to this nonsense immediately.” Suzy uncrossed her orange chicken legs, pushed herself off her chair and strode toward Polo.
“I do not care one iota that Scott Puddleman’s running this pageant like it is his private fiefdom,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “It’s bad enough he’s buying up all the local foreclosures for pennies on the dollar.”
“Scott Puddleman?” Annie’s mind raced and flashed to memories of dating a seventeen-year-old guy named Scott Puddleman. There was no way this could be the same guy. Her Scott had sandy colored hair, clear skin and wide football player shoulders.
She looked at Polo Judge posing at the mic as Suzy whispered into his ear. Polo was too tan, too steroidy gym built, too waxy… He could not be the Scott Puddleman that asked her to be his girlfriend under the bleachers at the Wauwatosa-Oconomowoc football game.
It was not possible this was the same guy who passed her notes in history class, made her laugh, and then just a week after he fondled her right breast for ten seconds, dumped her in a crowded high school hallway between classes.
Since that debacle, she’d despised Scott Puddleman. With every subsequent life betrayal, she silently cursed his name. But that was the old Annie. The new Annie wasn’t about to let an old grudge rule her life. But this couldn’t be the same guy. Maybe a relative. A much older cousin. A creepy uncle.
Polo Judge Scott Puddleman dismissed Suzy with a flick of his Rolex-clad wrist. “No wardrobe malfunction. It’s first and ten on this field,” he said into the mic. The crowd roared. The guys flexed. Polo walked toward the table and winked at Annie.
She cringed. Because the two Scott Puddlemans were indeed the same person. By willingly coming home to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, she had put herself in the crosshairs of a dangerous game: We have changed. We are not the same as we were twenty years ago.
Mrs. McGillicuddy’s neck practically whiplashed as she glanced back and forth at the two of them. “In a thousand years, I never would have called that.”
“In a thousand years I beg you, never call that.”
“You interested in the Puddleman?”
“Right after I break out in a permanent heat rash on my upper right inner thigh shaped like Elvis’s face.”
“Would that be so bad?” Mrs. McGillicuddy asked.
“No. Change that to a heat rash of Scott Puddleman’s new face.”
Mrs. McGillicuddy clasped one hand over her mouth and giggled.
Scott leaned into Annie. His moist breath penetrated her ear and burrowed into her brain. Ew. Ew! Her boob felt crawly.
“Welcome home, Annie Graceland. I look forward to spending quality time with you. Playing… catch up.” He walked away from her.
Annie shuddered and marked her ballot and slipped it into the envelope that was passed around the judges’ table. Suzy handed the envelope to Scott who passed it off to a hefty woman in a floral summer dress who stood at the bottom of the stage.
A public service announcement blared. A man with a thick English accent said, “Thank you fans for attending the bathing suit competition. The Hot Guys have a luncheon engagement at Sleepy Pines Retirement Community. For your dining pleasure, food trucks are conveniently located just down the lane in Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow’s parking lot. They offer a wide variety of lunch and liquid refreshments. A portion of each item purchased goes to Hot Guys’ charities. Do not be tardy. Remember to meet back here prior to five p.m. for the talent competition. Onward, Packers.”
The fans got up, stretched their legs and gathered their gear.
“One final announcement,” the PSA guy said. Static screeched through the speakers. A few folks covered their ears. One woman dropped to her knees. “Miss Annie Graceland?”
Annie cringed. “What?”
“Your presence is requested at your family home immediately. Excuses will not be tolerated.”
Annie spotted Olaf rolling camera, while Stephanie commented in the background. This scene was freakin’ live on cable TV? And then she realized that was Grady’s fake English accent. “Grady?”
“I have no idea of whom you are asking forthwith,” he announced.
“Grady.”
“Yes.”
“My mom’s got some dirt on you, doesn’t she?”
13. Family Reunion s
Annie sat next to her Aunt Susan on an all-climate-friendly, vinyl, floral print cushioned chair on her mom’s cozy, screened-in porch. Her grandfather, Pa, sprawled in the rocker in the corner. “It’s good to see you home, kiddo.” He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket, clipped the end with nail clippers and lit it.
Aunt Susan waved her hand in front of her nose and made a face. “That cigar is disgusting, Mr. Graceland. You’re in your late eighties. You don’t smoke. You can’t start smoking in your late eighties.”
Pa attempted to blow a smoke ring but doubled over, hacking. “Seize the day, Susan,” he spat between gurgles. “Have I not shared my life philosophy with you one million times? It is a well-known fact that seniors can keep their minds active by taking up new hobbies.”
“Pa. I just quit smoking. It’s not the best habit to pick up,” Annie said. “You’ll get bad breath, stained teeth, vertical wrinkles above your upper lip. Emphysema. Heart disease.”
“I already have most of those. Besides, I read an article that said woman think men who smoke cigars are sexy. Phallic-shaped props can be a powerful aphrodisiac. A tool in the proverbial dating belt of distinguished, slightly older men.”
“You’ll die of lung cancer,” Aunt Susan said.
“I’ll die happy with a sexy new senior girlfriend hanging on my arm.” Pa puffed furiously, hacked some more. The ash from his lit cigar grew gray and died—before Pa did.
Annie felt the insanity that was her family rising like a tidal wave in her brain. She closed her eyes for a moment. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe and remember that family drama is for the most part silliness. And people can conquer silliness, right?
She opened her eyes. Took in the view from the porch that was her mom’s deep green grassy back yard. Several massive pine trees towered in the distance. The lot sloped down toward a quiet inlet of Lac LaBelle. A rickety wooden pier perched at the end. For many years her dad’s fishing dinghy had docked there, unused. One year she came back from college and it was missing. Her mom said a big storm had taken it to a watery grave.
“Besides, Susan, I know you’re desperately trying to stay young.” Pa jabbed his cigar in Aunt Susan’s direction. “You’re all over the Internment on Faces Looks and other spider webby sites.” He pushed himself off the chair. “I need more casserole.” He toddled into the living room.
“That man is determined to be the death of me.” Aunt Susan’s face flushed bright red. She fumbled through her purse, grabbed a tiny prescription bottle and popped a pill.
“Do you have high blood pressure?”
“Does the Pope wear a Speedo in his private pool when he does laps?”
Annie nodded. “No man, especially a relative that’s not blood-related, needs to be the death of you. Step away. Calm down. Concentrate on something positive and healing you recently contributed to the world. Example. You stepped up to the plate with the food donation for Frank’s parents.”
Frank perched on a large closed cooler and eyed Aunt Susan. “That was very kind of her. I wish I had known your aunt when I was alive. We could have collaborated on our favorite charities.”
“Thank you,” Aunt Susan said. “The casseroles were a little tricky to cut and wrap. But if properly preserved and sealed, they’ll keep in a freezer for months. As long as they can microwave, Frank’s parents won’t have to worry about preparing meals for a while.”
“Is my mom okay?” Frank sat on a large cooler and kicked his heel nervously, repeatedly, on the front. “Did she hide Dad’s bullets? Is she eating? Sometimes when she’s upset she doesn’t eat.”
“Is Patsy Plank eating?” Annie asked. “Sometimes when folks are mourning they forget.”
Aunt Susan toyed with her strawberry Jell-O pie. “Patsy didn’t want to eat at first. But I sat with her today. She talked about Frank. They’re not going to have his funeral service until after the contest ends. But she ate. A slice of spinach quiche. A small helping of Peaches Monaco’s legendary cobbler.”
“Good.” Frank stood up and walked through the screened-in porch out onto the grassy yard, down toward the lake.
“I know this is a touchy subject, but do you have any ideas who wanted to kill Frank Plank and why?” Annie asked.
“I don’t have a clue who would want to kill such a nice young man. I know you’ve been through a lot, Annie,” Aunt Susan said. “Discovering your husband Mike was a cheater, separating and enduring divorce proceedings. You didn’t plan on coming home for a visit just to experience another murder, more stress and drama.” She sighed, took Annie’s hand, cradled it between her two weathered hands and drew them to her cheek.
“I’ve loved you since the first day you were born. You were pink, wrinkled, tiny, squirmy and hollered up a storm. I held your hand, gazed into your face and I thought—here she is, Annie Graceland. She will break hearts and have her own heart broken. She will win contests and prizes and still suffer life’s indignities. Over time she’ll realize when forty people say no, she’s that much closer to the one who will say yes. She’ll learn the art of perseverance. And someday my niece will help people in her own unique way. She will make a positive difference in this world.”
Annie’s eyes welled up. “Aunt Susan…”
She released Annie’s hand. “Your mom’s on your case because she loves you. Perhaps L.A. is a passing fancy. Think about moving home, Annie. Unfortunately, life is short.” She leaned in and kissed Annie’s cheek. Then pushed herself off her chair and stood up. “And now I’m running inside before you get mad at me and leave the party.”
Annie’s mom stuck her head inside the porch as Aunt Susan squeezed past her. “You’re looking a little thin, daughter.”
“No matter how much I weigh you always think I look a little thin.”
“I’m worried about the vegetable-arians in Los Angeles. They sound rather cultish, like all those actor types who are paleontologists. You haven’t gone and joined them?”
“No, I’m not a vegetarian and I do believe you are referring to the Scientologists.”
“Same things. Did you try the casserole? You need to catch up with your second cousins. They drove all the way in from Lacrosse and are in the living room. They’re dying to see you.”
“They came for the free beer and great food. I tried to talk with them but they’re non-responsive ’cause they’re glued to the game.”
“If you asked them really nice, I bet they’d turn the sound down and talk with you.”
Annie shook her head. “I tempted them with your pigs-in-a-blanket, but with the exception of Ronald, it was a no-go.”
“They turned down my pigs?”
Annie shrugged. “Ronald ate half the platter and the game’s a nail-biter.” She pointed to her empty plate. “The casserole was awesome.”
“Which one?”
“Mushroom. I should be getting back to the lodge.”
“No-no! Your brother Carson called. Said he needs to talk with you. Something about a delicious person.”
“A suspicious person?” Annie asked.
“Delicious, suspicious. I’ve watched too many James Bond movies and get them mixed up. Did you try the sticky buns? It took me forever to make them extra sticky. In your honor. You’re welcome.”
“The sticky buns were really sticky. Share the recipe?”
“It’s in my will.” Nancy pointed to Annie’s lime green elephant pants. “In my humid opinion?”
“Humble?” Annie said.
“Someone, I can’t remember who, told me today that if you pinned a few marshmallows on those pants you’d look like an exotic Jell-O dessert. The local boys would find you irresistible. You don’t need to go back to L.A. You don’t need to leave here ever again.”
“I have a life, a boyfriend and a job in L.A.,” Annie said. “Besides, marshmallows attract ants.”
“You could have all of those here in a heartbeat in your hometown where people love you.” Nancy headed back inside the house.
Annie watched her disappear into the kitchen. “I hate ants. And bees.”
Annie opened the porch door and stepped outside onto the lawn. Closed it and walked onto the backyard, barefoot. The grass was warm and moist beneath her feet. She stared at the tall pine trees at the far end of her mom’s lot and headed toward them. Slid behind one and plunked her butt down on the ground. She leaned back against the tree’s solid wide trunk, gazed out at the lake and sighed.
Annie knew she was in over her head. She would always love Oconomowoc, but she missed her cat, her job and her teensy apartment. The luscious thick emerald grass that squished between her toes felt lovely. But she really wanted to sink her feet deep into the wet sand in Venice Beach.
And she longed for Raphael Campillio. He of the dark eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the warm and generous spirit. She pulled out her cell. She was down to one bar. But she called him. He picked up.
“Annie?” Rafe asked.
“Yes, Rafe! Yay! How are you? How’s the reunion ?”
“You’re breaking up on me,” he said.
“No! Definitely not breaking up with you.” She jumped up and stomped around her mom’s back yard. “Can you hear me now?”
“Better.”
“Just like you’re sitting next to me. I also heard there was a murder—a young man—are you all right?”
Annie stared at Frank, who stood on the dock gazing at the water. “It’s complicated.”
“You knew the guy?” Rafe asked.
“I knew the guy.”
“Catch a flight home tonight.”
“I can’t. I’m with my family, I’ve got this contest—”
“Take the red-eye. I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ve got to finish this and well, there are other things.” She couldn’t tell him she was tracking down a killer.
“Your mom’s health?” Rafe inhaled. “She’s okay, right?”
“That’s a definite probably, yes.”
“Hmm.”
“How’s your family reunion ?” Annie asked.
Rafe coughed. “Not what I expected. It’s probably good you’re not here. Not the right time to introduce you.”
Annie forgot to breathe. She felt awful that Rafe didn’t want to introduce her to his family. But please—she’d already turned him down. Get a grip, she told herself. “I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you more. Call me anytime.”
“Okay?” But what she really wanted to ask was, Are we okay?
“Come home soon. Promise me.”
“I promise…” Annie said. But their cell connection garbled, sputtered. “Raphael?” Their connection died. “Dammit!” She smacked the phone.
“Violence isn’t always the answer. Even though for the most part, I think it is. Glad you made it back.”
Annie looked up at the tall, good-looking, forty-something guy towering above her. “Hey, bro.” She stood up and they awkwardly hugged.
“Your eyes are whacked. You high?” Carson asked.
“God, I wish. No. Pot makes me stupid. I do, however, feel like a deer caught in the crosshairs.”
“That’s normal for someone who traveled two thousand miles under false pretenses. Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m supposed to catch up with the cousins. Mom’s got casseroles. There’s no way—”
“Yes, you can, Nancy Drew.” He beckoned. “Besides. I’ve got credible gossip on who might have killed Frank Plank.”
“Get out of town.”
He grinned. “We don’t have to go that far.”
14. Green Jell-o and Marshmallows
Annie and Carson sat across from each other in a red vinyl booth, whose aging cushions were webbed with skinny cracks that resembled spider veins.
She sipped lemonade from a straw in a huge glass that sat on the clean Formica top between them. Carson nursed a beer. A large neon sign over a well lit bar proclaimed “Lucky Strikes Bowling Parlor!” A TV over the bar was tuned to WNOC and featured Stephanie Storms interviewing another Hot Guy.
“Give on the credible gossip,” Annie said.
“Shhh. Use your inside voice.” Carson ducked his head and glanced around.
“What?” Annie asked.
“There are spies everywhere. Everybody wants insider info on the contest. I’ve heard rumors about an illegal betting ring.”
“Shocker. What is it this time? Boxing? The ponies? College sports?” Annie watched Carson as his attention turned to a pretty woman hoisting a ball several lanes over.
She tossed that ball down the lane and threw a strike. A young boy stepped up behind her, pitched two gutter balls, threw his hands up in the air and yelped in frustration. She leaned toward him, smoothed his hair and spoke softly.
Frank stood next to the woman and tried to pick up a bowling ball.
“No, goofy head,” Carson said. “Bets are on who’s going to win, place and show at the Hot Guys contest.”
“Frank Plank was involved in an illegal betting ring?” Annie asked.
Despite his bulging arm muscles, Frank still couldn’t make that ball budge. “No!” Frank said. “I was not involved in a Hot Guys betting ring. And FYI—another thing dead guys can’t do?” He shook his head in disgust. “Lift a ten-pound bowling ball. Being dead sucks.” He stalked off toward the bar.
“From what I heard, no. Frank wasn’t directly involved. But perhaps someone in this ring had a favorite contestant who wasn’t Frank. Perhaps that person stood to gain financially if Frank Plank was killed,” Carson said.
“Oh, my God!” Annie said. “Vegas? The mob? An illegal online gaming casino?”
“My informants tell me the ring’s local.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because people tell their chiropractors everything. I mean, everything.”
An older, sexy waitress swished over to their table balancing a drink tray above her shoulder. “Hey, Carson.” She placed two shot glasses in front of them.
They looked a little weird. Annie leaned in to examine them. Carson bent forward to check them out.
“Jell-O shots?” Annie asked.
Carson poked his shot. It wiggled. “Definitely. Green Jell-O. Kind of like your pants. Where the hell did you get those?”
“Mom.”
“Should have called that.”
“I haven’t had a Jell-O shot since I was a freshman in college at spring break in Lauderdale,” Annie said.
Carson pointed to the shots. “Thanks, Gloria. But we didn’t order these.”
“Compliments of Mr. Puddleman.” Gloria nodded at Scott, who perched at the bar.
Annie grimaced. “Tell him thank you.” She pulled a five spot from her wallet and handed it to Gloria.
“Thanks.” Gloria pocketed it and sashayed back toward the bar.
The very tan Scott Puddleman raised his shot glass and smiled at Annie.
She raised her shot glass back at him. Then squeezed her eyes shut and felt something that felt like Jell-O sliding down her legs. She shuddered. Ew—icky—blech. Since when did traveling back home involve so much oozing?
She had to get a grip. She was, after all, a Midwestern girl and should be able to take as much abuse as this region of the country and its inhabitants could parcel out. She unfolded the napkin. Small, cube-shaped, fluffy white things bounced onto the table and a few fell onto her legs.
“What the?” Carson asked.
She leaned in and looked. They were marshmallows.
“Why did Scott Puddleman send you marshmallows?”
Annie blinked. Her thighs were weak. Her hands trembled. And not in good way. Suddenly she felt like a marshmallow.
“You okay?” Carson asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She gazed at Puddleman’s note. It read, “I remember our past, fondle-ly. Greatly anticipate more ‘under the bleachers’ special time, Marshmallow! Yours 4 Ev-R, heart, heart, heart, Scott.”
Annie gagged. “Get me out of here. Now.”
Annie knew time was running out and she had to be back at the lodge for the talent contest. But there was no way she’d judge that competition wearing the lime green pants that Scott Puddleman had empathically slimed.
Carson drove her to a few mom and pop discount clothing outlets. But most stores were closing early in honor of the pageant and the holiday.
They ended up at Nana Banana’s Boutique. Annie scoured the stores, the aisles. She wanted to buy. But inventory was low. Nothing on the racks fit or flattered her physique. She wasn’t sixteen years old and she wasn’t a size zero. Was there anything cute and cheap that could bridge the gap?
“Come on. Let it go. You’re going to be late,” Carson said.
“I can’t wear this!” Annie plucked at her pants. “Ever since I got back to Wisconsin things feel sticky or slimy or drooley. I need to feel courageous and strong and believe no matter what or who I run against or into I can still get things done.”
“Because all those admirable qualities are necessary to be a beauty pageant judge.” Carson wandered off.
Annie shook her head. All those admirable qualities weren’t important for the Hot Guys contest. They were however crucial to help find Frank’s killer.
Frank gazed at her over the fifty percent off rack. “It’s hard enough to come home,” he said. “You weren’t planning on my death and, or being guilted into investigating it. Finish the contest or don’t. Go back to L.A. Whatever you decide, I swear we’re cool.”
“We are not cool!” Annie hissed. “I will help find your killer if it kills me too.”
Frank pointed to his right. Annie realized she was hollering at a middle-aged female shopper sorting through clothes across from her. The woman backed away from the rack, turned and bolted out the store.
Nana Banana stared daggers at Carson from behind her checkout counter. “This isn’t helping business.”
“Sorry, Nana.” Carson grabbed Annie’s elbow and shepherded her out of the store’s entrance. “What were you thinking?”
“I need new clothes.” Annie said as Carson hustled her across the street toward his immaculately detailed pick-up truck.
“Why? People only send you marshmallows if they think you’re pretty. You don’t need anymore clothes.”
“Since when did you become the expert on marshmallow gifting? Do I grill you about how many guns you own?”
“How many guns I own does not equate with how many pageant clothes you need.” Carson opened the door for Annie and gestured for her to move inside.
“Yes it does.” She hopped inside his truck, slammed the door shut. Crossed her arms and pouted. “Besides. You’re my big brother. Big brothers are supposed to take care of things. Especially when you don’t have a dad. Big brothers are supposed to vet the guys you date. Intimidate and scare off the ones you don’t like. And kill ants. And spiders. And bees.”
Carson opened the driver’s door and got in. “Even though you’re my sister, I still like you. But I am not your caretaker.”
Frank Plank materialized. He perched in the middle of the front seat between her and Carson. “Arguing with a family member never gets you anywhere. Now that I’ve been dead for several days, I’m convinced that we all have unresolved karma with most relatives. So arguing is fruitless.”
“My friend, Grady, totally steps up to the plate,” Annie said. “And he always helps me kill spiders.”
“I only kill animals whose meat I can eat, whose pelts I can wear.” Carson fired up the engine.
“Or whose feathers you give to Mom to hot glue onto her customized picture frames.”
Carson coughed. “Yeah, that too.”
“Do you know how hard it is to dust feathered picture frames?” Annie asked. “Pledge makes the feathers stick. You could try a water-based spray cleaner. But water seeps into the frame and ruins the photo. And then you find out that behind your back all your PETA friends call you The Butcher of Duckwitch.”
“You could just not use Mom’s frames.”
“Not use frames that were customized and given as a gift to me by my own mother?” Annie configured her index fingers into the sign of the cross and stuck them in Carson’s direction. “You can burn in mother guilt hell. I am not tempted by that possibility.” She turned her back on him and stared out the truck’s passenger window.
“Fine!” Carson said. “I have spare clothes in the truck that you can turn into a pageant outfit. Take them, I beg you. Cover them in feathers or glitter or whatever. I don’t care. But you are not allowed to complain to me if the Hot Guys’ crowd gives you shit.”
“For real?” Annie asked.
“Yes, for real,” Carson said. “And FYI? Spiders freak me out. I will always hate spiders.”
“Me, too,” Frank Plank said.
Annie borrowed a thick leather belt from the sun burnt man, whose actual name was Mr. Billings. Turned out Billings owned a construction company in Spring Green that primarily did remodels and game-room additions. He was contemplating branching out into constructing an on-line dating site. He’d market it by featuring the occasional local celebrity, Hot Guy, sassy girl. Which explained why he was so obsessed with the contest. His only stipulation when Annie borrowed his belt was that she autograph it before she returned it.
The belt cinched her medium-sized waist over her new outfit fashioned from Carson’s hunting fatigues. She’d styled them up a bit. Cut off the legs, rolled them up into cuffed short-shorts. Ripped the sleeves off just above the elbows for that sexy, tie me up, tie me down, Twenty Shades of Taupe, look. She pulled her hair back with a long thin fabric remnant, slipped on her mom’s sunglasses, applied some tinted lip balm and looked at Frank. “Ready to find your killer?”
“Yes, Rambo-lina.”
Annie surveyed the talent competition from the sidelines. Mr. Butternut was drumming, his hair flying up and down like wild man Tommy Lee from Mötley Crue. Mr. Bitterhausen was scrapbooking. And Mr. Milwaukee was once again oiled up and lifting weights.
Annie panned the Hot Guys with her hands shaped like a camera. “You’ve always been smart, Frankie. Go with your gut. Pick your suspects.”
Frank Plank shifted back and forth on his heels. “Butternut is killing what’s left of my hearing, but I don’t think he actually murdered me. Milwaukee?” Frank pointed at the weightlifter. “No motive. He can lift more than I ever could and he has much better arms. Bitterhausen. Scrapbooking? Yeah there, you need to talk to him. Something’s definitely off with that guy.”
“Annie Graceland!” Stephanie waved and raced toward them in all her glistening perfection, Olaf trailing behind her.
“Her hair doesn’t move. Her skin doesn’t jiggle,” Frank said. “It’s ninety degrees and she hasn’t broken a sweat. Either she’s a vampire or there’s something else wrong with her. She could be a suspect.”
“Can’t deal with her now.” Annie ducked her head and maneuvered her way as fast as she could through the crowd. “Excuse me.” She bounced off a teen couple intertwined on the ground making out. “So sorry,” she said to a woman after she stepped on her paper plate filled with lasagna. She drew closer to the judges’ stage.
But at this competition, the judges were mingling with the crowd, taking in all the talent. Mrs. McGillicuddy watched Mr. Sheboygan who recited poetry. Mr. Richland Center carved small animal figurines from a large wheel of aged solid cheddar cheese. And Mr. Madison demonstrated to the onlookers as well as the female reporter from I-CHIC how to toss a football with a deadly spin.
Annie shook her head. “On a normal day, which for me used to be defined by a day that no one is murdered, I’d agree with you. But someone tried to shoot Stephanie in front of me. The bullets recovered were most likely from the same gun that killed you.”
“Which is why Stephanie might be a vampire.”
Annie shook her head. “What about the judges?” She pointed to Scott Puddleman who nabbed one of Richland’s cheese figurines and popped it in his mouth.
“Puddleman wanted to buy a couple of my dad’s properties. But Dad didn’t want to sell. Would he cave on real estate because his only son just died and he’s not thinking clearly? Maybe, but doubtful. Mom would never let Dad sign anything before she approved. She’s the voice of reason in the Plank family.”
“Love your mom. She was always a tough cookie. What about—” Annie pointed.
“Mrs. McGillicuddy? She always gave me Cs in high school.” Frank said.
“Me too!” Annie said.
“That doesn’t make her a murder suspect.”
“Agree. Suzy Mae ? Any reason she’d want you dead?”
“Jury’s out.” Frank bit his lip.
“What do you mean?”
“Um. Well. I kind of had a thing with Suzy’s daughter, Lila.”
“What does ‘kind of’ mean?”
“We were young. We hooked up.”
“You played horizontal hokey-pokey with Suzy Mae’s beloved daughter?”
“Everyone hooks up at that age. If hooking up was cause for murder, Suzy would’ve killed ten local guys.”
“When did this happen?”
“Five years ago. Four years ago.”
“And you haven’t had contact since?”
“Not until she got back into town recently.”
“Isn’t Lila engaged to some Euro dude?”
“Prince Frederick of Fredonia.”
“The pasty middle-aged man-like dumpling at the opening ceremonies?”
Frank nodded.
Annie frowned. “The smoldering raven-haired goddess sitting next to him who was practically flashing you. That’s Lila?”
Frank nodded.
“Prince Frederick probably didn’t see her blatant flirting due to the glare from the medals pinned onto his barrel chest. But I bet Suzy spotted it. You posed a threat to the marriage of her beloved wild-child daughter to royalty? Suzy’s definitely a suspect.”
“I doubt it,” Frank said. “She had a benefit party for the Hot Guys pageant the night I was killed. My parents were there. Suzy Mae has an air-tight alibi.”
“Are you sure?” Annie felt confused. “I didn’t hear anything about that party. But I lost my itinerary. Did she invite any of the other judges?”
“Personal invites went to the entire Hot Guys Board, Friends of Oconomowoc, the judges…” His voice trailed off and he gazed down at his feet.
“Except for me.” Annie inhaled sharply. “Wow. After all these years, it’s still high school.”
“Maybe she thought you had the itinerary. I hadn’t planned on telling you. I didn’t want you to feel bad. I’m sorry.” He held his hand out to her.
She ignored it. “It doesn’t matter. We all hurt each other in high school. It’s part of the curriculum. But we graduated a long time ago. At least most of us did. Right now the only thing I want to do is find your killer.”
The loud speaker blared, “Attention fans! We hope you’re enjoying the talent competition. A gentle reminder that the top five contestants will be announced in two hours. The excitement builds….”
Annie frowned. Then yelled toward the loudspeaker’s box high up on a pole. “Grady!”
The announcer cleared his throat. “Of whom forthwith do you inquire?”
“You know very well, Mr. Fancy Voice.”
“Perhaps Mr. Fancy Voice is not allowed to talk with you. Pageant rules.”
“What does my mom have on you?” Annie asked.
“Testing. Testing. Bra. King. Up.” And the loudspeaker went dead.
Exactly then, Annie felt dread bearing down on her. It filled her bones. She felt it in her stomach, which kicked up acid. Something was wrong. Something was off. It didn’t have anything to do with Grady. She turned and saw who and what that something was. High school grievances be damned. She was back on her game.
Strawberry Daiquiri Jell-O Shots
Ingredients:
1 small box Strawberry Jell-O
1 cup boiling water
1 cup white rum (Or on the lighter side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup strawberry juice) (Or on the lushier side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup vodka)
Small plastic cups
Instructions:
Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water.
Remove from heat.
Let cool.
Mix your liquors and/or juices together. Add to cooled concoction. Stir.
Pour into little cups.
Refrigerate for at least two hours. Place in freezer for several minutes before serving. Serve to those of legal drinking age.
15. Bookie Blues
Annie followed Mr. Bitterhausen as he weaseled through the crowd, hopped the barricade into the parking lot, and made his way toward a fancy silver bullet, vintage Aerostream RV. He knocked on the door, which was promptly opened. Someone with big muscular arms attired in a black suit yanked him inside and slammed the narrow metal door shut with a tinny bang.
Huh, Annie thought. The Aerostream was upscale and appeared normal. The subterfuge wasn’t. She crouched behind the side of a large weathered Winnebago. A loud giggly tailgaters’ party took place behind it. She eyed the partiers in their foldout lounge chairs laughing, telling stories, and enjoying each other’s company while they drank beers. Their brats and shish-kabobs roasted on a small BBQ resting on the parking lot’s blacktop.
She spotted Dorothy Hattan and Diane O’Flaherty from her high school geometry class. Jeez, they hadn’t aged a day. Annie longed to join them. Just relax, be one of the crowd, be a normal person. Unfortunately most people who talked to ghosts weren’t considered normal. Besides, duty called, so she remained crouched, her eyes trained on the Aerostream.
Five minutes later, her short shorts pinched her upper inner thighs on their march toward her privates. Her knees ached from squatting. And she heard something familiar, but not welcome.
“Oh, Hubbard,” Julia exclaimed. “If only you knew how I’ve missed manly Wisconsin men.”
If only Annie had a dime for every time Julia played the “How I’ve missed manly insert-name-of-city-county-state-country men” line, she’d have enough dough to pay for her electric bill in full and spring for a twenty dollar Chinese foot massage with a ten dollar tip.
“Take me, Hubbard! Take me here and now.”
No, no, Annie prayed. Take Julia anywhere except here and now. She crept and peeked around the other side of the RV. Julia was making out with Mr. Dells, who fiddled with her bra clasp but stopped every couple of seconds to ogle her still barely contained boobs. What? Had the guy never unleashed double Ds before?
The Aerostream’s thin metal door clanged, startling Annie. She hobbled back, peered around the RV’s other corner. Two thugs with slicked back hair, wearing shiny black suits over crisp white T-shirts, stepped out of the Aerostream, surveyed the place and nodded at each other. One mumbled into his watch.
Bitterhausen leapt down the stairs. He wore a dark hoodie and also sported a watch. A dark thick leather valise hung from his shoulder.
“I don know ’bout this,” one thug said in a thick eastern European accent.
“God, Ivan, you sound just like my brother. Stop worrying,” Bitterhausen said. “Everything’s going according to plan. This is just a little insurance.” He pulled the hood up onto his head and strode silently through the partying crowd. The tailgaters hollered and beckoned to him. He walked on by. He didn’t seem interested in partying.
“Oh, Hubbard. You are a naughty boy!”
Annie’s mind hopped back in forth in her head. Track down a garden hose? Confront Julia and Mr. Dells and break up their non-sanctioned coupling? Bitterhausen was yards in front of her and disappearing into the crowd.
It dawned on her: foreign thugs in suits, a plan and a Wisconsin Hot Guy with a talent so weird Frank suspected he could be a murder suspect. Ka-Ching! This had to be the illegal betting ring Carson told her about. Could even be why Frank Plank was murdered. The water-toy-crossed lovers would have to wait. She stood up, rubbed her knees and took off after suspect Bitterhausen.
Annie trailed Bitterhausen all the way back to Oconomowoc High. He kept a low profile, but still entered through the unlocked front door. She followed him down multiple hallways, remaining a safe distance behind. She was stealthy and she felt invisible behind her mom’s huge Jackie O sunglasses. Until she passed the gym.
Its doors were wide open and a bunch of men, most of them pageant contestants, played a pick up game of basketball. Probably blowing off their pre-evening wear competition jitters. Annie couldn’t help but pause and check out the action.
Mr. Appleton dribbled the ball with one hand, spinning on his chair’s wheels like he was on fire. “Heads up!” He pitched the ball to Jamie who caught it, ducked and dribbled while fighting off aggressive members of the opposing team. Jamie was a flurry of muscles and intensity and determination as he made a break for the basket, aimed from outside the paint and sunk the shot.
Cheers erupted from half the players. Resigned sighs from the other half.
“Awesome shot, Jamie!” Mr. Richland Center said and they high-fived.
Jamie was sweating buckets, but he looked more alive than he had since Frank died. He spotted her and called out. “Hey Annie! You used to be a great cheerleader. Come on, cheer for our team!”
“No way, dude,” Mr. Milwaukee said. “A pageant judge can’t cheer for your team. She has to be impartial. Right, Ms. Graceland?”
“Sorry. Must run,” Annie said.
Annie spied through the half-inch crack behind the door from inside the boy’s bathroom and watched Bitterhausen enter Oconomowoc High’s art studio. While she wasn’t in the habit of hanging out in men’s bathrooms, this one was conveniently located across the hall from the art classroom and was the perfect hiding place. That was before she spotted one of the Hot Guys huffing down the hallway toward its door with an anxious look on his face.
Too late to flee, Annie raced into a bathroom stall and locked the door behind her. She looked down at her feet. There wasn’t a man in the world that would spot a women’s size eight platform clad shoes and assume they belonged to a petite guy.
What’s the big deal, she thought as she crouched on top of the toilet seat? So what if the guy discovered her. Who cared if he reported her to the pageant board? What’s the worst that could happen? They’d fire her as a judge. Great! She’d go home to her beloved cat and her new boyfriend.
But that would screw up her murder investigation. The board would most likely kick her out of the contest. Her reputation would be irrevocably tarnished and she wouldn’t survive with enough credibility to track down Frank’s killer. So, Annie balanced on the toilet seat. Squinted and peeked through the miniscule opening between the door and the lock. And prayed the guy would just get it done and leave.
He finished his immediate business, shaked it, and zipped up. Washed his hands. Combed his hair. Fluffed his hair. Examined his reflection in the mirror. Combed his hair again.
Annie’s legs trembled. She thought longingly of yoga classes back in Venice Beach. She could hold those warrior poses forever. But squatting behind RVs and on toilet seats seemed to require different muscle groups.
The guy leaned into the mirror and inspected his eyebrows. He pulled tweezers from his pocket and plucked a few errant hairs. He then lifted his arms up and checked out his armpit sweat circles on his T-shirt.
Oh, dear God, Annie thought. Was he going to take off his shirt and wave it under the hand dryer?
He turned the water back on, dipped his hand under the faucet and slapped more moisture under his arms. Then stared back into the mirror as he lifted his arms up, balled his hands in fists, flexed, and smiled.
Her legs were shaking. How much longer could she endure this?
Frank leaned against the stall door and eyed her. “Come on. Suck it up. Nothing’s ever easy for a babysitter or a pageant judge.”
Annie gritted her teeth as sweat rolled off her forehead as she forced herself to breathe. Silently.
The Hot Guy winked at himself in the mirror and said, “You can win this, champ! I promise! Now, go get ’em!” He high-fived his reflection and walked out the door.
Annie toppled off the seat and bounced off the stall door, which gave way. She stumbled across the room and caught herself on the bathroom counter. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She was sweaty, disheveled—again. Dang!
“You can do this,” Frank said as he stood behind her, massaging her shoulders.
She stretched her head toward her shoulder and cracked her neck. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he replied. “Put on a little lip gloss. You always feel better when you’re wearing a little lip gloss.”
She pulled the tinted balm out of her purse, leaned into the mirror and applied it to her lips.
“Much better,” Frank said.
“I am going to nail the scrapbooker. And if Mr. Bitterhausen’s guilty—get ready for pizza in Heaven.”
Annie stood next to the door that led to art department. The window within the door was covered with paper from the inside. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see in. She leaned her ear against the door and heard Bitterhausen mumbling. She couldn’t make out his words. Who was he talking to? Probably a co-conspirator in his illegal betting ring.
Oconomowoc’s high school had several tiny art classrooms, but when Annie matriculated here, this studio was the crown jewel. Every student who walked through this door either quickly discovered art was not for them or came to the opposite conclusion—art could and would consume their every waking moment.
This spacious room had huge windows that let in the light during sunny days as well as darkness and thunderclouds during stormy ones. There were large blackboards and painting easels. Bins towered high filled with supplies: papers, tubes and jars of oil and water-based paints. There were photographs, art books, books on artists. Long flat Formica tables where aspiring teenage artists could lay out their photographs, work on collages, or sketch on pads of paper.
Annie’s hand rested on the yellowed wood frame of the door as she leaned against it. Bitterhausen was still in this studio. Annie heard both male and female adult voices followed by peels of laughter that sounded like children. She shook her head. Adult co-conspirators she could understand. But using children in an illegal betting ring? She was so going to nail this guy.
She cracked the door open a half-inch and peered inside. There were men and women and kids seated at the art tables with scrapbook pages laid out on the tables in front of them. At the front of the room Mr. Bitterhausen held court. “When I’m involved with a project that requires multiple ribbons, I use this handy spinning ribbon rack.” He held up a small device covered in spools of ribbons. He picked up what looked like enormous multi-colored rubber bands. “When properly applied, these bands can keep your books closed and safe from exposure.”
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “Have I interrupted?”
Bitterhausen’s eyes widened. “Class dismissed! Vote for Mr. Bitterhausen! May your memories be forever glue-gunned.” The class groaned, grabbed their books and supplies and shuffled out the door.
“You’re teaching a scrapbooking class? In the middle of the pageant? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Annie asked.
“I’m just being a nice guy.” Bitterhausen gathered his papers and materials. He slipped them into his leather valise. “I’m being helpful. All you judges with all your rules. Before I moved to Wisconsin I was surrounded by rules. Choking on rules. I’m finally living in a place where I can be myself and not constantly worry about what everyone thinks of me. You can’t tell me what I can do.”
“I’d totally agree with you if we weren’t in the middle of a contest, where things like this scrapbooking class, can and will be construed as ways to seduce fans and garner votes,” Annie said.
He snapped his valise shut, lifted his wrist to his lips and spoke into his watch, “Ivan, fire out of control. Repeat, fire out of control. Put it out.”
Oh, God. What did that mean? Was she in danger? Annie backed away from Bitterhausen while she searched for the contest rulebook in her purse. She yanked out a Pepe’s Pizzeria menu. It would have to do. “I quote the Wisconsin Hot Guys Contest rule book chapter five, paragraph six.”
“Why does the Hot Guys rule book have a large mushroom pepperoni pizza on its cover?”
She tried to hide the menu with her hand as she squinted at it. “And I quote, ‘Top ten Wisconsin Hot Guys contestants cannot overtly fraternize with fans without written permission of the Hot Guys board e pluribus unum et al, forever and ever. Amen.” Annie stuffed the menu back in her purse and pointed her finger at Bitterhausen. “You, Mr. Bitterhausen, are blatantly fraternizing.”
He turned toward her. His eyes were huge and dilated. He had a significant bulge in his pants pocket. Oh, dear Lord. Maybe he was a perverse wacko who got off on being threatened. Or maybe he was packing heat.
“Ivan,” he said into his watch. “The female judge with the auburn hair wearing the camouflage shorts. Shut her down. Yes, now. Before evening wear.”
Annie backed away from him. “Admit it. You’re the lynchpin in an illegal betting ring.”
“I play the ponies. I’ve played baccarat in the finest casinos in Fredonia.” He stepped toward her. “But I’ve never run an illegal betting ring.”
“Then why do you have bodyguards?” Annie slammed into the knife-edge corner of a Formica table whacking her behind. “Ow!” She grabbed her right cheek and broke into a sweat.
“That’s going to be a nasty bruise,” Bitterhausen said. “Why don’t you sit down? Relax. I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“What’s a little bruise to a Midwestern chick? It’s a mosquito sucking blood from your arm in the woods during the summer. It’s the lone fly buzzing next to the wet cat food. Who cares? Nobody. Wisconsinites just deal. You, on the other hand, have bodyguards protecting your every move. None of the other Hot Guys have bodyguards. Why’d you enter Wisconsin’s Hot Guys contest? Did you buy the contest results ahead of time? Did you hate Frank Plank?” Annie’s eyes teared as she clutched her behind and inched toward the door.
Bitterhausen reached for something in his pants pocket.
She ducked and ran toward the door. “If you killed Frank Plank, I am so not voting for you to be a top five finalist!”
16. Bleacher Baby
Annie skidded down high school hallways. She slipped and slided on the scuffed linoleum floors as she careened past her sophomore-year English class where she always got Cs, and the general biology classroom where she refused to pith the frog, smuggled it out and gave it to ten-year-old Jamie Ryan.
She rounded a corner and collided with a teen couple making out against a locker, their limbs and tongues intertwined. Well, they used to be until she knocked them over and broke up their little hormone-fest.
“What the—” The guy looked at her, confused.
“Bitch!” The girl glowered and rubbed her tongue.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Annie said. “Twenty years from now, you’ll be trying to track me down on Facebook to thank me.”
“I can explain!” Bitterhausen hollered from the hallway behind her.
Annie’s eyes widened and she raced off. “Save it for your bookie, Bitterhausen, when you can’t pay your bill!”
Annie paused for a moment and rested her hand on a doorway that looked familiar. No it felt familiar. Within seconds she had a headache the size of a monstrous periodic table. Symbols like “Ca” popped into her brain—but it didn’t stand for her beloved California. It was… Calcium. “As” came to her mind and she immediately thought of Asshat. But then realized “As” stood for arsenic. Like poison. The kind that killed people.
She clutched her head and cried out softly from the pain. Only this wasn’t her headache. This was another empathic hit—a headache from the decades of students who had passed through this door. She had nightmares for years about this and it just couldn’t be possible. Not Inorganic Chemistry—not again.
Bitterhausen’s approaching footsteps grew louder. He was most likely just one hallway away. But there were other floor stomping thuds made by someone with extremely heavy feet. “Ve vill get her, bvoss.”
Ah, crap, Annie thought. Bitterhausen’s muscle had arrived. Her breath was ragged as she reached the back doors that led to the gym. The overhead lights peeked through the narrow slice between the doors, but she didn’t hear anybody inside.
Even though she never considered herself a ‘rescue me’ type-of-girl, where in the hell were a couple of polite manly men when a girl needed a little rescuing? She pushed on the doors. Pulled them. Shook their handles. But they didn’t budge. “Crap!”
“Anvee Glacevand! Halt!”
Annie whipped around and spotted Bitterhausen with Ivan, his goon, striding toward her. “Double crap!” She yanked off her platform shoes, took a moment to aim and pitched one at Bitterhausen.
It bounced off his crotch with a metallic boink. He paused, looked down, but didn’t even break a sweat. Uh-oh. She threw her other shoe at Ivan. It hit his forehead and made a boink as well. They rubbed their respective body parts and straightened back up – just like Arnold in The Terminator.
“Triple crap!” She ran around a corner, headed toward another set of double doors. Please, oh, please, Annie intoned as she yanked on them. They opened. She snuck inside and closed them gently. She looked around. The gym was empty. Probably everyone had left to prepare for evening wear competition.
It was only a matter of seconds before Bitterhausen and his goon would find her. She looked around for something to block the doors. But there was nothing. Her gaze rested on the light switch. It was her only chance. She walked the few steps toward it, said a little prayer and pushed the knob down.
The gym lights shut off. She was left alone, in complete darkness and, except for the racing of her heart, utter stillness. It felt like a tomb.
She extended her arms out in front of her and zombie shuffled toward where she estimated the bleachers were. She smelled the players’ sweat, after-shave and even a whiff of tooty-fruity gum. She could almost make out the scent of the rubber from the basketballs that had recently bounced off the gleaming wooden floors. Her outstretched hand smacked the metallic rim of the bleachers as she crouched under them, kneeled and crawled into their underbelly.
The gym doors opened with a squeak. The clip, clip, clip, of solid shoes echoed off the gym’s floor. Whoever wore those shoes paused. Was it a knight in shining armor? Or a sadistic killer?
Annie crawled as far as humanly possible beneath the bleachers. She hid in a discrete corner and covered her head with her hands. After all these years, she refused to end up dead here, back in Oconomowoc. She could not be killed before she found Frankie’s killer, before she told everyone she loved that she, indeed, loved them. And, surprise, surprise, she’d discovered her list of loved ones was longer than she realized.
She lay curled up in a ball. Frankie, she said silently in her head. Frankie, I’m trying so hard. I hope I don’t fuck this up.
“Nothing’s ever easy for a babysitter or a pageant judge.” Frankie crouched under the bleachers next to her and smoothed her hair.
“Thank you,” Annie mouthed.
The gym lights flicked back on. They were harsh, glaring. She blinked. Her left boob started itching. An empathic reaction?
“I’ve been looking for you. I heard you were back visiting our high school. I had a feeling I’d find you here, under the bleachers, again. The memories are seared into my brain. You wore a pink bra. No underwires. You didn’t need them—then.”
Annie lifted her head and spotted Scott Puddleman. He leaned down and leered at her from the open-aired side of bleachers. “Do we have catching up to do or what?”
She screamed and crawled away from him.
“You still have those cheerleader pipes. I have exciting news. The Lake Lodge concierge called Hot Guys HQ with a message for you. Blackhoof Busline not only found your luggage but also dropped it off. It’s waiting for you in your room.” Scott motioned to her. “Come on now.”
“Oh, my God!” Annie eyed Scott. He was so tan, his teeth so white, his hair so dyed. What could she have been thinking when she was sixteen? You could go back to your hometown, but life would never be the same—everyone had changed for good, forever. Or had they? Frank was still madly in love with Lila. Suzy was still an egomaniacal control freak. Annie’s mom still made the best pancakes.
Old friends—were they still friends? Old enemies—were they ever really enemies, after all? Maybe everyone was just hormonal, stressed out and doing the best they could do with what life handed them. Just like Annie was doing now—twenty years after graduating high school.
Then she remembered her luggage and the awesome outfits inside. She’d have enough time to slip into something fabulous for the evening wear competition. Holy smokes she’d finally look styling, a dream that every pageant judge held dear.
Scott beckoned. “I can only crouch here so long before my tricky golfing knee locks up. I told your mom I’d give you a ride back to the lodge. I even drove my mommy’s 'Vette. You always loved the 'Vette.”
Annie strained to remember. “Wait a minute. How come you’re talking to my mother? My mother never liked you in high school.”
“She likes me now!” Scott said. “I even brought the tape you loved, Annie. The one we used to make out to. I saved it.”
Annie regarded Frank with a definite Ew look on her face.
Frank shook his head. “If Scott tries anything funny, I’ll punch him out. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try haunting him. Go.”
Annie and Scott walked past Mr. Bitterhausen and Ivan who were entering a limo in the parking lot. They both scowled at her. Ivan said, “You av in twouble!”
“You’re the one in trouble, bucko.” Annie jabbed her index finger at him. “Maybe wherever you’re from, you can get away with threatening women. But we’re in Wisconsin. You don’t threaten pageant judges in Wisconsin.”
“Don’t want to be starting fights.” Scott grabbed Annie’s arm and led her to the Corvette. He opened the door and gestured at the passenger seat. “Especially not with that guy.”
“In my countwee, pageant judges vwear fanzy clos-es.” Ivan laughed. “Zum pageant judge you are. Hah. Hah.”
That’s when Annie remembered “As” which stood for Arsenic—Not really. “Where I come from we have a name for people like you. Asshat!”
Scott slammed the door shut, waved like Mr. Congeniality at Ivan and Bitterhausen. “She meant to say ‘Pass the hat.’ Give to charity and all that. See you at evening wear!” He strapped himself into the driver’s seat, revved the engine and fumbled with the stick. He accelerated.
“Did you get along with Frank Plank?” Annie asked.
“What do you mean by that?” Scott shifted the stick in the wrong direction. The 'Vette’s engine screamed and the car stopped abruptly. Annie’s neck whiplashed.
“I heard you were pushing Frank’s dad to sell you some of his property,” Annie said.
“It’s not a crime for me to invest in my home town.” Scott revved the engine and maneuvered the 'Vette from first gear to second. He ground his teeth as he attempted third.
“Patsy Plank wouldn’t let Frank’s dad sell. They were saving all their holdings for Frank. Did that make you angry?”
Scott’s face flushed as he fumbled with the stick shift. The car sputtered. “Why would I be jealous? I don’t need Plank property. I’m well on my way to becoming a land baron.”
“Got it. But Frank was really handsome. And popular,” Annie said. “He’s a hometown darling. You—well the jury’s out.”
“Popular?” Scott fumed. “I’m a pageant judge. I’m a sought after bachelor in the eastern part of Wisconsin. It’s not like I’m lacking for dates. You should have seen all the women hitting on me at Suzy DeLovely’s post opening ceremonies party. Why weren’t you there?”
Annie frowned. “I never got an invite. Did you get an invite?”
“Of course I got an invite,” Scott said. “Hey, don’t worry about my popularity. Besides, I’m just being nice to you for old times’ sakes.”
“Got it.”
“Third time’s the charm?” Scott toyed with the stick and they puttered off down Lac LaBelle Lane. Annie silently congratulated herself for never sleeping with Scott.
“You always liked to play with fire,” Scott said. “Bitterhausen’s bodyguard could’ve cremated us with one poke of his fat, steroidy, muscular finger. Besides, I don’t think Bitterhausen’s a suspect in Frank Plank’s murder.”
“Why do you think Bitterhausen didn’t kill Frank?”
“Because Bitterhausen has—”
A spit-polished vintage Harley zipped past with a roar that drowned him out. Lila DeLovely straddled the bike and rode it like a pro. Her long silky black hair flew behind her from under her helmet, along with many daisy chain necklaces.
“I didn’t hear you,” Annie yelled.
“Because Bitterhausen is—”
Bitterhausen’s limo gunned it and swerved past them, killing Scott’s answer.
“Repeat, por favor—” Annie said.
“Because Bitterhausen is actually—”
In the near distance, Lila revved her Harley. A shiny town car with dark tinted windows and fluttering country flags zoomed past them, obliterating Scott’s words.
“As I said—”
WNOC’s van nearly sideswiped the Corvette. Scott swerved onto the grassy roadside and shoved the stick into park. “Shit!” His hands shook.
“No worries, Scott-o.” She’d just remembered her pet name for him. “I’ll drive.”
A minute later, Scott sat in the passenger seat and Annie maneuvered the 'Vette back onto the lane. “Relax,” she said.
Frank perched next to Scott and massaged his temples.
“Your mouth to God’s ears because I’m suddenly feeling much better.” Scott opened and closed his mouth. “No jaw click. Can you believe it? First time in years I haven’t had a jaw click.”
“Oh, my God!” Frank said. “Scott Puddleman felt me touch him? What does this mean?”
“You’re most likely becoming more in touch with your powers,” Annie said.
“Sweet,” Scott said and leered at her.
Annie spotted Lila’s Harley, the town car and the WNOC van pulled over in a thin line on the side of the road. She hit the brakes and slowed down.
Lila frowned and flipped her helmet from hand to hand as she listened to Prince Frederick who was dressed in a tux. He leaned in and tried to reason with her. She pouted, tossed her silky hair, a few daisy chains and stared at her feet.
Frank gazed out the passenger window. “Lila’s so beautiful. And crazy. And smart. And now she’s with this guy. Why couldn’t I be there for her? What was wrong with me? I’m a loser.”
“You’re not a total loser.” Annie pulled a Youie across the two lanes and parked the 'Vette on the roadside.
“What do you mean by that? First you compliment me and then you put me down. What are you doing?” Scott asked. “You can’t just park this car anywhere! Mommy will get upset.”
“Tell Mommy to have a cocktail. You have binocs?” Annie asked.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Scott opened the car’s glove box, pulled out tiny binocs and handed them to Annie.
“Thanks.” She rubbed the binoc’s lenses on her hot pants, put them to her eyes and stared at the Lila debacle unfolding yards from her. Thank God, these binocs were not as stinky as those her brother used while deer hunting. She honed in on the drama happening on the side of the road.
A shiny black Escalade screeched to a halt behind the WNOC van. Suzy threw open the driver’s door and jumped out, light as air. She was dressed in a full-length creampuff gown—totally appropriate pageant judge attire. “Lila Jean!” Suzy put her hands on her hips and squared off in front of her daughter. “Your mother is not happy.”
“Then why are you here?” Lila dropped her chin and met her mom’s gaze.
“Because I got the call. And like every good mother who gets the call, I answered it.”
“I can make up my mind all on my own, Mother.”
“Really?” Suzy raised one eyebrow. “Remember the shoplifting incident?”
“One time. I was a minor,” Lila said. “Community service. Served. That’s all you got?”
Suzy’s face twisted. “How about when Jagger and Timberlake courted you at the same time? You wanted Frank Plank. I told you no. That he was still unavailable. That he would always be unavailable.”
“That’s not true,” Frank said.
“I don’t think 'courting' is the appropriate word,” Lila said.
“Then you waffled about Jagger, I told you to hold out for Timberlake.”
“And where did that get me?” Lila said. “He’s with that beautiful actress. I miss Frank!”
“You got the cover on US Weekly, several ads featured in Vogue UK, multiple mentions in The Enquirer and a spread in Celebitchy.”
“I don’t care about the tabloids! None of that matters to me. That’s what you care about.”
“All that coverage led you to Prince Frederick. Your fiancé,” Suzy said.
“Olaf, roll camera.” Stephanie thrust her mic in Lila’s face. “Is it true your upcoming marriage to Prince Frederick of Fredonia will be held in Oconomowoc this holiday weekend, Ms. DeLovely ?”
“Aargh!” Lila threw her helmet on the ground. She stomped down the roadside. She passed Prince Frederick’s town car, the WNOC van, Suzy Mae’s Escalade and moved away from the carnival.
“Lila, come back here immediately. Give Ms. Storms her interview,” Suzy said.
“Lila, my lieibchen.” Prince Frederick pulled a black velvet jewelry box from his pants pocket and held it toward her. “Poppy has a new prezzie for you?”
Lila didn’t turn around or skip a beat. Just kept on walking.
“Can I take that as a yes?” Stephanie followed Lila and poked the mic in her direction. “Yes, you are getting married in Oconomowoc this weekend. And Mr. Bitterhausen, Prince Frederick’s younger brother, will be his best man.”
Lila jammed her hands on top of her curvy hips. Turned and faced her mother, her fiancé and Stephanie. “Have you never heard of ‘space’? Just give me some friggin ‘space’!”
She dodged a couple of cars as she raced across Lac La Belle Lane to the Corvette. She leaned in and stared down at Annie through the driver’s window. “You’re Annie Graceland.”
“Uh, yeah?” Annie said.
“Frank Plank had a picture of you in the middle drawer of the nightstand in his room. I saw it once when I was snooping. He said that even though you were just his babysitter, you were like a super hero to him. He said when you put your mind to something, you could do anything. Now’s your chance to prove it. I beg you. Get me the hell out of here?”
Scott shook his head. “Too tight a fit,” he said. “Can’t mess up Mommy’s car.”
“Hop aboard.” Annie nodded toward the passenger door.” She turned the key in the ignition as Lila raced to Scott’s side of the 'Vette, flung open the door and crawled inside.
Stephanie, Suzy Mae, Prince Frederick and Olaf, rolling camera, hovered on the opposite side of the lane waiting for a break in traffic. “Lila Jean DeLovely! Stop this nonsense immediately. This is your mother talking!” Suzy yelled
“Ouch! Oh! Hmm. Ooh!” Scott said as Lila situated herself on top of him.
Annie revved the engine and screeched out into holiday traffic. “Whooh hooh!” she shouted and peeked at Lila’s wardens in the rear view mirror. They looked pissed.
Frank Plank’s Franks and Beans
Ingredients:
One lb. navy beans
Two tablespoons brown sugar
Two tsp salt
½ cup chopped onions
¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
Two tablespoons blackstrap molasses
¼ cup ketchup
½ cup pure maple syrup (not cheap pancake syrup – the good stuff)
One cup water (This is separate from the water needed to boil the beans)
Two thick strips of bacon
Two packages, 12 oz each, of polish sausage (your favorite brand/variety) cut into small pieces
Instructions:
Boil beans in a large pot of water for an hour. Rinse and drain beans. In a large Dutch oven, sauté bacon until cooked but not too crispy.
In a large bowl, mix beans and all other ingredients. Pour this into the Dutch oven covering the bacon and the bacon fat. Cover the Dutch oven and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat to a simmer and let cook for two hours.
Check the oven periodically to make sure there is enough liquid in the pot. If not, add ½ cup water at a time. Stir periodically.
Serve warm, not scalding. Great dish on a cool autumn day.
Recipe courtesy of Charlotte and Zach’s Mom.
17. Easy on the Curves
Annie drove the 'Vette at a reasonable speed down Lac LaBelle lane. Her driving motto was simple: no animals would be harmed when she was behind the wheel. This motto did not include bugs.
Lila sat on Scott’s lap. There was no room for her long legs, so she draped them out the passenger window.
Scott squirmed beneath her. “Don’t nick anything, I beg you. It’s a custom paint job.”
“Chill, Scott-o. If you’re lucky, they only thing she’ll be nicking is you,” Annie said. “Look, Lila, I’m not going to be all touchy feely, politically correct and suck up to you like everyone else does. The exception being your mother.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Lila said.
“Good. As Frank Plank’s former babysitter and friend, I know certain things and I’m pretty fired up about knowing more. Right now I need to figure out who killed Frank. And why.”
“Give her a reason,” Frank said as he gazed into Lila’s eyes. “Have you ever seen eyes so soulful? Poetic? Beguiling?”
“I know you once cared deeply about Frank. I care—I mean cared deeply about him too. In a different kind of way,” Annie said.
Lila nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Good girl.” Annie patted Lila’s head.
“Two hands on the steering wheel!” Scott exclaimed.
Annie poked Scott’s arm with her index finger. “Funny, that rule didn’t apply when we were dating and driving.”
“I was a teenager!” Scott said.
“You were a teenager who was constantly trying to cop a feel.”
“Weren’t we all?”
Annie harrumphed. “Lila, I need you to share the skinny about your creepy soon-to-be brother-in-law, Mr. Bitterhausen. Do you think he’s a suspect in Frank’s murder?”
“A guy whose talent is scrapbooking? Do you know what else he likes?”
Annie shook her head.
“Cupcake Wars.”
“That’s perfectly understandable.”
“I met Fredrick years ago at some gig or fashion show in Fredonia, I don’t remember when exactly,” Lila said. “I regaled his court with stories about growing up in Wisconsin. How our winters were filled with cold weather sports. Our summers were a blast with sizzling hot weather, thunderstorms, amazing fishing, swimming, and water sports. And in the fall we had football. Heaven! And with the exception of my family, for the most part the lifestyle here is relaxed and chilled. You know what their reaction was?”
“What?” Annie almost missed the entrance to the Lake Lodge and hard turned the car into the parking lot, tires squealing as they all leaned into each other.
“Easy on the curves!” Scott said.
“You should have thought about that in high school,” Annie snapped.
“They thought Wisconsin sounded like utopia,” Lila said. “Mr. Bitterhausen isn’t just any wacko. Albert Skibaldi was the Duke of Fredonia. He moved to the tiny town of Bitterhausen, Wisconsin, to live his life in freedom. He gave up his throne and title to be himself. I don’t even think he knew Frank Plank. And if he did, I doubt he’d care. He’s happy here.”
“Then why all the drama?”
She sighed. “They’re royalty. It’s bred in their precious bones.”
“He still irritates me.” Annie parked the car in front of the main entrance. “Thanks for the ride, Scott-o. I really appreciate your help.” She exited the 'Vette, as did Lila, who wiggled out the passenger window.
Scott sat in the passenger seat, looking perplexed. “I thought we were reconnecting. You know…”
“We reconnected just fine. Besides, you were just being nice to me for 'old time’s sakes,'” Annie tossed him the keys. “But the show must go on. Now that my luggage is here, I need to get ready for evening wear. Squee!”
“Can I tag along?” Lila asked.
Lila, Frank and Annie looked up as they heard the roars of a motorcycle and other vehicles approaching the Lake Lodge.
Lila sighed and clutched her head with her hands like a vise. “I bet Frederick already told one of his men to return the rental Harley. I just need a little freedom.”
“She needs a safe place to hide out. Just for a bit,” Frank said.
“Come on.” Annie grabbed Lila’s arm and they raced toward the Lodge entrance.
Lila held a bouquet of hand-picked daisies and stood behind Annie in the quiet hotel hallway. Its floors were covered in industrial teal-green carpet flecked with mahogany. The walls were lined with a soothing floral pattern wallpaper that picked up the carpet’s accents. Lila’s phone rang incessantly until she hit the mute button. “They’re trying to track me down,” she said. “They’re always trying to track me down.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t slapped a Model-Jack on you.” Annie slipped the key card into the lock of her hotel room door. It made a click sound and she pushed the door open. “How do you stand it?”
“Obviously, not very well.”
“Just one tiny second…” Annie poked her head inside and quickly surveyed the room. No Julia having sex with Mr. Dells. No Grady skulking about doing whatever he was trying to hide. Then she spotted her suitcase sitting boldly on the small foldout luggage tray in the closet alcove. Her striped carry-on bag complete with the Blackhoof tag and her ID was here. It was flippin’ beautiful!
She felt her heart pitter-patter. Finally! Her fancy clothes that she had begged, borrowed and bought on a dime were at long last within her grasp. She looked at the clock. She had fifty minutes before countdown to evening wear.
She opened the door to her hotel room and gestured for Lila and Frank to enter. They did. “I’ve got to rock and roll to get ready in time. Make yourself at home. There’re daiquiris in the fridge. Snackies in the minibar.”
She lunged for her suitcase. It was wrapped multiple times with 'Thank you for traveling with Blackhoof' tape. She pulled at the tape. It didn’t budge. “Is there a knife or something sharp by that fridge?”
“Corkscrew?” Lila asked.
“Perfect.”
Lila tossed the corkscrew. Annie caught it. Lila opened the door to the mini-bar and pulled out a drink and a plastic wrapped treat.
Annie sawed through the tape over her bag’s zipper. “I’ve been jones-ing to get a little baking done. The munchies in this place taste like they were baked in 1912,” she said.
“Lake Lodge stocks my mom’s baked goods.”
“The snacks here are superb,” Annie said. “It’s probably the delivery people. They let this batch go a little too long.”
“Fairly certain Mom’s company delivers them weekly.”
“Which means she uses incredibly fresh ingredients without preservatives.”
“My mom thinks if I become Princess of Fredonia, I’ll be her spokesmodel. But when I become Princess of Fredonia, I won’t have to deal with this shit anymore.”
“Got it. So you’re marrying for love?” Annie asked.
“Frederick’s like the best friend a girl could have.” Lila plucked daisies from her bouquet and twisted them into long chains.
“And you love him?”
“He’s the kindest man I’ve ever met.”
“Admirable. Any love involved?”
“He’s like a fuzzy puppy.”
“You’re walking into another gilded cage, Katie Holmes. Trading one prison for another.” Annie gazed at her suitcase. “Did you ever even like baking, Lila?”
“I loved baking. When I was a kid, my dad, mom and I concocted these silly recipes that monsters would make. Like, you know—what would Frankenstein bake? Obviously Franken-cakes with squares of chocolate sticking out like the lug nuts in his neck. What would the Monster-Under-the Bed bake?”
“The Monster-Under-the Bed scares the crap out of me. I mean—scared,” Annie said. “He would bake dust bunny cookies that were very dark chocolate covered in fluffy dabs of white frosting. This is a good idea! Mashing monsters with baking—Monster Bakers—New on The Food Network. Lila, with your looks, savvy, connections and killer recipes, I predict a hit.”
Lila sighed. “I don’t think Frederick will allow—I mean—want his new princess doing Monster Bakers. Go get ready.” She grabbed the remote, plopped on the bed, squished some pillows under her head and flicked the buttons to a clothing reality show. “If Frank were still here, he’d lie down beside me, we’d spoon and he’d stroke my hair.”
Frank Plank lay down beside Lila and gazed at her, smitten. He stroked her hair.
Annie slashed the remaining tape binding her suitcase. Free at last! She gently unzipped the bag and wondered if she should she pick the dress that she’d bought on sale at Snotsky’s of Santa Monica? Perhaps the vintage Halston she’d scored in a resale shop. It was, after all, evening wear. She owed it to herself, her town, her state and all the people she loved to look bitchin’.
She unzipped her bag, flipped back the top and gazed at her clothes. No. Not her clothes. She gazed at skinny white threadbare towels. Huh? She didn’t remember packing towels? Her hands started shaking.
In the background, the TV blared local news coverage. “This is Stephanie Storms reporting for WNOC. In local news today, international celeb Lila DeLovely left her fiancé Prince Frederick of Fredonia in the dust to join D-list celeb Annie Graceland and her local boytoy, Scott Puddleman. Is it a kinky love triangle? Or simply a coincidence? Meanwhile, Frank Plank’s killer continues to run free. Is local law enforcement doing anything? Or should we boycott Wisconsin’s Hot Guys Contest, stay home and lock our doors? This is Stephanie Storms reporting for WNOC.”
“This Stephanie chick’s a moron. I have no idea why my mom sucks up to her.” Lila flipped channels.
Annie picked up a towel. Pinched it between her thumb and index finger on one corner and held it arms distance in front of her, limp. Her fingers started to burn.
The towel had seen better days. Perhaps originally it was a one hundred thread count but was now threadbare. There was a dingy, barely legible tag on it that read, “We don’t pick your pockets, please don’t take our towels. Bill’s Bar and Bathhouse—Bikersville, South Dakota.”
Fiery sensations spread up Annie’s arm and she dropped the towel like it was covered in ants. Her fancy clothes had to be under these rags. Who in their right mind would put towels in her suitcase?
She picked up and tossed more towels. Primarily bath-sized but also a few hand varieties. “Mother of God, no!” Where were her clothes? Her beautiful pageant outfits? Her spiffy accessories? She glanced at the clock. She had forty minutes to shower, dress, accessorize and make it to the ballroom on time. But there was nothing to wear. The only thing left in her bag was her little book entitled, How Not to Stress.
Holy freak, she was stressing.
Grady, wearing a nicely cut tuxedo, leapt out of their hotel room bathroom. “Ta-da!”
Annie screamed. “Never surprise me like that again!”
“Never!” Grady screamed.
Lila rolled off the bed onto the floor and screamed, “No photos!”
Frank screamed and dropped down next to Lila, but only Annie heard him.
“Why in the hell are you dressed in a tux?” Annie asked.
Grady looked at her suitcase picked up a towel and regarded it with disgust. “Why in the hell did you pack towels?”
“I didn’t pack towels!”
“Has it been that long since you’ve traveled?” Grady asked. “Do you not realize that unlike airlines and buses, hotels still offer the basics?”
“No pictures!” Lila crawled toward the balcony.
“I’m not a paparazzo, Model Girl!” Grady yelled.
“Then who are you?”
“He’s my best friend. Where are my clothes?” Annie said. “Is this a bad pageant hazing thing—like in high school when Julia and I stole the freshmen’s clothes when they were in swim class? It was a dare. A simple prank or I never would have done it. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“That’s why you and Julia did it six times before you were caught. I don’t know where your clothes are. I wish I did,” Grady said. “I do know I was just promoted to be the new official announcer for Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys contest.” He straightened his tie, a small smile tugging his lips up.
“Congrats!” Lila poked her head up from the side of the bed.
“Are you on crack?” Annie asked. “You’re not from Wisconsin—you’re from Iowa. You’re not an actor. You’re a writer. Why would they pick you?”
Grady looked like he’d just been slapped. “Why wouldn’t they?”
Crap, Annie had just said a terrible thing to her best friend. “Because this is kind-of a Wisconsin-only gig?”
“My boyfriend convinced me to take a few acting classes. He said it would help my writing,” Grady said. “After we got here, your mother told me on the QT that the announcer was coming down with laryngitis. She encouraged me. Maybe if you inquired about my life more frequently you might know that.” He turned away from her and sniffed.
“I ask you what’s going on all the time! I made you my Plus One even though Julia threatened to expose me and the Pudding Debacle.” Annie shook her head. Why did misunderstandings with friends always happen at the worst possible times? “I’m sorry I haven’t been more attentive. I’m happy you got the gig. We’ll talk about the actor-thing later.” Annie leaned back against a wall, slid down it and plopped her butt onto the floor, defeated.
“But what will you do?” Grady asked. “Maybe I should stay…”
“Go! One of us needs to get the damn job done.”
“Love you.” He bent down, kissed the top of her head and ran out the door.
Frank took Lila’s hand and kissed it. “Lila will help.”
Lila stared at her hand a little funny. “I’ll help you, Annie.”
Annie glanced at the clock, her suitcase. A few tears leaked out of her eyes. “What was I thinking? I should never have come back to Oconomowoc.”
“Yeah there, you should have,” Lila said. “Hop in the shower. Scrub. Shave. FYI—you have several half inch-long hairs on your ankles. A lot of people skim over the ankles when shaving their legs. Beauty tip? Never skimp on your ankles. Go!” Lila flicked her hand at Annie.
“But what will I wear?”
“You can trust Lila,” Frank said. “She’s good with the details.”
Annie caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the hallway on the way to the ballroom for evening wear. She wore an exotic, Grecian-esque, one shoulder bared, crème colored cotton gown. Daisy chains crisscrossed under her boobs and cinched her waist. Lila had cut off the tag on the hotel sheet before she let Annie exit her hotel room.
She’d also styled Annie’s hair into a partial updo and woven a crown of daisies into a tiara on her head. Portions of her long hair curled and cascaded down her back. Annie’s makeup was perfect. She even looked almost kind-of thin if she really sucked in her stomach. “I can’t believe it. You are freaking good.”
“She’s freaking great,” Frank said. “I totally screwed up letting her go. What was I thinking?”
“I modeled on a season of Project Runway,” Lila said. “The designer made me his muse. I might look vapid, but I’m actually kind of a dorky information sponge.”
Annie looked down at her feet. She was barefoot with sparkly pink polish on her freshly groomed toenails. “It’s evening wear. Is it okay I’m barefoot?”
“Yes, it goes with your look. Besides you hate heels.”
“I hate heels almost as much as I hate spiders and ants and bees.” Annie stopped dead in her tracks and turned toward Lila. “How’d you know I hate heels?”
“I was in the audience the first night of the Hot Guys Contest. I saw you walk—or should I say—wobble on stage. Trust me, I felt your pain. Go get em!”
“Knock ’em dead,” Frank said.
“You don’t mean that, Frank,” Annie said.
“What?” Lila frowned. “Who?”
“Oopsies.” Annie bolted through the door that led into the ballroom.
Dust Bunny Chocolate Drop Cookies
Ingredients:
½ Cup butter
1 Cup packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
Two 1 oz squares baking chocolate, melted and cooled
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
¾ cup sour cream
(If you like nuts, add this. If you don’t, skip this.) ½ cup chopped pecans
Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, ream butter with brown sugar until smooth. Add egg, vanilla, and cooled chocolate, mixing well; set aside. In a small bowl, combine flour, baking soda, and salt. Add dry ingredients alternately with sour cream to chocolate mixture, beating well after each addition. Stir in pecans (if you like nuts.)
Drop batter by teaspoonfuls two inches apart onto a greased and floured baking sheet. Bake ten minutes or until set. Remove from baking sheet to a wire rack to cool.
White Powdered Sugar Frosting Ingredients and Instructions:
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted.
½ tsp vanilla
1 tbsp water
Mix frosting ingredients thoroughly. When cookies are cool, dab with frosting.
18. Evening Wear
Annie sat next to Mrs. McGillicuddy at the table on the judges’ stage. Her former teacher wore a boxy, two-piece, formal suit that Annie could have sworn was a Hilary Clinton knock-off ensemble from a recent state dinner.
Mrs. McGillicuddy eyeballed Annie, sighed, leaned forward and marked a piece of paper.
“You’re grading me?” Annie asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine. But this time I want a B.” Annie frowned. “Hey—did you get a personal invite to Suzy ’s opening ceremonies party?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy nodded. “Of course. Didn’t you?”
Annie shook her head. “Nope.”
“Perhaps Suzy thought you had the pageant’s schedule. Trust me, you didn’t miss much. I was supposed to be filmed reading an original poem about the contest on TV.” Mrs. McGillicuddy shook her head. “Never happened. I was extremely disappointed. The WNOC interview with Stephanie Storms was even printed on the itinerary.”
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. She gazed into the audience that filled the lodge’s ballroom. For the most part, everyone had cleaned up nicely. Each seat was taken except for one next to Prince Frederick. People even stood in the back along the walls, sandwiched next to the paparazzi.
Stephanie and Olaf from WNOC weren’t the only camera crews on set. Milwaukee and Madison TV reporters filmed and commented from the sidelines. Melissa Black from I-CHIC, the prestigious Chicago station, talked with her cameraman as she assessed the crowd. The publicity party had grown larger, most likely due to Frank’s demise and the contest’s increasing popularity.
Scott Puddleman was dressed in a stylish tux and stood center stage. Suzy Mae , still wearing the crème puff gown, whispered into his ear. Scott shook his head.
Suzy frowned and walked toward the judges’ table, leaned toward Annie and hissed in her ear. “Do not think for one second that I will overlook or excuse how you treated my daughter today.”
“Considering I was the only one who treated her like a grown-up, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Suzy Mae glared daggers at Annie as she took her seat.
“Welcome one and all to the first annual Wisconsin Hot Guys evening wear competition!” Scott said to huge in-house applause. He smiled and nodded. “Tonight I need to be a fulltime judge. So I’m turning Master of Ceremony duties over to Grady Swenson. He’s been subbing for the contest since our announcer, Earl Dussair, lost his voice due to his unfortunate situation, which he has lawyered up about and we are not allowed to divulge. Take it, Grady!”
Grady stepped up to the mic. He looked styling and handsome. Annie applauded. He winked at her. He turned back to the mic. “Hello, Wisconsin!”
“Hello!” the enthusiastic ballroom crowd responded.
“It’s a fine night in beautiful Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Tonight your votes count. Voting will be open until the fireworks celebration at nine p.m. Text, write, phone your votes in. We will tabulate and announce the top five Hot Guys tomorrow morning. After their poignant interviews, there will be a final vote and we will crown your winner. Without further ado, let evening wear commence!”
A canned drum roll played. A spotlight played over the entrance to the stage’s curtain.
“Welcome, Mr. Madison!” Grady exclaimed. A handsome, shaggy haired, blond guy in a perfectly cut black tux emerged from a gap in the curtains and walked out onto the stage. “University of Wisconsin is home to over forty thousand college students. Their football team, the Badgers, make frequent trips to bowl games.” Mr. Madison smiled at the crowd and held up a white placard marked with his voting numbers.
“Say hello to Mr. Milwaukee!” Grady said as the gorgeous beefy finalist strutted past Mr. Madison. “For much of recent history, Milwaukee is known as the beer capital of the world!” Mr. Milwaukee gave the crowd a dazzling smile and pointed to the numbers on his card.
Grady squinted at his notes. “Hey there, Mr. Richland Center. Your town’s website describes itself as ‘Experience the extreme to the serene’.” A tall lean stud walked a little sheepishly on the runaway. “Which are you?” Grady asked.
Mr. Richland Center shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Mr. Sheboygan passed Richland on the runway and they high-fived. The crowd cheered.
“What’s up, Mr. Sheboygan?’ Grady said. “USA Today once wrote your hometown had the best brats and an ample supply of healthy bachelors.”
A girl called out, “Still single? Whoot, whoot!”
Annie watched and clapped her hands as Grady rocked the house. She spotted Julia in the crowd looking a little rumpled and still dressed in her earlier casual attire. Well, at least she was dressed, Annie thought.
Mr. Wisconsin Dells, so handsome in his black tux, took the stage. He placed his index finger next to his eye, made a heart with his hands and pointed at Julia. She shrieked, bounced up and down on her heels and waved wildly.
“Looking lucky tonight, Mr. Dells,” Grady said.
With the exception of Frank being dead, everything was perfect, Annie thought. What was she so worried about? She heard a tiny buzz. Probably just ambient noise from Grady’s microphone.
WNOC’s cameras were pointed at her and rolling. Clad in a sparkly sequin covered gown, Stephanie added hushed dramatic color commentary to the videotape.
The buzzing grew louder. It felt like something tiny and fuzzy nuzzled her ear.
Dang. Annie hoped she wasn’t having another empathic reaction. What was tiny and fuzzy that could be nuzzling her ear? She blinked and gazed at the Hot Guy who was currently on stage walking the walk. Shocker—Mr. Bitterhausen.
Was she getting an empathic vibe from him? Was part of Mr. Bitterhausen tiny and fuzzy? If so—exactly what was tickling her ear?
“The ex-Duke of Fredonia, Mr. Bitterhausen!” Grady proclaimed. “The modest hamlet of Bitterhausen has an active scrapbooking community, two mineral springs and a small, but enthusiastic nudist colony.”
Annie frowned and discretely scratched her ear.
Bitterhausen boldly held up his voting placard overhead, swiveling it widely around him in a semi-circle so everyone in the audience could see it.
No way, Annie mouthed to him. She pointed to her eye, mimicked plunking a ballot into a box, held up four fingers on one hand and pointed back at Bitterhausen. No Way I Vote 4 You.
Ivan stood up and started chanting, “Vote fwoh Bitta Howsen! Vote fwoh Bitta Howsen!” A few people took up the chant. Prince Frederick cracked a smile and stiffly waved at the cameras aimed at him.
Mr. Appleton wheeled onto the stage all dream-boaty with a rakish grin.
“Famed escape artist Harry Houdini grew up in Appleton,” Grady said. “Your magic doesn’t escape us, Mr. Appleton.”
Lila, dressed in a skin tight and fabulous shiny faux snake dress, snuck down the aisle close to the stage. Frank was right behind her. She plunked down in the seat next to Prince Frederick, who gazed at her and licked his lips like a kid who just scored the good Halloween candy. Frank kneeled on the floor and stared up at her gobsmacked.
Mr. Bloomer did the catwalk. He was smooth, debonair, and practically danced on air.
Grady tried to steer the crowd back on course. “Like your style, Mr. Bloomer. Perfect—just like beautiful Lake Como in your town.”
Lila stared at Annie and held her fingers up to her ear and mouth like a phone. She mouthed, We need to talk.
Annie plucked at her dress. Thank you, she mouthed back. No way they needed to talk. This could potentially be a problem. Since his death, Frank was becoming increasingly enamored with Lila. He was supposed to be concentrating on finding his killer and passing over. Not falling in love with his old sweetheart.
Bzzz sounded next to Annie’s other ear. Oh, for God’s sakes! She glanced around. There were like a thousand cameras in the room. She was not going to overreact and be one of those gullible persons who made complete idiots out of themselves while some opportunistic moron captured the moment on camera and placed it on Youtube where it went viral.
Yes, she felt increasingly stressed, but she was strong and she could handle it. She’d been through worse with that asshole ghost Derrick Fuller. She discretely flicked her ear with her index finger.
Mrs. McGillicuddy eyeballed her and frowned.
“What?” Annie whispered. “What is it this time? Am I tardy? Did I write a shitty book report? Do you not approve of my outfit? Am I living a wild and lascivious lifestyle in L.A.?”
“Yes, but—” Mrs. McGillicuddy said.
Mr. Butternut strutted across the stage.
“Butternut is a dream location for outdoor enthusiasts!” Grady announced.
“Yeah there, I’m barefoot. I’m getting divorced. Did you know that getting divorced takes at least six long, painful months in the State of California?”
“No, but—”
“I have a confession. I never liked Greek literature,” Annie hissed. “I wanted to rip my eyeballs out when you made us read The Iliad.”
Bzzz.
“I like reading novels that thrill me, chill me, or make me laugh. Give me a clever mystery, a fun romance or a thriller any day. Throw in a cupcake and a cocktail and color me happy.”
Bzzz. Bzzz.
“But—” Mrs. McGillicuddy said.
Annie swatted her left ear. “Enough with the buts! I am telling you now. And I will tell you again.” She swatted her right ear. “I’m doing the best I can do. If you think I am going to sit here and do nothing until I get your approval, you’re wrong. That was high school. And I am no longer there.” She turned away from Mrs. McGillicuddy, crossed her arms over her daisy-clad chest and harrumphed.
“It’s a B,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said.
Annie wondered if she had heard that correctly. Had the Chicago Cubs won the World Series? She smiled. “OMG?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy nodded. “Definitely a B.”
“After twenty plus long years you’re finally giving me a B? Sweet Jesus, I need a cupcake.” Annie lunged to hug Mrs. McGillicuddy who screamed and jerked away from her.
“What? You don’t like cupcakes? Who doesn’t like cupcakes? I’ll make you a baker’s dozen. A combo of your faves.”
Mrs. McGillicuddy stumbled backward away from Annie. Suddenly all the cameras swiveled from the Hot Guys and focused on the drama playing out on the judge’s stage. The drama involving Annie and Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“I’ll spike them with your favorite old-lady liquor. I mean… I will make you Grasshopper Cupcakes!”
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
“What’s that freaking buzzing!” Annie realized she’d yelled it into a completely packed, albeit deadly silent ballroom.
Mrs. McGillicuddy slowly backed away from Annie. “You’ve been gone a long time. But how could you forget it’s bee season in Wisconsin? They do love the daisies.”
Annie glanced up and spotted seven bees circling her head, her dress. One dove toward her cleavage. “Aw, frick.”
“Let the voting begin!” Grady said.
But the cameras stayed on Annie. She stood and turned to bolt.
“You have to vote,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said.
“Come on!”
“Every self-respecting judge must vote.”
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Annie grabbed her ballot, chose a contestant and marked a name. Then ran to the ballot box next to the podium. Grady backed away from her.
“Et tu, Brute’?” She looked up. Twenty bees circled her head. She shoved her ballot in the box and bolted across the stage as flashes from dozens of cameras popped, nearly blinding her.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
“A big round of applause to thank Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc, for providing these gorgeous tuxedos,” Grady said as Annie fled out the ballroom door.
Annie had zero lead on the bees as she pushed her way through a hallway firedoor and rushed outside onto the grassy backyard. Maybe it would have been smarter to gently disengage all the flowers from her pageant outfit. Maybe she’d only get stung twenty times, as her bee friends had apparently invited their bee-FFs to this party.
The Olympic-sized pool was just yards away. She peeked up and spotted forty bees buzzing around her. She screamed. Made it to the gate surrounding the pool area, her arms flailing overhead at her growing personal hive. One sting. Ouch! Two stings—Double ouch! Three stings—Like, what had she ever done to offend the Bee Kingdom except for wearing daisies?
“Getting a B from your high school English teacher is over-rated,” Annie said. “And you all can bite me.” Apparently they decided to do just that as a small swarm rose from a hedge of daises and flew toward her.
She flung the kid-safety gate open and raced to the pool’s edge. She dove over the elderly couple in the shallow end who appeared to be having a Cialis moment. She hit the crystal clear water fully clothed and descended to the bottom of the pool where she held her breath for as long as was humanly possible.
19. Bee-licious
Frank gazed at her on the pool’s floor. Strangely, his hair didn’t float in ridiculous directions. It just stayed in the same place and appeared gently rumpled.
Annie squinted at him, threw her hands up and burbled, “I’m trying to find your murderer and you can’t keep me safe from bees?” Unfortunately, underwater her complaints sounded like, “Burble-Burber-Bee?”
But Frank understood. “I think they’re gone by now.”
“‘Oh, you can trust Lila,’” Annie said. “Head’s up, dude. That’s your penis talking.” Which totally sounded like, “Burble-Gurgle-Pee,” as she inhaled pool water, clutched her chest and hacked.
“Noted,” Frank said. “Next time penis talks—tell penis to be quiet and re-evaluate the situation. Your face is turning blue. It’s time to breathe. Air, not water.” He pointed toward the pool’s surface.
“Whatev.” Annie stomped her foot on the pool’s concrete floor and breast stroked ’till she popped above the water’s surface in the pool’s deep end. She shook her head and bobbed. The chlorine burnt her eyes, her vision was blurry and despite the chill from the pool’s water, she felt surprisingly warm.
She barely made out the muscular male hand extended and gesturing toward her from the pool’s edge. She swam toward it. The man wrapped his hand around hers, pulled her flush against the pool’s decorative tiled edge and hauled her out.
“Thanks, Frank.” She looked down through the chlorine fog. Her styling outfit and hairdo were drenched and ruined. She was soaked and wearing a clingy, for-the-most-part transparent hotel sheet. “Any bees?”
“No bees. I’m Jamie. Frank’s dead.” He held her hand for longer than necessary. “Drinking and swimming, Ms.?”
She screamed and yanked her hand away.
“What?” Jamie asked.
“I didn’t think it was you!” She slapped her hands over her boobs and other parts that were usually, but not always, private.
“Who the hell did you think my hand belonged to?”
Frank put his index finger to his lips. “You screwed up with Lila. Don’t tell him.”
Annie shook her head. She spotted the bee stinger embedded in her cleavage. It was turning an angry beet red and throbbing. Thinly disguised nudity be damned. She reached for it and winced.
“I’ll help,” Jamie said.
“No!”
“Remember when I was ten years old and discovered the bee hive on the back corner of our garage?”
She nodded and peered at the stinger that was embedded in her arm. Also red and swelling fast. “You proclaimed, ‘No more paper route for me. I’m going to harvest honey and make a fortune!’”
“I got stung five times. You called my folks. They couldn’t or wouldn’t come home. You wanted to take me to the emergency room. My folks said no. That I was a magnet for trouble, as well as bees. That I’d never been allergic and hopefully would learn a lesson from my latest adventure.”
“I remember.” Annie tried to pull out the stinger from her chest. But her hand shook.
“You sat with me and pulled every stinger out. Even the one by my—”
“Remember that one, too.”
“Payback time.” Jamie plucked the stinger out of Annie’s arm and flicked it away. “Are you allergic? Do I need to call the paramedics? I’ve got an Epi-Pen in the SUV…”
“No idea.”
“When’s the last time you were stung?”
“I’m still divorcing him.”
“Bees, Annie! Concentrate. You’re not feeling woozy?”
“Definitely not woozy.” She swayed.
Jamie grabbed her arms, held her upright and led her several feet to a pool chair. “Sit,” he said.
“I’m not your German Shepherd. Ask me nicely.”
“Please sit in this lovely lawn chair before I arrest and detain you.”
She vaguely wondered what the “detaining” thing might entail. Hmm.
“When’s the last time you were stung?”
“Twenty years ago on high school graduation day. Sucker snuck up under my robe and nailed me on my upper thigh. I swelled up something fierce.”
“But you didn’t pass out.”
“Only once.”
“Not helpful!” Jamie said. “You don’t know if you’re still allergic? You’re breathing a little heavy.”
“You try running out of a ballroom packed with maniacal blood suckers.”
“The bees don’t suck your blood, Annie.”
“I was talking about the paparazzi.”
Jamie leaned in close to her and lifted her soggy hair off her collarbone. “Light-headed?” He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and smoothed it onto the rest of her drenched locks that dripped down her back.
“No.” Her heart pounded.
“Bear with me.” Jamie placed his hand on her cheek and gently turned her head toward her other shoulder. “Hmm.”
Annie felt her heartbeat in her ears. What was wrong with her? Jamie’s face was inches from her face, his breath warm on her skin. Which tingled. Probably from the bee venom. Or adrenaline. Or both. “What are you doing?”
“The stinger’s imbedded right behind your ear. In your hairline. The location’s a little tricky. I’ll pull the whole thing out.”
“Right.” Like—how many times had she heard the “I’ll pull the whole thing out” line before. She squirmed.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting.” Maybe if he wanted her to stop fidgeting he shouldn’t resemble a young Brad Pitt. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
“Hold still!”
“Hold still, please?” She asked. Maybe if he really wanted her to hold still his mouth wouldn’t be an inch from her skin, breathing warm sweet air onto her neck and giving her goosebumps. If he was serious about this not-moving-thing he wouldn’t be that lethal combination of the nicest guy in the world, the hottest man in town, possess a killer sense of humor and share history with her. “I have a new boyfriend, you know?”
“Lucky guy,” Jamie removed the stinger from her hairline and threw it away. He leaned back, cocked his head and regarded her cleavage. “Let’s get that last one out.”
Annie squirmed. “Nah. Thanks for ze help. I’ll say happy twails to you.” She pushed herself to standing and swayed. “Bye-bye.” Her knees buckled and she passed out.
Annie woke up. Her eyes were closed, but she felt a carpet of grass beneath her skin. From the feel of it, she was lying on a cushy lawn. The air was humid and warm, which meant she was lying on a rich green cushy summer lawn. Her eyes dragged open. Everything was a little hazy, but she saw her mom, Julia and Grady sitting on the ground next to her. Jamie paced back and forth behind them. Lila rubbed her feet. Dead Frank hovered next to Lila. Her entourage did not look happy.
“Crap,” Annie said. “I’m dead, aren’t? You’re all here ’cause I’m dead and you’re mourning. Or wondering if I left you anything in my will.” She waved her hands in front of them. “Hello, can you hear me? ’Cause I can see all of you. None of you are psychic, or empathic. So I am reaching out from beyond the grave to my closest blood relative—my beloved mother.”
Her mom wiped a tear from her eye. Just like Demi Moore’s character in Ghost, the movie. She didn’t want her mom to end up all whiny and sad and pathetic like Demi. “No matter what I say or do, Mom,” Annie said. “When I was still alive or in the Afterlife, I’ll love you forever.”
Annie’s mom sniffled.
“While I adored Julia I did not bequeath her my “Sculpt-Your-Curves through Pole Dancing with the Reverend Tawny Fuller” DVDs. I donated them to the library.”
“But you promised!” Julia said.
Annie and Julia locked eyes.
“I’m not dead?” Annie asked.
“You passed out. Wuss,” Julia said.
“She had an anaphylactic reaction,” Jamie said. “I need to take her to the emergency room.”
“No!” Annie, her mom and Julia chimed in.
“Annie hates hospitals.” Julia pinched Annie’s arm. “I can’t believe you’re not bequeathing me the pole-dancing DVDs.”
“Suck it, Julia. Borrow them for a month,” Annie said. “If you lose five pounds, I’ll give them to you.”
“Deal!”
“I’m so sorry,” Lila said. “If I’d known you were allergic to bees, I wouldn’t have gone the daisy route.”
“It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could you have known,” Frank said.
Annie sat up. “No worries.”
Jamie knelt next to her and wrapped his arm around her waist. “You okay? Should we go to the hospital?”
She shook her head. A wave of exhaustion hit her. She rested her head on his shoulder.
Julia’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and eyed the number. “It’s a 310 area code. L.A. is calling.”
“Answer it,” Annie said.
She did. “It’s Julia. To whom am I speaking?”
“Raphael Campillio. I’m worried about Annie. I’ve called multiple times. Everything goes straight to voicemail. I can’t get through to her. Sorry, Julia, but I tracked down your number. Is she all right?”
Julia lifted an eyebrow and looked at Annie.
Annie motioned to Julia with her hand.
Julia passed her the phone. “Raphael. It’s so great to hear your voice!” Annie mouthed ‘Please.’ Nancy, Julia, Lila and Frank walked away and gave her some room. But Jamie stayed, his arm tight around her waist like a brace.
“I didn’t get your messages,” Annie said. “I got stung by bees and apparently I passed out. I still don’t have any clothes and I’m feeling Ver-tuzed.”
“You need to come home. You need to come back to L.A. Now.”
Jamie shook his head.
“Why, Raphael?” Annie asked. “Are you okay? Is something wrong? Tell me.”
“I can’t explain it,” Rafe said. “I have a bad feeling. Something’s not right.”
“I can’t leave here, yet. I’m thinking this trip will be done in a couple of days. Everything will be over by then.”
“Wrong.” Jamie shook his head again. “Everything’s finally starting.”
“The contest ends tomorrow,” Raphael said. “Who’s that in the background?”
“A friend. Practically part of the family.” Annie stared up at Jamie.
“Not part of the family,” he said.
“Contest ends tomorrow. But I’ve got a few things I need to finish here.”
“Things you need to start,” Jamie said.
She turned away from Jamie. Cradled the phone. “I’ll come back soon, Rafe. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I don’t want to miss you forever.”
“That won’t happen,” Annie said. But he’d already hung up the phone. “Dammit!” She handed the phone back to Julia.
She took it and grabbed Annie’s arm.
“Ow!”
“Let’s find you something festive to wear for the BBQ and the fireworks.” Julia tore her away from Jamie.
“You’re bruising me!”
“Some day you’ll thank me for this.” Julia dragged her back toward the Lodge.
“I’ll help!” Lila followed Julia and Annie.
“Me too.” Frank followed Lila.
“We have business, Annie Graceland,” Detective Jamie Ryan yelled after her.
Annie stopped in her tracks. Swiveled, stared at him, and nodded. “But it’s not here, Jamie. And it’s not now.”
Julia tugged on her arm, and she walked away from Jamie. So not fair that her skin still tingled on all the places he’d touched her.
Back at their hotel room, Julia flipped through her extensive wardrobe. “I can’t freaking believe you’re jeopardizing your new relationship with the coolest, smartest, most handsome man west of the Rocky Mountains for a hometown kid who used to stick frogs down your pants.”
“My shirt. And by the way? I’m jeopardizing nothing.”
“Right. And I’m virgin, just like Madonna back in high school.” Julia rifled through her clothes and pitched tops, skirts, pants and dresses onto the bed.
Lila picked through Julia’s wardrobe. She tossed one outfit to the side. “No on this one. Cheap department store slutty look won’t work for the BBQ and fireworks.”
Julia bit her lip.
Lila tossed another dress on the ‘No-Go’ heap. “Neither will expensive department store tacky.”
Julia rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “You know this girl—how?” She whispered.
“Frank’s former amour. Suzy DeLovely’s wild child. She’s feisty. An admirable quality in friends, yes?”
“And this?” Lila lifted a Maddona-esque outfit into the air. “Hah! Like a virgin? Like crazy! Hasn’t been in style since the nineties.”
Julia placed her hands on her hips, stuck a pose and glared at Lila. “Tell me you are not judging my wardrobe?”
Lila held one two fingers in the air in the V-shaped universal ‘peace sign’ and backed away from Julia. “Not trying to start a fight. Just trying to help.”
Annie waved her arms between them. “Julia’s an old friend. Lila’s a new friend. You all have different tastes. That’s what life’s about. Chill. Play nice.”
Lila picked up a blue shirt with white stars sprinkled across it. “Hmm… Definite possibility. Super cute.” She held it up next to Annie who had ditched her ruined sheet-gown and was now wearing a comfy Lake Lodge robe. “It goes with your coloring.”
Julia said. “I got that on sale at—”
“Snotsky’s of Santa Monica,” Lila said. “I did print shoots for them. It’s darling! Perfect! You have awesome taste.”
Annie made her decision. “Sold. I’m done worrying about clothes and outfits and how people judge me. I have more important things to worry about. At this point, I’ll wear flippin’ Bikersville towels.”
Julia clapped. “Good. Because you need to get out of Dodge. I’ll loan you frequent flyer mileage. Hop on a plane tonight. Take the red-eye back to L.A. Be with Raphael, a real man. Skip the rest of this contest and shut Jamie Ryan down.”
“Jamie’s harmless.” Annie stared at her feet.
“Harmless like a heart attack. If Jamie’s Mr. Safe, why are you staring at your toes? Heads up. Detective Blue Eyes will bust up your new relationship in a heartbeat. Take me up on my offer. Escape. Now.”
“No,” Lila said. “Annie can’t leave. I think she’s figuring out who killed my Frank.”
“You told her?” Julia whispered.
Annie blinked.
“Shit, Annie,” Julia said.
“Don’t go,” Frank said.
“I can’t move on until I know who killed Frank,” Lila said.
“Look, Long-Legs. Everyone feels terrible about what happened to Frank, myself included,” Julia said. “But this isn’t entirely about him. If Annie screws up her first, post-divorce, new relationship with a man who is good and kind, handsome and smart? If she throws it away for a foolish fling, not only does she lose big-time but it sets a low standard for smart women everywhere who have been through tough times.”
“Jamie’s a youngster,” Annie said. “He had a boy crush on me that was reactivated by the adrenaline of investigating Frank’s death. Thanks for your concern, Julia. But nothing will come from this almost-flirtation.” She grabbed the blue top and walked into the bathroom. “I’m showering. I’m changing. Then I’m heading out to the BBQ and fireworks. I hope you all will join me.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Julia said. “You’ll be eating your words.”
“Let’s hope they’re covered in dark chocolate frosting,” Annie said.
20. Calling Foul
Fowler Park was a haven adjacent to Fowler Lake. Picnic tables were filled with snackies, drinks and people sitting around them. More folks sat in portable foldout chairs and reclined on blankets on the ground waiting for the top five announcement and the subsequent fireworks. The sun dipped toward the horizon over the paved bike paths, the playground equipment and the small lagoons that connected to Fowler Lake.
Jamie walked next to Annie on her way to the band shell. “You need to be honest with me about things like bee allergies. I still think you should go to the ER.”
“You need to be honest with me about your life. How many years have gone by and I’ve never seen you. Where were you all this time?” Annie asked.
“I joined the Army when I was eighteen,” Jamie said. "They promised to pay for my education. They did. I promised to pay them back. I did. I served two tours. The first in Afghanistan. The second in Iraq. When I was done, I worked a variety of jobs in towns next to the military bases. But I wasn’t happy. So I decided to move back home and became a cop. And then put in the hours to be promoted to detective.”
“Oh,” Annie said. “I didn’t know. We didn’t stay in touch.”
“It wouldn’t have been normal for us to keep up. I mean—who corresponds with their former babysitter?”
“Right.” She frowned and remembered what babysitting Jamie Ryan involved.
A plastic headband pushed sixteen-year old Annie’s long ginger-streaked auburn hair away from her Coppertone covered forehead and her nose that was slathered in zinc oxide. She wore a flower print bikini top, cut-off frayed jean shorts and cool sunglasses as she reclined on a foldout beach chair at the end of her family’s faded wooden pier. Nearby, Jamie dove in and out of the lake waters like a dolphin.
Annie pulled a book from her beach bag. Its cover featured a dreamy teenage boy wearing a high school football varsity jacket. His arms were wrapped around the waist of fresh-faced zit-less teenage girl wearing Amish attire. Annie smiled, wiggled down into her chair and cracked the book halfway open. When lake water splashed her as well as her book.
“Hey!” she hollered. “Stop it, you brat! I need to know what happens between Drew, the hometown hottie, and Emily, who’s Amish and recently moved to Wisconsin from Pennsylvania.” They had just confessed their love for each other in her dad’s barn next to his buggy. Very exciting!
“Romance—ew. You’re turning red like a tomato. Come swimming,” ten-year old Jamie said as he treaded water.
“Give me a little time,” Annie said.
“You always say that,” he grumbled, took a deep breath and sunk back under the lake’s surface.
Annie devoured the story as she flipped through the book’s pages. Would Emily’s dad catch her and Drew in his barn? Would the adorable mismatched couple be able to hide their relationship for much longer? Could Emily go to the prom with Drew? Good God, it made her mind spin.
Something cold and scaly slapped against her ankle.
Dang, Annie thought. Another empathic reaction? This whole psycho/psychic thing started after the tobogganing accident with her mom two plus years ago. What was it this time? She hoped it wasn’t a premonition that Drew and Emily were going to break up. That would just be wrong.
She heard giggling and snorting. Jamie’s drenched head popped up over the pier’s wooden planks. “Ha-ha-ha!” He pointed at a small fish flopping on her ankle. “You wouldn’t come in the water so I brought the water to you. “Ha!” He snorted. “H-ha….” He couldn’t stop giggling.
“Yuck.” Annie frowned and plopped her book down on the chair. “I am so going to get you.” She leaned forward, gingerly picked up the fish by its tail and tossed it back in the lake. Jamie splashed her again and swam off.
She strode toward the pier’s end and jumped off it. She surfaced moments later, her head poking above the lake’s surface. “Rarrwh!” Annie exclaimed and treaded water. “Dum-dum-dum-dum,” She hummed the opening tune from Jaws. “I am Jaws, Jamie Ryan. I am the Alien. You are toast.”
“Aaaah!” Jamie screamed and splashed away, a huge smile on his face every time he burst out of the water.
Back at Fowler Park, Annie walked through the masses flanked by Jamie on one side, and Frank on the other. “You’re hovering, Jamie. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I don’t know about that. You seem to be a trouble magnet.”
“Funny. That’s what your folks used to say about you. Do you have more leads in Frank’s murder?” she asked. “Because the only thing I have are hunches and suspects with no opportunity.”
Jamie shook his head. “We checked into Bitterhausen’s whereabouts during Frank’s murder. He was naked in the lodge’s hot tub after-hours. The cleaning crew found him and reported to hotel management. Apparently he left a rather large impression on them. So, Bitterhausen’s currently off the suspect list.”
“He’s still an ass,” Annie said.
“There are a lot of assholes in this world and not every one is a murderer. We did find a tire track from the dirt bike the day the driver shot at Stephanie. It skidded across the Blackhoof lawn on the way out. We have a partial cast and have narrowed down the database. Looks like a popular Honda model sold about six years ago.”
“Are those bikes registered?” Annie asked.
“They get bought and re-sold quickly. Teens love them. Then they grow a couple of years older and want a serious bike.”
Annie thought of Lila charging down the road on her rented Harley.
Mrs. McGillicuddy motioned to Annie from the pavilion and pointed to her watch. Annie nodded at her. “Look, Jamie. About today with the bees… Thank you. As for the other thing between us—”
“So you admit there’s something between us,” he said.
“No. Yes. Kind of. Look, if I lived here, if you lived in California, if I hadn’t already started dating someone who is awesome, who I really care for—”
“Wrap it up,” Frank said. “I know Jamie. You’re becoming more of a challenge. He’s had a crush on you forever and he’s not going to take no for an answer.”
Grady beckoned impatiently at Annie from the pavilion.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” Annie said and walked away from Jamie.
“That’s not an answer,” Jamie said. “Don’t even begin to think that’s an answer.”
She didn’t turn back. She didn’t want to see the expression on his face. She just wanted to get this done.
The contestants had changed from evening wear to casual clothes that were perfect for a BBQ. Melissa Black, the female reporter from I-CHIC, Stephanie from WNOC and other news crews were set up prime filming distance along the pavilion’s perimeter.
Annie sat at the judges' table set up in front of the pavilion. Mrs. McGillicuddy perused the pageant itinerary. Scott texted on his cell phone. Suzy clicked her fingernails together.
Grady stood tall and handsome next to a mic. “Attention, friends and fans! Thanks to you, we have our final five.”
The audience chanted, “Hot Guys! Hot Guys!”
“Each Hot Guys top five finalist wins a photo shoot to be featured in Wisconsin Magazine, a pair of year long passes to The Wisconsin Dells water parks and money awarded to their favorite charities. Please save your applause for the end.” Grady ripped the envelope open. Blew in it and pulled out a paper. “In no particular order, the top five finalists are…”
A drum roll played. Tension and nerves were on edge. “Mr. Madison. Mr. Milwaukee. Mr. Bitterhausen. Mr. Appleton. And Mr. Wisconsin Dells!”
The fans screamed. The finalists jumped up and down. Annie watched as Mr. Appleton kissed a beautiful young woman on the lips. Most likely his girlfriend. Mr. Madison threw a kiss to a stunning young man in the crowd—probably his boyfriend. Mr. Milwaukee bear-hugged an older woman who looked just like him. Probably his mother. Bitterhausen saluted his brother, Prince Frederick. Who nodded at him and saluted back. Lila wasn’t at Frederick’s side. Hmm. Where was Lila?
Mr. Dells threw a kiss to Julia. Who preened. But then he tossed a smooch to a girl standing about ten feet from Julia. Winked at a gorgeous forty-something woman lounging yards behind her. And mimed, ‘Call me,’ to another woman at the far end of the lawn.
Julia regarded the other women, glared at Mr. Dells and sliced her finger across her throat. Uh-oh. While Julia might be a little guy-hungry she was never one for sharing. She turned and pushed through the excited masses, wiping tears away.
The five finalists converged toward the pavilion. Annie yelled, “Julia! Come back!” But she didn’t miss a beat, let alone a step, as she kept walking.
The fireworks started. A few cracks, pops and sizzles as umbrellas of multi-colored lights lit up the night sky. Everything seemed great for everybody—except for her and Frank and Julia. Annie called Julia but she didn’t pick up. She left a message on her voicemail, “Call me!”
Annie needed some encouragement and she needed it now. She walked into the parking lot and out onto the tree lined road dotted with streetlights.
Reed Billings, the sunburnt man who loaned her his belt, pulled up next to her in his truck.
“You’re leaving?” Annie asked.
“Got what I came for. The Missus expects me back shortly. I could ask the same of you.”
“There’s someone I need to talk to. He helps clear my mind.”
“Local?”
“He’s been local for a while now.”
“You want a ride?”
“Thanks.” Annie hopped in the passenger side.
“Any chance you remembered the belt?” Reed asked.
She patted her bag and pulled it out.
Annie hopped out of Reed’s truck outside the entrance to Lac LaBelle cemetery. “Thanks.” She autographed his belt and handed it to him. “You’re a gentleman. I hope your new business is muy caliente. That said, I’d like to suggest you use sunscreen.”
Reed examined the belt. “You sound like my wife as well as my dermatologist. I’ll be posting photos of this on our new dating site. I might auction it off in the future should you become famous.”
“Highly doubtful, but go for it,” Annie said.
“You sure you want to be hanging out at a cemetery at night?”
“I’ve got so many family members here it’s practically a reunion .”
Reed saluted her and wheeled off, leaving Annie all alone at the Lac LaBelle Cemetery, after dark on the 4th of July. She unlatched the iron gate, opened it and walked inside.
But technically she wasn’t alone—Frank was on her heels. “Everyone else is having fun at the fireworks. But you’re visiting a cemetery? Are you trying to make me more comfortable? Like if my parents bury me here? It’s not going to happen. My will requests that I be cremated and discretely scattered over Lambeau Field during a Packers-Bears game.”
“Doubtful the Packer establishment will allow that activity,” Annie said.
“Doubtful my family will give a rat’s ass what establishment allows.”
“Noted. Maybe they can slip you into the nachos.”
“Scattered on the field. Not in food items. Tell me you’re not a Packers fan, anymore?”
“Always. Relax,” Annie held out her hand. “Hold my hand, please. I get a little nervous when I come here. I don’t want to stumble.”
Lac LaBelle cemetery had to be one of the prettiest in the world. Marble carved angels hovered over tombstones. Ornate crypts overlooked the lake. Annie wandered through the hilly home for the departed and flashed Scott-o’s flashlight on the tombstones. Looking. Searching. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s stunning.” Frank touched the compassionate face of an angel who overlooked a small collection of gravestones so old the earth was practically sucking them in. “Timothy S. Blanken. Beloved Son. Born August 9th, 1906. Died September 26th, 1907. He was only a year old. Maybe I did live a long time?”
“No. You didn’t.” Annie kept walking, moving the flashlight back and forth over family plots. The Hilgendorfs. The Priebes. The Kriebels. She flashed the light over more angels, seraphims—beautiful other-earthly marble and stone carved watchers who zealously guarded their assigned death estates. She aimed the flashlight up a hill speckled with tombstones. “I think that’s it!”
She skipped off. Leapt over gravestones, maneuvered around tombstones. Ignored all the angels who probably watched her a little too judgmentally. She huffed as she climbed the steep hill.
“Why are we tombstone hopping?” Frank asked. “Everyone’s at the fireworks.”
“You’re hoping Lila’s at the fireworks.”
“Yeah? So?”
“There are so many hills in this place. And it’s nighttime. But I should know. I should know! It’s been too long since I’ve been back home.” When the beam from her flashlight bounced off a plot on the top of the hill. She held it steady and illuminated a large boulder. The letters carved in it spelled out “GRACELAND”.
“Your family’s plot?”
Annie nodded, breathed a sigh of relief and walked cautiously toward it. Focused her flashlight on the area. Sat down on the ground amidst the graves. And shone the beam on one specific gravestone. It read –
‘Joe Graceland.
Beloved son, husband, father.
We will miss you, always. Please visit frequently.
(We are open to that!)’
Annie’s mom had picked the personalized message. She touched her dad’s tombstone. Closed her eyes and ran her fingers across the carved words. “I miss you, Daddy. I thought you should know that due to recent events, I can talk to dead people. You fall in that category. So if you ever want to visit, give me a sign, offer advice—I’m super open to that.”
“He’s been dead a long time,” Frank said as fireworks lit up the sky in front of them: popping, crackling and fizzing high over Lac LaBelle before they dove down toward the lake waters.
“He was a soldier. He served in Viet Nam. He died when I was a kid.”
“You still miss him?”
“I’ll always miss him. Years soften tears but never erase love.”
“I wish I could have known him.”
Annie looked at her dad’s grave. And reached for Frank’s hand. “You always took care of people, Daddy. I want you to take care of Frank Plank. He’s a good man.”
Frank’s eyes widened. They waited a few seconds. Heard nothing unusual. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t think…” Frank said.
Skinny high-pitched revs of an engine buzzed in the near distance.
Annie jumped. “Does that sound like a motorcycle?”
“More like a dirt bike,” Frank said.
She brought two fingers to her mouth in a kiss and touched them to her dad’s grave. “Must run, Daddy. Have to catch a killer.”
21. Wild Women
By the time Annie and Frank had descended the hills and reached the cemetery’s gate, the dirt bike was long gone and sounded like a mosquito in the distance.
Annie dropped her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Go after the bike!”
“What bike?” Frank asked. “It’s probably miles from here.”
“You’re dead. Can’t you float or levitate or zip through time?”
“I’m newly dead. I don’t know anything about being deceased let alone possessing super powers. You’ve seen too many movies.” He plodded off down the narrow road that led away from the cemetery.
“Fine!” Annie said. “I’m just trying to help. I thought the goal was to find your killer so you could pass to the Afterlife.”
“Fine! I’m done for tonight. I didn’t ask to be a ghost. I don’t want to be dead. I do, however, want to pass to the Afterlife.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, anymore. I think you secretively want to delay passing because you’ve fallen back in love with Lila.”
“That is not true.”
“Really?”
“Okay, it’s totally true,” Frank said. “Dang! She’s still making me pay for never calling her back. But that was years ago.”
“It’s called karma. You get to pay it in this life, other lives and apparently in-between lives, until you learn whatever your lesson is.”
Annie realized she’d have to walk all the way back to the Lodge. Frick. Then she realized her mom’s house was much closer. “Good night, Frank.”
“Good night to you, too.” Frank levitated a few inches. Started floating skyward and hovered above her head. “This is because of your suggestion, right? I’m a sucker for a pretty face who tells me what to do. What the hell am I going to do up here?”
“I don’t know. But you’re big and strong and you can deal with it,” Annie said. “Check in with me tomorrow.”
There was a loud zing and sparks flew off a power line overhead. “That you, Frank?”
“No. It’s karma,” he said.
An hour later, Annie finagled the key in the front door of her mom’s house. She snuck up the stairs, slipped into her former bedroom, quietly shut the door and set the big pink alarm clock. She changed into her Oconomowoc Rocks pjs, climbed into her twin bed and hugged Walla the koala to her heart. But she couldn’t sleep. She thought of her dad and Frank. Two good men who were cut down in the prime of their lives.
Was she even remotely close to solving Frank’s murder? The only person with an obvious motive was Suzy . But she had a solid alibi. Bitterhausen was a pain, but no longer a suspect. Perhaps Frank’s death was completely random, not even related to the contest. But Jamie didn’t believe that either. And Jamie’s instincts were pretty reliable. And Annie remembered…
Teenage Annie wore jeans and reclined on a couple of large pillows on the floor in the Ryan residence den. She flipped through a Teen Cosmo while half-heartedly playing Battleship with ten-year-old Jamie Ryan. He made a couple of fancy moves and proclaimed, “Hah! I sunk your Battleship. I win. Again.”
“You’re a military genius, dude,” Annie said.
Jamie jumped up and hopped around the room. “Let’s have cupcakes. You brought some, right?”
“Let’s not. You’re wired. How much sugar did you eat today?”
“I didn’t eat any sugar.”
“What did you eat today?”
“Fruity Loops for breakfast. Pizza for lunch. Mickey D’s for dinner. Some chocolate from my stash before you got here. Although Mom doesn’t know about the stash so don’t tell her. She’s trying to clean up my diet. Hah!”
“Got it.” Annie looked at her watch—nine p.m. One more hour until his parents returned. Then she’d meet up with Scott Puddleman for their secret date. Her mom thought her baby-sitting gig went ’till eleven thirty. So she’d have almost two whole hours with dreamboat Scott. “So exciting!” she murmured out loud.
“More Battleship?”
“No. Outside, soldier. You need to burn some energy.”
Jamie climbed the jungle gym in his backyard. He swung from the overhead bars like a monkey. Slid down the slide as slick as an Olympic skier. “Your turn,” he said.
“Thanks, but no,” Annie said, a hand on her hip as she looked at her watch.
“You’re always saying no.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You just said no again.”
“Fine, smarty-pants. Give me something to say yes to.”
“Okay.” Jamie thought. “Someday when I’m in high school, I’m going to ask you to be my date for the senior glomb. What are you going to say?”
Annie covered a smile. “When you’re a senior in high school, I’m going to be twenty-four years old. You’ll think I’m an old lady. You’d never in a thousand years invite an old lady to your senior prom.”
“I didn’t say senior prom.” Jamie frowned. “I’m asking you to be my date at senior glomb.”
Annie shook her head. “What’s the difference?”
“Prom sounds boring,” Jamie said. “Glomb, however, is like prom, but we’re all zombies. Hah! So it doesn’t matter how old you are.”
“What if I have a boyfriend?”
“You mean like gross, smells like farts, Scott Puddleman? Blech.” Jamie stuck his finger down his throat and rolled his eyes back into his head.
“I think he’s cute.”
“From what I hear, he dates all the babysitters in town.”
“No way,” Annie said.
“Yeah way. You think us kids don’t talk about stuff like this? We do.”
Annie harrumphed. What did silly little Jamie Ryan know about a man’s character?
Years later, lying awake in her twin bed in her mom’s house, she realized that Jamie Ryan quite possibly knew more than she did at the time. She drifted off.
She woke with a start and looked at the clock, which read four a.m. Women’s voices emanated from the first floor. “I’ve got another fifty on Bitterhausen,” a familiar voice said.
“Well, I just got off the phone with you-know-who. He upped the ante with a hundred on Butternuts,” Annie’s mom said.
Oh crap, Annie thought. What the hell was going on downstairs? She knew that she was totally flying under the radar at her mom’s house. But she also realized, that like a moth to a kitchen globe lamp, she simply could not resist the mystery of what was happening one story beneath her.
Annie eased out of her bed and snuck out her bedroom door.
“Nancy,” Aunt Susan said. “How many times have I told you that it’s only one nut. Singular. Butternut. Besides, Mr. Butternut didn’t make the top five. Call your friend back. Talk him into placing his money on one of the other Hot Guys.”
“You always have to be right, Susan,” Annie’s mom shouted over the loud whir of a blender.
Annie crept down the hallway and lay on the floor, flat on her stomach next to the staircase. She peered down the stairs through the rungs into the kitchen.
Mrs. McGillicuddy sat next to the kitchen table and answered her phone. “Yes? Hold on.” She held the phone away from her and covered it with her hand. “I am a pageant judge and cannot in good conscience take this call. But Joan Brady’s my niece. She’s a highly regarded lawyer who lives in Viroqua and she’s placing fifty on Wisconsin Dells. Someone talk to her, please?” She held out the phone.
Gloria, the thin, pretty, forty-something waitress from Lucky Strikes Bowling Parlor, plucked it from Mrs. McGillicuddy’s hand. “Fifty on Dells? I’m marking you down for it. Thanks, Joan.” She handed the phone back to her.
This didn’t feel right. Annie snuck down the staircase ’till she could see further into the kitchen. Gloria wrote on a three by five card and pinned it onto a large corkboard set up in Nancy’s kitchen.
The board was one that formerly held the goodwill donations at Oconomowoc High’s cafeteria, gathered along with the food offerings the day Frank died. It used to hold donations to The Sierra Club, Save the Children and other charities. Now it was divided into five columns with five names at the top of each capitalized on a card. From left to right the names read: Appleton. Bitterhausen. Wisconsin Dells. Madison. Milwaukee. Under the names were multiple cards with people’s names and dollar figures.
Her mom poured thick velvety drinks from the blender into tall glasses and spiked them with pineapple wedges. “Our newest member isn’t here yet, but I do think we are past due for refreshments.”
The phone rang again. Susan picked up and cradled the phone to her ear. “Okay, Pepe. Sounds good.” She hung up the phone. “Seventy-five on Madison from the crew at Pepe’s Pizzeria.”
Her mom handed out the frosty drinks. “I do love my organic Piña Coladas. To my fellow Wild Women: felicitations on money procured and jobs well done!” The women toasted, clinked their glasses and sipped.
“Sweet,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “You have outdone yourself, Nancy.”
Annie’s eyes practically spun in her head as she realized—Mr. Bitterhausen wasn’t the lynchpin of the illegal betting ring. Her mom’s Wild Women group was. And even though she meant to say it silently in her head, she simply couldn’t contain her frustration and screamed, “Oh. My. God!”
“Well, it’s about time,” her mom said. “I thought I’d have to power up the Skil-saw to wake you up. I poured you a cocktail. Look, it even has fresh fruit. It’s heart healthy and filled with fiber, which is good for one’s digestive tract.” She poked a straw in it and held out the glass to Annie who clung to the railing and made her way to the bottom of the stairs.
Annie accepted the glass and took a deep long gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You and your Wild Women friends are the illegal betting ring? You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. Mrs. McGillicuddy? I’m giving you a D.”
Mrs. McGillicuddy held up her hands in protest. “I am completely innocent.”
“Innocent?” Annie felt her blood pressure rise. “Innocent?” She took another slug of her drink. “All of you are profiting off the death of a young man who was one of your own? I am appalled.” She downed her cocktail. “I am in shock. I am…” She slurped the liquid from the bottom of the glass. “I am in need of another drink.”
Nancy threw ingredients into the blender and fired it up. “Honey. We’re doing nothing illegal. We’re simply collecting money for the Hot Guys charities.”
“Really? Because most people do that with a politely placed phone call. Or, an e-mail link.” Annie paced back and forth. “Most people don’t collect charitable donations with a cork board and index cards noted with who placed money on what horse, I mean, contestant.”
“You mean who ‘donated’ money in a contestant’s honor,” Aunt Susan said.
“The board was Aunt Susan’s idea,” Nancy said and handed Annie another Piña Colada.
Annie guzzled about half of it. She’d been pure and good and well behaved this entire trip. And where had that gotten her? “Mom.”
“Yes?” Nancy said.
“These are freaking delicious. What’s your secret ingredient?”
“I’ll be happy to divulge that recipe the moment you book the movers to re-locate you back home.”
“No! What do I do with this information?” Annie resumed pacing. “Do I call the cops? Do I walk away and pretend it never happened? You know what? I’m done with you all. Go have your Wild Women Club. Make delectable drinks, perform good deeds and get natural-looking facelifts. I’m through. Caput. Finito. Adios. Done-diddy-done.” She plopped the rest of her drink down on the counter and opened the back door.
“You do realize you’re wearing your pjs outside of the house?” Aunt Susan asked.
“Call the cops on me. Go ahead, I dare you.” Annie strode onto the back yard.
Slightly buzzed, Annie meandered down her mom’s lawn toward her family’s rickety pier. She was in shock. Her mom’s Wild Women Group was the gambling ring. But her mom insisted nothing was illegal about her group’s activities. That they were merely collecting money for charity. Still, this whole thing smelled a little fishy and she had no idea what to do.
Should she turn the Wild Women into the PD for further questioning? She pulled out her phone and called Rafe. “Pick up, pick up,” she muttered.
“Hey,” a woman’s voice answered. “Party’s on. Speak up—it’s a little loud here.”
Yes, it was loud. Music played, people laughed. “Sorry, wrong number.” Annie hung up and dialed again.
The same woman picked up. “Who is this?” she asked. “Hey, Rafe! Pass me one of your dad’s margaritas, por favor.”
Annie frowned. “I’m, um—is this Raphael Campillio’s phone?”
“Yes, I still like salt on the rim. Nothing changes, mi mejor amigo.” The woman giggled. “This is Alma. Who is this?”
“Annie Graceland. I’m Raphael’s girlfriend.”
“That’s not possible, sweetie. Raphael already has a girlfriend. Me.”
Annie broke out into a sweat. “Let me talk to him.”
“Again, not possible,” Alma said. “Oh thanks, Raphael. You’re the best! No—it’s just a carpet cleaning company. Of course I’m hanging up. Just having a little fun, first. Mmm. This tastes sinful.”
“I don’t know who you are, how you got a hold of his phone, or what you think you’re pulling. Put Raphael Campillio on the line, now!”
“Or you’ll what? Make me eat cupcakes and slather me in icing?”
The music suddenly hushed to a low volume. Alma had obviously stepped into a quieter room. “Look, chiquita. Let’s face facts. You’re two thousand miles away. I’m at Raphael’s family reunion . Where I’ve been every year since it began. You believe that you’ve been dating him for about four months. But, I’ve known Raphael since we were teenagers. We have our ups and downs. We fall in and out of each other’s lives. And in the end? We always find our way back to each other. Because that’s just how it’s meant to be.”
“I don’t believe you,” Annie sputtered.
“Believe this,” Alma hissed. “Rafe’s mother calls me ‘daughter.’ I’m best friends with five of his cousins. He might enjoy playing with you right now, but rest assured, I’m the girl he’ll be marrying. So you can call it a day, now, or wait for the inevitable. I suggest the former.”
Annie reeled. “What?”
“Bye-bye, now. That’s what nice Midwesterner girls say. Right?” And the phone went dead.
Annie stared at her phone and pitched it onto the grass. Raphael was involved with another woman? And it was serious? Had she been played for a fool, again? She stumbled around outside the home she grew up in. Leaving home didn’t require a key, locks or subterfuge. Leaving just required pain, shock, sadness and/or all of the above. But where, who and what was she leaving?
Wild Women’s Piña Coladas
Ingredients:
Six oz of light rum
Six Tbsp of crushed organic pineapple
Six Tbsp of organic coconut milk
Four cups crushed ice
Pineapple wedges
Instructions:
Blend rum, crushed pineapple, coconut milk and crushed ice in an electric blender till smooth. Pour into festive glasses. Garnish with pineapple wedges on rim of glasses. Serve with straws.
Note! This recipe only makes TWO drinks. Multiply accordingly.
22. To Kiss or Not to Kiss
The moon was full and shone brightly. Annie stomped down to the tiny, rotting, wooden dock that connected her mom’s back yard to the lake. It was night, still too hot and humid. But the facts could not be ignored. Alma was a bitch. But was she a lying bitch or a truthful bitch? Annie combed her mind for clues. She just didn’t know who to believe, let alone if she could trust her own judgment.
She was exhausted, angry and frustrated. She gazed at Lac LaBelle. Moonlight reflected off its dark, calm, glassy surface. It looked revitalizing. When she was young, this lake calmed her. Wiped away her tears in summer months. Froze her negative thoughts during the winter.
Annie walked to the end of the dock and sat down. She lowered herself on the rickety ladder and stuck her feet in the water. Still chilly, even in July. She descended into the lake, pushed herself away from the dock and swam.
The water felt cool and refreshing. Welcoming and loving. It felt like she was finally coming home. She sunk below the water’s surface, rose back up, shook her head and swam further out into the lake. Her skin grew goosebumps, but it didn’t matter because she welcomed the wakeup call.
Was nothing ever what she thought it was? Could Raphael really have been so cruel and calculating? He didn’t seem the type. And if he was, why, after going through a divorce with her soon to be ex-husband Mike, was she even bothering attempting to be in another relationship? Annie dove under the water.
She barely spotted an ancient rowboat submerged at the lake’s bottom. The fading letters on its plankton covered side read “GRACELAND.” Dear God, it was her dad’s boat. Was he reaching out to her? She swam toward it. Stretched her hand out and touched the letters. Daddy, she thought. What would you do if nothing is what it seems? What would you do if you discovered that you loved two people at the same time? Which one would you trust? Or would you trust either of them?
Annie’s lungs hurt and she realized their conversation would have to be continued later. She breaststroked, but something or someone yanked her down. She looked down and saw her foot caught in the thick moss covering the boat. No matter how hard she tried to swim, the moss pulled her back.
She leaned down to extricate her foot, but she was hopelessly entangled. And Annie thought: so this was how she’d die. In a lake, next to the Graceland boat, outside her family home. It almost felt fitting.
When someone ripped the moss from her ankle. Bare muscular male arms encircled her and dragged her toward the water’s surface. She and Jamie popped their heads up above the lake. Annie gasped for air. Jamie inhaled sharply and held onto her shoulders, keeping her head above water. “Drinking and drowning, Ms.?” he asked.
She shook her head but clung to him, “Why are you here?” He was shirtless, ripped. When had her hometown become the hot guy capital of the whole freaking world? She tried not to stare at him. This was not helping her breathe easier.
“Your mom called me. She turned the Wild Women’s Group into the police.” He shook his soaked head and water flew.
“Oh, crap,” Annie sputtered. “Are they in jail?”
“Not yet. As far as I can ascertain, Oconomowoc’s Wild Women over-fantasized a bit. They also raised some money for Frank’s charities. Honestly, I think they’re less rowdy than they proclaim.”
“Good,” Annie sighed.
“But you’re looking a little stormy, right now, partner. What are you doing out in the lake at this time of night?” Jamie treaded water, holding them both up.
“I came home expecting it to be a simple trip. But it’s not simple.” Annie released her arms from Jamie’s neck, pulled away from him and swam toward the dock.
“What’s not simple?” Jamie asked.
“Where do I begin?”
“At the beginning.” Jamie swam after her.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Annie Graceland.” Annie reached the dock, grasped the stairs and caught her breath. “She loved her family, friends and her hometown. She married the prince and moved to a foreign land called L.A. Unfortunately, the prince turned back into a frog. But Annie had grown to love that foreign land, still lived there and had recently fallen for another prince. Until her mother insisted she come home and tempted her with homemade cinnamon buns and other delicious local concoctions.”
Jamie swam up to her. Held onto the dock with one hand. Cupped his other hand behind her head and looked down into her eyes, his mouth inches from her mouth. “Am I the cinnamon buns or the delicious concoctions?”
“Both,” she said. “And maybe, I still have a boyfriend.”
“And maybe I don’t care anymore, because you wouldn’t be tempted by me, if he was everything that you wanted or needed. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She looked away from him. “I’m confused.”
“Confused isn’t ‘wrong,’” Jamie said. “I’m not ten anymore. And you’re no longer my babysitter.” He leaned down, pulled her toward him and kissed her. He gripped her long drenched hair. Pulled her, hard and firm, against him. Nibbled on her lower lip, pulled her wet pj top higher onto her chest, ran his hand underneath it and held her so fiercely that it might have been his last day on earth.
Annie wanted this. She wanted more. But yet… She pulled away from him. “Wait, wait,” she said. “I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I’m crazy about another guy, you know.”
“Which means you’re also crazy about me.” Jamie kissed her again. Urgently. Twenty-two years of longing rolled off him crystallized and channeled into this moment. This kiss. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. He kissed her neck, his lips headed south. He felt exquisite. He was exquisite.
She finally had to admit she was crazy about Jamie Ryan. He knew what to do in the driver’s seat, and she decided, Enough. Raphael was with another woman. Annie needed to stop being Ms. Worry, Ms. Puritan. She needed to step back and let Jamie Ryan take the wheel.
She kissed him back. She held onto his shoulders with her hands and pulled him toward her. The feelings were intoxicating. She was breathless. Jamie Ryan. No way she was falling for Jamie Ryan.
“Oopsies,” Nancy said.
Annie looked up at her mom. Nancy covered her eyes with one hand and held out her portable phone and a towel with the other. “There’s an important call from a Detective Raphael Campillio for you. He stated that he called your cell, called the Lake Lodge, called Julia. And he apologized for rudely ringing me at this time of night. But he said it was urgent and I was allowed to interrupt whatever you were doing.”
Annie reluctantly broke away from Jamie. She crawled up the dock’s ladder and shivered in the night air. She took the towel and draped it over her shoulder before placing the phone to her ear. “Raphael?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Whatever Alma said to you, it’s not true. She’s not my girlfriend anymore. But she does this. Shows up at every family reunion . Tries to get back together. It probably sounds complicated, but actually it’s not, Annie. Because I am crazy about you.”
Jamie was now on the dock, shirtless, dripping wet and glaring at Annie.
“Come with me, we’ll all pat you dry. I mean, I’ll get you a towel,” Nancy said.
“What’s your mom talking about?” Rafe asked.
“I don’t know anymore,” Annie said. “I just don’t know.”
“Come home, Annie,” Rafe said. “Come home today.”
“I’ll be back in L.A. soon,” Annie. “Really soon.”
Jamie shook his head.
“I can’t talk anymore tonight, Raphael. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow. I miss you.” She hung up.
Jamie and Annie sat inside her mom’s kitchen, swathed in cushy towels. Even though it was July, Aunt Susan made her famous hot chocolate without the marshmallows—per Annie’s request. She and Jamie both sipped from steaming cups. The Wild Women had retired to the living room to give them some space.
“I’ve been in love with you for twenty-two years, Annie,” Jamie said. “This Rafe person knows you for a second. What about us?”
Frank Plank sat on a kitchen counter on the sidelines. “I told you,” he said. “True love never dies. Sometimes it gets pushed to the side for a while. But if you’re not sure—you need to give Jamie the benefit of the doubt and let him go.”
Annie shook her head. “Not tonight, Jamie. I can’t make decisions tonight. I have to think. You have to go.”
Jamie pushed himself out of the chair. “I’m leaving now. But I’m not leaving, forever.”
No Marshmallows Allowed Hot Chocolate with Whipped Cream
Hot Chocolate Ingredients:
Yield: 4 mugs
½ cup white sugar
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
A pinch of salt
Three ½ cups milk
1/3 cup boiling water
½ cup half and half cream
½ tsp vanilla
Hot Chocolate Instructions:
Mix sugar, cocoa and salt in mixing bowl. Pour into cooking pot. Slowly add boiled water. Stir concoction and bring to boil. Let it simmer while stirring for another two minutes. Don’t allow contents to burn. Add and stir in the milk and heat until it is very hot. Do not boil. Take off the burner, and add the vanilla, stirring gently.
Whipped Cream Ingredients and Instructions:
Pour one cup heavy cream into electric blender and blend until little crests take shape. Top hot chocolate mugs with the cream.
Serve warm and toasty, but not hot enough to burn mouths. Yummy!
23. Homecomings
Annie hunched on a chair in the kitchen, her head in her hands and sobbed. The Wild Women and Frank encircled her. Aunt Susan gave her a neck rub. Her mom held her hand. Gloria dispensed tissues. Mrs. McGillicuddy held an open box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies next to her.
Frank tried to take a cookie, but was unsuccessful. He sighed. “Will I never learn?”
“How am I supposed to know what to do?” Annie wiped her eyes and reached for a cookie. “I thought I’d come back home for a fun trip and instead it’s murder, madness and confusion.”
“Except for the murder part,” Aunt Susan said, “that’s generally what coming home is all about.”
“In my humble opinion, the two man juggling act can be a little tricky,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “I cannot even count the times I have had to deal with that. Have another cookie.”
“How can I choose?” Annie asked. “It’s not the right time. There’s the stress of solving the murder—I mean, the crowning of Mr. Wisconsin. What if I don’t want to choose?”
The revs of a dirt bike hummed in the near distance. The engine’s noise grew louder until the bike sounded like it was right outside the house.
Annie’s eyes widened and she inhaled sharply.
The driver cut the engine. Except for the creak of the crickets, there was deadly silence.
“Holy crap. Oh, shit.” Annie jumped off the chair. “The driver is most likely the same person who shot at Stephanie Storms. A bullet from the very same gun killed Frank Plank. Run or hide ladies!”
Aunt Susan bolted out the back door followed by Gloria who said, “I’ve got a gun in my spare makeup case in the car. No one messes with the Wild Women.”
Annie saluted Gloria. “Godspeed.”
“My rheumatism.” Mrs. McGillicuddy’s eyes widened and she pointed to her knees.
“Sit in the recliner.” Annie hissed.
Mrs. McGillicuddy plopped on it. There was a knock on the door. Annie clutched her chest with one hand, grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over her former teacher. “Try not to move and breathe quietly. Better yet, pretend you’re dead. I’ll distract the shooter.”
“You’re late, wild child,” Nancy said.
Annie turned and watched her mom walk calmly to the door and open it. “Mom, no!” She yelled. But it was too late.
“Come inside.” Nancy held out the box of Thin Mints to the intruder. “Cookie?”
The bike rider entered the foyer. Took off her helmet, shook out her long brunette hair and tossed it over her shoulders. “I’d love a Thin Mint, thank you, Mrs. Graceland,” Lila said.
“Please welcome the newest member of the Wild Women’s Group,” Nancy said as she and Lila air kissed.
“She’s here! She’s here.” Frank walked toward Lila and ran his index finger across a strand of her gorgeous locks that rested on her cheek. Then he frowned. “But what’s up with that dirt bike? Does this mean Lila killed me? Because if that’s the case, I have a problem with that.”
“Lila,” Annie said. “We need to talk.”
Lila sat on the swing, scuffing the toe of her leather boot on the ground. Annie and Frank crossed paths as they paced back and forth between the dirt bike and Lila.
“What’s going on with you?” Annie asked. “You’re engaged to a prince but you’re still mooning over Frank. Now you show up in the middle of the night at my mom’s house on a Honda, which could be the same vehicle that a killer rode. I don’t think you murdered Frank. But you need tell the truth.”
“I loved Frank! How could you even think I could murder him?” Lila said. “I called it off with Frederick. I was never in love with him and I can’t live in a gilded cage.”
“Finally,” Frank said.
“That’s a start,” Annie said. “Next.”
“Your mom encouraged me to move back to Wisconsin for a bit. 'Relax where you’re comfortable, she said. Spend a little time here. Get your feet back on the ground.' She even offered me your brother’s former room, should I decide I didn’t want to stay with my mom.”
Annie nodded. “Take her up on that. Your mom seems more than a little stressed these days. No judgment.”
Lila nodded. “You know how mother and daughter relationships can get strained?”
“Hah-hah! You’re kidding me, right?” Annie laughed. “Never mind. I’m punchy. Where’d you get the bike?”
“It’s mine,” Lila said.
“I think you’re tired and that you’re mistaken. You probably rented this bike, just like you rented the Harley.”
Lila shook her head. “No, this bike is definitely mine. It’s one of my favorite things.”
“One of my favorite things was the team autographed championship Green Bay Packers Super Bowl 2011 poster,” Frank said. “Lila and I had sex in front of it during halftime. I even dreamt that the team watched and cheered me on. Talk about fantasy football.” He sighed. “But if Lila killed me, that’s not going to be my favorite thing, anymore.”
“You fantasized about the Packers while having sex?” Annie said.
Lila stopped swinging and stared at Annie. “Frank’s here, isn’t he?”
Annie pointed up at the sky. “Oh look, a falling star.”
“I do not fall for the ‘look, a falling star’ line.” Lila pushed herself to standing and approached. “Frank’s here. You just talked to him. Again.”
Annie backpedaled. “I like you, Lila. I think you have a handle on fashion and I believe you’re a super cool girl. But right now you’re acting dopey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“After your bee sting incident I Googled you. You had some weird ties to a recently murdered self-help author, Derrick Fuller. And there you were again— mentioned at Snotsky’s Department Store of Santa Monica when a clerk was killed. I called a dear friend who works at Snotsky’s. She believes that you, totally under the radar, helped solve the death of Edith Flowers, a recently murdered Snotsky’s clerk.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Annie had every idea what Lila was talking about.
“You, Annie Graceland, are keeping a secret from me,” Lila said.
“Just tell her.” Frank waved his hands in between the two girls.
“I can’t,” Annie said.
“Can’t what?” Lila asked.
“You have to,” Frank said.
“What if this is the bike that some wacko drove and tried to shoot Stephanie?” Annie asked.
“But it’s not. It’s my bike,” Lila said.
“You just got back from Europe. How long have you been gone?” Annie asked.
“Four years,” Lila said. “I don’t—”
“Oh, my God.” Annie face palmed.
“What. What?” Frank asked.
“I was a little busy,” Lila said. “I didn’t visit. I called, e-mailed, wrote and Skyped. What. What?”
“I can’t do this,” Annie said.
“You have to!” Lila and Frank chimed in.
“Fine,” Annie said. “But I guarantee this isn’t going to make you happy.”
It was a couple of hours past a glorious sunrise on July 4th in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. The weather had cooled down a little. The blue skies were spotted with a few puffy white clouds that were chased by several darker storm clouds. Jamie interviewed Lila in Nancy’s back yard, away from prying eyes. A police department technician dusted the dirt bike for prints and made casts of its tires.
Gloria hovered next to the police tech and watched him work. “Honda. About six years old. I bought myself one for my 40th birthday present, several years ago. I take it out every now and again,” she said. “A wild woman never forgets her first ride.”
Annie rocked gently on the swing that hung from the tall tree and watched the rest of the Wild Women who sat on Nancy’s front porch. Right now they looked more like the Weary Women. Mrs. McGillicuddy’s head rested on Aunt Susan’s shoulder as they both snored.
Annie’s mom walked up to her with a steaming cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll resting on a napkin. “I know you L.A. types tend to be fussy about your coffee. So I made you the good stuff.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Annie took the cup, sipped, made a face and winced. “What is this?”
“It’s the fancy TV coffee from the woman who has folders in her cup.”
“Aaah, yes. So, the entire time I snuck in our house? You not only knew that I slept here but also borrowed your clothes.” Annie sipped more coffee.
“Knew?” Her mother shrugged. “Don’t underestimate your mother. I orchestrated everything. I donated your curtains to the Good Will a couple of weeks ago. When you said yes to the visit, I hurried down there, bought them back and re-hung them.” She handed Annie the cinnamon roll. “The last time I made these you resisted them. That’s when I realized how serious you were about Lost Angeles.”
Annie bit into the roll. “You’re the best. Share the recipe?”
“When I see you once a week on Sunday in my kitchen for dinner.”
“You dusted my room, changed the sheets, lined up my favorite stuffed animals, including Walla, and baked my favorite decadent dishes?” Annie asked.
Nancy shrugged. “A mother’s got to do what a mother’s got to do.”
Annie frowned. “What about Jamie Ryan?”
“He’s handsome. He’s in his thirties, has a good job, lives in Oconomowoc and is crazy about you. What about him?”
“Was he part of your set-up? Did you pay him? Was he just part of your plan to get me to move home?” Annie asked.
“Oh, my darling daughter.” Annie’s mom smoothed her hair. “Jamie’s been in love with you since you were both kids. I don’t have enough money to buy that kind of love.”
Jamie conferred with the police tech as well as a deputy on Nancy’s driveway. He walked toward Annie and motioned her away from her mom. “We’ve got a match,” he said.
“Lila?” Annie asked, hoping to God she wasn’t right. Hoping for Frank that wasn’t true.
“The one tire on the bike appears to be the same tire from the dirtbike where the shooter fired at Stephanie,” Jamie said.
“Crap. What about Lila?” Annie asked.
Jamie shook his head. “She’s been in love with Frank Plank since she was a kid. She paid an astrologer to have their love compatibility horoscopes done for the past ten years. She kept the receipts. And, according to Lila, she was smart enough when she was twelve, to wait until she was a hot, older, curvy teenager to make a move on Frank. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think Lila did it. I do, however, suspect—”
Annie shuddered as she remembered Suzy Mae DeLovely’s talon-like fingernails nearly piercing her palms. “Don’t say it,” Annie whispered. “I feel terrible.”
“You’re not the one who killed Frank Plank,” Jamie said. “You’re not the asshole.”
“But Suzy has an air-tight alibi,” Annie said.
“Then Suzy has an accomplice,” Jamie replied.
Annie looked up at him. “So, what do we do now?”
“I like the ‘we’.” Jamie said. “I hide Lila during the crowning of Wisconsin’s Hot Guys winner. You get dressed in something bordering on appropriate and help hunt down the other half of the team that killed Frank. And then we nail them—in an orderly and peaceful fashion.”
“Absolutely, Detective.” Annie saluted him. And here comes the real July 4th fireworks, she thought.
“Yeah there.” Jamie hugged her tight for a moment, let her go and walked away.
The officer hustled Lila into a squad car. She looked back at Annie distraught. “What should I do?”
“Annie, you got this covered?” Frank asked.
Annie nodded.
“Good. I lost Lila once, because I waited too long. I’m not going to lose her again.” Frank jogged toward the squad car.
“Where’s my Frankie?” Lila asked Annie.
In seconds Annie spotted Frank sitting next to Lila, his muscular arm draped over her shoulders. “He’s with you, sweetie,” Annie said.
Lila burst into tears as the police vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Another car pulled into its place. An older man got out carrying a medium sized box. “Delivery for Annie Graceland,” he said.
“That’s me.” Annie waved and the man strode toward her. What now, she wondered. Every time she received an unexpected delivery, it was never anything good.
“Sign here,” the man said.
She signed, ripped open the envelope on top of the box and pulled out a floral note card. She flipped it open and read,
“Dear Annie:
We’re still dealing with the shock of Frank’s passing. Your mom told me about your stolen luggage and your ongoing pageant outfit dilemmas. You were always one of Frank’s favorite people. I’m sure he would have wanted you to have one of his favorite things. I was hoping to give this to you last night at the Wild Women’s meeting. But I’m not feeling very wild yet and I just couldn’t attend. I’d be honored if you would accept this small token and wear it in Frank’s honor to the pageant.
Best, Patsy Plank.”
Annie’s hands shook as she opened the box.
It was a packed crowd in Lake Lodge’s back lawn. The fans brought their friends and families. Forty-five Hot Guys hung out in the crowd, eager to see who would win the title. There were camera crews and paparazzi everywhere. What had started as a tiny local contest had turned into a Midwestern phenomenon bordering on a national sensation. The sun shone through patches of blue skies that were quickly being consumed by nasty gray and black storm clouds.
The judges’ stage was once again situated on the wide dock that jutted out over Lac LaBelle. A smaller stand located on the opposite side of the dock was covered with a white linen tablecloth and decorated with red, white and blue ribbons. A canopy positioned above the stand shaded its contents.
Two fat flower bouquets rested on the table next to a hefty silver trophy. Dozens of bakery boxes stamped with the logo from Cupcakes-A-Go-Go in Madison, Wisconsin, were stacked on the side of the stand. Apparently the Hot Guys Board had hired one of the best cupcake bakeries in Wisconsin to create the super clever and delicious treats to celebrate crowning their winner.
Stephanie and WNOC cameras were positioned on one side of the stage. Melissa Black with her two cameras running, on the other. Annie spotted Jamie’s police SUV in the parking lot behind the barricades. She knew Lila was hidden in the back, of her own volition. She’d agreed to lay low to see how the investigation played out.
The final five Hot Guys were huddled next to each other in a semicircle. Grady stood at the mic in front of them.
Annie, Mrs. McGillicuddy, Scott Puddleman and Suzy Mae sat at the judges’ table behind them on the dock. Scott and Suzy Mae were dressed styling, like they were attending a Photoshopped picnic for an outdoor catalogue. Mrs. McGillicuddy’s head jerked up and down repeatedly as she nodded in and out.
Annie wore what Patsy Plank gave her: Frank Plank’s favorite Green Bay Packers Jersey. It was a man’s size large, long and draped over her pj bottoms. She’d rolled up the sleeves so she wouldn’t sweat to death. She’d borrowed her mom’s Jackie O sunglasses and proudly donned Frank’s cheese head hat. His mom Patsy had used a black Sharpie to rim the flat edges of his hat with, “In loving memory of Frank Plank.”
Grady had already interviewed the guys about their charities and their personal stories about why they picked them. Now he moved onto the tricky question. The question every pageant contestant prepared for but feared.
“Audience, please hold your applause until the end,” Grady said. “The question for the final five contestants is… If you could live in someone else’s shoes for a day, who would it be and why?” Grady extended the mic to Mr. Milwaukee.
“Benjamin Franklin,” Mr. Milwaukee said.
“Founding Father of the United States and acclaimed inventor. Why?” Grady asked.
“Because he was so well rounded. And Mr. Franklin once said, 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.'”
Peels of laughter erupted from the audience.
“Mr. Madison?” Grady held the mic toward him.
“Martin Luther King, Jr. He was for civil rights for many minorities. I quote him, “the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy”.”
“Profound,” Grady commented. “Mr. Bitterhausen?”
“The famous comedian, Groucho Marx,” Bitterhausen said. “I do believe he put my birth country on the map.”
“Powerful. Mr. Dells?” Grady asked.
“I’m happy with my own shoes. Nike cross trainers size 14 ½.” Mr. Dells leaned into the microphone. “Thank you,” he said.
“Mr. Appleton?”
Appleton paused and bowed his head. When he lifted it back up, he had a few tears in his eyes. “Any United States soldier who has served our country with pride, love and respect.”
Grady bowed to the judges, then turned toward the audience. “Applause for the top five Hot Guys!”
There was applauding, foot stamping, wolf whistles, screaming. Someone hoisted Mr. Richland Center up into the crowd, and they passed him around overhead like a beachball during a summer concert.
“Voting is open for one hour. One hour to the minute, and then we pick the runner up and crown the winner!” Grady said.
Annie marked her ballot, slipped it in the box next to the stage and ran down the stairs. She had to nail Frank’s killer. But first, she had to find her best friend, Julia. Because nailing a killer could wait for just a little bit. But talking to a dear friend with a dilemma shouldn’t be postponed for very long.
Annie finagled her way through the sweaty, excited fans and reached the back door entrance to the lodge. A neatly lettered sign said, “Temporarily Closed. Please use the front entrance.” Most likely, hotel management did not want everybody attending the contest to have free access to their guests’ rooms. Smart on their part. She sighed. Smart but irritating.
She navigated her way through the crowd and tried to avoid the plethora of camera crews. When someone grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. The blaring lights of a TV camera bored into her brain. She blinked and reflexively held up her hand to shade her eyes.
“Annie Graceland, pageant judge. You’ve already voted. Care to share who you think will be the winner?” Melissa Black the reporter for I-CHIC asked.
“Sorry, Ms. Black. Can’t divulge.”
“And cut!” Melissa Black said. The blaring lights vanished. “I apologize for that. It’s my job. It’s ingrained. I go after the story like a Jack Russell terrier hunts down a rat. I wouldn’t even be here if we weren’t tipped ahead of time. Thank God, this is my last on-site gig.”
“Okay,” Annie said and turned to leave. But something clicked. She turned back and faced Melissa. “Why is this your last gig?”
24. Puzzle Pieces
In the distance a lone lightning bolt dove from the sky and in a flash, hit the earth. Thunder boomed. Melissa’s eyes widened as she watched the crowd pass Mr. Richland Center around, overhead. “That guy looks like a human lightning rod.” She snapped her fingers at her cameraman and he started filming. “It’s my last gig in the field because my promotion kicks in next week. I get to sit behind an anchor desk and try not to grow a muffin-top. The best part? I get to watch that one,” she pointed at Stephanie, “do the shenanigans for I-CHIC.”
“I-CHIC hired Stephanie Storms?” Annie asked.
“Word came down yesterday. She didn’t want it announced until after the contest.”
“Got it.” Annie said. “Was this her first audition?”
“Good God, no.” Melissa glanced around for other possible interviewees. But the place was sheer bedlam. “She’s applied multiple times over the past few years. But this last one caught and kept management’s attention.”
“Why?” Annie asked.
“Because Stephanie promised to message us the second anything unusual happened at the contest. Everyone at I-CHIC knew there’d be a whole lot of crazy at Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys contest. But none of us predicted murder.”
“Oh,” Annie said.
Melissa handed Annie her card. “It would be fun to do some judge commentary after the winner’s announced. But only if you want. My rat-chasing days are over. Hoo-rah!” She punched one fist in the air as she walked away.
Annie took her card and looked at it. “Melissa? One more question?”
Melissa turned and nodded.
“I passed you in the parking lot a couple of days ago. Remember? Right before the brunch. Before Detective Jamie Ryan told the audience that Frank Plank had been killed. You’re based in Chicago, right?”
“Yes.”
“I used to drive back and forth from Chicago to Oconomowoc when I was dating my can’t-be-soon-enough ex-husband. Barring killer traffic, or nasty weather, it’s about two and a half hours. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When exactly did Stephanie send you the news that a Hot Guy had been killed?”
“Let me see.” She scrolled through her Blackberry. “We received a text from her at approximately four a.m.”
“Thanks.” Annie shook her head as the pieces started clunking one by one into place.
Annie found Julia at the front of the lodge. She was hiding behind her over-sized sunglasses and four pieces of luggage as she sat on a small bench under the semi-circular driveway’s overhang. “You all right?” Annie asked.
“Meh,” Julia said.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m waiting for a cab to go to the airport,” Julia said.
“You’re leaving?” Annie asked. “Before they crown the winner?”
“I don’t need to know who the winner is. I already know who the loser is.”
“What are you talking about?” Annie asked.
“I fell for Dells too quickly. He’s a player. Shocker. I could stay here and be publicly humiliated, or I could leave. Go back to my life in L.A. Where, when a guy ends up being an asshole, I’m at least privately humiliated.”
“Honey. It’s really difficult not to fall fast for someone who’s funny, smart, is over-the-moon handsome and knows how to sweet-talk.” Annie took Julia’s hand and squeezed it. “Do you want me to beat the crap out of him? I’d do that for you.”
Julia shook her head. “Nah. Because then I’d have to stay here and bail you out of jail. I prefer bailing you out of here, with this.” She rifled through her purse, pulled out a wad of papers and handed them to Annie.
Annie looked at the paper on top. “The pageant itinerary?”
“No, you already have that. The super-fine thing underneath.”
Annie pulled out an airline ticket. “Oh. Wow.”
“From Milwaukee’s Mitchell Airport back to LAX,” Julia said. “I booked you a flight that departs tonight. After the pageant ends.”
“Are you going soft on me?” Annie asked. “You’re the bad cop to my good cop. I rely on you to be my voice of reason.”
“I’m still the voice,” Julia said. “This way, you don’t have to feel guilty about abandoning your pageant duties. I calculated that you’ll most likely nail Frank’s killer during the crowning of the contest’s winner. But I don’t think you should be nailing Jamie Ryan, thereafter. That’s why this ticket is booked for later today. There are huge additional fees if you change it to a different day. Fees you can’t afford.”
“You’re still devious,” Annie said.
“I’m practical.”
The cab pulled onto the large circle driveway up to the entrance. The cabbie hopped out and asked, “Ms. Julia?”
“Yes, sir.” Julia nodded.
The driver opened the passenger door and hoisted Julia’s suitcases into the trunk.
“By the way. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I would never 'nail' Jamie Ryan,” Annie said.
“Funny. Your chin already did. I spotted the stubble burn from five yards away. You might want to talk to the rest of your body about learning how to resist a gorgeous, stubborn-as-shit man who’s determined to win you over,” Julia said.
Annie winced and brushed her index finger across her chin, which felt a little rough.
“Come home, Annie. Back to L.A. I can forget my mistake. Could you forgive yourself for the one you’re about to make?” Julia climbed into the backseat and slammed the door.
The cabbie jumped in the front and drove off. The last Annie heard was, “Could we stop at the local Walgreen’s, please? Yes, I know the meter’s running. I’m running low on lip plumper. Do you not know how dehydrating airplanes can be?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy hustled past Annie on her way to the lobby. “Can you believe hotel management locked their back doors? I have been to enough outdoor events to merit five Girl Scout Badges in hygiene. Years ago during a Pink Floyd concert, I found myself trapped in a Porto-potty. In all fairness, I must admit that I’d recently inhaled.”
“I think everyone’s inhaled,” Annie said.
“I hallucinated that I was in a time machine,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “Where was I traveling? Why was this time capsule so smelly? Was that little round cake in the plastic receptacle on the wall a navigation device? After I broke out of the Porto-potty, I vowed to never enter one of those contraptions, again.” Mrs. McGillicuddy put her hand to her chest, paused and caught her breath.
“Completely understandable.” Annie raised her hand and waved it in front of Mrs. McGillicuddy. “I have a quick question?”
Her former teacher nodded.
Annie lowered her hand. “You told me that you were supposed to read your poem on TV at Suzy’s post opening ceremonies party. Why didn’t you?”
“Because that reporter girl left early,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “She showed up, interviewed a couple of people. But by the time it was my turn, she’d left the party early. I was so disappointed. It was printed on real paper and everything.” She pointed to the pageant itinerary in Annie’s hand. “Look. Page two.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said.
“Me too. Hard to forget that kind of disappointment. I don’t understand why people now days don’t pay attention to the schedule. With the exception of poor Frank Plank’s demise, and the contest’s subsequent delays, everything pageant related is on it. Including my current bathroom break. I’ll see you back on stage, shortly.” Mrs. McGillicuddy walked inside the Lodge.
Annie thought for a second, opened up the itinerary and read page two. Her hands started to shake. Mrs. McGillicuddy was right. When in doubt, read the itinerary. Because everything, including murder, was on the schedule.
Annie had taken a few moments to deep-breathe as she fit more puzzle pieces together. Now she leaned against Jamie’s SUV and peered through the driver’s open window into the back seat. Lila sat still, like a beautiful statue. Frank caressed her arm. “You okay, Lila?” Annie asked.
Lila shook her head. “It’s surreal,” she said. “You really think my mom could have something to do with Frank’s death?”
“I wish I didn’t, honey. But, yes. I think your mom’s involved.’
“The police said my dirt bike has the same tire casts as the one driven by the person who shot at Stephanie. I don’t understand. Mom’s always been bossy, but what would make her snap?” Lila asked.
“Moms have a deep primal instinct to protect their children. They can get ferocious if they think someone’s messing with their baby,” Annie said. “Perhaps a mom’s off her meds. Or maybe a mom needs to be on meds. Add to that concoction someone who’s harboring an old, deep grudge? It’s no excuse, but I have it on good authority that a mom’s got to do what a mom’s got to do. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Lila said.
“Not quite okay yet,” Frank said. “But we’ll figure it out together.”
Dear God, what was Annie going to do with Frank—he was completely whipped. In the meantime, Lila looked so lost, so thin. “Jamie. Did you feed her?” Annie asked.
“No, I’m starving her,” he said. “Of course, I fed her. I took her to the I-Hop. Nothing else is open today.”
Annie nodded and checked Jamie out. He also looked a little worse for the wear. “Did you eat anything, today?”
“You’re not my baby-sitter, anymore,” Jamie said, a little testy.
“I think we figured that one out, already,” Annie said. “The night Frank died. When did the 911 call come in?”
“Frank and I were best friends. Patsy didn’t want the media alerted. She called my cell. There never was a 911 call.”
Annie thought. “So, how did the media find out about Frank’s death?”
“I told them at the Hot Guys brunch. You were there.”
“I’ve got a credible lead that says the news was leaked beforehand,” Annie said.
“Not by the Oconomowoc PD.” Jamie shook his head.
“Then how did Stephanie Storms find out about Frank’s murder? Stephanie contacted I-CHIC at four a.m. the same night Frank was murdered. Hours before the brunch. Maybe someone at PD tipped her off?”
“Everyone, especially the PD, loves to gossip. But we respected Frank and his family. No one shared any information with the press,” Jamie said. “Stephanie’s been trying to get hired by a bigger company for a while now.”
“Mission accomplished,” Annie said. “I-CHIC hired her yesterday.”
Jamie frowned. “So you think that Suzy and Stephanie—”
Annie shook her head and placed her index finger to her sealed lips.
“Dammit!” Lila exclaimed. “If my mom is going down for Frank’s murder, whoever helped her is taking the plunge, too.” She scrunched her pretty face into a frown.
“I’ve got an idea, Jamie,” Annie said. “An idea to catch Frank’s killers. But it has to happen now. Is the Oconomowoc PD willing to go out on a limb?”
“Not your kind of limb,” Jamie said. “There’s protocol. There are channels. There’s red-tape.”
“And then there’s you,” Annie said.
Jamie eyed her and sighed. “Tell me.”
She leaned down and whispered into his ear.
“All hell’s going to break loose.” Jamie punched the button on his police scanner and called it in. “Detective Ryan. Requesting additional backup at the Hot Guys pageant.”
Annie shook her finger at him. “You were the one that told me I had to be your behind-the scenes partner in Frank’s murder investigation.” She pulled out her phone and hit one number. “Mom. I need help. I need the Wild Women…”
Annie tracked down Melissa Black on her way to the stage and tapped her on the shoulder. “About that post-ceremony interview?” Annie asked.
“What about it?”
“How many cameras do you have?”
“Two.” Melissa's eyes narrowed.
“You’ll need both of them before our interview.”
“I’m chasing down another rat, aren’t I?”
“Yes, Jane Russell, you are,” Annie said. “Keep one camera on the judges’ stage. Keep the other on Stephanie Storms. Thank me later.”
Grady stood at the mic and fanned his face with a crisp white-linen letter-sized envelope. The judges, including Annie, sat behind him at the judges’ table on the wide pier. Annie scanned the crowd.
Jamie, Lila and Frank had left the SUV and stood at the back, close to the lodge. Annie’s mom stood on one edge of the lawn. Aunt Susan, arms crossed, was positioned on the opposite. Everyone looked on guard, apprehensive.
The five remaining Hot Guys also sweated the moment. One of them was about to be Mr. Wisconsin Hot Guy’s first runner-up. Another would be the winner. The remaining three could parlay their ten minutes of fame into lucrative endorsement deals, or at the very least land a spot on the trending WNOC reality show, Dancing with Lars.
Mr. Milwaukee put his hands together, bowed his head and prayed. Mr. Madison closed his eyes as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Appleton sat in his chair and fiddled with the wheels. Bitterhausen pivoted, clicked his heels and saluted the few people in the audience who screamed his name. Then saluted everyone who didn’t. Mr. Wisconsin Dells just smiled, jogged in place and hummed Walking on Sunshine, by Katrina and the Waves.
Grady took a deep cleansing breath, closed his eyes for a moment, re-opened them and picked up the mic. “Wisconsin, you are a fierce state. You fans showed up. Rallied. Persisted when Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc, was murdered. All the monies collected still go to charity. Congratulations, give yourself a big round of applause.”
And they did. The crowd applauded. Folks high-fived, embraced, kissed, shook hands. A few even card-swapped.
Grady smiled. “And a big hand for Friends of Oconomowoc, the Hot Guys Board and our judges: Mrs. McGillicuddy. Scott Puddleman. Suzy Mae DeLovely. And, Annie Graceland.”
Annie stood with the rest of the judges and bowed. Frank’s cheesehead hat fell off her head and landed on the podium.
“Uh-oh,” Frank said as he materialized next to her. “That’s my lucky hat, you know. You’re not supposed to drop my lucky hat. Must get back to Lila. Good luck with catching my killers.”
Annie concentrated, and in her head said, “If I nail your killers—that’s your cue to pass to the Afterlife. No hemming and hawing. No drooling over Lila.”
“While I totally appreciate all your hard work, I’m not a kid anymore. And because I’m no longer alive, there are no more curfews. I’ll pass to the Afterlife when I’m ready.”
“Brat,” she mumbled, and with one hand picked up the hat and stuck it back on her noggin. Her other hand clutched the pageant itinerary. When she looked back up Frank was back with Lila.
“How about a shout out for our final five contestants?” Grady asked. These guys have worked like madmen to bring honor to their towns, their charities, and ultimately, our state. Give it up for Mr. Milwaukee. Mr. Madison. Mr. Appleton. Mr. Bitterhausen. And Mr. Wisconsin Dells!”
The crowd broke into thunderous applause. Annie clapped too, but bit her lip as she glanced at Suzy Mae, who peeked at Stephanie Storms out of the corner of her very Botoxy, frozen and overly made-up eyes. Annie had come full circle. She couldn’t hide in the background any longer. She’d have to defend Frank’s honor, stand up to the bully and make a fuss. Dammit!
Grady stood tall in front of the mic. “In the off-chance that the Hot Guys winner cannot complete his duties, the pageant’s first runner-up has to—”
“We know!” Several eager audience members shouted simultaneously.
“The first runner up is…”
25. Winning
Grady ripped open the envelope and pulled out the paper that held the contest’s results. “The first runner up is Mr. Milwaukee!”
Mr. Milwaukee jumped up and down and shrieked, “I love you, Mama!”
The crowd roared.
Mr. Milwaukee waved at the crowd and struck a pose, flexing his big muscular arms, again.
Grady regarded the paper in his hand and smiled. “And the winner of Wisconsin’s Hot Guys contest is…” he said as a kaboom of thunder sounded in the near distance.
The entire audience hushed, and held their collective breath.
“Mr. Appleton—George Schnitzius! Congratulations!”
The fans screamed. For a second, Annie forgot her mission. Confetti rained down upon the stage, as well as a few drops of rain. Annie jumped up and high-fived Mrs. McGillicuddy as they shrieked with excitement.
The paparazzi shot oodles of pictures and rolls of videos. Stephanie Storms reported for WNOC. Melissa Black stood in front of her station’s camera—aimed on the judges—but also kept her eye on Stephanie.
George Schnitzius, formerly known as Mr. Appleton, now Mr. Wisconsin’s first Hot Guy, threw a kiss to his girlfriend in the audience and then one to the heavens. He popped a wheelie and hollered, “I love you, Wisconsin!”
Grady motioned to George. “Come over here, Mr. Appleton. Or should I say, Mr. Wisconsin’s Hot Guy!”
George Schnitzius wheeled the few feet to Grady. The audience exploded. Cheers, rants, screams, moans and even a few gunshots exploded from outside the lodge’s closely guarded confines.
The judges walked to the smaller stand on the opposite side of the dock. The wind had picked up and tugged at the canopy. Several red and blue ribbons blew off the table. Mrs. McGillicuddy picked up a large bouquet, walked the few steps into the wind and handed them to George. He accepted the flowers and kissed the back of her hand. She blushed under her nearly translucent skin.
The droplets increased to a light persistent rain. But no one was leaving this party. Stephanie Storms already had her umbrella opened as she pushed her way to the front of the stage. “WNOC has exclusive first rights on interviewing Mr. Wisconsin’s first Hot Guy,” she told the security guard manning the podium’s entrance.
“Sorry, Miss.” He refused to move, his sheer bulk physically barred her entrance. “I can’t let anyone pass until I receive different orders from HQ.”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
The guard nodded. “Yes, Miss Storms. I love watching you on TV. You’re super shiny. But I still can’t let you pass.”
Stephanie frowned. “Olaf. Set up right here.”
“Where?” Olaf asked.
“On this moron’s foot.” Stephanie turned back to the guard and leaned up into his face. “My memo will be on your boss’s desk tomorrow. Prepare to relinquish your cushy job and be a greeter at Stall-Mart.”
“Just following orders.”
Suzy and Annie reached the Cupcakes-A-Go-Go’s bakery box at the same time and tugged it in opposite directions. “I’m supposed to give the Hot Guys their cupcakes,” Suzy said.
Annie lifted her hands off the box. “Have at it.”
Suzy handed cupcakes to George, and to the other guys on stage. Annie opened up more bakery boxes, leaned down and passed them to the fans on the lawn. “Hot Guys Cupcakes for everyone! Take one, and share with your neighbors. Spread the cupcake love.”
Scott Puddleman presented George with the Wisconsin’s Hot Guys trophy. It was silver, shaped like an outline of the state and had a small football replica half bursting out its center. George hugged the trophy with one arm and shook Scott’s hand.
When—through all the raucous cheering, the applause, and the screams—the revs of a dirtbike screeched. Annie watched the crowd. Would anyone react? Not a blink. Not a peep. Not even one shudder. Except for Stephanie and Suzy who swiveled toward each other, froze and locked eyes right around the third screech.
The driver, slight of build and dressed head to toe in black leather, negotiated the bike through the masses.
“Lila?” Suzy asked.
Stephanie’s hands shook. But she rallied. “Olaf, roll. On three, two, one.” Stephanie smiled into the camera and tossed her lustrous locks over her shoulders. “Stephanie Storms reporting for WNOC at the Hot Guys finale where Mr. Appleton, George Schnitzius, was just crowned Wisconsin’s first Hot Guy. I’m currently unable to interview our winner, but I am persistent. I will do whatever I have to do to bring you the story.” Stephanie pointed downward. Olaf’s camera zoomed in on Stephanie grinding the toe of her pointy summer pump into the guard’s sturdy shoe.
The guard frowned but didn’t budge.
Several uniformed Oconomowoc police officers were gathered on the property’s perimeter. It was time. Annie approached Grady. He stared at her, his eyes widening.
She stood on tiptoes, cupped his ear and whispered, “Code Dead is on.”
“Uh-oh.” Grady held the mic in her direction. “And, now some—um—pageant commentary?”
Annie accepted the mic, removed her sunglasses and attached them to the jersey’s neckline. “Thanks, Grady. Hello fans! In the excitement of being surrounded by all these gorgeous men and crowning a winner in this adrenaline ride of a contest, we forgot to thank a few people. Hey, Mom!” Annie waved at Nancy. “Who’d we forget to thank?”
“Frank Plank!” Nancy hollered.
Heads swiveled in Nancy’s direction.
“Right. Because this competition only became famous after someone killed Frank. Is there anyone else we forgot to acknowledge?”
“The media!” Aunt Susan shouted.
The audience hushed and stared at Susan. Cameras swiveled in her direction.
“Good point. Would this pageant have made national news without the media’s attention?” Annie asked. “Have we forgotten anyone else?”
“Frank’s killers!” Lila said as she pushed her way through the crowd accompanied by Frank and Jamie.
Suzy frowned. “Lila, you’re overly stressed from planning your wedding. Go back to your room and get some rest.”
“I called off the wedding, Mom. You know I’m in love with another man.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Suzy hissed.
“Yes, I do. I still love Frank.”
“Frank Plank. Frank Plank.” Nancy chanted softly and clapped her hands.
“Frank Plank. Frank Plank.” Aunt Susan joined in.
“That’s right! We forgot to acknowledge the folks who conspired to kill Frank Plank,” Annie said.
Mrs. McGillicuddy stared at Aunt Susan, who was gesturing to her. “Susan—what?”
“Our secret hand signal!” Aunt Susan hollered and waggled her fingers high in the air.
“Oh!” Mrs. McGillicuddy said and chanted softly, “Frank Plank. Frank Plank.”
“Frank’s killers are as savvy as the Kardashians!” Annie said.
Several Hot Guys and their fans joined the chant. “Frank Plank. Frank Plank.”
“They whipped up the attention and turned this small contest into a media juggernaut. One murderer finagled a fat promotion, and the other satisfied a very old grudge. Put your hands together for Stephanie Storms and her partner-in-crime, Hot Guys judge, Suzy Mae DeLovely.”
The crowd gasped. The dirtbike approached Stephanie. Thunder crackled, the heavens opened and rain poured down in torrents.
Suzy slapped Annie across the face. She reeled but didn’t go down.
“Mom! Stop it!” Lila yelled. Annie and Suzy swiveled and spotted her in the crowd.
“You leave my daughter, alone,” Suzy raised her hand to smack Annie again, but missed when Annie ducked.
Jamie elbowed his way through the masses toward the stage. More officers ran behind him.
“Ladies!” Scott yelled. “Ladies! No fighting over me while on stage.”
“You’re as stupid as you were in high school,” Suzy said to Annie.
Annie touched her face where she’d just been slapped and glared back at her. “I wasn’t stupid. I was a typical teenage girl with bad taste in boys. At least I didn’t grow up to be a killer.”
“Frank Plank! Frank Plank!” More fans chanted and clapped.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Suzy said. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect my daughter.”
“Does that include dressing up in leather in ninety-nine degrees, riding your daughter’s dirtbike and shooting at Stephanie to give her an alibi?”
Stephanie glared up at Annie from the grass. “You’re not even a D-list celebrity. You’re just a disheveled woman who dresses in the worst outfits ever. Why Hot Guys picked you to be a pageant judge is a complete mystery. Besides, you have no proof!”
Annie punched the pageant itinerary high in the air. “Page two from the official Hot Guys pageant itinerary. I quote, “Opening ceremonies cocktail party hosted by Suzy Mae DeLovely from 8:30 to 10:30 p.m. Featuring WNOC interviews with Stephanie Storms.”
“That proves nothing. I was there,” Stephanie said. “I interviewed Suzy, and a few Hot Guys Board members.”
“Clever alibi. Mrs. McGillicuddy was scheduled to read her poem on TV. But you were already gone. You’d left early. Suzy Mae gave you the gun she used to fire and deliberately miss you when we were in Blackhoof’s parking lot. You went to Frank Plank’s boathouse and you shot him. Waited and watched from the woods for a couple of hours, until you saw Patsy Plank find Frank’s body and freak out. You naturally expected her to call 911. She never did. She called Detective Jamie Ryan’s cell, because her family craved privacy. Your big career opportunity, as well as your enormous mistake was texting I-CHIC at four a.m. telling them a Hot Guy had been murdered.”
“I did not. Mrs. McGillicuddy is old and confused. Olaf can vouch for me.”
“You left early,” Olaf said from behind WNOC’s camera. “Mrs. McGillicuddy practiced reading her poem to me, three times.”
“There’s a mistake.” Stephanie turned and stomped away from the stage. She spotted a cameraman from I-CHIC filming her. She snapped her designer knock-off umbrella shut and swung it at the camera and its operator. “Cut! Turn that damn thing off! Leave me alone!” She screamed and brandished her umbrella at the crowd as people backed up.
“Frank Plank! Frank Plank!” The audience’s chant grew louder. Rain pelted, lightening struck, the winds blew. Everyone was drenched, but no one was leaving. Every fan and Hot Guy were determined to see this through.
The dirtbike screeched into Stephanie’s path, blocking her from the audience. She jumped and backed toward the stage. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The driver pulled off her helmet and pitched it to the ground. “I’m a Wild Woman,” Gloria said. “And I want justice for Frank Plank!”
“Frank Plank! Frank Plank!” The packed crowd hollered.
Stephanie turned to run, but Olaf stuck out his foot and still managed to film her as she tumbled onto the ground. “Now that’s great TV! Olaf Peterson reporting for WNOC at the Hot Guys pageant meltdown.”
On stage Suzy bolted, but George wheeled in her direction, wrapped his muscular arms around her, pulled her onto his lap and wouldn’t let her slither out of his grasp. Jamie raced the few steps up to the platform and took one look at Annie.
“I’m fine. Suzy’s not. You need to call in for a psych eval, pronto,” she said.
“Agreed.” Jamie pulled cuffs from his back pocket and strode toward George, who held Suzy in a firm grip.
Oddly, Suzy didn’t fight, just shook her head. “I’m a mother. I got the call. I answered it. I’m a mother. Got the call. Answered it…” she said as Jamie cuffed her, lifted her off of George and led her away.
Lila stood in the middle of the crowd and burst into tears. Frank took her hand, “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
“Okay,” Lila said and squeezed Frank’s hand.
Misters Sheboygan and Richland Center held Stephanie down as an officer handcuffed her. Olaf filmed and commented the entire time.
“Frank Plank! Frank Plank!” The crowd screamed and thrust their fists in the air. Nancy and Susan accompanied a small older woman to the stage. Nancy whispered to Grady who nodded. He tapped the mic. “Quiet, please. I have an important guest speaker. Patsy Plank, Frank’s mom, would like to say something.”
The rain let up, and a patch of sunshine poked through the clouds. The crowd grew deathly quiet. Patsy’s lower lip quivered. “Thank you for honoring, Frank. I’m sure he would be grateful. Congratulations, Mr. Appleton. I am certain you will serve your state, well. Have a nice day. Bye-bye, now.”
Aunt Susan and Nancy guided Patsy to the back of the stage, away from the glare of cameras.
Grady held the mic. “And that concludes Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys contest. I don’t know about you? But I’ll be retiring to the Duck Blind bar from some post-pageant TV coverage as well as some cool libations and more cupcakes.
Annie squatted next to Stephanie who sat cuffed on the ground.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Frank said.
“I thought you were a pretty girl, Stephanie. I thought you were smart,” Annie said. “But I’ve learned that smart and pretty don’t necessarily equal someone who’s desirable or deserving.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me? This coming from you?” Stephanie asked. “A woman who’s soon to be middle-aged, lost her bakery business and is getting divorced? If we lived in the same town? I wouldn’t socialize with you. The people I hang with wouldn’t even let you on their map. We might have started off in the same town. But trust me. You and I? We have nothing in common.”
“I know. Thank God!” Annie said. “FYI? I’ll never forgive you for killing Frank Plank. I must admit, I’m comforted knowing that all the makeup in the world can’t hide your cold, bitter, hard heart. Your severe anger issues will help your so-so looks fade quickly. And soon, the only thing people will notice when they see you? Is a pathetic woman—who will forever be ugly to the bone.” Annie stood back up and walked away from Stephanie Storms.
26. Promises
A couple hours later the storm clouds had, for the most part, vanished over Lac LaBelle. The sun was back out and a healthy cool breeze blew. The temp was in the upper seventies and perfect as Annie sat, legs crossed, on the lawn.
She was one of the few people left. The majority of the crowds had departed with their camera moments, and their memories of possibly the most action-packed beauty pageant, ever.
Annie had told her sanitized version of how she figured out Frank’s murder to Jamie and other police detectives and officers. She did not mention Frank’s involvement. No one except Lila needed to know she’d conspired with his ghost.
Lila and Frank sat on the ground in front of her. Frank’s arm was wrapped around her petite shoulders. “So it’s perfect, really,” Frank said. “I’m staying here with Lila until she gets her feet on the ground.”
“I’m taking over mom’s business. And I think I’m going to pitch Monster Bakers as a TV show. I know Frank’s here with me. I can’t hear him, all that well yet.”
“I’m working on that,” Frank said.
“But I can feel him. And even dead, he feels a million times better than any other man I’ve ever dated.”
“That’s nice, Lila,” Annie said. “But eventually you’re going to want more. Maybe sex, marriage, kids. You might even want him to take you out to a movie.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Lila and Frank said at the same time and stood up.
“Okay. God bless,” Annie said.
“We’ll stay in touch,” Lila said as she and Frank walked back toward the lodge.
Frank stopped and turned and looked at Annie. “You will always be the best babysitter a kid could ever have hoped for. Thank you.” His eyes welled. He turned and jogged back to Lila.
Jamie Ryan walked toward her. He handed her a bottle of Lac LaBelle mineral water, a cupcake and sat down on the grass facing her.
“I can’t believe you scored a cupcake,” Annie said and took a big yummy bite.
“I had to flash my badge and confiscate it by claiming it was evidence. So, partner, I need to run something by you.” Jamie said.
Annie nodded.
“I know you’re going back to L.A. You’re going back to that man you’re already involved with.”
Annie stopped eating and just stared at him.
“I think one of the reasons you’re doing this is that you don’t make promises lightly, and that relationships mean a lot to you.”
“They do,” she said. “You mean a lot to me, too.”
“I can’t think about that right now. Right now all I can think about is that you’re leaving. And I have to take the high road. And I’m going to have to act okay about this, even though I’m not.” Jamie leaned forward and cupped her face with his hands. “But you need to promise me something.”
His face was inches from hers. His breath warm, his hands strong. This was her Jamie. How in the hell was she going to let him go? “What do you want me to promise you?”
“That if you ever wake up in L.A. and you feel confused? If things don’t turn out the way you want with this guy? If you change your mind? Listen to your heart. And follow it back to me. Because I know,” Jamie took one of her hands with his and placed it on his chest. “I know in my heart, that what we have is real. And I know that what we have isn’t over.”
Annie cried as Jamie gently wiped away her tears with his hand. “I promise,” she said. “I promise you that.”
Annie’s mom navigated the baby blue Caddie—the top down—into the curbside lane in the departures section at Milwaukee’s airport. She turned the key, killed the engine and wiped a tear from her eye. “After the stress from the last four days, I might need another face-lift.”
Annie grabbed her mom’s hand and squeezed it. “Everything will be okay.” She pulled her tight and hugged her. Out of the corner of her eye, Annie spotted an airport parking policeman striding toward them.
“This lane is for loading and unloading passengers, only. You can’t park here,” he said.
Annie pulled away from her mom. “We know that, officer. My mom’s dropping me off. We’re saying goodbye. Could you give us a few seconds, please?”
“You need to say your goodbyes before you pull into Mitchell Airport,” the officer said.
Annie sighed. “Got it.”
Nancy glared at the man. “Sir. Do you have a daughter?”
“I don’t have to share any of my personal references with you, ma’am. Move it along.” He pulled a ticket pad out of his back pocket.
Ah crap. Annie kissed her mom on the cheek and extricated her hand. “Mom and I will be departing in seconds.” She hopped out of the Caddie’s passenger door, grabbed her bag from the back seat and hauled it to the curb. It was so light and manageable without any clothes inside. Maybe she could spin her wardrobe theft as a good thing, and she vowed to pack lighter in future travels. Annie looked back and watched her mom tear up again. She winced.
“While I applaud your efforts for keeping America safe,” Nancy said. “I’m simply a mother who is saying goodbye to her daughter. Can you cut me a small break?”
“I make an exception for you and I'll have to make an exception for everyone,” the airport policeman said. “Move it along.”
Nancy stood straight up in the driver’s seat and clutched her chest with both hands. “Do you not have a freaking heart? Do you not understand how difficult it is to say goodbye to your own flesh and blood?”
Several drivers behind Nancy blared their horns. “Give the woman thirty seconds,” a man said. “For God’s sakes, she’s saying goodbye to her daughter.”
A female driver stuck her head out her car’s window and yelled, “She deserves a minute!”
“Don’t you even think about giving her a ticket,” a pickup truck driver hollered.
The officer grumbled and pointed his ticket pad at Nancy. “Thirty seconds.” He turned his back on her.
Annie raced to the driver’s side of her mom’s car. “Sit back down. Now.”
Nancy did.
Annie regarded her mom. A medley of love, regret, sweetness, confusion and irritation played on her face. “I love you, Mom. But I’ve got to go back to L.A.”
Nancy sniffed. “Why? Suzy Mae DeLovely’s a murderer, but her daughter’s moving home. Lila’s back in Wisconsin. How come you can’t be back in Wisconsin? Do I have to murder someone to get you to move back to Wisconsin?”
“No-no! You can’t murder anyone,” Annie said. “I have to go back to L.A., because I’m a chip off your block. I’m a wild woman, just like you, Mom.”
Nancy inhaled sharply. “Oh, my God.”
Annie nodded. “Wild women follow their hearts, chase their dreams and don’t give up when life rains pigeon crap on their parade or breaks their hearts. When everyone tells you no? A wild woman realizes that all those rejections mean she’s that much closer to the one who says Yes.”
“You got that expression from me, you know,” Nancy said.
Annie nodded. “Wild women don’t sit on the sidelines and observe life. They’re ninety-five percent in the game. If I don’t go back to Los Angeles, I’ll never know. I’ll never know if the situation or the circumstances or all the heartbreak fractured me, forever, for good. And I can’t live with that. I have to know. I have to follow-through. I have to try,” Annie said. “Mom, I have to try.”
Nancy nodded. “Go. But remember the phone lines run both ways. And I will not wait another year to see you again.”
“Another year won’t go by.” Annie hugged her mom as tight as she could. “Bye-bye. I love you.” She released her mom, ran toward the curb, grabbed her luggage and wheeled it inside the terminal. She didn’t wipe her own tears away until the automatic doors had closed.
Annie stood on Venice Beach right where the land met the Pacific Ocean. She burrowed her toes into the chilly wet sand and looked out at the choppy ocean waves. A surfer chick in a black wetsuit sat on her board in the waters and looked over her shoulder while waiting on her wave. It crested, white on top. The surfer paddled, pulled herself to standing and road her board to shore.
Several bathing suit clad, young, sun-kissed kids squealed with joy as they ran back and forth to the ocean, filling small plastic buckets with water while they constructed sandcastles. Behind them a disheveled homeless man held a battered garbage bag as he walked down the beach and scoured the sand. He plucked discarded plastic bottles and added them to his bounty.
Blasts of wind tossed Annie’s hair over her shoulders and her ears and cheeks tingled. She spotted a couple of dolphins arcing in and out of the Pacific waters close to the man-made, stone, breakwater at the marina’s juncture. She squinted at the sun that descended through the California summer ocean mist.
“You could move back to Oconomowoc,” Rafe Campillio said. He stood next to her, his hands balled into fists and shoved into his sweatshirt’s pockets. “I’d help you do the cross-country U-Haul thing.”
“You seduced me, had your wanton way with me and now you’re done with me, already?” Annie asked.
“No! I thought it would be gentlemanly to offer. Moving back home would make your mom happy.”
“I’m already home.” She stood tall, arched her spine and extended her head toward the sky, her hands stretched high over her head. “I’m standing in my front yard.” She pointed to the ocean. “I’m saying ‘Hey’ to my neighbors.” She waved to the sandcastle kids and the scavenger man. They waved back. “These are my people.”
“You’ve got an eclectic group of people,” Rafe said.
“Welcome to the party, Raphael Campillio, Hot Guy, ’cause that’s always been my m.o.” She tugged on his arm. “The trip was weird. I knew I’d be dealing with family, but more than a few curveballs were pitched in my direction. I hadn’t anticipated the stress of judging the contest. Never thought a kid I loved would be murdered.” And never intended to tell Rafe that she’d investigated Frank’s murder. “Never imagined I’d let another man kiss me.” Oh, crap she’d been honest. Now would be the logical time for Rafe to dump her. “Do you hate me?” She held her breath.
“No.” He still wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I knew I had a rival. And I knew it wasn’t your soon-to-be ex-husband. Who is he?” Rafe asked.
“A guy from my past.”
“Do you have feelings for him?”
“Yes. But I never stopped thinking about you. I came back to my life in L.A. I came back to you.” She wrapped both her hands around his elbow and tugged. Repeatedly.
He relaxed—just a little bit, just for a moment.
“If I had some WD40, chocolate and super-powers? I bet I could convince your elbow to relax,” Annie said. “Talk your hand into venturing forth from that pocket. If I was really lucky? I’d hypnotize you into placing that arm that I adore around my waist. Then we could chill and watch this gorgeous sunset, together.”
He stared at his toes, but his lips tugged up, resisting a smile.
She waved her index finger in front of face in circles. “You’re growing sleepy. Sleepy…”
Rafe wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her smack dab against him, bent her backward as he kissed her long and hard, full and consuming on her lips.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Oh,” he replied. “I thought you weren’t coming back.” He lifted her upright. “I worried you met someone new, someone more exciting. That you’d returned to a place where I’d never belong, let alone fit in. I thought you were gone for good. I’m crazy about you, Annie.”
“I’m here. I’m staying.” She snuggled her face into his shoulder. I’m back, she thought. I’m back where I belong. In Venice Beach, California. In this free-for-all, tree-hugging, whacky community. And most definitely with this solid man, Raphael Campillio.
They walked down the beach as the sun set over the gorgeous Pacific Ocean.
“It must have been tough dealing with the ordeals of a murder investigation, let alone the rollercoaster of emotions surrounding a boy you used to babysit,” Rafe said. “A boy you took care of. A boy you once loved.”
Annie nodded.
“Tell me about him,” Rafe said.
Annie took a moment. “He was a little wild when he was a kid. But he grew up nice. He loved his hometown and put himself on the line for it. He wanted to make a positive difference in his world. Be one of the good guys.”
“He sounds like he was a great guy.”
“Yeah.” Annie nodded. “But he drove me crazy when I babysat him.”
“What did he do?” Rafe asked.
“He stuffed tadpoles down my shirt.”
“If you were my babysitter, I probably would have done the same thing.”
Annie squeezed Rafe’s hand. Looked toward the ocean. For one small moment the glint of the sun off the waters sparkled crystal blue. And Annie remembered Jamie Ryan’s eyes.
THE END
Hot Guys’ Recipes
Julia’s Margarita Smooch Cupcakes
Yield = 12 cupcakes
Ingredients:
½ stick butter (1/4 cup) softened
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs - room temperature
.75 Tsp vanilla extract
3 Tbsp canola oil
One large lime, zested
1.5 cups cake flour
.75 Tsp baking powder
.5 Tsp baking soda
1/4 Tsp salt
3 Tbsp tequila
3 Tbsp lime juice
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line standard-size muffin pans with paper liners. Cream butter and sugar together 5 minutes or until smooth. Add vanilla then add eggs one at a time. Add tequila and lime juice. Mixture will look curdled. Add oil.
In a separate bowl combine dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and pudding mix. Add zest.
In a small bowl, whisk together 1/2 cup milk and sour cream thoroughly.
Add dry and milk/sour cream mixtures to the mixing bowl in two additions, scraping down sides and bottom of bowl. Mix until smooth.
Divide the batter evenly between the prepared liners, filling each about two-thirds full.
Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through baking. Let cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
Margarita Frosting Ingredients:
4 oz. butter, room temperature
4 oz. cream cheese, room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar
1 tablespoon lime juice
2 tablespoons tequila
Frosting Instructions:
Add butter and 1/2 of the powdered sugar to large mixing
bowl. Combine on low speed. Add tequila and lime juice
and gradually add remaining powdered sugar. Once
combined, increase mixer speed and whip until light and
fluffy. Add additional powdered sugar if stiffer consistency
is desired. Garnish with lime wedge and sprinkle of sea
salt.
Recipe courtesy of Cupcakes-A-Go-Go in Madison,
Wisconsin. Co-Owner – Laura Devries (Cupcakes-A-Go-Go is a bakery, caterer and café. Located at 6642 Mineral Point Road Madison, Wisconsin Ph: 608/217-9571 http://www.cupcakes-a-gogo.com/
Mr. Appleton’s Apple Pie
Ingredients:
Two 9” pie crusts
Eight medium to large Granny Smith apples
½ cup dark brown sugar, packed
¼ cup granulated sugar
One ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Juice of one lemon
Just under 1 tablespoon vanilla extract (Recommend the real stuff, not artificial.)
½ teaspoon salt
Slightly under 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
Three tablespoons (almost ½ stick) unsalted butter
Mr. Appleton’s Secret Concoction:
Four tablespoons granulated sugar
Almost ¾ cup all-purpose flour.
Two tablespoons unsalted butter
Almost ½ cup butterscotch chips
Egg Wash:
One egg
Almost two tablespoons water
Instructions:
Peel and slice apples ¼ inch thick. In a separate large bowl combine and mix the flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, lemon juice, vanilla and salt. Place applies slices in this mixture and stir.
Melt the butter in a large sauté pan. Add apple-flour-sugar and stir until the apples are soft. Avoid burning. Remove from heat and cool.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Pre-bake the bottom piecrust for 10 minutes. (Don’t pre-bake the top crust.)
Combine ingredients in Mr. Appleton’s Secret Concoction. Mix thoroughly.
Whisk the Egg Wash in a small bowl.
Place cooled apple mixture in pre-baked piecrust. Top with Secret Concoction. Place the reserved piecrust on top of pie. Crimp edges to seal the pie. (Don’t have too much top crust hanging down from pie edges as they will fall and burn off during baking.) Smooth egg wash onto top crust. Make four or five slashes in top crust to allow pie to vent.
Place pie in oven. Bake for 45 minutes. Check on it once in a while to make sure the top isn’t burning. Remove and let cool for 30 minutes before serving. Goes great with fresh vanilla ice cream.
(Note. For those who like it less sweet? Cut back on the sugar a little during preparations.)
Nancy’s Blueberry Pancakes
Ingredients:
Two cups Bisquick®
One cup milk OR ½ cup buttermilk and ½ cup milk
Two eggs
One tsp vanilla extract
1/3 cup granulated brown sugar
½ tsp lemon rind
Two cups fresh or frozen blueberries (thawed)
Instructions:
Pre-heat non-stick skittle to medium temperature. Mix all ingredients (except for the blueberries) together in a bowl with a wooden spoon until there are no lumps. Now add and stir in the blueberries.
*Note that thicker batter makes a cakier pancake. Thinner batter makes a thinner pancake. If the batter seems too thick, add ¼ cup of milk or water.
Pour scant ¼ cupfuls of batter onto the skittle. Allow the cake to bubble on the top. After this happens flip once.
Best served warm with fresh syrup.
Recipe courtesy of Charlotte and Zach’s Mom.
Strawberry Daiquiri Jell-O Shots
Ingredients:
1 small box Strawberry Jell-O
1 cup boiling water
1 cup white rum (Or on the lighter side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup strawberry juice) (Or on the lushier side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup vodka)
Small plastic cups
Instructions:
Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water.
Remove from heat.
Let cool.
Mix your liquors and or juices together. Add to cooled concoction. Stir.
Pour into little cups.
Refrigerate for at least two hours. Place in freezer for several minutes before serving.
Serve to those of drinking age.
Frank Plank’s Franks and Beans
Ingredients:
One lb. navy beans
Two tablespoons brown sugar
Two tsp salt
½ cup chopped onions
¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
Two tablespoons blackstrap molasses
¼ cup ketchup
½ cup pure maple syrup (not cheap pancake syrup – the good stuff)
One cup water (This is separate from the water needed to boil the beans.)
Two thick strips of bacon
Two packages, 12 oz. each, of polish sausage (your favorite brand/variety) cut into small pieces.
Instructions:
Boil beans in a large pot of water for an hour. Rinse and drain beans. In a large Dutch oven, sauté bacon until cooked but not too crispy.
In a large bowl, mix beans and all other ingredients. Pour this into the Dutch oven covering the bacon and the bacon fat. Cover the Dutch oven and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat to a simmer and let cook for two hours.
Check the oven periodically to make sure there is enough liquid in the pot. If not, add ½ cup water at a time. Stir periodically.
Serve warm, not scalding. Great dish on a cool fall day.
Recipe courtesy of Charlotte and Zach’s Mom.
Dust Bunny Chocolate Drop Cookies
Ingredients:
½ cup butter
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
Two 1 oz squares baking chocolate, melted and cooled
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
¾ cup sour cream
(If you like nuts add this. If you don’t skip this.) ½ cup chopped pecans
Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, blend butter with brown sugar until smooth. Add egg, vanilla, and cooled chocolate. Mix well; set aside. In a small bowl, combine flour, baking soda, and salt. Add dry ingredients alternately with sour cream to chocolate mixture, beating well after each addition. Stir in pecans (if you like nuts.)
Drop batter by teaspoonfuls two inches apart onto a greased and floured baking sheet. Bake ten minutes or until set. Remove from baking sheet to a wire rack to cool.
White Powdered Sugar Frosting Ingredients and Instructions:
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted.
½ tsp vanilla
1 tbsp water
Mix frosting ingredients thoroughly. When cookies are cool, dab with frosting.
Wild Women’s Piña Coladas
Yield = Two Cocktails
Ingredients:
Six oz of light rum
Six tbsp of crushed organic pineapple
Six tbsp of organic coconut milk
Four cups crushed ice
Pineapple wedges – freshly cut
Instructions:
Blend rum, crushed pineapple, coconut milk and crushed ice in an electric blender till smooth. Pour into festive glasses. Garnish with freshly cut pineapple wedges on rims of glasses. Serve with straws.
Note! This recipe only makes TWO drinks. Multiply accordingly.
No Marshmallows Allowed Hot Chocolate with Whipped Cream
Yields: 4 mugs
Hot Chocolate Ingredients:
½ cup white sugar
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
A pinch of salt
Three ½ cups milk
1/3 cup boiling water
½ cup half and half cream
½ tsp vanilla
Hot Chocolate Instructions:
Mix sugar, cocoa and salt in mixing bowl. Pour into cooking pot. Slowly add boiled water. Stir concoction and bring to boil. Let it simmer while stirring for another two minutes. Don’t allow contents to burn. Add and stir in the milk and heat until it is very hot. Do not boil. Take off the burner, and add the vanilla, stirring gently.
Whipped Cream Ingredients and Instructions:
Pour one cup heavy cream into electric blender and blend until little crests take shape. Top hot chocolate mugs with the freshly whipped cream.
Serve warm and toasty, but not hot enough to burn mouths. Yummy!
Acknowledgments
Many giving, loving people helped me create this book.
Thanks to Rita Kempley, my author friend who gave me notes on early drafts. Thanks to my editors Ramona DeFelice Long and Chase Heiland. A huge thanks to Deborah Daly Roelandts who helped with details on Oconomowoc, as well as police procedures. (Any mistakes are mine, not hers.) Michael James Canales – screenwriter, poet, and Mr. Talented – thanks for another great book cover. You rock! Thanks to my beta readers – Terri Dunn and An’gel Molpus. Thanks author Bob Bernstein for helping me dent the mystery of how to make a paper book. Thanks to the book clubs and blogs that have been so kind to me – Sassy Girls, Chick-Lit Central, Cupcakes Take the Cake, Forever Young Adult – you’re the best! Thanks POV. Thanks Joe Wilson creator of indie TV show VampireMob.com Thank you to my family – the DuMonds, Stallters, and Timmels. Thanks Monica Mason, Melissa Black Ford, Elise Ford, Cheree Dussair Plank, Celia Boyle, Carrie Hartney, D.C., John Montaghue, D.C. Adrienne Kramer, Nestor O’Tazu and Debra Sanderson for keeping me sane. Thanks author Shelly Fredman, Sadie Gilliam, Andrew Goldstein, Jamie Duneier, Jason Koffeman, author Jacqueline Carey, Kristin Warren, Ed Schneider, author Doug Solter, Kim Goddard Kuskin, Jacqueline Radley, and Rachel Browning for being so cool. Thanks Mike Snyder and The Trailer Guys for making such a great book trailer. Thanks Aurora de Blas for starring in it. And thanks to the crew at BookNook.com for doing a super job formatting versions of my e-book.
Special thanks to Laura Devries, co-owner of Cupcakes-A-G-Go located in Madison, Wisconsin, for the margarita cupcake recipe. (Cupcakes-A-Go-Go 6642 Mineral Point Road, Madison, Wisconsin. Ph: 608/836-3400 www.cupcakes-a-gogo.com)
Thanks to all the readers and cupcake lovers who have supported me on this journey. I am grateful. Go read good book and tell someone you love about it.
Xo,
Pamela DuMond
You can find more info about Pamela DuMond, her books, and her mailing list at
Pam's Website
Also by the author
Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #1)
Cupcakes, Sales, and Cocktails – A Novella (#2)
Cupcakes, Paws, and Bad Santa Claus (#4)
Anne Graceland Mystery Box Set Books #1 – 4 (#5)
Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries, (#6)
The Story of You and Me (Driven, #1)
Part-time Princess (Ladies-in-Waiting, #1)
The Messenger (Mortal Beloved, Book One)
Staying Young: Easy Tips and Techniques to Look and Feel Younger
TOO MANY CROOKS SPOIL THE BROTH
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes
by Tamar Myers
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
Copyright © 1994 by Tamar Myers
Ebook ISBN: 9781625172150
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
NYLA Publishing
350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.
http://www.nyliterary.com
ISBN: 978-1-987859-06-5
To my loving husband, Jeff
Acknowledgments
To all those people who encouraged and supported my efforts, thank you.
With special thanks to my friend Yael, who told me I could; to Marcie Banks, who told me I should; and to Nancy Yost, my agent, who told me I would.
I also acknowledge and appreciate the efforts of my editor, Judy Kern.
Under duress, I will acknowledge my children, whose interruptions were aggravating, but not fatal. Not to mention my two cats, whose frequent trips across the keyboard made life interesting.
And of course, ultimately I owe it all to my parents. Thanks, Mother, for your Amish heritage. And yes, Dad, the book will be published!
Chapter 1
I knew at once that the screamer was Susannah. Hers is an exceptionally high-pitched scream, and while it won’t break any glasses, it will curdle milk and put the hens off laying.
When I got there, Susannah was still standing just inside the bedroom door, but she had stopped screaming. Her mouth, however, continued to open and close with the regularity of a pump valve. Come to think of it, she could still have been screaming, but somewhere out of my decibel range.
I could see at once what the problem was. Sprawled across the sleigh bed, half-draped in Mama’s best dresden plate quilt, was a corpse. A corpse, as opposed to a body. There is a difference, you know.
In my forty-three years I’ve seen a few dead bodies, but this was my first corpse. The bodies had all belonged to people who knew they were going to die, or who were at peace with themselves when their time came. Seeing them was hard enough.
A corpse is different because the remains belong to someone who has died in mental as well as physical agony. This is my own definition, of course, but I’m sure you’ll agree.
Even from a distance it was clear that this was a corpse. These were not the vacantly staring eyes that one traditionally associates with death. The eyes of this corpse seemed to be focused in rage at the ceiling, although a quick glance in that direction revealed nothing more than a few wispy cobwebs Susannah’s broom had missed.
The corpse’s open mouth was a dead giveaway too. I know, most people die with their mouths open, but the lips on this one were pulled back, and there was something about their position that made me think their owner had died cursing. Perhaps those lips were still issuing silent curses, like Susannah’s silent screams.
And take the hands. People usually die with their hands open too. I mean, when they die their muscles relax and they let go of whatever they’ve been holding. Not so with this corpse. This corpse was clutching Mama’s dresden plate quilt so tightly, I was afraid we’d have to do some cutting to part corpse from quilt. Cutting fingers, I mean, not the quilt.
Not that the quilt was in such good shape anyway. Both my eyes and my nose told me there was at least one part of the corpse that had relaxed.
“Gosh darn!” I said. I swear, that is as bad as I can curse.
Susannah began to make some noises that were neither speech nor screams.
“Get a grip on it,” I admonished her. “I’ll call the police, but in the meantime, you run downstairs and see if we have any borax in the laundry room. If not, dash out and get some. If this quilt’s been ruined, someone’s going to pay!”
I know that might sound a little callous to you, but you have to stand tough if you expect to succeed in the business world. And I, for one, was succeeding remarkably well, all things considered.
We’d been farmers, you see. Mennonite farmers in the Allegheny Mountains of southern Pennsylvania. Ours was primarily a dairy farm, which Papa ran with the help of a kinsman, Mose Hostetler. Mama and Freni, Mose’s wife, did the gardening and took care of the chickens. Some years Mama made more selling eggs that Papa did selling milk.
I’m sure I’d only confuse you if I said that Mose and Freni were third cousins, and that both of them were somehow related to Papa, and Freni was related to Mama as well. I suppose it would confuse you even more if I mentioned that Mose and Freni weren’t even Mennonites, but Church Amish. Suffice it to say, the Hostetlers were family, as well as employees.
The routine of our farm, the love of our family, and the firm foundation of our church made me think that I would live my entire life feeling absolutely secure, if not a little bored. Then one day something tragic happened that turned my life upside down.
Papa and Mama were on their way west to Somerset when their car was rear-ended in the Allegheny Tunnel. The vehicle that did this was a semitrailer loaded to the gills with state-of-the-art running shoes. The driver of the truck was loaded to the gills with Mogen David 20/20. The authorities believe my parents might have survived this accident, had there been no one in front of them. Unfortunately, there was another truck in front of them, this one a shiny, silver tanker. Mama and Papa died needlessly in a mishmash of sneakers and pasteurized milk.
That was ten years ago, when I was thirty-three and my sister, Susannah, twenty-three. Fortunately for us, the farm had been paid for a generation earlier, but still we had all those cows and chickens to contend with. The Hostetlers were, after all, nearing retirement age, and we couldn’t stick them with all the work. Perhaps the four of us might have been able to make a go of it, but Susannah, who never was much of a worker anyway, ran off and married a Presbyterian— something she never would have done had Mama and Papa been alive!
Then one day I picked up a magazine that had an article about bed-and-breakfast establishments, and cerebral lightning struck. Why not, I pondered, go two steps further and offer lunch and dinner as well? So, to make a long story short, that’s how the PennDutch Inn was begun.
In retrospect, I am amazed at how quickly the pieces fell into place. Sure, Freni Hostetler was opposed to the idea, but she’s just generally allergic to change. Mose, on the other hand, thought it was a great idea. Normally the Amish, even the more liberal ones like Mose and Freni, don’t like mixing the outsiders, but Mose liked the idea of milking all those cows by himself even less. In no time at all, we sold off all the cows but two, got the chickens down to a more manageable flock, and built an addition to the farmhouse.
With the exception of remodeling the kitchen to meet health codes and updating the plumbing, there was very little work needed on the existing house. I didn’t even bother to redecorate. All of Mama’s furnishings had been in the family for years, some for generations, and while they looked old and commonplace to me, to the outside world they were antiques. Even Mama’s hobby, quilt-making, finally paid off, because there were enough quilts by then to put one on each guest bed.
And while I don’t really believe in luck, it was with me nonetheless. I had advertised in both Pittsburgh and Philadelphia papers, and among my first guests was a yuppie reviewer who fancied herself a connoisseur of Americana, and of the Pennsylvania Dutch in particular. Never mind that she thought our plain posture was all an act, and that Freni’s blue broadcloth dresses and white net prayer bonnet were nothing more than a costume. What matters is that she gave us a rave review, and started a stampede of well-heeled, highfalutin customers who have kept right on coming. I have not advertised again.
Of course I did the sensible thing and jacked up the prices. Connoisseurs are only happy when paying a premium. Since that first, and fateful, review, I have jacked up my rates six times, and my waiting list keeps getting longer.
Another thing I did was to institute the old work ethic. On the parlor wall I hung a sampler with a verse from 1 Corinthians: “We work hard with our own hands.” That the verse is taken out of context does not matter—yuppies are not all that familiar with the Bible. The point is, my guests are expected to clean their own rooms every day, and even to help out with the common rooms. This doesn’t seem to bother them one whit, as long as they remain convinced that this is part of our culture. Most of them do. For those few who don’t want to immerse themselves so thoroughly in the Amish-Mennonite heritage, Susannah and I are glad to take over. For an extra fee, of course. You’d be surprised how much people will pay for abuse, provided they can view it as a cultural experience.
At any rate, what with our low operating expenses and our astonishingly high income, we managed to pay off the new wing in no time at all, and start squirreling some of those greenbacks away. My goal is to someday travel to all those interesting places our guests hail from. In fact, I’d like to see the whole world, every bit of it—except those parts that are permanently covered by ice and snow.
But for now, at least until I can find a replacement more competent than Susannah (who divorced her Presbyterian and moved back home), I have to content myself with seeing the world through books, and the eyes of our guests. Since Mama and Papa’s tragic accident, my perspective has changed drastically. But then, when your world turns upside down, your perspective can’t help but change.
So you can see now, can’t you, why the corpse on the old sleigh bed was upsetting, but not quite as upsetting as the fact that it had soiled Mama’s dresden plate quilt? Of course, it was probably all my fault to begin with. I had gotten too busy, and didn’t take my usual care in selecting the guests that first weekend of deer-hunting season. What follows is exactly what happened.
Chapter 2
They began to arrive on Sunday afternoon, the Sunday following Thanksgiving. Deer-hunting season was to begin at dawn the following day. Normally I try to pick deer hunters as my guests at that time, even though I am personally repulsed by the idea of shooting anything that isn’t trying to mug you. My reason for welcoming hunters is very Biblical. Didn’t the prophet Ezekiel say something about there being a time and season for everything? Although the PennDutch Inn is at least six miles from State Game Land No. 48, every year our land gets overrun by hunters. I figure that if any of my patrons must risk an accidental bullet, it may as well be hunters.
I was particularly pleased with the lot I’d selected this year (you wouldn’t believe how long my waiting list is, and don’t think for a minute that it is first come, first served). Four of the week’s guests were to be women. Women hunters, imagine that! Not that women can’t be hunters too, it’s just this was the first time a woman had stated on her application that she was a hunter. Well, with the exception of one woman, who it turned out was really a hunting groupie in search of two-legged bucks carrying a lot of greenbacks. But that happened a long time ago, and is another story.
Anyway, I had just gotten home from church, and hadn’t even had time to fix myself a bite of lunch, when the first of these four women showed up unexpectedly. Check-in time is three p.m., and it was only a couple of minutes past noon when this creature appeared at the front door, so can you blame me for being at least a little miffed?
And another thing, I hate being startled. People who sneak up behind you, even if it is not their intention to scare you, deserve a special place in hell. I know that’s a terrible thing to think, especially on a Sunday, but ever since I was a child, and my cousin Sam sneaked up behind me and suddenly dangled a live blacksnake in my face, causing me to lose control of my bladder, I’ve harbored a shameful hatred of sneaky people. Of course Susannah knows this and torments me with her knowledge. One night, just a year ago, I opened the door to my bedroom closet, only to find Susannah in there, behind my dresses, with her chin resting on the hanger bar, and the light of a flashlight shining up onto her face. She had her mouth open in a snarl, and was wearing those silly plastic teeth kids stick in their mouths on Halloween. Of course I screamed, and maybe dampened my bloomers just a little. Meanwhile Susannah howled with laughter. And this from a woman who will never see the sunny side of thirty again?
But back to the woman at the front door. If she had rung the bell, knocked, or even walked in loudly, I wouldn’t have minded so much. But she just stood there, outside, like a giant moth pressed up against the screen of the front door. She even looked like a moth. Everything about her was a grayish beige. Light ash brown, I think they call it. I call it mousy. If she’d been a larger woman, she could have gotten a job as a used sofa in the bargain basement of the Salvation Army store, or had she at least worn a large green hat, she might well have passed for a tree. You get the picture.
“What is it you want?” I said perhaps a little too sharply.
The giant moth did not flutter away. “I’ve come to register in your inn.”
I was taken aback. Normally I put on a little show for my guests. Atmosphere is, after all, what most of them have come seeking. Obviously it was now too late to trot out the accent, or to put on plainer-looking duds. “Aren’t you just a wee bit early, Miss?” I asked as pleasantly as I could. “I mean, check-in isn’t for another three hours.”
The mousy moth opened her medium-sized mitt and revealed a folded fifty-dollar bill. “For your extra trouble,” she said in her nondescript voice.
“Come on in, dear,” I cried warmly. “Here, let me help you with your luggage."
But there was only one, tan, medium-sized suitcase, and the woman insisted on handling it herself.
“Name, please?” I asked when we were at the desk.
“Heather Brown.”
“That figures.”
“Pardon me?”
I had to lie slightly to cover for my rudeness. The Lord, I’m sure, understands that kind of thing. Maybe two wrongs don’t make a right, but sometimes that’s all there is left. “What I mean is, you were the first of this week’s guests to make your reservation, and now you’re the first to check in. The early bird catches the worm, like they say, and you’ve just caught yourself one of the larger rooms in the new wing.”
Instead of being pleased, Miss Brown looked more like I’d given her a real worm. “This is the PennDutch Inn, isn’t it? In Hernia, Pennsylvania?”
“None other,” I said with justifiable pride.
"And I was the very first one to make reservations for the coming week?” Due to the inn’s immense popularity amongst well-heeled culture seekers, especially on the East Coast, I insist that all guests pay up front for a minimum of one week. It saves on washing sheets.
Miss Brown began to fumble for something in her camel-colored purse. “Why, then I’m very surprised. I mean, I only made the request a few weeks ago, and I’ve heard that your inn is very popular, especially with the ‘in crowd.’ ” She laughed, the innocuous sort of chuckle one hears on TV laugh tracks.
“Of course it is,” I assured her.
“I’ve even heard that movie stars sometimes stay here.”
“Barbra Streisand was very nice,” I said modestly.
“And of course, since you’re only hours away from D.C., I suppose you see a fair number of those folks as well?”
“You bet your bippy! As a matter of fact, Congressman Ream and his wife are expected today.” Honestly, I didn’t mean to let that kind of information slip out. Normally, I’m as tight-lipped as a pickle sucker when it comes to my current guests. But there was something about Miss Brown, maybe it was her very blandness, that made me want to impress her.
How do you tell when a moth is impressed? Miss Brown said, “Gee, that’s exciting,” but she sounded as about as excited as Susannah does when I ask her to help me fold laundry. I dislike people who speak in monotones almost as much as I dislike people who sneak up on you.
“Do you want the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option?” I asked pleasantly, nonetheless.
Miss Brown had finished fumbling in her camel-colored purse and was displaying a wad of bills big enough to choke a hog fresh off a two-day fast. “For my bill,” she said. “And what I really would like is to be left alone.”
“Sure thing, Miss Brown.” After all, she wasn’t being nasty, and I’ve yet to hear a boom box that can put out anywhere near as many decibels as do-re-me.
“Now, where do you want me parking my car?”
“Just leave it where it is for now and I’ll park it,” I said. To be too proud to take tips is a sin in itself.
I showed Miss Brown to her room, after a brief tug of war over her tan suitcase, which she, I regret to say, won. Unlike most guests, Miss Brown seemed oblivious to the quaint surroundings. Even the impossibly steep stairs that lead up to the second floor didn’t seem to perturb her. It was obvious that she hadn’t come for the ambience, yet I didn’t see hide nor hair of any sort of hunting equipment.
“Would you like me to bring in your guns when I move the car?” I asked.
For the first time I saw emotion—perhaps amusement—flicker across her face. “I haven’t any guns.”
“But on your application you stated that you were a hunter.” Mennonites are not big on hunting, but if someone was going to do it, I would just as soon it was a woman. A woman hunter, in my opinion, would simply shoot her deer and then go home. No need for male bonding and the ritual downing of six-packs. For some men, on the other hand, bagging a buck has developed into a week-long religious experience that follows its own complicated liturgy. Surely only someone possessing male gonads could possibly hope to understand what really goes on. For example, several years ago I foolishly allowed Susannah to put a ceramic deer out on the lawn as an ornament. The first day of deer season it got shattered to smithereens. And Susannah had painted it pink!
Anyway I was disappointed when Miss Brown informed me that she had never hunted deer, and never intended to do so. She was a photo-hunter, she said, and her bag was filled with expensive photographic equipment. She had come to shoot pictures of the hunters shooting the deer. She was a photographic essayist for some magazine that had “Illustrated” in the title. Did I want to see her credentials, or perhaps even read one of her articles?
I did not. Because of the PennDutch’s enormous success amongst the moneyed crowd, I had become quite inured to famous people, and I certainly didn’t count bland little Miss Brown as a celebrity. Now if Paul Theroux wanted to show me his latest manuscript, that was something else.
“And I won’t be taking my meals here,” said Miss Brown. “Remember, I said that on my application?”
I did remember then, and with gratitude. Miss Brown probably ate like a moth, and whatever it is that moths eat, I’m sure Freni doesn’t cook it. I made a mental note to examine the bed linens for holes before Miss Brown checked out.
I cheerfully parked her car for her, and, as expected, received a nice fat tip. Miss Brown’s car, incidentally, was about as flashy as her person. It was certainly not a status car for a crack reporter. Frankly, it was as ugly as sin, even one of Susannah’s sins. I don’t know about car makes, but this one was asphalt gray, with mud-brown seats. Surely driving a car like that on a foggy day would be a risk taken only by bungee-jumpers. Even though I’d parked the car myself, on my way back to the house I looked over my shoulder twice just to make sure it was really there.
With Miss Brown tucked quietly away in her room, I ate a quick sandwich, and then settled down for my favorite Sunday afternoon activity—napping. If I time it right, and things work out the way they are supposed to, I can get a good two-hour nap in between church and the arrival of my first guests. Of course I don’t really sleep the whole two hours; that would be far too decadent, even on a Sunday. Normally I just sit back in my favorite rocker, and alternately doze, read a book, and worry about Susannah. This Sunday, however, thanks to the early arrival of Miss Brown, my schedule was thrown off, and the sudden commotion at the front door caught me in mid-doze.
I could tell instantly that the two women who lurched through the outside porch door at precisely three p.m., each carrying one large and one small suitcase, were not hunters either. Or even groupies. These women had never been outdoors longer than the time it takes to get from the mall to an outlying parking spot.
I immediately vacated my favorite rocker and ambled to my welcoming position behind the front desk. My office is merely the front left corner of the main sitting room, which is the first room you enter off the front porch. In the old days this was the dining room, where our large, extended family would congregate regularly for meals.
Mama wouldn’t recognize it now. Gone is the massive oak table that it took four men to lift. In its place is a large oval braided rug that took Freni and me six months to make. The furniture, which now rings the walls, is a hodgepodge of old rockers and hard, high-backed chairs. Only one of them is comfortable, and I grab it whenever I get a chance. Mixed in with the chairs are the occasional spinning wheel, butter churn, and the like. Securely fastened to the walls, so that no one need worry, are such things as washboards, horse harnesses, and even a two-man tree saw. Usually people gasp when they first see this room and mutter complimentary phrases that include the words “quaint” and “homey.”
The two women staggered in from the porch, and, like Miss Brown, seemed oblivious to their surroundings. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they’d been arguing.
“Goot aftahnoon,” I said from behind the counter. I’m always careful not to sound too friendly, because when people pay a lot of money they expect at least a little condescension. Why else do you think Paris is so popular?
“We’re the Parker party,” said the older of the two women. “I’m Ms. Jeanette Parker, and this is my friend, Linda McMahon.”
“Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch,” I said. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, proprietress.” Now don’t get me wrong. I hate talking in a fake German accent, and as for being a “proprietress,” doesn’t that sound like the night job some women take when they move to the big city? But, my guests seem to love it.
Ms. Parker was not impressed. “You should have our reservations. For two rooms. In the new wing.”
Her companion began to shift her weight from one foot to the other, and her face reddened considerably. “I—uh—I think I only booked one room for us, Jeanette.”
“You what?”
“They are supposed to be very large rooms. Aren’t they, Mrs. Yoder?” She looked beseechingly at me for confirmation.
“It’s ‘Miss.’ ” I dropped the accent. It’s too hard to maintain in the midst of conflict, and I could smell conflict coming as surely as I can smell Freni cooking sauerkraut on a hot summer day.
“What?” demanded the older woman. She was in her mid-forties, and seemed to be very self-assured. For some reason red hair intimidates me, and this woman’s carrot-orange do was no exception.
I swallowed a couple of times. “It’s ‘Miss,’ not ‘Mrs.’ I’ve never been married.” Susannah delights in reminding me of this.
Ms. Parker’s blue eyes stared coldly at me through her pale red lashes. It was the kind of stare teachers give you just before they accuse you of being a smart aleck. “I’m not interested in your marital status. Do you by chance have an extra room?”
“But, Jeanette, I already checked when I sent in the application. She doesn’t have any other rooms.” The younger woman, perhaps only in her early twenties, was still blushing. Frankly, the emotionally induced infusion of red was an improvement over her otherwise anemic appearance.
“Is that true? Are you all out of rooms?”
“Technically,” I said.
“Technically? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I could give you my sister’s room, I suppose. It’s in the new wing. But it is an imposition.”
“Would double the rate make it less of an imposition?”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I said, and then smiled sweetly.
Actually it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Ever since her divorce, Susannah had taken up residence in one of the three bedrooms in the new wing. These are the largest, most comfortable rooms in the inn, and of course the most expensive. The reason I had not put up a fight was because the only sensible alternative was to have Susannah move in with me.
Before I give you the impression that I’m a whiner, let me explain about Susannah. She is, without doubt, the messiest adult in the world. Susannah would be an inspiration to any teenager. And in addition to the mess, and the fact that Susannah keeps immorally late hours, there is the matter of her dog. If only it were a real dog, like a shepherd or a collie. But Susannah’s dog is one of those rat-sized things that yips constantly in a high-pitched voice when it’s not nipping at your ankles. I’ll even confess that I’ve been tempted, on more than one occasion, to aid the dog in some mysterious disappearing act, but alas, Susannah is never more than five feet away.
“Linda, pay her for the room so we can get settled,” Ms. Parker ordered.
“Well, you do realize,” I said quickly, “that it will take a few minutes before housekeeping can get around to cleaning the extra room?”
“She can wait in my room,” Ms. Parker said irritably. I thought I saw the hint of a smile play across Linda’s kind, but rather plain face. “Linda, pay her, and let’s get a move on.”
Linda scurried to obey, proffering me both her Visa and Mastercard. I selected one of the cards and took down the number. “Would you be wanting the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option with this room?”
“Pardon me?”
“We don’t clean motel rooms,” said Ms. Jeanette Parker curtly.
I noted that by upping the price. “Three meals a day?”
She brusquely nodded her affirmation. “I’m a vegan, Linda’s a lacto.”
“I think I’m a Virgo,” I said, trying to cooperate.
“She means we’re vegetarians,” said Linda quickly. “I eat dairy products, but no eggs or fish. Jeanette eats only fruits and vegetables. And of course grains.”
I tried to smile, but I knew Freni would throw a fit. She does all the cooking for the PennDutch, and it’s done her way. Meals are served family style, and the choices are between starch and grease. “I’ll see what we can do.”
“What do you mean by ‘I’ll see’? Linda, you did mark that down on the application, didn’t you?”
Linda chewed nervously on a nail. “I’m pretty sure.” I was pretty sure she hadn’t, but just to prove them wrong, I dug their application out of my files and spread it on the counter.
“There! See?” said Ms. Parker triumphantly.
I studied the sheet. Sure enough the words “lacto” and “vegan” did appear, after their names. But you can hardly fault me for not recognizing their significance, can you? At least a third of my applicants have letters after their names, but until now I’d always assumed they stood for titles or degrees. “I’ll speak to the cook,” I said humbly.
“Very well,” said Ms. Parker magnanimously. “Please have the bellboy bring our bags up at once.”
We have no bellboy. The only male in our operation is Mose, and I wasn’t about to saddle a seventy-three- year-old man with suitcases that two healthy women could carry themselves. “Carrying your own bags is part of the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option,” I said matter-of-factly. “Bellboys cost extra.”
“Put it on the bill.”
I did. Then I went around the counter and picked up the two closest bags, tucking the smaller one under my arm. Then I got the remaining two. Slowly I straightened. “Follow me.”
“We can’t let her carry all of them,” I heard Linda whisper to her companion. “She’s too old!”
I straightened my back even more and led the way briskly down the back hall and up our unfortunately steep stairs. There is nothing quite like a jolt of adrenaline to rejuvenate this middle-aged body, and the Mss. McMahon and Parker were keeping me well supplied with energy.
Just as I thought, cousin Freni almost blew a gasket when I told her she had two vegetarians to cook for that evening. Freni’s temper functions just like a pressure cooker. The steam builds up slowly but steadily and, if unchecked, is liable to explode with dire consequences.
“I’m making chicken and dumplings and they can eat it or not.”
“Chicken and dumplings is fine for the rest of us,” I said soothingly. “But we need to think up some vegetable dishes for those two.”
“There’s carrots, onions, and celery in the chicken stock. If you like, I’ll throw in a potato or two, even though that’s not the right way to make dumplings. And there’s pickled beets and eggs on the side.”
I smiled encouragingly, despite the fact that I have been trying for years to convince Freni that eggs are not a vegetable. “That’s the spirit, Freni, but I’m afraid they’re going to want their vegetables cooked outside of the chicken broth.”
“Fine.” But of course it wasn’t. I could tell by the way the lines around Freni’s mouth were beginning to disappear that the pressure was building. Foolishly I pressed just a little further. Trapped between Freni and Ms. Parker was not a comfortable place to be, but at least I knew what Freni’s limitations were.
“What about fruit, Freni? Are we serving any fruit?”
“There’s apple butter with the bread, and apple pie with cheese for dessert.”
I’d long since given up trying to convince Freni that cheese was not a fruit. To Freni the hard-to-classify foods (for Freni that included eggs, grains, and dairy products) took on the category of the food with which they were commonly served. By logical extension, macaroni and cheese would be a fruit dish, something with which Freni would have no quarrel.
“And there’s cream for the coffee!” added Freni triumphantly.
“How about serving some stewed fruit? Maybe a nice compote that you put away in September?”
Freni’s lines began to disappear faster, and I knew I’d gone about as far as I dared. “Anything else, Magdalena?”
I was about to say “no,” when I remembered Ms. Parker’s cold blue eyes staring at me through their pale red lashes. “I don’t suppose any of that compote was put up without sugar?” I began to back out of the kitchen. “And could you bake up a batch of oat or whole grain bread?” I almost sprinted to the sitting room.
I had just gotten settled back down in my rocker when the next guest arrived. He was a very tall, skinny man, with an eggshell complexion, who was dressed from head to toe in blue denim. Even his shoes were denim. Although he looked frail, he almost beat me to the front desk. He was not carrying any suitcases, only a small backpack.
“Goot aftahnoon. Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn.”
“Raidstu Yiddish?”
I put a lid on the fake accent and opened the register. “You are Mr.—?”
“Teitlebaum. Joel Teitlebaum. Ova.”
“Magdalena Yoder. Mercury Comet.”
“I mean that I eat eggs. But no fish or dairy products, of course.”
“Of course. Meat?”
Joel Teitlebaum blanched and may even have swayed a little. “Of course not!”
I nodded. At least I had figured out on my own that we had another vegetarian on our hands. “Would you like the Amish Lifestyle Package Option?” I asked bravely. These were not the kinds of guests I was used to.
“Yes, I would.”
I smiled in relief. “You’ll find the broom, dustpan, and dust cloth in your room closet. So are the bathroom supplies. Rooms must be cleaned and beds made before breakfast. You do want three meals a day, don’t you?”
“Are your eggs organic?”
I nodded assuringly, which isn’t the same as lying. As far as I know, the only inorganic eggs are the marble kind sold in gift shops. “Yours is room three, in this wing, on the second floor.”
When I got back from showing Joel his room, I found a party of three waiting for me at the desk. “Goot aftah-noon!” I called cheerily. Believe me, forced cheer is an art that can be learned, no matter how grumpy it makes you.
I knew at once that this party consisted of United States Congressman Garrett Ream, his wife, the socialite Lydia Johns Ream, and the Congressman’s aide, somebody James. I knew this not only because they were to be our only party of three that week, but also because I had seen both Reams’ pictures in the paper dozens of times.
Garrett Ream had only one more year left until re-election, and everyone knew that his next step was going to be the Senate. It was also a sure bet that the United States Senate was only a stepping stone to the White House. Tall, dark, and handsome, with an I.Q. higher than room temperature, Garrett Ream seemingly had everything going for him. Especially his wife.
Lydia Johns Ream was none other than the daughter of Senator Archibald Johns and heiress Margaret Lyons Needmore. It had been said from her cradle days on, that whomever Lydia married would someday be President of the United States. The hand that rocked Lydia’s cradle was surely employed by the parents of a future First Lady.
“Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn.” I even bowed slightly.
“Can it, fraulein,” said Congressman Ream. “Send someone to get the bags. Is the manager in?”
I must admit, my mouth had fallen open wide enough to stuff in even one of Freni’s dumplings, but that was no excuse for what he said next. “Speakatee zee English?”
“Apparently about as well as you,” I couldn’t resist saying. I was still in a state of shock. This man was an elected public official, and even though I didn’t live in his district, it was pretty darn cheeky of him to be so rude. Next year, when he ran for the Senate, we’d see who got the last laugh.
“Well, if you speak English, Miss, then hop to it and get the manager and bellboy out here, pronto!”
I glared at him, pretending I was Ms. Parker and he was me. “I am the manager, mister!”
“You?”
“Darling,” said his wife, stepping forward and taking his left arm in both of hers, “let’s just check in, shall we? It’s been a long drive.”
I could tell just by the way she spoke that the lady had class. Everything about her whispered (a soft, cultured whisper, of course) class. The way she moved was pure class. From the tip of her expensively but elegantly coiffed hair to the tips of her make-Imelda-Marcos-envious shoes, she looked classy. What then was she doing with such a clod? Besides the fact that he was handsome?
“I can take care of this, dear,” the clod muttered under his breath.
The class act didn’t seem to hear him. “We’re Congressman and Mrs. Ream,” she said smoothly, “and this is Mr. James, my husband’s aide. I believe you have us down for reservations.”
I pretended to scan the register. “Ah yes, Mrs. Ream. I have you down right here. Are you vegans, lactos, or ovas?”
“We’re Episcopalians.” A slight smile played at the corners of her perfectly made-up mouth.
“I see. Will that be the Amish Lifestyle Package Option, or do you want Housekeeping snooping in your rooms?”
Again the slight smile. “Why, I think it would be fun to rough it for a change. Put us all down for A.L.P.O.” I must mention here that the Ream party had booked three rooms. Couples of their status might occasionally conjugate, but they never cohabit.
“The three-meal plan?”
“By all means. I’m looking forward to your famous Amish cooking.” Bingo! A woman after my own heart, and one that might even bring a smile to Freni’s lips.
“Very well, Mrs. Ream. Oh, there is one thing. In addition to being the manager and owner, I might add I’m also the bellboy. Now, I would be happy to bring all your bags in myself, except that—”
“No need to say more. Please Delbert, be a darling and get the bags.” She had half-turned to Delbert James, who had been standing impassively in the background. She turned back to me. “This is a very charming place you have here, Mrs.—?”
“Yoder. It’s Miss Yoder. Magdalena Yoder. Thank you.”
“Not at all. Perhaps when you have a moment you can tell me all about life here in Hershey, Pennsylvania.”
“That’s Hernia.” I stole a glance at the Congressman, who, as it happened, was glowering at me from his safe position slightly to the rear of his wife.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hershey’s the chocolate town. The PennDutch is located in Hernia, Pennsylvania.”
Lydia Ream laughed then. Actually it was more of a chuckle, but people of her class don’t chuckle, do they? “I would love to hear all about Hernia, then.”
At that moment the impassive but not bad-looking Delbert James came back in with the first load of luggage. Reluctantly, I gathered up the three necessary keys and led the way through the back hallway and up the unfortunately steep stairs. Mrs. Ream followed directly behind me, and the whole way I was acutely conscious of that fact that I am not a size six with toddler-sized shoes who could move with the grace of a ballerina. So, my ancestors were peasants, can I help it?
And wouldn’t you know, this time I didn’t even make it all the way back to the sitting room before the next and final guest of the day arrived. Would that I had!
Chapter 3
I got back to the sitting room to find Susannah and a man engaged in animated conversation by the check-in counter. Immediately my blood began to boil. Fortunately I am not like Freni, who takes a long time to build up steam and then explodes, sometimes with dire consequences. I’m constantly exploding—little tiny puffs, which, like flatulence, are temporarily noxious but ultimately harmless.
When it comes to Susannah, the puffs may be louder, but there is always justification. Susannah, I’m sorry to say, is a slovenly, slothful slut. I know, that’s a terrible thing to say about one’s own sister, and both Mama and Papa would roll over in their graves if they heard me, but it’s the plain truth.
It was bad enough when Susannah married the Presbyterian, but when she divorced him and began sleeping with other men, she became a full-fledged adulteress in the eyes of my church and just about everybody living in the environs of Hernia, Pennsylvania. Susannah is the first person ever in my entire family history, which can be traced back to sixteenth-century Swiss roots, to get a divorce. Believe me, I'm not judging her. If she had to get a divorce, then she had to. But what she should have done afterward was to withdraw from the public view and buckle down to work here at the inn. Not Susannah!
Susannah is constantly running around, not only in Hernia, but as far away as Somerset and Bedford. She chews gum like a cow munching alfalfa. She wears makeup, perms her hair, and even paints her nails! In the summertime she frequently wears sleeveless dresses, and once I actually caught her wearing shorts. And of course you know where these ideas come from—TV! Susannah keeps a portable TV in her room, even though I won’t allow her to put up an antenna.
Please don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing immoral about wanting to get out into the world. As you already know, I myself want to travel some day. It is, however, possible to deport oneself modestly and with decorum. And of course, one must never, ever sleep with a man outside the bounds of matrimony. And I’m not just talking about the risk of getting AIDS here, I’m talking about sin, something Susannah admits she finds delightful!
I might even be able to deal with a sinful, sexy Susannah, but add to that slothfulness and slobbiness, and it’s just too much to bear. Susannah will never willingly lift a finger, unless it’s to paint another finger. So I get stuck doing ninety percent of the work around the PennDutch, Mose and Freni excluded. What little I can badger Susannah into doing, usually has to be redone by me anyway, so what’s the point? Thank the Lord that Papa and Mama, in their earthly wisdom, left the controlling interest in the farm to me. Perhaps they had been given a divine premonition of the impending Presbyterian. At any rate, if it weren’t for my tight rein on things, both of us would be out on the street, and at least one of us making her living from it.
So you can see how my blood began to boil when I saw my sister, who was just now coming home from the night before, in the sitting room, talking to a disreputable-looking character.
“Get behind me, Satan,” I said loud enough for Susannah to hear. The temptation to strangle was almost unbearable.
Susannah laughed and foolishly tried to hide a half-smoked cigarette by sticking it in her purse. “This, Billy,” she said by way of introduction, “is my older sister, Magdalena. But you can call her Mags. Everyone does.”
Although disreputable-looking, the character she’d dragged home exhibited more manners than she did. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
“It’s Miss Yoder,” I said pointedly.
“Billy Dee Grizzle, ma’am.”
“Mr. Grizzle,” I acknowledged his politeness. Even as I was saying his name, I knew it sounded familiar, and I knew why. William D. Grizzle was the last name still unchecked on today’s page of the register. “You’re not,” I asked sheepishly, “a friend of Susannah’s?” Perhaps I emphasized the word “friend” just a bit too much.
Billy Dee smiled broadly and displayed a set of remarkably white teeth. Remarkable in that Billy Dee looked like the kind of man who would chew tobacco. “Miss Susannah and I have just become acquainted, ma’am. She’s a very friendly young woman, but we ain’t friends yet.”
There was something about the way Billy Dee said the word “young” that made me feel flushed. It was as if Billy Dee had meant to say he couldn’t be bothered by someone as young as Susannah.
Susannah must have noticed it too. “I’ll leave you two old folks alone to chaw down on history,” she said. She might have meant to be cute, but it just sounded rude to me.
“Bye, ma’am. Nice meeting you,” said Billy Dee sincerely.
“Not so fast,” I said to Susannah. “There’s something you ought to know.”
“Mags, I only want a hot shower before I hit the hay. Can you tape-record the lecture so I can play it back later?”
I tried not to let my irritation show. “You better shower and hit the hay in my room. Room 5 has been rented.”
Susannah said a word that I refuse to repeat, and started toward the back, but I stopped her. “You need to clear your things out of Room 5 first. And give it a quick going over.” I was being kind. I should have told her to bulldoze the room and then torch it.
Susannah started to protest, but her whining was eclipsed by the sounds emanating from her purse.
“What in the world is that?" I asked.
“Oh, Shnookums,” she wailed, “Mommy is so sorry!” Apparently there wasn’t room in her pocketbook for both her still-lit cigarette and that bizarre excuse for a dog I told you about. Susannah fled in search of water, leaving a faint trail of smoke.
I smiled bravely at Billy Dee. “Good help is hard to find these days.”
He laughed, a good knee-slapping laugh. “I think I’m gonna enjoy my stay here, Miss Yoder.”
I hope I didn’t blush. “Magdalena, if you like. But let’s get down to business, shall we? First of all, vegan, lacto, or ova?”
“Carne.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Meat-eater.” He thumped his chest. “That’s me. Good old-fashioned consumer of flesh. But I see the others have all checked in.”
“The others? You know them?”
“Let’s see. A tall, skinny dude, late twenties, eyes like a deer. Nice-enough guy, though.”
“That’d be Mr. Teitlebaum.”
“Yeah, the Jew from Philadelphia. Now the other two. One’s young, kinda mousy. The other, well, how does anyone describe Big Red kindly?”
“That’s them,” I agreed enthusiastically, but I refrained from mentioning their names. I had overstepped my bounds by identifying Joel Teitlebaum. My job is to check people in and out, not to play twenty questions with my guests. “You know these people?”
“We’re all A.P.E.S.”
“What was that?”
“We’re all card-carrying members of the Animal Parity Endowment Society.”
“I tend to vote Republican myself.” That’s not really true. I vote all over the board, but it seemed like the right thing to say to even the score.
He chuckled. “What I mean is that we all belong to an organization that concerns itself with the rights of animals.”
“What kind of animals?” Dogs like Susannah’s have no rights.
“Well,” he drawled, “in this case, deer.”
I undoubtedly stared at him. I was in shock. Finally, after a few tries, I found my voice. “You’re kidding! You mean you’re not here to hunt deer?” I fumbled around in my files. Sure enough, Billy Dee and all the others he’d just mentioned had stated on their applications that they wanted to be here for the opening of deer season. “But it says—”
“Does it say why we want to be here?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said again. I was in no mood for jokes, but this had better be one just the same.
His face now lacked joviality, which made him look even more like a redneck, although he was acting less like one. “No, ma’am, I’m deadly serious. We’re here to stop the deer hunt.”
I was having trouble believing what I was hearing. “Whose deer hunt? Those are state game lands out there. Tomorrow morning they’ll be swarming with hunters. You can’t possibly stop them all.”
Billy Dee rubbed his hands together briskly. “Ma’am, we don’t intend to stop them all. Just the Congressman and his party.”
I started to feel light-headed. What with Susannah and Freni to deal with on a daily basis, I had all the conflict I cared to handle. I was also feeling duped, an emotion which in me inevitably leads to anger. I clutched the edge of the counter with both hands, closed my eyes, and slowly counted to ten. First in English, then in German. Then I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
Billy Dee Grizzle was still there. To his credit, he looked concerned. “You all right, ma’am?”
“I’m as fine as frog hair,” I snapped. “You, Mr. Grizzle, seem like a fair-enough guy. Why couldn’t you have been upfront?” Of course I knew the answer, but what difference does that make?
Billy Dee might have been just a little embarrassed to defend his reprehensible actions, because he looked away when he answered. “Ma’am, sometimes the end does justify the means.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through my nose. Living with Susannah had taught me how to control hyperventilation. To a point. “Not if the end involves my ruination, it doesn’t.”
He looked back at me. If Billy Dee’s green eyes were the window to his soul, he had a far kinder soul than he let on. “Ma’am, we won’t be doing any of our protesting at your place. I can promise you that. It’s gotta be done out where the action is. We can’t protest what they’re about to do, or have already done. We gotta protest them actually doing it. Otherwise it don’t count.”
“That’s a relief,” I said with perhaps a trace of sarcasm. “I suppose that after you protest you’ll all gather back here for an evening of parlor games?”
Billy Dee flashed another one of his big, white-toothed smiles. “Sounds like fun, ma’am. Especially if you’d care to join us. Seriously, ma’am, we won’t be causing you no trouble. I’ll keep an eye on things myself.”
“The only trouble, Mr. Grizzle, is that there is someone else trying to keep an eye on things around here. An interested third party, you might say. A reporter.”
Billy Dee’s smile seemed to shrink just a little. “A reporter? Are you sure? For which paper?”
“Does it really matter?” I asked, suddenly feeling very weary. When even one reporter latches on to something, it’s like inviting the whole world in for tea. Of course, this had been beneficial to me when that one reporter wrote that rave review of the inn. But I could well imagine what could happen if Miss Brown got caught up in the middle of the fracas that seemed inevitable between these two factions.
“Of course it matters, ma’am,” said Billy Dee emphatically. “I know a lot of reporters, and maybe I’ll be able to talk some sense into this one. You know, a little man-to-man talk.” He either winked or had an erratic tic.
“I doubt whether Miss Brown is a Candidate for a man-to-man talk.”
“Miss Brown? Which paper did you say she was with?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I’m not exactly sure.” Already I’d done too much blabbing about one of the guests. If Susannah had done that, I’d be furious.
“Well, don’t you worry none anyhow, ma’am,” said Billy Dee kindly. “Like I said, I’ll keep an eye on things and see that they don’t get outta hand.”
I put Miss Brown out of my mind and took Billy Dee’s word, and his credit card, and then showed him to his room. Despite the fact that he was a little rough around the edges, he was really a very pleasant man. Although he laughed a lot, he was always polite, which of course goes a long way to making up for such frivolous behavior. But don’t get me wrong. I was not interested in Billy Dee as a man. I’m sure he wasn’t even a Mennonite. Besides which, I really don’t have time for such considerations, not with the inn to run, and Susannah to look out for. Those days are comfortably behind me.
After I dropped Billy Dee off at his room, I stopped by the kitchen to see how Freni was doing. “How’s dinner coming along?” I asked cheerfully.
Freni was busy greasing loaf pans for the bread she was making, but she took time out of her busy schedule to glare at me. “I put dill seed in the bread dough. Does that make it whole grain or vegetable?”
I ignored her logic. “Another meat-eater just checked in,” I said encouragingly.
“So, what’s the score now?”
“Meat-eaters four, veggies three.”
“And I grated some cheese into the dumpling batter, so you’ve got another fruit now,” she said matter-of- factly. Clearly the woman was trying to be helpful.
“Where’s Mose?” I asked. Usually at this time of day he could be found in the kitchen giving his wife a hand.
“Milking.”
“Still?” With just two cows now, the afternoon milking should have been done over an hour ago.
Freni slathered grease into another loaf pan. “He’s not doing the milking. One of the guests is.”
“Which one?”
Freni shrugged. “All the English look alike to me.” To Freni and Mose, anyone not Amish, or distinctly Mennonite, was an outsider, an “English” person. Even Susannah was English, now that she wore makeup and sleeveless dresses.
“Is the guest male or female?”
Freni gave me a look that, if harnessed, could have shriveled a bushel of apricots on a rainy day. “This is my Mose we are talking about, Magdalena. You watch your tongue. The guest was a very tall man. Skinny, like a clothesline pole.”
“Ah, Joel Teitlebaum.”
“A nice man,” she added with surprising generosity.
Just then I noticed that the shortening Freni was using to grease the loaf pans was not vegetable shortening but lard she had rendered herself. "That’s not vegetable!” I cried.
“It isn’t meat,” she retorted.
“But it comes from a pig!” Vegetarianism and cholesterol issues aside, I doubted Mr. Teitlebaum would have been thrilled if he knew its source.
“Grease is grease,” said Freni stubbornly. “What matters is that the bread doesn’t stick.”
“What matters,” I said tersely, “is that we are honest with our guests. Not to mention with ourselves.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you like to do the cooking yourself?” Freni always asked me that question three seconds before she threatened to quit.
“You’re a superb cook!” I said and fled from the room with one second to go.
If I had been thinking clearly, not rattled by the conflux of hunters and A.P.E.S., I would have dashed into Hernia and picked up some fresh vegetables at the supermarket. Then I would have made a huge salad and everyone would have been satisfied. The English love their iceberg lettuce. It seems almost to have a pacifying effect on them.
Personally, I’m not much on eating raw green leaves. The fact that you have to put stuff on it in order to make it palatable seems absurd to me. Why not just down the stuff straight from the bottle and leave the leaves to the rabbits! But this is only my opinion. And if I had been less opinionated, and more accommodating, there might not have been a corpse clutching Mama’s dresden plate quilt.
Chapter 4
The new dining room occupies the entire bottom portion of the new wing. It is actually much more than a dining room. In one corner there is a half-finished quilt stretched across a sturdy oak frame. Guests are invited to try their hand applying a few neat stitches. Of course, if their needlework is lousy, Freni or I will rip out the stitches within moments of their checking out. I do, after all, sell the quilts in some of the trendiest gift shops along the East Coast.
If quilting’s not their thing, guests can always try spinning or weaving in the other back corner of the vast room. Neither Freni nor I knows anything about either of these two pursuits, although some of the guests appear to be rather proficient at it. One two-week guest spun and wove a very attractive scarf, which I in turn sold for fifty dollars at our own little gift shop by the front desk.
I must admit there isn’t much for men to do in the way of indoor activities, so I always suggest they shuck corn. For that purpose I keep a bushel basket of tasseled corn beside each of the armchairs that ring the back fireplace. Except for the odd ear, the men never shuck any. It seems that they much prefer to nap after Freni’s meals, than engage in any kind of activity. Any kind. Or so their wives sometimes confide to me.
We do, of course, actually eat in the dining room. The single, solid oak table that stretches almost two thirds of the length of the room is the same table we used when Susannah and I were growing up. It was built by my great-grandfather Jacob “The Strong” Yoder from a tree that occupied the site of the original farmhouse. This table can seat twenty people comfortably, twenty-six in a pinch. Incidentally, Jacob “The Strong” and his wife, Magdalena, had sixteen children and forty-seven grandchildren.
But enough of my family history. My point is that all the guests eat at the same table. I sit at my rightful place at the head of the table, which just happens to be the end nearest the kitchen door, and Susannah takes her rightful place at the foot. If she happens to be home.
Freni and Mose do not eat with us. Even if Freni could countenance supping with the English, her sensitivities would never allow her to watch them eat her food. Or not eat it, as the case may be. Freni and Mose live in what is called a “grandparents house” on their youngest son’s farm, which is really only a stone’s throw from here if you take the shortcut. They eat a late supper there. Although I am tempted to digress further and tell you a little about their rather strange relationship with this son, it really isn’t your business, is it? Or mine, for that matter.
At any rate, it seems to work out fairly well, having the guests eating together at the same table at the same time. Nobody ever feels lonely, although a few people have complained about feeling snubbed. But then, you can’t have everything, can you? Of course, I’m the one who determines the seating arrangement. It wouldn’t do for perfect strangers to plop themselves down just anywhere. I at least know a little bit about each one, and try to maximize compatibility. So just ignore Susannah’s complaints.
Speaking of which, Susannah is supposed to help me set the table, but I usually end up doing it all myself. I keep it simple. I don’t use tablecloths. It’s not that I’m theologically opposed to tablecloths, but you wouldn’t believe the way some of our guests eat! Money does not equate with manners. If I used tablecloths I’d have to spend most of my time doing laundry, which is no way to run a business. Besides, not only does the bare, plank table seem authentically Amish, but the splinters it imparts go a long way to keeping elbows off the table.
Of course we use dishes. I will admit, however, that I am a little tight-fisted when it comes to shelling out for crockery. What is the point of using bone china when the guests are expecting to eat off hand-thrown clay pottery? Believe me, the ironstone I originally picked up at the Woolworth’s in Somerset, and have been supplementing from garage sales ever since, works just fine.
And is it my fault if people assume that I, or one of many relations, made the stuff? I was not trying to be devious when I put tape over the manufacturer’s name on the back. I merely needed someplace to write “Property of the PennDutch Inn.”
Guests never quite know what to expect when it comes to their first meal at the inn; still, I do my best not to disappoint them. Atmosphere is what they’re paying for, and atmosphere is what I give them. If I had my way, I’d begin each meal with everyone holding hands and bowing their heads for a prayer. After meals I would read the Bible to them, in German of course, and we’d sing a few ancient Swiss hymns. But not even Susannah would sit still for that.
Instead, I have to content myself with hostessing stuff. I greet each of the guests as they officially enter the dining room for the first time and take them to their seat. Normally I would speak to them in my fake German accent, which is frankly quite charming.
But on this particular day, the one just prior to deer-hunting season, I was in a quandary. Thanks to the rude Congressman, Garrett Ream, and the huffy Ms. Parker, my guests all knew my accent was a fake. The question now was whether or not I should resume this quaint affectation, or talk like the English. Reluctantly I decided to abandon my cultural heritage. Susannah, I knew, would be relieved.
“Good evening,” I said pleasantly to Mrs. Ream, who was the first person to enter the dining room. People of her breeding are precise about time. “Allow me to show you to your seat.”
Lydia Ream smiled her appreciation and followed obediently. “The Congressman and Mr. James will be down shortly. They’re taking a call.”
I seated Lydia to my immediate left. I had every reason to trust her table manners and I wanted to get a better look at her dress. I have never had to institute a dress code at the Inn, because people of this ilk generally conform to acceptable standards. However, seldom do they dress as swank and spiffy as Lydia Johns Ream.
I guess you would call it a ball gown. It was floor-length, made of some kind of taffeta, and in front it was cut low enough to cause a chest cold. It was also bright red, a color our mother had always forbidden Susannah and me to wear for modesty’s sake. Mrs. Ream was also wearing jewelry. Real jewelry. Diamonds and rubies and things.
“You look very nice,” I said. I meant it.
“Thank you. I hope I haven’t overdressed.” Thankfully, just then Ms. Parker strode into the room followed by her young protegee, Linda McMahon. I scurried to meet them, but before I could intercept them they had settled themselves at the far end of the table. Linda had seated herself on the far end, opposite Lydia’s side, and Jeanette was seated at the very end, right in Susannah’s chair.
“Good evening,” I said perfunctorily, and then cut right to the chase. “This end seat is reserved.”
“There is no card or sign to indicate that.” Jeanette Parker did not display the slightest intention of moving.
“Actually, we have no need for cards, because all the seating is done by me, your hostess.”
Linda stood up, but Jeanette remained rooted to Susannah’s chair. Perhaps literally so. She was, after all, wearing a homespun cotton pajama outfit that was dyed a very pale shade of green. Had it not been for her flaming orange hair, she would have looked for all the world like a giant rutabaga. Of course most rutabagas don’t talk.
“Ms. Yoder,” said this rutabaga, “I just about broke my neck coming down those impossibly steep stairs of yours, not to mention that I pinched a nerve in my lower vertebrae trying to nap on that hideous thing you call a mattress. The fact that I can sit at all is something of a miracle. Is it really so necessary that I move, now that I’ve finally gotten comfortable?”
“Yes,” I said and turned to greet Joel Teitlebaum and Billy Dee Grizzle, who had appeared at the door. I may never be a mother, but twenty-two years of teaching Sunday School at Beech Grove Mennonite Church have taught me how to deal with children.
“Evening, ma’am,” said Billy Dee cordially. He had changed from a plaid to a plain denim shirt, which was the perfect foil for the rather attractive bola tie he was wearing.
“Good evening,” I said just as pleasantly, and then for his ears only I whispered, “Don’t worry. The reporter doesn’t take meals with us.”
Billy Dee nodded, and I turned my attention to Joel Teitlebaum.
If possible, Joel Teitlebaum was looking even taller and skinnier than he had before. He was wearing corduroy slacks, a striped shirt, and a narrow striped tie, which undoubtedly accounted for it. And although it might have been just my imagination, it seemed to me that his color had improved. Milking must have agreed with him.
“How did you like milking?” I asked. Frankly, I found it strange that someone who didn’t drink milk on principle would be interested in such an activity.
Joel’s color improved even more when he blushed. “Actually, I didn’t go milking after all. I decided to nap instead. But Mose, I mean Mr. Hostetler, said he’d let me help him tomorrow.”
“I see,” I said. Actually I didn’t. Not only was there far too much napping going on, but an hour of Mose’s time was now unaccounted for. Unless he’d been napping as well. Either way, it was best Freni not find out about it.
I seated Joel to the left of Linda, who had scooted up one chair to make room for Jeanette. They were, after all, roughly the same age, and undoubtedly knew each other, since they were both conspirators for A.P.E.S.
Billy Dee, however, posed a problem. If I put him down on the far end, on the other side of Susannah, my sister would just make a fool of herself. I couldn’t very well move him next to Lydia and have him come between her and her husband, could I? So I took the only option I had left and put him on my immediate right, next to Joel. My intentions were entirely pure, I assure you.
Fortunately we didn’t have to wait much longer for Congressman Ream and Delbert James. But no sooner did they step into the room than both men appeared to do a double take. It was as if they had accidentally entered the wrong room and were flustered at their mistake.
“This is the right place,” I assured them with a laugh. Unfortunately my laughs can sound pretty phony when I’m irritated. Or so says Susannah.
Delbert at least displayed the good manners to apologize for his tardiness. I graciously accepted his apology and seated him down by Susannah, opposite Jeanette. It would be interesting to see if the two of them made a pitch for the man. Although his type didn’t appeal to me personally, he was certainly a dapper man, pale pink dress shirt notwithstanding.
As for Congressman Ream, of course I seated him next to his wife, to the right of Delbert James. Like his wife, he had dressed formally for dinner. Although he did cut a handsome figure in his dinner jacket and bow tie, he was not nearly as impressive as his wife. Then again, one is never quite dressed without good manners, I always say.
Even I was about to give up on Susannah when she came swirling into the room. I might have known. My baby sister must have caught a glimpse of the elegant Mrs. Ream and decided to outdo her. Not that she could, of course. To my knowledge Susannah does not own any ball gowns, much less expensive jewelry. She does, however, possess a first-class imagination.
If Mama could have foreseen Susannah’s outfit, she would have put off dying for another twenty years. “Outfit” is the only word I can use to describe what my sister was wearing. It was definitely neither a dress nor a pants suit. It was definitely hot pink, and sheer enough to strain soup through. It was both billowing and confining. Parts of it trailed behind her like streamers in the wind, yet in a few critical areas there didn’t seem to be enough of it at all. And as if that weren't enough, Susannah had accessorized her creation with five pounds of cheap glass jewelry and a pound or two of makeup. Had I not smelled the cheap scent of her perfume, I would not have known at first who it was.
“You're late,” I whispered as she flowed by.
Susannah didn’t even glance my way. She was far too busy noticing that Billy Dee was not seated down at her end of the table. This made her scowl, until she noticed Delbert James. With a great flutter of fabric, Susannah settled herself in the chair vacated by Jeanette.
I rang the little brass bell in front of my place. Up until then there was no food on the table except pick-led eggs and beets, and the dill seed bread. Of course I am not counting such items as butter and apple butter, which some of us consider a fruit. Or the four large pitchers of fresh-from-the-barn milk. At any rate, it didn’t take long for Freni and Mose to appear, each bearing a steaming tureen. I directed Mose to put his down at Susannah’s end of the table, and Freni at mine. Then they both stepped back a few paces, as if awaiting orders.
I peeked into the nearest tureen and smiled happily. At last Freni had listened to reason and followed my latest instructions. “The tureen in front of me contains traditional Amish chicken and dumplings,” I announced proudly. “And of course some vegetables,” I added pointedly. Everyone appeared to be listening intently. “For those of you with special dietary needs,” I went on, “Mrs. Hostetler has prepared a meatless version, there in the other tureen.”
A glance at Freni told me that she was pleased I had acknowledged her effort.
“Does the meatless version contain dairy products?” asked Jeanette, without even so much as lifting the lid and appreciating the wonderful aroma of Freni’s cooking.
“Or eggs?” inquired the soft-voiced Linda.
From the corner of my eye I could see Freni frowning.
“Well, does it?” demanded Jeanette.
Congressman Ream didn’t even seem to notice there was a conversation going on. “When do we get to see the wine list?” he asked.
Susannah giggled and I scowled. Both at her and the Congressman. “This establishment does not serve alcohol. That was made quite clear in the brochure,” I reminded him.
Garrett Ream looked first at his aide, then his wife for confirmation. Both of them were nodding. “Helluva way to start off the hunting season,” he muttered.
I did my best to transform my scowl into a glare. “Neither does this establishment tolerate bad language.”
Susannah giggled again, and whispered something to Delbert.
“Well, are there eggs and dairy products in that concoction, or not?” Jeanette was not nearly as distractable as I had hoped.
“Mrs. Hostetler uses only fresh, organic ingredients in all of her cooking,” I stalled. It wasn’t much of a stall.
“Yes or no?” demanded Jeanette. She was standing up now, the purple red of her face clashing with the orange of her hair.
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not.” Undoubtedly my own face was as red as Jeanette’s. I could just feel the shame. I am not used to lying, and it actually hurts each time I have to do it.
Jeanette opened the tureen then and studied its contents. “You know, Ms. Yoder, I am not trying to be purposefully difficult here. I only ask these questions because I have to. It’s been twelve years since I’ve eaten any eggs or dairy products, and in that time I’ve developed an allergic reaction to them.”
I swallowed hard and stole another glance at Freni. Freni wasn’t flinching.
“If you haven’t eaten eggs or dairy products in twelve years, then how the hell—sorry, Ms. Yoder—can you tell you’ve developed an allergic reaction to them?” growled the Congressman.
His wife, bless her soul, immediately opened the tureen in front of her and made a great show of smelling the steam that rose from the huge container. “It smells absolutely delish. I simply must get your recipe.”
I smiled gratefully, and for the next few minutes busied myself serving out portions from the pot containing chicken to the carnivores gathered around the table. Susannah, a card-carrying carnivore herself, obediently did her part by serving the herbivores from the tureen in front of her. At last we all dug in.
“First-class cooking, ma’am,” said Billy Dee, while his mouth was still full. There were murmurs of agreement from the carnivores, and none of the herbivores so much as gagged or spit their food out. Freni smiled broadly.
“I think my grandmother was Pennsylvania Dutch,” volunteered Delbert James proudly.
Susannah recoiled in mock horror. “Your secret’s safe with us.” There were the usual obliging laughs.
“Did I hear you say you were a hunter, sir?” Joel Teitlebaum politely asked the Congressman.
Garrett Ream put down his fork and studied the young man across from him. “Yes, I am. Congressman Garrett Ream.”
“Joel Teitlebaum, sir. From Philly. Not exactly in your district.”
“Are you a hunter, Mr. Teitlebaum?”
“I’m a sculptor, sir. I—”
“And you?” asked Garrett Ream, turning to Billy Dee.
“Billy Dee Grizzle. I’m a contractor.”
Garrett Ream nodded impatiently “Do you hunt?”
“Used to,” said Billy Dee. “Squirrel, pheasant, deer, you name it.”
“I see,” said the Congressman sarcastically. “What we have here is a reformed hunter then?”
Billy had just taken a big bite, so he merely nodded.
“Ever shoot boar?”
Billy answered with his mouth full. “Yep. Lots of boar hunting in Texas.”
“What part of Texas?” I asked. Cousin Anna Kauffman married a Methodist and moved to Houston in 1974. I hadn’t heard from her since.
“San Antone,” said Billy Dee proudly. He turned back to the Congressman. “I’ve given up hunting now. But boar hunting was my favorite. More exciting than hunting deer.”
“At least the boar stand a small chance,” said Jeanette. “Deer are just sitting ducks.” A couple of people laughed at her inadvertent joke, and I am ashamed to say I was among them.
“They don’t stand much of a chance in Morocco,” said the Congressman. “There they have beaters that drive them down out of the mountains, while the hunters wait in blinds to pick them off.”
“We were lucky enough to be included in a royal hunting party once,” explained Lydia, “by King Hassan of Morocco. The Atlas Mountains are exquisite in April.”
“We killed over four hundred that day,” said the Congressman proudly. “Stacked them up like a cord of firewood. Of course there were about fifty of us, including His Majesty. Best experience of my life.”
“It sounds utterly disgusting,” said Jeanette. “I can’t believe you’re actually proud of such a barbaric act.”
“What is a boar, anyway?” asked Linda.
“A sort of wild pig,” answered Delbert James. “With tusks.”
“Were you in the hunt too?” asked Susannah.
“Not exactly. The hunt was just for Congressmen and their wives. But I got to do some pretty special skiing that morning up on the higher slopes. Morocco has some first-rate runs.”
“I ski,” said Susannah. “Up at Seven Springs.” That was news to me.
“I’d love to travel,” I couldn’t help saying. Not that anybody heard me. As soon as I opened my mouth, Jeanette opened hers and began to sputter. “There is chicken fat in this broth!”
I turned around to look at Freni, but both she and Mose had disappeared. “There couldn’t be,” I said, then, “Are you sure?”
“There are globlets of fat glistening on my plate. What would you call that?” demanded Jeanette.
“Gross,” shuddered Linda.
Just then Shnookums, who had been hidden somewhere within Susannah’s billowing costume, began to yip pitifully. Of course nobody else there, with the exception of Billy Dee, had the slightest clue what was going on.
“You may be excused,” I said sharply to Susannah. “A little bicarbonate, and you should be as good as new by tomorrow.”
My glare must have been as withering as I had intended it to be, because Susannah got up and left without another word.
“Well?” Jeanette persisted.
“Pass me the tureen,” I said as calmly as I could. When it arrived, I examined and sampled its contents as objectively as I could. Frankly, the supposedly meatless dish was less tasty than the one that I knew contained chicken. This confirmed my belief that there was indeed a difference between the two dishes. On the other hand, there definitely were little golden bubbles of something floating in the broth and clinging to the dumplings and stewed vegetables.
“Well?” demanded Jeanette.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Joel. His face had taken on the same rutabaga green as Jeanette’s clothes.
“It’s probably just corn oil,” said Lydia soothingly. “Even Julia cooks with corn oil.”
I beamed at her. I didn’t know who Julia was, and I was sure Lydia had never seen the inside of a kitchen herself, but I was grateful for her help. Encouraged, I rang the little brass bell again.
Freni misunderstood and when she reappeared she was carrying an apple pie in each hand. I quickly took the pies from her. “Freni,” I kept my voice low, “didn’t you follow my instructions?”
Freni looked as if I had slapped her. “You told me to serve one with meat, and one without meat in it, Magdalena, and that’s exactly what you got.”
“There, you see!” I said triumphantly, turning to the others, who had undoubtedly heard our conversation anyway. “That tureen is entirely vegetarian.”
“Tastes good, too,” said Billy Dee, who had helped himself to a sample dumpling. “Mighty fine cooking.”
Freni beamed. “This vegetarian cooking isn’t so hard after all,” she confessed. “Just cook like regular, and then rinse off the stuff that you want to be vegetarian.” Joel immediately covered his mouth with his napkin and fled from the room.
Jeanette Parker uprooted herself from her chair and stood. I hadn’t realized how tall she was. From where I sat she seemed to tower over the table like a pale green monolith. “This is a breach of contract, Ms. Yoder,” she shouted. “When word gets out—and it will—of your duplicity in this matter, you can kiss your cozy little inn good-bye. And you,” she said, pointing a long and heavily ringed finger at Freni, “are a menace and disgrace to your profession. What were you trying to do, kill me with animal toxins?” She pushed her chair roughly aside and strode from the room.
“She didn’t really mean that,” said Linda softly, and scurried after her mentor.
“Don’t worry, Miss Yoder,” said Lydia Ream kindly. “You are under no obligation to meet the dietary needs of your guests. Just to supply them with ample food. Isn’t that right?” She turned to the two men on her side of the table for confirmation.
“Yes, dear,” said the Congressman, but it was obvious he didn’t want to get involved.
“Mrs. Ream is absolutely right,” said Delbert James a little more kindly.
That made me feel a bit better, but still I was fit to be tied. I had to take out my frustration on someone. “Freni,” I said through clenched teeth, “you’re fired.” Then quickly I recanted, lest Freni take me seriously. There were just too many guests to go it on my own.
But it was too late. “I quit anyway,” she snapped, before stomping from the room.
Now before you get too upset, I have to mention that Freni had already been fired more than once, and in fact she quits on the average of once every other week. Still, if I had been slower to anger that last day before deer-hunting season, there might not have been a corpse clutching Mama’s dresden plate quilt. Then again, there might well have been anyway.
Chapter 5: Freni Hostetler’s Chicken And Dumpling Recipe
Serves 8
2 chickens (year-old hens preferred)
1 ½ teaspoons salt
Dash black pepper 6 medium-size potatoes (quartered)
3 large carrots (sliced)
1 large onion (chopped)
4 tablespoons chopped parsley
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
3 teaspoons baking powder
Dash ground nutmeg
3 eggs, beaten
½ cup cream
Clean and pluck the hens. Give head, entrails, and feet to barn cats. Do what you want with the liver, stomach, and gizzard. Cut the hens into serving pieces and put them into a large, cast-iron pot. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and cover with water. Cook slowly until almost tender. Then skim off excess fat and foam that has formed on top. Add vegetables and cook 20 minutes more. Then spoon dumpling batter on top of boiling broth and meat. Cover kettle tightly and cook 10 more minutes. Do not open the kettle until ready to serve.
To make dumplings, sift the dry ingredients together. Then add the beaten eggs and enough cream to make a batter stiff enough to drop from a spoon.
Chapter 6
With Freni gone, it meant that I had to wash the supper dishes by myself—since I had banished Susannah to her room. Not that I minded. I find that immersing my hands in hot water is soothing whenever I, myself, am metaphorically in hot water. If my hands can stand it, so can I.
I surely did not expect company at the kitchen sink, and would almost have preferred not to have it. But it never pays to be rude to paying guests. Especially when they are trying to be kind.
“Where do you keep the dish towels?” asked Lydia merrily. She had changed out of her ball gown and into a casual, pink cashmere sweater and natural linen slacks.
I opened a drawer and took out a stack of neatly folded towels. “I may have to charge you extra for the privilege,” I said, only half-seriously.
“Slumming it, are we?” asked Delbert James, appearing in the doorway. He too had changed, or at least shed the tie and coat.
Lydia seemed to light up like a well-trimmed wick touched to flame. “I was hoping it was going to be just us girls,” she practically cooed. It was embarrassingly obvious she was hoping anything but that.
I swallowed my surprise for the third time and handed them each a towel. “Stack the dried dishes on that counter. I’ll put them away myself. But you can hang the pots on those pegs over there.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Delbert. Without the tie, or maybe it was without the Congressman, he was a different person altogether.
“I suppose this is a first for both of you,” I teased. Well, maybe probed.
Delbert chuckled. “Not for me. Not by a long shot. I put myself through Northwestern washing dishes. Four years of journalism paid for with dishpan hands.”
“You’re a journalist by training?”
“Speech writer, actually.”
“That’s very interesting. My sister, Susannah, has always wanted to be a writer. But fiction, not speeches.”
“Is there a difference?” asked Lydia.
We all laughed. “What exactly does a Congressman’s aide do?” I asked.
“Besides speech writing,” said Delbert, “just about everything. On this trip, I even act as gun-bearer.”
“So only the Congressman hunts?”
“I hunt,” said Lydia. There seemed to be pride in her voice. “Daddy took me with him on safari in Africa when I was just a little girl. Of course, that was back in the old days, before we gave much thought to conservation.” She paused and gave me a slightly challenging look. “Deer hunting in Pennsylvania is a different story altogether.”
“Of course,” I agreed. I did understand. There are many more deer in the state now than there were when the first white settlers showed up. Every year over a thousand deer are killed by cars on our county’s highways alone. Not that I could ever kill one intentionally myself, although I have had the urge from time to time when I find them in my garden.
“Lydia, I mean, Mrs. Ream, is a first-class shot,” said Delbert. He lowered his voice. “She can outshoot the Congressman any day.”
Lydia laughed and flicked Delbert playfully with her towel. I looked discreetly away. I generally try to ignore my guests’ shenanigans, which doesn’t mean, of course, that I approve of them. It’s just that I have all I can handle in Susannah. “I aim to bag the biggest buck around,” she said, imitating Billy Dee’s accent.
“Does it bother you that we have A.P.E.S. staying at the inn?” I asked. It was more of a warning than a question. I genuinely liked Lydia and didn’t want to see her tackled by the likes of Jeanette Parker.
“What?”
“She means,” said Delbert, solemnly folding his dish towel, “that Billy Dee and the rest all belong to an organization called the Animal Parity Endowment Society. They’re philosophically and morally opposed to the taking of any animal’s life. They are especially against hunting for sport.”
Lydia’s face suddenly lost its animation. Where just a moment before, she had appeared relaxed and surprisingly youthful, now it was as if she had just donned a mask of well-bred inscrutability. It did not suit her nearly as well. “I see,” she said. Even her diction had changed. “And how long have you known this, Delbert?”
Delbert cleared his throat before answering. “The Congressman and I both recognized Ms. Parker and Ms. McMahon when we entered the dining room tonight. Both of them have been up on the Hill a number of times lobbying for their cause.”
"And the other two? Mr. Grizzle and the sculptor from Philadelphia?”
“Garrett,” he looked at me, “I mean, the Congressman, suspected they might be part of the organization as well. That’s why he asked those questions about hunting at supper. A quick call afterward confirmed it. Mr. Grizzle has been a member for three years. Mr. Teitlebaum, the sculptor, for almost seven. They’re all here together, and as far as we know they intend to disrupt our plans for tomorrow.”
“You knew about this?” asked Lydia. The question was directed to me, and sounded stingingly like an accusation.
The most valuable lesson I ever learned from Papa was to stick up for myself with confidence. Especially if I had done nothing wrong. We Mennonites may be pacifists, but we’re not pushovers. “Everyone has to use the six-seater,” Papa used to say, “and it all ends up in the same big hole.” The six-seater was our outhouse, and most of our family’s quality-time was spent around that one big hole. Of course, we now have indoor plumbing, along with telephones in every room. Incidentally, our six-seater is still the biggest outhouse in the county.
“I most certainly did not know about this. Not when I booked this week’s reservations. It wasn’t until Billy Dee arrived, and he was the last one, I might add, that I found out. He told me himself.”
Lydia’s mask was still tightly in place. “And how long were you going to keep this information to yourself? Until after the reporters got involved and you got yourself some more coverage for the inn?”
That raised even my pacifist hackles. The Penn- Dutch does not need any additional coverage. Certainly not coverage of confrontation over controversial causes. “And just how long were your husband and his aide going to keep their discovery from you? I am, after all, the one who clued you in, not them.”
The mask slipped a trifle. “I’m sorry, Miss Yoder. I apologize. You do have a point.”
Never miss out on an opportunity to kick a dead horse; it is, after all, a form of exercise. I was tempted to tell Lydia there already was a reporter on the premises, and I had yet to spill one solitary bean of information to her. Wisely, though, I concluded that rubbing Lydia’s nose in my discretion would be more trouble than it was worth. Instead, I decided to accept her apology. People hate it when you forgive them.
“I forgive you,” I said.
Lydia’s face assumed the color of one of Freni’s pickled beets. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to take care of.” She carefully put down her dish towel, and then, with the regal bearing of a queen, departed my humble kitchen. Delbert immediately chased after her, like a faithful dog. Of course he was of a breed much larger and quieter than Shnookums’s.
I finished up the dishes by myself. The hot water was as therapeutic as ever. When I pulled the plug and watched the last of the water swirling down the drain, I imagined my troubles were the food particles caught up in the vortex. Starting with Jeanette Parker, and ending up with Lydia Johns Ream, the whole shebang of them, Susannah and her mutt included, swirled out of sight, and temporarily out of mind. Very temporarily. I was still wiping out the sink when the Congressman himself paid me a visit.
“Miss Yoder!”
I whirled, clutching my wet towel defensively to my bosom. Not since Crazy Maynard Miller exposed himself at my window one night have I felt so frightened. Or so guilty.
“Yes!”
The Congressman had been standing right behind me, and when I turned, he nearly poked me in the eye with his righteously extended forefinger. Seeing him so close, I yelped involuntarily. Unfortunately there was no room for me to back up. I flattened my buttocks against the still-warm sink.
“Miss Yoder,” he said through clenched teeth, “I am a patient man. A tolerant man. But I will not have people meddling in my business. Is that clear?”
I felt like I had when Mr. Lichty, my sixth-grade teacher, caught me doodling during long division. Although Garrett Ream and I were approximately the same age, the fact that he was a United States Congressman, an Episcopalian at that, and I a mere Mennonite innkeeper, made me feel about as equal to him as Shnookums must have felt to me. “Yes, sir. I understand,” I said. But of course I didn’t. What I said to his wife was my business, not his.
"It’s bad enough that you booked those people during my hunting trip. But you had no right to scare Mrs. Ream with unnecessary information.”
“I didn’t mean to scare her. Just inform her.”
“To what purpose?”
“To keep her from having to tangle with Jeanette Parker. It hasn’t happened here yet, but I’ve read accounts of animal rights activists hassling hunters in other counties.”
“I can take care of my own wife, thank you. And Ms. Parker.”
“Well, excuuuuse me for caring,” I said. It was the exact tone Susannah uses when she means anything but. I guess I’d had enough. Garrett Ream might have been a Congressman, but he had to use the six-seater just as often as the rest of us.
He backed away slightly, but I kept my fanny pressed up against the sink.
“Well, this wasn’t the only thing I came down here to talk about,” he said. He was decidedly less belligerent, so, in addition to onion on his breath, I could smell a favor coming on.
I said nothing. It was the first sense of power I’d felt all evening.
“You see,” he hastened to explain, “in order for us to avoid any kind of confrontation with this group, we need to leave the hotel very early.”
“That makes sense. Provided they don’t follow you.” I was sorely tempted to tell him that there was a reporter sacked out upstairs.
“You won’t tell, will you?” It was more of an order than a question.
“I’m not the fool you take me for.”
He smiled in an apparent attempt to smooth things over. “You are far from anybody’s fool, Miss Yoder. If I had you on my staff, I’m sure the team would get a lot more done.”
I didn’t smile back. “I’m not looking for a job, Congressman. What is it exactly that you want?”
He sighed, a fake-sounding sigh of defeat, and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Just breakfast. An early breakfast—say fiveish, and box lunches for the three of us. And feel free to use meat.” Then he laughed at his own little joke.
“Bacon and eggs for five at three—I mean, three at five. And ham and lettuce sandwiches to go. Anything else?”
“That you not tell my wife we had this little conversation.”
“As you wish.”
He left abruptly, without even as much as a thank you. As I watched him go, I realized that Congressman Garrett Ream no longer seemed so handsome as when he had checked in. His features may have been regular, maybe even classical in shape, but he was ugly just the same.
“Please close the door!” I called after him.
Of course he didn’t. Wearily I started to make and pack the lunches he’d requested. As tired as I was, I’d be even more tired at five in the morning. That I knew.
Chapter 7
I stuck my head in the dining room before going off to bed. Guests are forever leaving lights on. A recent survey, conducted by yours truly, revealed that people use eight and a half times more electricity and water when staying at places other than their own homes. It is no coincidence, for example, that most of New York City’s blackouts occur in the summertime, when the city is full of tourists.
Anyway, I stuck more than just my head into the dining room. At first I couldn’t believe what I saw. There, sewing contentedly away on the stretched quilt, were Linda McMahon and Billy Dee Grizzle. It was like finding a cat and a mouse gnawing away at the same piece of cheese.
I approached them quietly, not stealthily. At five feet ten, and one hundred and fifty pounds, I am too big-boned to do anything stealthily. Still, I got close enough to discern Linda’s soft, almost girlish voice.
“Of course I love her, Billy Dee. But that doesn’t mean I approve. Blackmail is blackmail. And besides, you can only push someone so far.”
“She’s pushed a lot of people too far, Linda. Someday someone’s going to put a stop to it.”
Linda looked up from her sewing with what appeared to be concern. “She apologized to you, Billy Dee. Publicly, even. Remember?”
Billy Dee chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Yes, she did apologize. After I ‘found the light.’ ”
“But you did find the light. I mean, you did change. So now you can understand why she took the position she did, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess, Linda. But it ain’t her blackmailing that’s bothering me now. We’ve got our own little problem to take care of.”
Linda beat the stretched fabric of the quilt with both fists. “But it isn’t a problem, Billy Dee. We’ve been over this a million times. I want to keep it!”
At that point I stubbed my right big toe on a chair, and since both the chair and I made a lot of noise, my presence was immediately evident. I covered the best I could.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you two. I just popped in to see if you needed some help.”
Much to my disappointment, they appeared neither to be startled, nor to need my help. “We’re just fine, ma’am,” said Billy Dee politely. “But you can check our stitches if you want.”
I peered over his shoulder like a school marm and scrutinized his handiwork. Billy Dee, I concluded, was either a tailor or an ex-marine. His stitches were exemplary. As were Linda’s. If the two of them finished up the quilt, I stood a good chance of winning first prize at the county fair in August.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said. It doesn’t pay, you know, to praise people too highly. Not when you want more work out of them. Big egos lead to lazy fingers—that’s what Mama always said.
“Thank you, Ms. Yoder,” said Linda nonetheless. “This is actually a lot of fun.”
“That’s ‘Miss,’ ” I reminded her, “not ‘Mizz.’ ”
She giggled, brushed a strand of long, mouse-brown hair out of her eyes, and went back to work. When not in the presence of Jeanette Parker, she seemed pleasant enough. Perhaps she could be reasoned with as well.
“Ms. McMahon,” I began hesitantly, “I am aware that you are a member of the Animal Parity Endowment Society, and I know why you’re here.”
Linda looked up at me with almost mocking sweetness. “And why is that?”
“To harass the Congressman and his wife, of course.”
Linda flashed a not-so-sweet look at Billy Dee. “You told!”
He nodded. “It was just a matter of time, Linda. Subterfuge is not my strong point.”
“Well, then, Miss Yoder, what is it you want?”
I swallowed hard before taking the big plunge. “I would like for you, I mean all of you, to keep your protest out of the inn. I am a pacifist, you know.”
Linda turned her gaze back to her work. “I can respect that, Miss Yoder. I really can. We are, after all, pacifists ourselves.”
“Quakers?” I asked hopefully. Although I’m sure there must be some, I had never heard of a vegetarian Mennonite.
Linda giggled again. She was either a very good actress, or as sweet as maple syrup. “I belong to the New Age Church of Holistic Oneness, Miss Yoder. We don’t believe in violence either. Against humans—or animals. That’s why we must protest the taking of innocent lives. In this case, deer lives. And what better way to spread our gospel of inter-species coexistence than to bring it to the attention of the media.”
My throat felt dry. “Which media?” To my knowledge Hernia only had a weekly paper.
Linda didn’t miss a beat. I mean stitch. “The national media, of course. ABC, CNN, you know the ones.”
“I don’t watch television,” I said proudly. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Occasionally when Susannah is out, I sneak into her room and watch reruns of “Green Acres.” “And besides which, why single out Congressman Ream? Tomorrow there will be thousands of hunters out there.”
“Sad, yet true. But how many of them are ambitious politicians, who at the very least will attract media coverage and who are in the position to introduce legislation outlawing this barbaric pastime?”
“You have a point,” I conceded, “but can you at least keep the inn out of it?”
Linda sighed the impatient sigh of the young. When Susannah, who is not so young anymore, does it, she rolls her eyes as well. Linda, to her credit, kept her eyes on her work. “I already told you, Miss Yoder, I respect your wishes. I do not lie.”
As long as she wasn’t looking up, there was no harm in me rolling my eyes, was there? “I believe you. But what about Miss Parker? She’s your leader, isn’t she?”
Linda and Billy both laughed. “Ma’am,” said Billy, who did look up and almost caught me in mid-roll, “we A.P.E.S. don’t have leaders. We do things by consensus. What Linda says goes for me as well. As I’m sure it will for Joel. So you don’t have nothing to worry about, Miss Yoder. Except maybe getting a good night’s sleep and finding yourself a new cook.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “how does buckwheat pancakes with home-harvested honey sound for breakfast?” I was trying to be cooperative, I really was.
“Is the honey organic?” inquired Linda.
“The bees are especially bred to produce organic honey,” I said, rolling my eyes again.
Billy Dee caught my look and winked. “Got any bacon to go with that?”
“Home-cured. Organic as well.”
“Very funny,” said Linda, still not looking up.
“Mr. Grizzle,” I then said nervously, “may I please speak to you a moment out in the hall? It’s about that problem with the toilet in your room.”
Of course, there was nothing wrong with Billy Dee’s toilet, and it was stupid of me to imply that there was. Susannah always says I add too many details to my lies. Sparse lies, she says, generally go across much better.
But Billy Dee was at least a cooperative conspirator. “Sure thing, Miss Yoder,” he said hopping up. “I been meaning to talk to you about that myself.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Miss Brown?” I asked when we were alone.
“No, ma’am. I knocked on her door a couple of times, but either she ain’t in, or she’s out like a light. A lot of them reporters have drinking problems, you know.”
I didn’t know, but now I certainly hoped it was true. When Susannah comes home in her cups, I can count on her sleeping for at least the next twelve hours. With any luck, and if what made Miss Brown’s suitcase so heavy was booze, the retiring reporter might be out of commission for most of the week. Of course I am theologically, as well as personally, opposed to alcohol, but the good Lord is just as capable of using the devil’s tools to his advantage as anything else.
“Say, Miss Yoder,” added Billy Dee as an afterthought, “I’d like to do me a little pole fishing tomorrow evening when we get back. Any ponds around here?”
“Miller’s pond is just up the road about a mile and a half. He doesn’t mind if you fish it, as long as you close the cattle gate behind you.”
“Sure thing, ma’am, thanks. But, say, you wouldn’t happen to have an empty jar or something I could keep my bait in? You know, with a lid.”
I refrained from laughing. “It’s November, Mr. Grizzle. If you’re looking for night crawlers, you may have to dig down to China.”
“Name’s Billy Dee, ma’am, remember? Anyhow, I bet that cow manure out there back of the bam keeps the ground as warm as toast. Might have to wrestle me those worms out of the ground, they’ll be so big.”
He was probably right. Papa used to fish in November, and with night crawlers too, I think. “I keep some empty jars in that old cabinet on the back porch. Help yourself. You need a flashlight?”
“Naw, but thank you, ma’am.”
“Just turn out the lights when you leave.”
At the rate they were working, the quilt might well be finished by the time they turned in.
By then I was pooped, so I headed circuitously for bed. We have no night clerk here at the PennDutch. There is no “vacancy” sign for me to turn on or off in the evenings. If all the guests have arrived, I am free to toddle off to bed whenever I feel like it. All the guests have their own keys to the front door and are free to come and go as they please. Once or twice I might get up in the middle of the night to see if the front door has been locked, but this is only a recent practice. I know every single solitary soul living in Hernia, even the three Baptists, and if it hadn’t been for the rape and murder of Rachel Zook by an itinerate vagabond last year, I wouldn’t bother to lock up at all.
After locking the front door, I turned off the lights in the main sitting room and then popped into the parlor. The parlor has always been the parlor. It too is located at the front of the house, just off the sitting room, and back when the sitting room used to be the dining room, the parlor was where we entertained the non-eating guests. Eating company, as Mama called the others, had no need to use the parlor. But for non-eating guests, the ones you only wanted to stay for an hour or less, the parlor was the perfect solution.
The parlor was smaller than the dining room but had a lot more personality. Although it had its own entrance off the front porch, we never used it but always entered through the old dining room. I think that in the very old days the parlor used to be the kitchen, because the wall opposite the dining room is dominated by an enormous hearth. The hearth is mostly filled in now with bookshelves, but the center portion has been kept open as a fireplace.
Back when Grandma ran the show, the parlor was furnished only with straight-back, uncomfortable chairs. Any visitor who managed to survive sitting in one for an hour without squirming was a candidate for elevation to an eating guest. But when Mama took over, she changed all the rules. Out went the straight-backs and in came the overstuffed. Comfy furniture was Mama’s one concession to decadence.
I must confess that I have taken Mama’s drastic changes a step further, by the addition of two La-Z-Boy recliners. It was in one of these chairs that I found Joel Teitlebaum.
“Oh, good evening,” I said. It had been an evening of surprises and I was a mite startled. I am, after all, easily lost in my thoughts.
"Good evening, Miss Yoder,” Joel said cheerfully. He had apparently been reading one of the books from the hearth and munching on sunflower seeds. A little stack of empty shells lay on an end table next to him.
“Is it a good book?” I asked lamely. I am always at a loss when talking alone to a man, even one young enough to be my son.
“It’s not bad. Parallels and Discrepancies Between Amish and Orthodox Jewish Lifestyles by Judith Hostetler Cohen. Is she related to your cook?”
“Somehow. And to me. Virtually all Hostetlers in the country are descendants of one man, Jacob Hochstetler, who immigrated to America from Switzerland in 1738. In fact, about eighty percent of all Amish are somehow related through this one man, as are heaps of Mennonites.”
“Even Jeff Hostetler, the former Giants’ quarterback?”
“Yes.” I knew nothing about football, but Susannah did, and Jeff Hostetler’s kinship had already been established.
“Bad,” said Joel.
“Pardon me?”
Joel smiled patiently. “Bad means good.”
“So you didn’t like the book then?”
Joel laughed. “No, the book was okay. ‘Bad’ and ‘bad’ mean two different things.”
“I see.” Of course I didn’t.
Joel held out a little brown sack of sunflower seeds and offered them to me. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Are you still hungry?” There were plenty of raw carrots and apples in the kitchen I could offer him instead.
“Naw. I had some ‘peach jerky’ and kelp cookies up in my room. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Munch away,” I said. “You are, after all, on the Amish Lifestyle Plan, so I trust you’ll clean up all the crumbs.” I wasn’t worried anyway. Despite the fact that he was dressed in some homespun-looking fabric, and was wearing plastic sandals with navy blue socks, Joel Teitlebaum was impeccably neat.
“I hear that you’ve discovered our purpose for being here, Miss Yoder.”
I sat down in the easy chair nearest him. “And how did you hear that?” I had left Billy and Linda safely in the dining room just minutes before.
He took some shells out of his mouth and started stacking up another neat pagoda. “I couldn’t help hearing when I was in my room. The Congressman and his aide were in the hallway, and they didn’t exactly keep their voices down. The Congressman, for one, seemed pretty ticked.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Enough to tell me that we’re going to have to get up pretty early in the morning to keep track of them.” His tone was only slightly accusing.
“How early?”
“Just early. They didn’t say when they planned to sneak out.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll have a vegetarian breakfast all prepared for you by seven,” I offered. I am a firm believer in at least postponing any confrontation that I can’t stop.
“Can you make it six instead?”
“Six-thirty.” I felt like I was bargaining away one of my quilts.
“Okay, I'll tell the others. Say, how much snow are we expecting by morning, anyway?”
“Not any that I know of. Why?” The last weather report I’d heard had called for fair skies with a low of thirty-eight and pockets of scattered frost in low-lying areas. Of course that forecast might have been from a week ago.
“I thought I heard the Congressman say something about snow.” He glanced down at his plastic sandals. “I just didn’t want to have to go tramping about in the snow in these things. They’re the only shoes I brought with me. Got caught up in one of my sculptures and packed kind of quickly,” he added sheepishly.
“If it does snow, I can lend you a pair of galoshes,” I offered gallantly.
“But Miss Yoder,” he said laughing, “I wear a size twelve. Men’s twelve. I doubt if even your feet are that big.”
“Thank you, sort of. But these aren’t mine really— these were my father’s.”
“In that case, thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken. Well, speaking of feet, I’m dead on mine. If you want to tell the others about breakfast, young Linda and Mr. Grizzle are still in the dining room quilting away like they were at a bee.”
“Linda and Billy?” He sounded genuinely surprised, but recovered quickly and said good night. I got the impression he would continue reading until milking time. Young people these days don’t seem to need any sleep. It must be all that fluoride they’ve been getting in their water.
As I closed the door behind me, all I could think about was crawling into my warm, snuggly bed. Then I remembered that I was going to have to share my bed and choked back a yelp of dismay.
Chapter 8
If you’ve never had to share a bed with Susannah, count yourself lucky. I hate to say this about my own sister, but unfortunately each year fewer and fewer people can count themselves lucky. Of course I don’t share Susannah’s bed in the same way these people do, but, still, I feel a weird sort of bond with them.
If you survive the night with Susannah, chances are that you will emerge with enough bumps and bruises to draw looks of sympathy from total strangers, and undoubtedly will be a good deal deafer to boot. Susannah thrashes and snores like nobody’s business. When Mama and Papa were alive, we had a sow named Susannah, and its name was no coincidence. It is a pure wonder that Susannah’s precious little Shnookums sleeps with her every night and still survives. But perhaps this explains why the mutt is so high-strung he can catch kites on a windless day.
“Susannah,” I warned her that night for the millionth time, “unless you want to sleep on the floor, stay on your side of the bed. And for pity’s sake, sleep on your left side. Otherwise you sound like a pond full of bullfrogs.”
Despite her claim to tiredness, Susannah had been awake and watching “Murder, She Wrote” on her portable TV. “Dishes done?” she’d asked callously when I entered the room. I said nothing and let her finish the program while I undressed. Just having the TV on, especially on a Sunday night, made me feel guilty.
"Well, if we’re not going to be chatty, all right if I stay up and watch the movie? It’s about this woman who finds out her husband’s having an affair, and she decides to get even by having an affair of her own, except that the man she chooses is the husband of the woman her husband is having an affair with. So, at one point they figure it out and—”
That’s when I made her turn off the TV and scoot over. “Susannah dear,” I said, trying to imitate Mama’s voice, “let’s say our prayers now and get ready for the sandman.”
“Is he cute?”
I simply refused to answer. Cute is not what Susannah is after. John Stutzman, who goes to our church, is cute, and he’s all eyes for Susannah, but she pays him no mind. Not that Susannah goes to our church anymore anyway. My point is that Susannah is turning her back on our people and our traditions to such an extent that, as awful as it is to say so, I am glad Mama and Papa are not here to see it. That old adage about the apple not falling far from the tree is plain baloney. Susannah’s apple rolled out of the orchard and into the world the year Mama and Papa died.
I eventually quit fuming about Susannah and fell asleep. Both she and Shnookums beat me to it, however, and when I did drift off, it was to the alternating rhythm of Susannah’s deep throaty snores and Shnookums’s pitiful pips. At some point I dreamed that I was stranded in a rowboat without oars in the world’s largest frog pond. Maybe it was even an ocean, except that it was shallow enough for cattails and fresh enough for millions of croaking, squeaking, and bellowing frogs. Then, suddenly, all the frogs but one fell silent, and the one, in a startlingly human voice, began to scream for help.
I woke up and turned on the bedside lamp. Not surprisingly, Susannah and Shnookums were still sound asleep. Of course, it wasn’t their dream, but not that it made any difference. It is those with the most on their consciences who sleep the soundest, or haven’t you noticed? Anyway, I was just about to turn off the light and try to go back to sleep when I heard the scream again. This time I was definitely not dreaming.
I put on my slippers and threw on my heavy corduroy robe, which doesn’t at all compromise my modesty, and set out to investigate. The scream seemed to have come from upstairs, possibly from the new wing, above the new dining room. As soon as I had negotiated the impossibly steep stairs, it was immediately clear that I was on the right track. Joel and all three members of the Ream party were standing in the hallway looking toward the new wing.
“What the—” began the Congressman, but I cut him off.
“It’s okay, folks, I’ll take care of this.” I mean, what’s the point of standing around and scratching your head when all you have to do is check something out?
The scream, a sort of garbled “help,” was emitted one more time, and then I immediately knew where it came from. I headed straight for Susannah’s old room, with Joel at my heels.
The door was open, and the reading lamps on either side of the bed were turned on. Centered in the bed, but with her back pressed up against the headboard, was Linda McMahon. She seemed to be staring fixedly at something on the quilt that covered her legs.
“Linda!” Joel pushed past me and raced to the bed.
“Help!” she screamed one more time. So intently was she staring at whatever it was, she didn’t seem to be aware of our presence.
I went around to the other side of the bed and tried to follow the angle of her gaze. She was staring at something just below her knees, at some point in a strip of blue and red calico. Then I saw it too, but, I’m ashamed to say, I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Joel.
“It’s only this.” I took off one of my slippers and laid it gently on the quilt, atop Linda’s shins. When I removed it a minute later, there was a little brown, eight-legged creature clinging to it. “A little itsy-bitsy, teensie-weensie spider.”
Joel recoiled as if I was waving a snake at him, and Linda somewhat ironically began to open and close her mouth like a baby bird begging to be fed.
“Come on, folks, get a grip on it,” I said in my best Susannah imitation. “This is a harmless little house spider, just out to get himself a midnight snack. And I don’t mean you,” I hastened to assure Linda.
“Where did he come from?” Joel had backed far enough away from the bed so that I was having to lean way over it just to allow him to get a good look.
“Probably from up there,” I said, pointing to the ceiling. “He really is harmless, I can assure you. He eats things too small to even see. In fact, some folks consider them to be lucky spiders.” I wasn’t really lying. Susannah did consider it lucky when I didn’t make her sweep down all the cobwebs that eventually collected in her room.
“Well, I consider it a health hazard and a menace,” said the Congressman, who had apparently been standing in the doorway for some time. “You will, of course, be calling an exterminator in the morning.” It was a directive, not a question.
I simply stared at the Congressman in his peacock-blue silk robe, not quite sure what to say. At last the lovely Lydia intervened by slipping her arm through her husband’s and pulling him gently away. “Come on, dear,” I heard her say as she led him down the hall, “you’ve got to get some sleep if you’re going to bag that eight-point buck in the morning.” Wordlessly, their loyal aide trotted after them.
“What are you going to do about him?” asked Joel.
“Ignore him, I guess.”
“No, I mean him.” He pointed to the spider, which was still clinging to my slipper.
I glanced down at the little critter, which by then was crawling up the slipper toward my hand. “Open the window, please!”
“Oh, no,” cried Joel. “You can’t do that! It’s November. Arachnids can’t take freezing weather.”
I headed resolutely for the bathroom.
“Not that, either, Miss Yoder.” He took a couple of deep breaths and seemed to calm down a little. “I mean, please. Can’t we release him someplace safe and warm?”
I practically thrust the slipper at him. “Here, you release him. Try the cellar—through the kitchen, but before the porch.”
Joel took the slipper, handling it as gingerly as Susannah handles the poop-scoop on those rare occasions when she stoops to clean up after Shnookums. But once it was in his possession, he took off at a sprint.
I sat down on the edge of the bed to attend to young Linda. She had ceased gaping like a hungry fledgling and was by this time gasping like a dying fish. I patted her shoulder and tried to look sympathetic. Admittedly, nurturing is not my forte.
“There, there,” I said somewhat lamely, “it’ll be all right.”
“But he might die down there,” she finally managed to say.
“Don’t worry,” I hastened to assure her, “there are plenty more where that one came from.”
Linda began gasping and gaping again, and it took me a couple of minutes to get her coherent. “Not the spider! Joel!”
I patted her a little harder. “Joel will be just fine. The cellar stairs aren’t that much steeper than these, and Mose promised me he would fix both the loose steps.”
“You idiot!” said Linda rudely. I must have looked shocked, because she almost immediately apologized. “But don’t you see,” she added, “poor Joel could get bitten by that horrible thing and die?”
I smiled kindly. “Absolutely not. That little spider couldn’t even kill a fly. I’ve been bitten by them oodles of times. Of course it hurts, but all that happens is that you get a little lump that goes away in a couple of hours. Joel will be just fine.”
As if on cue, Joel popped back into the room with my slipper in hand. “All’s well that ends well,” he said, perhaps a little out of breath.
“Thanks, Joel.”
“No problem, Miss Yoder.”
“Yeah, thanks, Joel.” Linda seemed to be breathing normally again.
I figured it was a good time for me to leave. “Well, good night, then.”
“Good night, Miss Yoder. I’ll stay with her for a while.”
Linda smiled appreciatively up at Joel. Perhaps I had been wrong about some of my early assumptions. “When you assume,” Papa used to say, “you make an ass out of u and me.”
I said my good nights and had just started down the hall when something occurred to me. I turned back. Both young people were just as I had left them. “Say,” I said hesitantly, “isn’t it a little odd that with all the commotion, Ms. Parker doesn’t seem to have awakened?”
“Not at all,” answered Linda. She sounded just a wee bit smug. “She usually takes a ‘chill pill.’ ”
“A what?”
“A tranquilizer,” translated Joel. He looked to Linda for confirmation.
She nodded. “Jeanette, I mean Ms. Parker, has a chronic back problem. It’s exacerbated by stress. A Xanax now and then relaxes her and helps her get to sleep.”
“I see,” I said, but of course I didn’t. I generally disapprove of any kind of medication. Oh, not on religious grounds, I assure you. It’s just that Granny Yoder was a hypochondriac. At one time I counted thirty-seven different bottles of pills and vitamins in her medicine chest. If the old lady had simply let nature take its course, she might have left the planet years earlier and spared us all a lot of grief.
I was coming out of Linda’s room when I noticed that the fire escape door at the end of the new wing, right next to Miss Brown’s room, was slightly ajar. My first thought was that the reclusive Miss Brown had slipped out for a breath of fresh night air. After all, moths are most active at night. But then I noticed a thin trail of sunflower seeds and concluded that young Joel was the insomniac I’d suspected him to be. I made a mental note to talk to him in the morning. If Crazy Maynard got in and showed young Linda what he showed me, she might scream for days.
On the way back to my bedroom, I tripped and nearly tumbled down the impossibly steep stairs. I was thinking about Susannah, and how Ms. Parker had nothing on me when it came to stress and back pain. So it wasn’t until I’d crawled back into bed that I remembered two other people hadn’t turned out in response to Linda’s arachnophobic screams.
Chapter 9
Hardly more than an hour had passed when I was partially awakened by a loud pounding noise.
“Be still, my heart,” I murmured, and turned over to go back to sleep. It wasn’t my fault, and therefore not a sin, that I had been dreaming about the not-unattractive Billy Dee Grizzle.
The pounding persisted, and eventually it became clear to my sleep-deprived brain that someone was hanging on the door and shouting. In my dreams, Billy Dee had only grunted.
I flung on my modest terry robe and staggered to the door. When I opened it, Joel Teitlebaum nearly knocked me over.
“There’s a dead woman on the stairs!” he shouted.
“Grannie Yoder?” I cried happily. Not that I was glad the old woman was haunting the place again, but I was relieved finally to have a confirmation of my sightings. Ever since the first time I saw Grannie Yoder’s ghost, Susannah has accused me of being as loony as a lake in Maine. The nerve of that girl!
“Whatever her name is, there’s a dead woman on the stairs,” repeated Joel. He was still very agitated, and his eyes looked as if they just might pop out of his face.
I grabbed one of his flailing arms. “Calm down, dear. It’s only the ghost of my dear, departed grandma. She was far more dangerous in life, believe you me.”
Joel wrenched his arm from my restraining grip. “This is not a ghost, Miss Yoder! This is a real live woman! Uh, I mean a real dead woman.”
I must have flung Joel’s spindly frame out of the way, because the next thing I knew I was at the bottom of our impossibly steep stairs. Sure enough, in a heap, not unlike a burlap bag of potatoes, lay the crumpled form of Miss Brown. Not even the Chinese acrobats I’d seen at the circus in Somerset could assume a position like this. I leaned over for a closer look, but I didn’t touch her. Mama had made us kiss Grannie Yoder after she was dead, and I’d had nightmares afterward for weeks.
“Are you sure she’s dead?”
Joel nodded. “She’s still slightly warm, but I can’t find a pulse anywhere. Who the hell is she?”
I felt a stabbing pain run through my gut. Sheer terror, I’m sure. “One of my guests. She checked in early yesterday, and then I never saw her again.”
“Better call the police,” said Joel, who had calmed down significantly. “And, I suppose, an ambulance. Just to be on the safe side.”
I called both. At the risk of making myself seem like I have a heart made out of dumplings, I will admit that at this point I was hoping not only that Miss Brown was dead, but that all her relatives were dead as well. What with those stairs being so steep, I was clearly liable. To settle a suit of this magnitude, not only would I have to sell off the PennDutch, but Susannah and I would be indentured servants for the rest of our lives. Even that obnoxious little Shnookums would have to be pawed off for a few pennies. Come to think of it, even the darkest clouds have silver linings.
Jeff Myers is our Chief of Police, and as nice a man as you could hope to meet. We were in grade school together, and he was the one boy whom I didn’t mind spitting paper wads at me. Of course he’s married now. Anyway, he showed up in no time flat and handled everything as smoothly as Freni does her shoofly pie dough. In less than an hour he had Miss Brown shipped off to the county morgue, for she was indeed dead. And in that time he had managed to interview everyone in the inn, except for myself. That he did over a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
“May as well,” he said, when I offered it to him. “We were planning to leave on vacation in three hours anyway. No use trying to hit the sack now. I’ll just let Tammy do the driving.”
“Where are you off to?” I asked. Tammy Myers, his wife, is a nice-enough woman, but dingier than a mailbox on a gravel road. They have three children, Sarah, David, and Dafna, who are almost grown. That the woman never misplaced them when they were infants is nothing short of a miracle. If his wife was going to do the driving while Jeff slept, somebody sane needed to know their destination.
“We’re going to Niagara Falls,” said Jeff, “then camping up in Canada for two weeks. I’ll be leaving my assistant in charge.”
“Keep her away from the edge,” I advised sagely.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Now, Mags, about this Brown woman, you say you never saw her again after you showed her to her room? Until Mr. Teitlebaum found her, I mean.”
“That’s right. I didn’t see a sign of her. Of course, she wasn’t easy to see, if you know what I mean.” “Uh-huh. Apparently none of the other guests saw or heard her either, at least not while she was alive. Neither did anyone hear a scream when she fell down the stairs, although one man, let’s see,” he briefly consulted his notes, “a Mr. Grizzle, said he thought he heard a thump. Of course, that might have been Mr. Teitlebaum pounding on your door.”
“Probably. And what about Joel Teitlebaum? What was he doing up, anyway? I mean, he seems like a nice kid and all, but shouldn’t he have a bedtime?” Mama had made me go to bed by nine every night until the day she died.
Chief of Police Myers glanced at his notes again. "Mr. Teitlebaum claims to have been in your parlor, deeply engrossed in one of your books. Something about Amish rabbis I think. Anyway, according to him, after that spider incident with young Linda McMahon, he couldn’t get back to sleep, so he went back down to the parlor. He heard a thump also, but no scream. He said he read another paragraph or two of that damned book—oh, sorry, Mags—before he got up to investigate.”
“Maybe she was too drunk to scream,” I suggested hopefully. If it was a drunk who fell down your stairs, even though they were impossibly steep, didn’t that absolve you of at least some of the liability?
“Maybe,” said Chief Myers, “but personally I don’t think that’s the case. Drunks seldom hurt themselves when they fall. All that booze makes them too flexible. Read about this guy out in San Francisco who fell seventeen stories down an empty elevator shaft. Dead drunk, of course. Hardly got hurt at all.”
Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t like Jeff so much. He had an annoying habit of always letting logic get in the way. “Well, okay, what if she wasn’t drunk then, and somebody pushed her. Then it still wouldn’t be my fault, would it?"
Chief Myers’s sinfully blue eyes danced in amusement. "You would rather it was murder than face a lawsuit?”
I tried to swallow a huge lump that had somehow lodged in my throat. Perhaps Freni’s dumplings weren’t as fluffy as I had always believed. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”
Jeff Myers chuckled. “Ah, you mean it might have been only a friendly sort of push?”
It was time to retreat, and fast. A verdict of murder, it seemed then, would be just as ruinous to the inn as a lawsuit. “Maybe she fell while sleepwalking, or maybe she decided to come downstairs without turning the hall light on first.”
“Maybe,” said the Chief. “Then again, maybe not. I think your murder theory has its points.”
“My theory?” You see how things always get twisted around, then put back on me? “And what points are those?”
The Chief yawned. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this stuff, but what the hell. This Miss Brown took a pretty bad fall, but it wasn’t the fall that put those marks on her face.”
“What marks?” I hadn’t seen any marks. Then again, I hadn’t looked at her face all that closely. It might have been Yasir Arafat lying there, for all I really knew. “Marks,” said the Chief tiredly. “Kind of like bruises.
Fresh bruises that haven’t had a chance to darken. Sort of in a fingerprint pattern.”
I swallowed another one of Freni’s dumplings. “She might have had those marks before she even checked in,” I pointed out hastily. “She might have been covering them up with makeup, and then taken it off when she went to bed. Most women take off their makeup at night, you know.” At least I assumed they did. I never wore any makeup, and as for Susannah, if she took off her makeup at this point, her face might shatter.
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” said the Chief. He yawned again, in spite of my coffee. “But whatever the reason for those marks, we’re not going to find out tonight. Nor are we going to find out why or how she fell. We’re just going to have to wait out the coroner’s report. In the meantime, I’m having that room sealed off. Might still be a clue or two in there we’ll need if this turns out to be foul play. Now, I’ve got a couple of big pike up in Canada with my name on them, so I’m outta here. Don’t worry, Mags, my Assistant Chief is as good as they come.” He stood up and stretched—a most immodest act on his part. “If there is any sort of legal trouble, you can always give Alvin a call.”
“Not as long as Chip and Dale are around,” I said. Alvin Hostetler, another distant cousin, must have attended law school somewhere on the Great Barrier Reef off Australia. His nickname around these parts is Jaws, and it was his mother who bestowed it on him after he took her to court to sue for back allowance. He was eighteen at the time. The case was thrown out of court, of course, but it gives you an idea of Alvin’s character. I would sooner dance naked on Hernia’s main street than do business with a shark like that.
Still, if it did come down to losing the PennDutch, I might have to give in to rubbing fins with Alvin.
Chief Myers bid me a sleepy good night. Before I went back to bed I searched our spidery cellar for the bottle of brandy I knew was hidden there. “For snakebite,” Papa told me once. We have very few poisonous snakes in Pennsylvania, but Papa, who was outdoors a lot, always believed in being prepared. Once or twice a month, unbeknownst to anyone but me, Papa would force himself to go down into the cellar and practice sipping that horrible-tasting brandy, so that if the time ever came when he was bitten by a snake, he’d be able to drink enough to withstand the pain. I found Papa’s bottle, or one of its descendants, and, after brushing the cobwebs off, tried a swig myself. Of course it tasted awful. But I braved it out, like Papa, and after a couple more swigs I adjusted to the taste. I felt much more inclined to sleep after that.
I am usually a light sleeper, but even I didn’t awaken when the alarm went off at five. Shnookums must have, however, because when I did awaken fifteen minutes later, there he was, lying on my chest, just inches from my face.
“Get that damned dog off me!” I yelled. I know, you probably count that as swearing, but it wasn’t. It was simply a statement of fact.
Susannah remained immobile, like a hog in a mud wallow on a hot day.
“Get it off!” I yelled again. Just so you know, I can yell at that dog all I want, and it won’t even blink a beady little rat’s eye, but if I so much as touch it with my little finger, I have Cujo to contend with.
“Susannah Elizabeth Yoder Entwhistle!”
Still no response from Susannah. The mutt, however, inched up my chest until its tiny mouth filled with little rodent teeth was close enough for me to feel its breath on my face. Except for Papa, no male had ever been so intimate. But it was one thing for Papa to kiss me on the cheek, but quite another for two pounds of hair to insinuate themselves into my space.
Recklessly I poked the critter with my right forefinger. Not viciously, you understand, but just enough to prod him off.
Instantly, all thirty-two ounces of ill-tempered shag sprang to life, and I had a snarling, scrabbling, snapping Shnookums on my hands. Literally. The mangy little mongoose managed to mangle my forefinger in his minuscule mouth, and then, just to be spiteful, piddled on my palm.
That did it! I scooped up the mutt, despite my damaged digits, and tossed him totally off the bed. I’m positive that the fling did not inflict any permanent injury, but to hear the mutt’s side of it, you would have thought I’d tried to kill him. He yipped and yapped in that pitiful way wounded canines have of expressing their pain, but in this case the dog out and out lied.
Of course the fact that her dog was only crying wolf was lost on Susannah. At the first pitiful yip she sat bolt upright in bed, like Lazarus reviving from the dead. By his second yip she was wide awake and ready to do battle to protect her offspring. “What have you done to him?” she roared at me. Then she turned to her precious pet and her voice dripped sugar, like a lollipop suspended from a heat lamp. “Oooh, is Mommy’s itsy-bitsy shnoogy Shnookums okay? Yes? Is we’ums okay?”
I got up and dressed quickly. I’ll say this much for Susannah. She has the ability to make getting up at five in the morning on a cold, autumn day preferable to remaining in my warm comfortable bed. There has got to be talent there somewhere.
Needless to say, I was not in a chipper mood as I clumped about the kitchen getting breakfast for the Ream party. I made no effort to keep down the racket. That the pots and pans seemed to hurl themselves at the stove, and that my bedroom, with Susannah gone back to sleep in it, was right next door were, however, coincidental.
I had just plopped the platter of eggs and bacon on the table when the Reams showed up. On the dot, just like I knew they’d be. People of their ilk are as tight with their time as they are with their money.
“Uhmm, it smells delicious,” said Lydia, who led the way. She was dressed in brand-new designer jeans, a new red flannel shirt, never-before-worn lace-up boots, and a new billed cap that sported a political saying. She looked about as much like the hunters I knew as Freni did.
“Coffee with muscle is in the big pot, decaf in the little, and there’s hot water in case anyone wants tea,” I said perfunctorily.
“Coffee better be strong,” growled the Congressman. “Damned impossible to get any sleep around here. First that young bimbo goes into histrionics, then some mystery guest takes a header down those wicked stairs of yours. I can hardly wait to see what you’ve got planned for tonight.”
“There is a banister,” I pointed out quickly. “And it’s fastened to the wall quite securely. The stairs are really very safe.”
“And charming, too,” said Lydia graciously. “Very Old World in style. They remind me of Europe.”
I flashed her a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“Better do something with those damned stairs,” snarled the Congressman.
“Is that a hint?” I asked sweetly. If he’s not looking, a woman can push a man down a flight of stairs, just as easily as the other way around.
The three of them sat down and began to eat. I stole another glance at Delbert, and then at the Congressman. They both seemed half-asleep. Like Lydia, they were wearing brand-new duds. Why on earth, I wondered, would anybody wear new clothes to tramp around in a woods, unless they planned to be seen? Granted, these were not your typical interview clothes, but they had to be a long way from comfortable.
“Everything all right, folks?” I asked. Perhaps I was just a wee bit brusque because no one, not even the Congressman, responded right away. Like the obedient child I used to be, they ate in silence.
“Got any more of that delicious apple butter you served last night?” asked Delbert after a while.
“Coming right up.”
“Any more of that nice, crisp bacon?” asked the Congressman, suddenly coming to life. For a second I was flattered, but then he added, “Or were those charcoal briquettes?”
“He’s only kidding, aren’t you, dear?” said Lydia quickly. Her face had colored to the point that it almost matched her shirt. Frankly, I felt more sorry for her than I did angry at the Congressman. I got paid to put up with his rudeness. She, on the other hand, paid his bills. At least that’s what the papers said.
“The hell I am,” he snapped. “The food here is garbage. The service stinks. The—”
Lydia clamped a dainty, manicured hand over her husband’s mouth. She couldn’t have been more foolish had she tried to muzzle Shnookums. The Congressman may not have been in the habit of biting, but he showed no hesitation when it came to hitting. The blow he gave her was on the side of the head and with the palm of his hand. It was hard enough so that she tipped back in her chair and had to struggle to regain her balance. Why he simply didn’t push her hand away, was beyond me. Papa had never hit Mama to my knowledge, nor she him, and neither of them would so much as raise their voice in front of strangers, no matter how vexed they got.
“What the hell!” said Delbert, jumping up, but beyond that he made no move to intervene.
“Stay out of this,” growled the Congressman. “This is a family matter.” He stood up himself and grabbed his wife by the arm. “Bring the car around in half an hour,” he said, presumably to Delbert, then he dragged his wife out of the room.
Delbert sat mutely down.
Not knowing what else to do, I scurried into the kitchen and got the apple butter. When I returned, Delbert was sitting just as I’d left him.
“Does he do that often?” I asked, setting the apple butter down in front of him.
Delbert appeared to shake himself mentally, and offered me a weak smile. “Of course not.”
I leaned forward in my best conspiratorial stance. “I don’t vote,” I whispered. God forgives unselfish lies. “And I can keep my trap shut tighter than a cork on a jug of raw cider.” Oh the shame of having read so many dime novels as a child.
“If he lays a hand on her one more time, I’ll kill him.”
“Poor woman.”
“The man’s a bastard. She doesn’t deserve any of it.”
“Why does she put up with it?”
He shook his head. “Damned if I know. She doesn’t need him. It’s him who needs her. Her money, her connections. He’s just small potatoes politically, and will always be without her support.”
“Maybe it’s love?” Love had never even managed to sweep me off my feet, much less moved me to accept being boxed up the side of the head.
“Love? Ha! Try pity.”
Even that was hard for me to understand. “Maybe you’re right. But why do you put up with him? Aren’t there other Congressmen you could work for? Or, why not just run for office yourself?”
Delbert stirred the apple butter, like a witch stirring her pot. “There are many mysteries to this world, aren’t there, Miss Yoder?”
“The English are full of mysteries,” said Freni.
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. “Where in tarnation did you come from?”
“I work here, remember?”
“I thought you quit.”
“So, I un-quit. You want a cook for breakfast, don’t you?”
I wasn’t so sure. Now that the meat-eaters had eaten, and the veggie-devourers were about to descend. Freni might be more of a liability than an asset. “Why don’t you cook breakfast for Mr. Grizzle when he comes down,” I suggested, “and I’ll handle those other picky eaters.”
Freni folded her stubby arms over her crisp, starched apron and glared. “Magdalena, I am not the fool you take me for. I’ve got brains. I can tell when it’s time to make a few changes. And I’m not such an old dog that I can’t learn new tricks. If it’s raw carrots those English want for breakfast, then that’s what I’ll give them.”
If I’d had any brains of my own, I would have come up with a good excuse and sent Freni home with pay. At least just for the next few days. But, alas, at times I can be stupider than Melvin Stoltzfus, who tried to milk a bull and got kicked in the head for his efforts. Mercifully, Melvin was thereafter never fully conscious of his blunder. If only I could be so lucky.
“Just kick me in the head,” I said to Freni, “and start cooking.”
“What?”
“I think I’ll leave you two ladies to your work and check in on the Congressman,” said Delbert politely. He was obviously a man who had been well brought up and knew when to be discreet.
After he’d gone, I began to clear off the table, but Freni didn’t budge.
“Well,” I said at last, “isn’t it time to start frying some eggless, milkless, buckwheat pancakes—in vegetable oil, of course?”
“Not until you apologize.”
“For what?”
“For firing me, that’s what!”
“I didn’t fire you, dear. You quit!”
“You should still apologize, Magdalena Yoder. Your mama would never have treated me this way.”
That did it. Even after ten years, just the mention of Mama or Papa has a powerful effect on me. Freni knew this and was playing dirty. What she didn’t know was that I had been awakened in the wee hours by a screaming arachnophobiac and had been mangled by a midget mutt. Throw in a crumpled corpse, and I had a full plate. I was in no mood for one of her guilt trips.
“Okay, Freni. Since you ‘un-quit,’ I’ll ‘un-apologize.’ ”
I think Freni also has a Stoltzfus up her family tree. “Apology accepted. Shall I serve butter with the pancakes?”
“Just put it on a plate for those who want it. Mr. Grizzle, however, gets bacon with his.”
Freni was remarkably cooperative that morning, and I confess to being lulled into a false sense of complacency. I didn’t even get my feathers ruffled when Jeanette Parker came bustling in and demanded to know if the hunting party had left yet.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Did they eat?”
I studied her calmly. She was wearing a loose, pajama-like outfit that looked as if it were made from burlap sacking. A matching strip of the coarse brown fiber was tied around her head like a scarf, and knotted on top. The two ends stood almost straight up and looked for all the world like deer ears. Almost none of her carrot-red hair was showing.
“What color is your coat?” Too much had happened for me to remember it from the day before.
“What?”
“Your coat. Is it at least red or blue?”
“My coat is none of your damned business, Ms. Yoder!”
“Suit yourself.” Even Mama would have lost patience with this woman.
“Well, have they eaten or not?” She was tapping away impatiently with a brown brogan. A flamenco dancer she was not.
“I don’t divulge my guests’ activities. Even yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I didn’t know. But now I wished I did. For a brief moment Jeanette looked like the cat who had been caught with her paw in a fishbowl.
“Orange or tomato juice?” I asked as pleasantly as I could.
Just then Freni entered with a stack of buckwheat pancakes and a jug of warm, homemade maple syrup. Just before she sat down, I could see Jeanette’s brown, burlap-covered chest inhale the aroma that was wafting from the plate.
“Any more for me?”
I turned to see Billy Dee Grizzle standing in the doorway. The dark circles under his eyes made him look older than I had remembered. Much too old for Susannah, for sure. And there seemed to be a bruise or a scratch on his right cheekbone that I hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps he had whacked himself with the shovel while digging for night crawlers. That sort of thing happens, you know. Myma Stoltzfus, who was my best friend in grammar school, once knocked herself out with her own lunch pail.
“There’s plenty more,” I said. “Do you want coffee?”
“Caffeine has been shown to cause cancer in laboratory rats,” said Jeanette, her mouth already full of pancake.
Billy laughed. “So has too much sex.”
“What?”
Billy ignored her and sat down. “I’d love some coffee, Miss Yoder.”
“Magdalena,” I mouthed.
As I was pouring his coffee, Joel and Linda came into the room. “Have they left yet?” they both asked at once.
“That’s what I want to know,” said Jeanette. Her mouth was again full of pancake, and little pieces sprayed out when she talked.
“Well, come on, guys, we gotta find out,” exhorted Linda. She, for one, seemed pretty chipper. It was certainly not obvious that she had recently suffered a near death experience at the hands of something with eight feet.
“Relax, folks,” drawled Billy Dee. “Garrett’s Buick pulled out of here about twenty minutes ago. They’re long gone.”
Jeanette brayed and sprayed something unprintable, and then shoved in another bite.
“Well, we can still catch up with them, can’t we?” asked Joel. Judiciously, he chose to sit as far as he could from Jeanette. Linda sat down beside Billy.
“It’s worth a try,” said Jeanette, showing me more pancake than I cared to see. “Even a forest filled with hunters is bound to be safer than this dump. I say we hit the road, and pronto.”
“A state forest is an awfully big place,” said Linda. I examined her face for signs of Stoltzfus blood.
“It doesn’t matter a hill of beans,” explained Billy Dee patiently. “We want to catch them coming out with their buck, not just tramping around in some dang woods. We want a picture the reporters can sink their teeth into.”
I swallowed hard. “Reporters?”
“At the woods,” Billy reassured me, “when they come back to the car. Not here, Miss Yoder.”
“But what about their poor deer?” Linda cried.
Billy patted her shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I hastened to reassure her, “hundreds of other deer will be killed as well.” Come to think of it, great-grandmother Kauffman was originally a Stoltzfus.
Even Linda surprised me then, by bursting into tears and burying her head in Billy’s brawny shoulder.
Jeanette glared, but I couldn’t tell if it was at me or at Billy, who was sitting opposite me. Then her mouth flew open and the remnants of at least half of a buckwheat pancake came spewing out.
“Gross,” said Billy Dee, who is otherwise so polite.
“Eggs!” she rasped.
“What?” I demanded. I was in no mood for false accusations.
“There’s an eggshell in the pancakes. So there’s got to be eggs!”
“Prove it.”
Jeanette poked around in the detritus on her plate and eventually came up with a little white speck that shouldn’t have been worth mentioning. “There!”
“Freni!”
Freni materialized almost immediately, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes?”
“Freni, did you put eggs in those pancakes?”
Freni looked me straight in the eye. “Didn’t the children of Israel put straw in their bricks?”
“What?”
“She’s nuts,” Jeanette had the nerve to say.
“Freni, you weren’t making bricks, you were making pancakes. Did you use eggs?”
Freni crossed her arms over her ample, apron-covered bosom and stamped her right foot three times. Except for the arm-crossing, I’ve seen bulls act just like that before they charge.
“Well, Freni?”
“You cook for the crazy English, Magdalena. I quit!”
“Please, God,” I prayed, “let her stay quit until this crowd of English has crossed the Red Sea.”
Unfortunately God does not always ignore our prayers. I would much rather have had to deal with a continuance of complaints than with a corpse clutching Mama’s dresden plate quilt.
Chapter 10: Freni Hostetler’s Buckwheat Pancake Recipe
Ingredients:
½ cup all-purpose flour
¾ cup buckwheat flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
Pinch cinnamon
3 eggs
1 cup light cream
2 tablespoons bacon grease
Sift together dry ingredients. Hand-beat eggs and cream, just until blended. Add bacon grease to liquid. Stir well. By stages pour and stir liquid ingredients into dry mixture until it is smooth and of batter consistency.
Pour or spoon batter onto a hot, cast-iron griddle that has been liberally greased with lard. Fry until upper surfaces of pancakes are pocked with bubbles. Turn and fry until reverse side is golden brown.
Serve oozing with fresh butter and dripping with maple syrup. Homemade pork and sage sausages are the perfect complement.
Chapter 11
I took over in the kitchen. I stirred together some water, some vegetable oil, some all-purpose flour, some buckwheat flour, and some baking powder. I left out the salt and the sugar because both Jeanette and Linda informed me that they were worse than poison, and Jeanette threatened to sue me if these impurities ever passed her lips again on my premises. The pinch of cinnamon I just plain forgot.
I fried the mixture on a different griddle that had been sparsely coated with vegetable oil. The pancakes, if that is what you wish to call them, were flat, heavy, miserable things that broke apart when I turned them. They had all the aroma and appeal of week-old cow-pies, but most of the guests loved them.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Yoder,” said the ever polite Billy Dee, “but I don’t suppose there are any of Mrs. Hostetler’s pancakes left back in the kitchen?”
Jeanette glared openly at him, and Linda unsuccessfully tried to suppress a shudder. I trotted back to the kitchen and piled up a plate of all Freni’s pancakes that I wasn’t capable of eating myself. When I placed it in front of Billy Dee his face lit up like a kerosene lamp with a freshly cleaned globe. “Any bacon back there?” he asked hopefully.
Of course I didn’t disappoint Billy Dee. I retrieved a plate of home-cured bacon, fried crisp but not crumbly, and placed it proudly in front of him. Billy Dee was obviously delighted, but the other three reacted like I do when someone lights up a cigarette in my presence. Actually, they were probably more polite. They simply retreated to the far end of the table and huddled together in a defensive posture undoubtedly intended to ward off meat molecules that might break loose from Billy’s bacon and bombard them. For the remainder of their scant meal they remained in their closed cluster and conversed in hushed, conspiratorial tones.
That was just fine with me. I loaded up a plate for myself and joined the more convivial carnivore.
“Isn’t meat-eating inconsistent with your stand on hunting?” I asked him pleasantly.
Billy Dee bit into another slice of bacon. “Not at all, Miss Yoder. In the animal kingdom there’ve always been, and will always be, carnivores. They kill, and then eat what they kill. You know, like lions and leopards and things.
“And then there’s the scavengers, like the jackals. They eat the meat the carnivores leave behind. Think of me as a scavenger. Someone else killed this pig and left it behind. I’m simply cleaning up after him.”
“As can be expected, your analogy holds up only so far,” I was bold enough to say. “I mean, if it’s all right for lions and leopards to kill for meat, why isn’t it all right for Congressman Ream and his party?”
Billy Dee smiled patiently at me. “Lions and leopards are biologically programmed to kill other animals. They do it for survival. They don’t have no choice. The Congressman does.”
“Ah, but the jackals are just like the lions, aren’t they? They’re programmed to scavenge meat. They don’t have any choice either. But you do!”
Billy defiantly stuck another slice of bacon into his grinning mouth. “Think of my scavenging as a service to you and the rest of mankind. Whatever bacon I eat, there’s less for you to have to worry about. I am unselfishly defiling my body so that you can lead a cleaner, purer life. I’m doing the right thing. The morally correct thing.”
“Maybe, but you don’t sound very politically correct.” He laughed heartily. “Billy Dee Grizzle is definitely not politically correct.”
“How, I mean why, did you change your mind about hunting?” I asked him. “I overheard you telling the Congressman last night that you, yourself, used to hunt.”
He seemed genuinely surprised at my question. “Don’t you read the papers?”
I must have blushed with embarrassment. As much as I love to read, I am too cheap to have either the Harrisburg or Pittsburgh papers delivered. As for the little weekly rag published in Hernia, its lead story that week concerned a rash of ulcerated udders on Amos Troyer’s dairy farm.
Billy Dee was too polite to let me squirm in my ignorance. “It happened almost exactly four years ago,” he explained quickly. “We’d just moved up here from Texas. I was deer hunting.” His eyes left my face and seemed to focus on the quilting frame across the room. “I had my daughter with me. Jennifer Mae. She was eleven years old.” He paused.
“Jennifer is a pretty name,” I said to encourage him.
He nodded. “She was my only kid. Her mama died when she was just seven. Anyway, Jenny Mae got tired of hunting and wanted to go back and rest in the pickup. I let her.” He swallowed. “It weren’t all that far. The pickup, I mean. She would’ve been all right, except that she got kinda turned around.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Jenny Mae never made it back to that damned truck. She was wearing this white bow in her hair, like the one her mama used to put in for her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her not to wear it. I didn’t think there was a need for it, really. She was with me the whole time, except for then, and I was wearing an orange vest.”
He paused again, and this time, dreading what he was about to say, I did not encourage him further.
He went on anyway. “It was me, her own daddy, who mistook that bow for a white tail. It was me that shot my own little girl off this earth.”
I expected him to break down and sob, but he didn’t. “Not that it mattered in comparison to Jenny Mae’s death, but it woulda been ruled an accident if it hadn’t been for them folks over there.”
“Jeanette, Joel, and Linda?”
“Especially her.” I just knew he meant Jeanette. “I still don’t know how, but immediately they were all over the place like smoked-out hornets. They had the press with them and before I could catch my breath I was charged with involuntary manslaughter. I didn’t stand no chance in court.”
I gave him a chance to catch his breath and waited quietly until he resumed his tale.
“I got sent up for three years. I know it ain’t much, and I probably even deserved it. But the thing is, Miss Yoder, they made out like I’d almost intended to kill Jenny Mae.”
“They actually said that?”
“No, not in so many words. But that’s what it came down to. They made me out to be some mean, horrible monster who didn’t care about what happened to his little girl. They said that by taking her along with me, I was not only choosing to break the law, but I’d publicly given up all rights to be her father.”
He rubbed the corners of his eyes with the palm of his hand, although I could see no tears. “I think the worst thing is that they didn’t give me no time to react or mourn her death. I was in shock, Miss Yoder. I was absolutely stunned. I just couldn’t believe what had happened. And then they were on me. That’s what I mean by not being able to catch my breath.”
“I see.”
“I don’t even remember her funeral, Miss Yoder. I can’t even say for sure if I was there. Miss Yoder, Jeanette and them other two robbed me of my daughter’s death.” He made a dismissing motion with his right hand. “Of course I can’t expect you to understand that.”
“But I do understand.” I really did. When Mama and Papa were killed in that horrible accident, I wanted to mourn for them with every fiber of my being. I wanted to feel the pain completely, for as long as I needed to, before having to learn how to cope with it and get on with my life. But of course I didn’t have the luxury of orchestrating my own emotional recovery, not with a burden like Susannah to deal with. Following our parents’ death, Susannah acted out so completely that ninety-nine percent of my energy was diverted to her and her recovery. Susannah was still a long way from recovery, and I had yet to mourn. Of course, I wasn’t about to tell Billy Dee all that. We Swiss do not readily share our emotions, and certainly not with comparative strangers.
Still, Billy Dee seemed to appreciate my saying that I understood, even if he didn’t necessarily believe it. He reached out and patted my hand. Needless to say, this embarrassed me terribly, and I reacted as I normally do when I’m embarrassed—by talking.
“I do understand about the mourning part,” I assured him. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve turned around and joined them. Isn’t that carrying the ‘turn the other cheek’ principle just a little too far?” He leaned halfway over the table and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I haven’t joined them, Miss Yoder, I’ve infiltrated them.”
“You what?”
“Well, true, I have given up hunting. I can’t bring myself to touch a gun no more, not after Jenny Mae’s death. But I ain’t anti-hunting, like they are. I still think responsible people should have the right to hunt. It’s just that I wasn’t responsible.”
“But if you don’t believe in their cause, why are you with them?”
He whispered even softer. “Because I want to keep them from doing to other people what they did to me. I’m here to keep tabs on them, Miss Yoder. To keep their fanaticism in line.”
“And they don’t suspect you?” Jeanette might be obnoxious, but she surely wasn’t stupid.
“I suppose they do. Still, I think they’re glad to have me. I suspect they’re kinda proud of having a convert in their ranks. It shows others that if I can see the way, surely they can too. I’m a walking testimony to the rightness of their position. Whether or not I’m really sincere is something they prefer not to think about.”
“Unless, of course, you choose to pig out on bacon right under their noses.”
We burst out laughing, and then almost immediately contained ourselves. The three down at the other end of the table were looking in our direction, and they did not appear to be at all amused.
“What’s so damned funny?” demanded Jeanette, but she didn’t seem to want an answer. “I should think that with a major lawsuit hanging over your head, Miss Yoder, you wouldn’t have time to be so frivolous. I should think that your agenda for the day would include finding a good lawyer and a carpenter. Why, I nearly tripped coming down those stairs myself.”
“There is a banister!” I almost screamed. It would almost be worth a lawsuit, however, to see Jeanette take a tumble. Then again, the damage incurred to my stairs would offset any satisfaction.
Billy Dee reached forward and patted my hand. “Don’t you go worrying none, Miss Yoder. There ain’t gonna be no lawsuit. And even if there is, you ain’t gonna lose. Why heck, those stairs ain’t so steep. Friend of mine in Dallas fell down a much steeper stairs, only he didn’t die, and it still took the jury three days to come to a decision.”
“What did they decide?” I held my breath.
“The plaintiff won, of course. But like I said, they were much steeper stairs.”
“How much did the plaintiff win?” I was going to have to stop throwing out those notices from Publishers Clearing House.
“Hardly anything. Only about three and a half mill, I think.”
For a brief and unforgivable second, I hated Mama and Papa. If they hadn’t gotten themselves creamed between a milk tanker and a load of shoes, I wouldn’t be in such a pickle. Since I was sinning anyway, I vowed never to drink another glass of milk and to go barefoot whenever possible.
“Hey, shouldn’t we be heading out to the woods?” asked Joel, breaking into my reverie. For a fanatic, he seemed to be remarkably moderating.
Everyone agreed, including myself, that it was long past time they hit the road. I surprised them by dashing into the kitchen and returning with sack lunches. “They’re all the same,” I said pointedly. “Oatmeal batter bread sandwiches with strawberry preserves, and peanut butter cookies.”
“Better not be any eggs in here,” growled Jeanette.
“Did you use organic peanut butter in the cookies?” asked Linda.
I smiled benevolently. “Of course, dear.” I wasn’t lying, either. I’d checked my dictionary before going to bed the night before. According to Webster, organic things were those that were, or had been, alive and that contained carbon. Even the off-brand of peanut butter I bought used peanuts that had once been alive and contained carbon. Of course, it is quite possible that Linda meant to ask if the peanuts had been grown by the aid of organic fertilizers and without pesticides. But that’s not what she said, was it? So, in the words of Susannah, “Tough cookies.”
Speaking of Susannah, I hadn’t even had a chance to sit down again after the others left, when she came billowing into the room. Everything billows about Susannah, except for her bosom, which is even smaller than mine, and barely capable of bobbing, much less billowing.
We grunted our greetings. That’s more than can be said for most sisters who don’t get along and have good reason for feeling crabby when they meet. My crabbiness was understandable, of course. As to the origin of Susannah’s, I didn’t have a clue.
“Get up on the wrong side of my bed?”
Susannah sat down and began picking at the remains of Billy Dee’s breakfast. “I wouldn’t have gotten up at all if the idiots above me had kept the noise down.”
“What do you mean?” The idiot above my bedroom happened to be Garrett Ream.
Susannah, the true scavenger, sucked at a strip of Billy Dee’s half-eaten bacon. “What I mean,” she said irritably, “is that Mr. Big-shot Congressman and his goody-two-shoes, Barbie-doll of a wife were having a knock-down, drag-out fight.”
“He hit her?”
“How should I know? I didn’t see it. I heard it.”
“What did they say?” Contrary to what you may be thinking, I have a right to know what goes on in my establishment.
“What’s it to ya, Mags?”
“A fresh stack of pancakes and all the bacon you can suck—I mean, eat.”
“Deal.” Susannah took Shnookums out of the nether reaches of her billowiness and set him down on Billy Dee’s syrupy plate, which he proceeded to lick clean.
“Well?” I asked, after a great deal of patience had expired.
“Well, he accused her of having a thing for that cute aide of his. What’s his name?”
“Delbert James.”
“Yeah, him. Of course she denied it. But that wasn’t the interesting part.”
“What was it, then?”
“I’m getting to it! The interesting part was when she said something about him having had an affair with Ms. Bitchy-Pants. You know, the one with the red hair.”
“Jeanette Parker?”
“Mags, would you stop interrupting me? Anyway, I nearly fell out of bed laughing when I heard that. I thought I might even have heard wrong, but no, she said it again.”
I was sure Susannah had heard wrong. As obnoxious as they both were, I couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, see the Congressman being attracted to a woman like Jeanette. Not when he had the charming Lydia for a wife. I decided to push my luck with Susannah. “What exactly were her words?” I begged.
“See, you don’t believe me!”
At that my baby sister scooped up her sticky-footed stowaway and stashed him back in the nether reaches from whence he’d come.
“I do believe you!” I protested.
“How much?”
I can only be pushed so far. “Enough to not kick you out of my room and make you sleep on the floor in the parlor.”
Susannah stuck her tongue out at me but cooperated nonetheless. “Her exact words were: You’re the one who slept with Jeanette Parker, maybe it’s you who should pay the price.’ Something very close to that at any rate.”
I sat down heavily, like the proverbial ton of bricks. “Anything else interesting?”
Susannah took a minute to coo at Shnookums in his dank and undoubtedly dreary hideaway. “Yeah,” she said finally. “Lydia Ream said something about Jeanette being Linda’s mother.”
“Aha! So they’re not, uh, I mean—”
“Lesbian lovers?”
“Susannah!”
“Oh, Mags, you are so provincial. This is the nineties. Why don’t you get with the times like I am!”
“You are a wanton woman, Susannah.”
“And you’re egg drop soup.” Susannah laughed heartily at her own little joke. Her bony, braless bosom bobbed up and down like a fishing cork on Miller’s pond. From somewhere within the powdered plumage of her cascading costume Shnookums sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you,” said Susannah on Shnookums’s behalf. “What’s more, Magdalena, you don’t even know the half of it. What else I heard will really knock your socks off. It did mine.”
“Enlighten me,” I begged. Susannah watches “Geraldo” and reads those magazines that describe two- headed aliens mating with farm animals. Nothing short of amputation could separate her from her socks.
“Can I borrow the car this morning if I tell you? I want to go shoe shopping in Somerset.”
I cringed at the mention of shoes. “Susannah, don’t you think it would be prudent to save your pennies, especially at the moment?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean... because... well... you know, there might be a lawsuit.”
Susannah laughed so hard that I truly feared for Shnookums’s life. “You don’t honestly believe there is going to be a lawsuit, do you, Mags?” she finally managed to say.
“I most certainly do. I mean, there is a chance.”
“Some chance! Mags, you really should watch more TV. They have to prove negligence in a suit. It can’t just be because the stairs are steep.”
“And there is the banister,” I reminded her.
“Exactly. So you see, you don’t have a thing to worry about, do you?”
“I sure hope you’re right. But I still don’t think shopping is such a good idea right now.”
“Maybe not for you,” said Susannah wickedly. “The inn is in your name, not mine. Remember?”
“Thanks a lot!” But she had a point. I was the responsible adult. Call me an enabler, but Susannah, despite her burgeoning years, is not capable, much less culpable, which is precisely why Mama and Papa left the inn to me.
“Come on, Mags, let me have the car,” Susannah begged, “and I promise to tell you that juicy bit of information that is guaranteed to knock your socks off.”
“Okay,” I said at last. The gas tank was almost empty, and Hernia didn’t have a full-service station. Since Susannah would rather go to church than pump her own gas, it was a safe bet that she wasn’t going to get very far.
“Goody!” cried Susannah. She rubbed her hands gleefully together and then cupped them to her mouth like a little girl about to gossip to her best friend. “Not only is that awful Jeanette Linda’s mother,” she whispered, “but Congressman Ream is her father.”
“Come on!” I’m almost positive I felt at least a tug on my hose.
“I kid you not. And not only that, but I think Jeanette’s been blackmailing the Congressman. I think she’s been putting the screws on him for years. Her showing up yesterday was no coincidence. And you know what else? I think the Congressman’s wife has known about this all along, but for some stupid reason she won’t or can’t divorce him. That’s what I think.”
“You think? You think? Susannah, blackmail is a serious crime. You can’t be making allegations like that based on things you heard through the ceiling. I can’t believe Lydia Ream would put up with such a sordid situation.”
“I have news for you, Sis. Lydia Ream is not the saint you make her out to be. I heard her telling her husband that it was his turn to start paying, remember? And she didn’t sound like a choir member when she said it either. In fact, she used words that you have probably never even heard of. It’s obvious that she’s mad as hell about the blackmail and isn’t going to take it anymore.”
“I think they call that circumstantial evidence.”
“You are such a skeptic, Mags. You don’t believe anything unless you have pages of documentation.”
“I still don’t believe Shnookums is a dog. Circumstantial evidence leads me to believe that he is a species of hairy rat.”
“That does it!” Susannah stood up in a billowy huff and stormed from the table. At the doorway she stopped. “And one more thing, Miss Yoder, Billy Dee Grizzle already has a girlfriend, and Delbert James just happens to be gay!”
“And so is Shnookums!” I screamed at her back. Any animal psychiatrist would have a field day with a canine that was perpetually carried around in a purse or a half-empty bra.
To my disappointment, Susannah didn’t respond to my last remark. Shnookums, however, did. I didn’t get a chance to see the puddle the nervous little pooch produced, but Susannah bolted for the bathroom, and later on I found that pile of polyester swirls she’d been wearing crammed into my hamper.
Chapter 12
The second my car, with Susannah at the wheel, disappeared from sight, I bolted up the steep stairs of my gloriously empty inn and headed straight for the sealed-off room. It was a little tricky getting the orange tape off the doorjamb in such a way that I could replace it without anyone’s being the wiser. Only a sharp-eyed detective would notice my tampering when I was through, and even Chief Myers, God bless him, wasn’t that perceptive. If he was, he would undoubtedly have noticed that his wife, Tammy, had knock-knees, a mouth like a mule, and brayed when she laughed. He should have bought her a saddle instead of that engagement ring, back when we were in high school.
I don’t know what I expected to find in Miss Brown’s room. I simply started looking through her things, which, with the exception of a pair of rinsed-out hose hanging on the towel rack, a pair of brown house slippers with gray piping, and the shoes and dress she’d worn the day before, were all still in her suitcase. Her purse had apparently been taken by the Chief.
That her suitcase was locked didn’t slow me down a bit. Every Mennonite girl worth her bonnet knows how to wield a hairpin with the skill of a surgeon. I had that drab little valise open in less time than it takes Freni to smile, not that it did me any good. Two beige bras, two mostly white pairs of panties, a gray sweater, a pair of brown slacks, an oatmeal-colored blouse, and a toothbrush didn’t tell me a whole lot more than I already knew—except that she wore a size ten panty, which meant that her dress had done a fine job of disguising her big caboose.
Out of habit I started to make her bed, which had apparently been slept in, but then caught myself. Corpses aren’t known for their bed-making skills, especially after they’ve been carted off to the morgue. Hernia might not have the sharpest police department around, but they weren’t complete slouches either. At least that’s what I thought back then.
I took one last quick look around. None of my furnishings had disappeared. The cheaply framed print of “The Angelus” still hung on the wall, the Gideon Bible remained on the desk, and in the bathroom I could still see two towels. There were even two drinking glasses on the sink instead of the usual one, which was quite all right with me. Any guest who wanted to leave usable items behind was welcome to do so.
If I must say so myself, I did a superb job of replacing the tape. Only a slight wrinkle on the end of one of the strips betrayed my intrusion, and for all I know, it had already been there.
The next item on my agenda was to call the phone numbers Miss Brown had listed on her guest application. Of course, they were toll calls, but what’s a buck or two when you are about to lose your shirt—make that a blouse—to the cleaners?
I called the number listed as her residence first.
After about the fourth ring a mechanical voice, supposedly female, got on the line, told me my call could not be completed as dialed, and then proceeded to lecture me on how I should consult my phone directory in the future.
The second call, to her place of business, was slightly more satisfying. That call was answered on the second ring by a rather hearty-sounding male voice. “Jumbo Jim’s Fried Chicken and Seafood Palace,” it said. “Jim speaking.”
“Is this the workplace of Miss Heather Brown?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but you must have a wrong number,” said Jumbo Jim. He had a very pleasant voice, sort of like the Chief s, but with just a tinge of southern twang. “Is this 410-555-3216?”
“Correcto. And what’s your number, doll?”
Of course I was taken aback. “I don’t give my number to strangers.”
Jumbo Jim laughed, but I didn’t feel he was laughing at me. “ ‘Strangers’ is a relative term, doll. Most relatives are strangers. Or at least pretty strange.”
“You’re telling me!” My double first cousin Agnes Miller married a wealthy corset manufacturer and moved not only to Philadelphia, but to the snobbiest address on the Main Line. When the bottom fell out of the corset market, Agnes had to work at the hat-check stand at the Club just to make ends meet. Her husband got work there as a busboy. Of course, both Agnes and her husband wore disguises to their jobs, and it was fourteen years before the other members discovered that Agnes, the hat-check girl, and Alfred, the busboy, were really their friends and neighbors.
“So, what’ll it be, doll?” asked Jim in that wonderful voice.
I’m easily rattled. “One of Hamlet’s soliloquies?” I asked hopefully.
Jumbo Jim laughed again. “Sorry, doll, but I sell chicken and shrimp. Did you want to place an order?”
I forced myself to stick with my program. “I’m trying to locate a Miss Heather Brown. This is the number I was given as her place of employment. Are you sure she doesn’t work there? Maybe under another name?”
“What does she look like?”
I described Heather to him. The Heather I’d met the day before, of course, not the Heather that resembled a bag of potatoes.
“Sorry, doll,” said Jim sympathetically. “I know a lot of women like that in Baltimore, but none of them works here.”
“In that case, I’m sorry I wasted your time,” I said. I knew that mine certainly had not been wasted.
“No problemo, doll. You want to go ahead and place an order anyway? Our special this week is an eight-piece bucket of chicken, extra crisp, and a dozen deep-fried shrimp, all for the low price of $12.99.”
“With or without skin?” I asked.
“With, of course. Fat’s where it’s at. Want that delivered, or are you coming in, hon, to pick it up?”
“I live in Hernia, Pennsylvania, Jim.”
“No problemo, doll. Just give me directions from Baltimore. I’m off next weekend. I’ll run it up then.”
“Just take Interstate 70 all the way up until it joins the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Go west until you get to Bedford. Then take Route 96 south. I’m at the PennDutch Inn. Everyone in Hernia knows where it is.”
“Will do, doll.” He hung up.
Of course I was just kidding, but was Jumbo Jim? I could hardly wait until the next weekend to find out. I’m very partial to chicken fried extra crisp.
Having struck out on both phone numbers, and having found nothing of interest in Miss Brown’s room, I decided to retire to my own room for a much needed nap. Of course, I tidied up the room a bit and made my bed before lying down on it. Susannah would have thought it stupid to make a bed before you lie on it, but then again, Susannah thinks it’s stupid of me to clean the house before I go on a trip. The fact that I wash the breakfast dishes before I go to church on Sunday mornings is, to her, a ridiculous waste of time. Then again, so is church. If cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say, Susannah’s best quality is automatically third-rate.
I napped only about twenty minutes. That was just long enough to feel refreshed, and too short to get that groggy, headachy feeling that can result from midday naps. When I got up, I washed my face and put on my sturdiest pair of walking shoes.
From the front closet, next to the check-in desk, I got my winter coat. It is a brown wool hand-me-down that is as old as dirt and as ugly as sin, but I can’t bear to part with it. Not only is it as warm as August, but it used to belong to Mama. She would have been wearing it that day she and Papa got run over by the sneaker truck, but Mama was having hot flashes then and chose to leave the coat behind.
Whenever I put on the coat I can still smell Mama on it. I don’t mean that Mama smelled bad. And she certainly never wore perfume. She had a slightly musty, earthy smell, not unlike the garden after a rain.
I’d intended to put on my brown and gray plaid scarf, too, but it wasn’t on the hook where it should have been. Susannah again. What that woman can’t get by begging, she gets by borrowing, but without the owner’s permission. At least this time she’d asked me for the car. At any rate, I had to make do with a bright orange strip of polyester that supposedly belonged to Susannah, but which she may well have borrowed from a highway maintenance crew. Thus, decked out warmly, but admittedly not fashionably, I set out the back way for Freni’s.
On the back steps I paused to wave at Mose, who happened to be leading Matilda, our main milker, out of the barn. Mose shows up every day, regardless of the weather or his wife’s employment situation. I am immensely grateful for this. I hate milking. Even though we own automatic milking machines that you attach directly to the cow’s teats, and which do all the work for you, I despise the job. Maybe it’s because I wouldn’t want something like that attached to me, or maybe it’s because I know just how much damage a misplaced cow’s hoof can do, but I would rather sell the cows and buy my milk from the store than have to extract it myself. Fortunately, not once following the thirty-six times Freni has quit her job, or the nine times she’s been fired, have I had to perform this loathsome chore. Mose, as one of my guests once said, is a “mensch.”
Mose and Freni live on their own farm, although actually today the farm is run by their eldest son, John. I suppose that Mose and Freni love their son John, and get along with him reasonably well, but the same cannot be said for their relationship with their son’s wife. Barbara Zook was born and raised in one of the western Amish communities, Iowa I think, which is not to disparage them, but I know it’s always been an issue. Perhaps it would be less of an issue if Barbara Zook Hostetler was a timid little thing who knew her place in the pecking order.
But this is not the case. To the contrary, Barbara stands at least six feet tall in her woolen hosiery, and is as timid as a Leghorn rooster. Barbara’s perceived place in the pecking order is to peck back when pecked. When Freni and Barbara start pecking at each other, more than just feathers fly.
Less than six weeks after John married Barbara, Mose and Freni retired and turned their farm over to their oldest son. That’s when Mose came to work for Papa. Then, after Mama and Papa’s death, when I started up the PennDutch Inn, Freni jumped at the chance to work for me. She’s been jumping at the chance ever since.
There are two ways to get to the farm where Freni and Mose Hostetler live. If you take the road, Augsburger Lane, to the left, and then turn left again on Miller’s Run, and then left one more time on Beechy Grove Lane, it’s exactly 6.3 miles from the PennDutch. But if you simply go out the back door and head straight out between the old six-seater and the chicken coop, it’s only eight tenths of a mile. Even when I have the car I seldom drive it.
The path between the PennDutch and the Hostetler farm is as hard and defined as if it had been poured from concrete. Generations of our two families have used this path, which runs due east and west. Tradition has it that it began as an Indian path and that our common ancestor, Jacob Hochstetler, was taken along this path by the Delaware Indians after he was captured in eastern Pennsylvania in 1750. In fact, when we were growing up, Susannah and I referred to it as “Grandfather’s path,” as did virtually everyone else we knew.
I could have walked Grandfather’s path in the dark or blindfolded and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I knew it as well as I knew the varicose veins on my left leg. The path cuts between two fields, now turned over to alfalfa, on our land, and then rises up a low wooded ridge that separates us from the Hostetlers. On the other side of the ridge the path descends and divides two cornfields. It’s as simple as that.
I suppose I was daydreaming as I walked to Freni’s that day, but like I said, it didn’t really matter. It was too cold for snakes and too warm for ice, although just barely, so I had no need to keep my mind on what my feet were doing. I was free to think about more important things, like, did Billy Dee really have a girlfriend, and was Delbert James really gay, and didn’t it bother Susannah that she was probably headed for hell and eternal torment and damnation?
I had just entered the wooded part when a tree to my immediate right seemed to explode, and my face was showered with wood chips. Then I heard a crack like thunder. I dropped to my hands and knees. Forty- three years of living on a farm, even as a pacifist, have taught me what a rifle sounds like.
Almost immediately the rock-hard path in front of me rose up to meet me in a spray of pebble-hard particles. The second crack rang in my ears as I dropped to my stomach and rolled under a clump of evergreen laurel bushes.
“Hey!” I shouted. “This is a person here, not a deer!”
There came no response, either vocal or mechanical. Besides the whining in my ears, the only sound I could hear came from a flock of crows that had been routed from their rookery and were flying off in the general direction of Hernia, complaining loudly as they went. When distance finally eliminated their disgruntled caws, the only sound I could hear was the faint cackling of my hens back at the coop. Whoever had shot at me was either not moving, or moving with the stealthy silence of a cat on a hardwood floor. Not a twig cracked, or a fallen leaf rustled.
I lay prone, hidden by the laurel bushes, for the better part of an hour. I don’t think fast on my feet, and I’m even slower thinking on my stomach. I had no reason to suspect that whoever had shot at me was still out there, but no reason to think otherwise. The only sensible thing, it seemed, was to lie there and wait it out. Fortunately, Mama’s old wool coat was as warm as Freni’s kitchen on baking day.
But how long was long enough? That, of course, I couldn’t know for sure, although I did have a fairly accurate barometer of my readiness to make a run for it. About every five minutes or so I tried to rouse myself from my hiding place, and each time my heart pounded so wildly it actually hurt my chest, and my arms and legs would buckle out from underneath me, and I’d fall face down in the leaves again. I probably made more noise trying to see if I could run than I would have if I’d actually run, slapping the bushes with a stick as I went. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that if the hunter really thought I was a deer, or was out to get me personally, he or she could have done so easily within the first five minutes.
Just when I was beginning to gather my wits and strength, and maybe, finally, make a run for it, I heard someone coming down the path. I knew right away it was a someone, and not a something, because he or she was whistling. In Pennsylvania, at least, no critters that walk loud enough to be heard on a hard dirt path are capable of whistling, except for human beings.
I froze in a crouching position and kept my eyes on the path. At first it was impossible to tell if the approaching person was male or female, because both sexes essentially sound alike when they whistle. That’s simply because whistling is produced by the mouth alone and has nothing to do with the vocal cords.
Neither could I tell by the footsteps. Perhaps in the days when men routinely weighed more than women, my unsophisticated ear might have been able to detect a difference in tread. Now, however, following the introduction of polyester stretch pants into western culture, it seems to me that women have made significant gains in eradicating this inequality.
Not that the sex of the person approaching was at all germane to my safety. Female fingers are just as capable of pulling gun triggers as male. Probably even more so, since the average woman has a stronger index finger as a result of pushing so many aerosol spray buttons.
But anyway, when the approaching person was still several yards up the path, I could see through the bushes well enough to tell that it was a woman. And an Amish woman at that. I could see clearly the hem of a long blue skirt hanging close to the ground, and a pair of heavy black shoes.
Although the bushes were too thick above me to see anything more, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The odds of my being shot at by an Amish woman were about the same as the odds of Freni stripping off her clothes and dancing naked on the dining room table for our guests. I said Freni, not Susannah.
Speaking of the devil, the figure was even with me when I figured out that it was indeed Freni. Freni had broken a shoelace a day or two ago, and I, being out of black, had loaned her a brown one. Now, there, just inches from my face, a black lace and a brown lace were striding rhythmically down the path. Impulsively I reached out of the bushes and grabbed Freni’s left ankle.
I know, that was a terrible thing for me to do. I still can’t believe I did it. It’s not like me at all.
Freni not only screamed but did an Olympic-class swivel and kicked me soundly in the chops with her other foot. Then she cut loose with a string of potent High German epithets that would have made her church elders blush, proving once and for all that pacifism is not necessarily a genetic trait.
I screamed, this time in pain, and stood up in the bushes. Perhaps it was my screaming as well, or the fact that I somehow materialized, albeit a bit scratched and torn, through the top of the bush, but Freni screamed even louder. Just like yawns beget yawns, screams sometimes beget more screams, and I too found myself screaming louder. There we stood, one Amish woman on a path, and one Mennonite woman in a bush, screaming our heads off, and frightening ourselves more by the second.
Had there been a third person still lurking in the vicinity, I’m sure it would have been his or her turn to be paralyzed with fear. Eventually, though, Freni and I got a grip on it, as Susannah would say, and were merely glaring at each other when Mose came panting up the path.
“What is it?” he gasped. That, at least, is what he intended to say. Heavy breathing has a tendency to modify speech.
Freni caught her breath before I could. “Magdalena tried to scare me to death! She hid in the bushes like a little child and then grabbed me as I went by.” She turned to face me. “Your mama would be so ashamed! Acting like that English daughter of hers.” Of course, she meant Susannah.
“I didn’t mean to scare you!” I protested. “That’s not why I was hiding in the bushes.”
Freni blushed, and Mose turned discreetly away while she lectured me. “Magdalena Yoder! At your age? In the bushes like a teenager! Get married first, Magdalena.”
I felt myself blush as well. I couldn’t believe Freni’s assumption—although perhaps I was a bit flattered. “I was in the bushes alone, Freni.”
“That is an even greater sin!”
I couldn’t help laughing. There I was, being lectured on morality by Freni Hostetler, when less than an hour before someone had tried to kill me. Had they succeeded, I would have died not only a virgin, but having never even been properly kissed. I was indeed flattered by Freni’s assumptions.
“Stop that at once,” she ordered. “If your mama could see you now, it would break her heart.”
“Mama would understand totally.” I paused to let Freni gasp. “I was hiding in the bushes because someone was shooting at me.”
Freni’s mouth clamped shut like a well-oiled mousetrap. “It’s true. I was coming up to see you,” I explained, “when someone shot at me with a rifle. See, there?” I pointed to the bullet hole on the tree that overhung the bushes. “And there.” I pointed to the ground. “They shot at me twice.”
Freni’s frown meant she didn’t quite believe me but was undecided enough to keep her trap shut for the moment.
“She’s telling the truth,” Mose said. “I saw Magdalena head on over here, and then a little later I heard two shots, but I thought they were coming from over there.” He nodded in the general direction of the state game lands. On days when the wind is right, it sounds like the hunters are right in our own back yard.
“Well, now that we’re both here,” said Freni without further ado, “I want my job back.”
“You what?” I couldn’t believe how callous she was.
“My job, Magdalena. You know, where I cook and clean, and do all the things your mama used to do.”
“Leave Mama out of this,” I said irritably. “I almost got shot in the head. I had to lie hiding in the bushes for an hour—which you just assumed was bundling, or worse even—and you don’t have the courtesy to ask how I am?” Freni looked me quickly up and down. “Except for that scratch on your cheek, and a few twigs on your coat, you look fine, Magdalena.”
“Fine? My heart’s pounding, my knees are shaking, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a porcupine, and you say ‘fine’?” I clambered angrily out of the bush.
“So maybe you don’t look fine after all,” said Freni. “You do look, and sound, a little bit crabby. Now, can I have my job back, or what?”
Getting shot at by a stranger, and then being falsely accused of lust in the laurels, could make anyone a little bit crabby. But Freni has a way of needling under my skin that not even Susannah can come close to duplicating. There are times when Freni Hostetler and a bad case of chiggers have everything in common. So irritated was I that I forgot I had been on my way to hire Freni back.
“No, you cannot have your job back,” I said angrily. “Not until you apologize for your disgusting accusations, not to mention your lack of general concern.” Mose turned wisely away and headed back down the path.
“In that case, I quit,” said Freni.
“You can’t quit!” I screamed. “You haven’t been rehired, so you can’t quit.”
“And not only do I quit,” hissed Freni, “but I refuse to come back to work until you apologize for having fired me in the first place!”
“I didn’t fire you, Freni. You quit, remember? Or is your memory on its way out too?”
“Your mama would turn over in her grave if she could hear how you speak to me!”
Poor Mama seemed to get more exercise dead than she ever did alive. “Leave Mama out of this,” I cried. And then I yielded to temptation. I sank as low as I’ve ever sunk and will probably ever sink again. “Go back home and boss your daughter-in-law Barbara around. See if you can drive her as crazy as you do me.”
I whirled around before I had a chance to look at Freni’s face and stomped on down the path after Mose. Mama was undoubtedly spinning like a top, but at the moment I didn’t care. Anyway, she had no right to die and leave me in the first place. If Mama hadn’t gone and died under a pile of milk-soaked sneakers, Freni Hostetler wouldn’t be in my face so much and my life would be that much easier. Feeling thusly cheated, I muttered one of the cuss words I’ve heard Susannah say and gave Mama an extra spin.
Chapter 13
Just as I’d thought, Susannah hadn’t got very far at all. About a mile down the road the car began to sputter and stall, and half a mile later it quit altogether. Susannah simply left it by the side of the road, walked home, and crawled back into bed. That’s where I found her when I got back from my brush with death in the woods.
“Buy out Thom McAn’s already?” I asked pleasantly. Susannah clamped a pillow over her ears. I think Shnookums might have been somewhere inside the pillow case because I heard a faint yelp.
“Go away, Mags. Just leave me alone.”
“Where’s the car?”
“I didn’t even make it past Speicher Creek. You knew it was out of gas, didn’t you?”
“Well, I thought you’d at least make it into Hernia.”
“Very funny. Now leave me alone!”
It’s no fun teasing Susannah when she refuses to fight back. I settled for telling her about my near-death experience in the woods. Of course she didn’t believe me. Her eyes rolled so far back in her head that she would have seen her brain, had there been one to see.
After combing the leaves out of my hair and doctoring my scratches, I cleared off the dining room table and washed all the morning’s dishes. Then I went to the tool shed by the barn and got the jerry can of gasoline I keep there for the riding mower.
I am not helpless like Susannah. Maybe it’s because I’m older, but Daddy taught me not only how to put gas in the car, but how to change a flat tire. In no time at all the car was purring like a kitten, and I was on my way into Hernia.
Hernia, Pennsylvania, is a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there. What I mean is, folks who live in and around Hernia are by and large fond of the place and satisfied with their lives. That Hernia lacks commercial and cultural amenities is a plus for them. Visitors, on the other hand, tend to find Hernia boring at best.
The people of Hernia have not capitalized on their Amish and Mennonite neighbors as some other communities have. There are no gift shops selling Pennsylvania Dutch kitsch, and no model farms recreating authentic Amish life. The PennDutch, I’m proud to say, comes the closest to exploiting this unique heritage, and my operation is small potatoes compared to what I’ve seen up near Lancaster.
Of course, a lot of English live in Hernia too. Besides the First Mennonite Church on North Elm Street, there are the Methodist and Presbyterian churches, and even a tiny little congregation of devout worshippers out toward the turnpike who call themselves the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah.
Susannah and one of her boyfriends attended church there one Sunday just as a joke. They both entered the building on crutches, intending to fake dramatic recoveries during the faith-healing part of the service. Much to everyone’s surprise they were healed, at least for a spell, of their penchant for practical jokes.
Four hours after they first entered the tiny cement-block building, they managed to escape with their souls and bodies still intact but their wallets violated. This is the only church I know of that accepts Visa and MasterCard in the offering plate, although it won’t accept American Express. At any rate, Susannah’s and Chuck’s cards were accepted so often that morning, that Susannah had to scrap her plans of buying her own car, and Chuck had to take a second job working out at Miller’s Feed Store.
Anyway, besides church, gas, feed, and groceries, there isn’t anything in Hernia to spend your money on. Unless you’re farming, the odds are Yoder’s Corner Market has the corner on your pocketbook.
Samuel Nevin Yoder is my father’s first cousin once removed, but I have to pay full price, just like everyone else. Sam’s prices are high, I’m told by others who’ve shopped elsewhere, but since he has no competition, business is usually brisk. Sam’s best bargains come in the summertime, when he stocks fresh produce from area farms. His most ridiculous prices, as far as I’m concerned, are for the same items he has brought in from the outside world during the winter months.
Normally I would rather eat fruits and vegetables from cans than pay the outrageous prices Sam asks for his winter produce. Apparently everyone else in Hernia feels the same, because all Sam’s winter produce seems to be permanently limp and wilted. I’m sure I saw the same rubbery head of brown lettuce all season last year, and I half-expected to see it this season as well. I would have recognized it, had it showed up, because last year, after about a month of observing it, I gouged a chunk out of its base with my thumbnail.
Today, despite my principles, and my generally hard-to-open purse, I loaded up my grocery cart with Sam’s produce. After a great deal of deliberation—some of it while flat on my face in the woods—I’d come to the conclusion that I might actually hold my expenses down by unloading some of my crisp greens on Sam, in exchange for some of his limp greens. Maybe there was something to the notion that animal protein begets violence in its consumers. After all, I had never seen a violent deer, or even a violent cow, but I’d encountered plenty of snapping dogs. Since just one bite of animal-tinged pancake could turn Jeanette Parker into a howling banshee, threatening to sue, didn’t it make sound economical sense to try and placate her with rabbit food? I mean, I have never seen a bunny hopping mad, have you?
Sam seemed to think my idea was a good one. “Because you’re buying so much, Magdalena, I’m going to give you a ten percent discount,” he said cheerfully.
“Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I can afford that cruise to Hawaii I’ve been wanting.”
Sam smirked. He is genetically incapable of smiling. “Say, I heard that someone took a tumble out at your place last night. A fatal one at that. You give Alvin a call yet?”
My stomach suddenly felt like it was about to fall through me and hit the floor, and it had nothing to do with the state of Sam’s groceries or his prices. “There’s a lot of big mouths in this town,” I said weakly. “And anyway, it wasn’t my fault, Sam. There is a banister she could have hung on to.”
Sam smirked again. “Heard some other things too.”
“Like what?”
“Like, for instance, Congressman Ream is staying out at your place.”
“You’ve got good ears, Sam. What else have you heard?”
“Nothing much. Just that a bunch of hippy protesters are there as well. Sounds like you have a potential situation on your hands.”
“Sam, hippies went out with the sixties. These are just a bunch of concerned citizens.” I dug deep into my wallet to find enough cash. It always bothers me to have to do so. I’m always afraid I might somehow hurt the poor thing. Lord knows, I’d gag if someone stuck their fingers that far down my throat.
“Of course you know that the Congressman comes up for reelection next year, and that he’s already none too popular in these parts.”
“Frankly, I hadn’t thought much about it. So?”
Sam shrugged. “So maybe nothing. Or, maybe tangling with the protesters is a calculated move on his part.”
I wrenched the last buck from my wallet. “Why on earth would he want to do that?”
He shrugged again. “Who knows why the English do anything?”
I snapped my purse shut. “Don’t give me that, Sam. You’re a Methodist now, for Pete’s sake.”
Sam slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Ooh, that hurt, Magdalena. You know that when I married Dorothy she refused to change churches. Anyway, mark my words, it’s the Congressman, not the hippies, who came here to stir up big trouble.”
“So marked,” I said.
Sam and I are definitely not kissing cousins. He wouldn’t even help me carry the groceries to my car, and he refuses to let the shopping carts leave his store. When we were kids, he was the one at family reunion s who put frogs down my back, or pushed me in the mud when I was wearing my Sunday best.
Mama and Papa may have entertained hopes that Sam and I would someday marry, but I certainly never did. Still, it came as a shock to all of us when Sam married Dorothy Gillman, a Methodist from New York State. Of course it was just as well that he did. Anybody with poor-enough judgment to marry a woman who used mascara, wore slacks, and painted her toenails a bright red was definitely not worth pining over. At least that’s what Mama told me.
I put Sam’s rudeness and bad judgment out of my mind and drove reluctantly over to the police station to see Chief Myers’s assistant. When accosted, my people have traditionally turned the other cheek. This can make for a lot of sore cheeks, and doesn’t necessarily put an end to the violence. I suppose there is merit in that, but it is no longer one of my ways.
Still, I had never before had occasion to visit the police station, and had no idea what to expect. I certainly didn’t expect to see Melvin Stoltzfus, the Melvin Stoltzfus, sitting behind Chief Myers’s desk. Jeff was going to pay for not telling me the name of his assistant. I squelched a brief fantasy about Tammy wearing slippery shoes when she peered over the edge of the falls.
“Melvin?”
“Yes, ma’am. Acting Chief Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“It’s Magdalena. Magdalena Yoder.”
Melvin rotated his head slowly to look up at me with the largest eyes I have ever seen on a man. Something about the way in which he deliberately did it reminded me of a praying mantis. Perhaps it had something to do with his being kicked in the head by that bull. I hadn’t remembered Melvin Stoltzfus looking quite like that before.
“Magdalena! I remember you. Aren’t you Susannah’s older sister?”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Melvin, any word yet on what exactly did happen to Miss Brown?”
“Who?”
“Miss Brown,” I repeated patiently. “You know, the woman who, uh, unfortunately passed away out at my place last night.”
Melvin stared at me for an interminable length of time. I had the distinct feeling he was sizing me up, undoubtedly trying to decide if I was a juicy-enough morsel for him to pounce on and devour.
“Well, Melvin, did the coroner’s report come in yet or not? Chief Myers said you would know.”
One of Melvin’s eyes seemed to rotate ever so slightly, and independently, in its socket. “In the first place, the coroner’s report would be confidential at this point, if foul play was suspected. But in the second place, for your information, since we’re just coming out of Thanksgiving weekend, you can expect things to be a little behind schedule.”
“How much behind schedule are we talking?” If Miss Brown was a childless orphan, a delay would actually be welcome. But if she had doting parents or a dozen grieving children any or all of whom might at that very moment be seeing a lawyer, I’d best hustle my bustle off to see Alvin.
“Can’t say how much behind schedule,” said Melvin. His tongue darted out and flicked lightly over his almost nonexistent lips for a few seconds. “Some things are confidential.”
“I agree,” I said recklessly.
Melvin’s roaming eye stopped in mid-rotation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Foolishly, I couldn’t resist one-upping Melvin Stoltzfus. I told him about Miss Brown’s bogus phone numbers.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean anything,” Melvin scoffed. “I often get wrong numbers.”
“Go figure,” I said sweetly. “Look, Melvin, one of the numbers being wrong I can understand. But both of them?”
“You sure that this Jumbo Jim’s chicken place was the same number that was on her registration form?”
“As sure as you’re a Stoltzfus.”
“And how much did you say a bucket of extra crispy cost?”
“I didn’t, Melvin.”
“Was this Miss Brown all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No. I also want to report an attempted murder out at my place.”
“Apparently you haven’t been listening, Magdalena. The coroner’s report still is not in. It may be negligence on your part that we’re looking at, not murder. You should be talking to Alvin, not me.”
Alvin, Melvin, shmelvin. I’ve raised chickens with higher I.Q.s. “I’m not talking about Miss Brown anymore,” I said, with perhaps a slight note of exasperation in my voice. “What I mean is, today somebody tried to kill me.”
“I see.” He pulled some forms out of a drawer, picked up a ballpoint, and sat poised like he was getting ready to take a timed exam.
“Don’t you want to hear the details?”
He smiled placidly. The skin on the left side of his face was pulled tight and there appeared to be an indentation just inside his hairline. Perhaps that’s where he had been kicked in the head. “Before we get into the details, I need some background information on you.”
“What information? Melvin, you’ve known me all my life.”
“Name?”
“You already know that!”
Melvin was as persistent as a sweat fly in August.
“Name?”
“Oh, all right. Magdalena Yoder.”
“Middle name?”
“Won’t an initial do?” It’s bad enough that my mother named me after a packet of flower seeds. She could at least have nixed the Latin.
“Middle name?”
“Portulaca. But breathe that to a single soul and—”
“Age?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Age?”
“Forty-three. But what does this have to do with my being shot at?”
“Sex?”
“Never! I mean it’s none of your business.”
“Sex?”
After Melvin had garnered all my personal statistics, except for my bra and shoe size (which are not the same, no matter what Freni says), he finally let me tell him about the incident.
“You don’t allow hunting on your land, do you?” he interrupted me at one point.
“Of course not.”
“Then that couldn’t have been a hunter on your land.”
“How’s that?”
Melvin was on a roll. “And you don’t know why anyone would want to kill you, do you?”
“To spare me these questions?”
He began to rub his hands together rhythmically. “If you don’t know why someone would want to kill you, then there probably wasn’t anyone trying to kill you. And we know it wasn’t a hunter. So, either you are mistaken about being shot at or you are lying to me, Magdalena, and just wasting my time.” He rolled his huge eyes into position and gazed up at me like a monstrous mantis. “And I know you don’t lie, Magdalena Yoder. Do you?”
“You forgot Portulaca.”
“Do you?”
There was no stopping such persistence. I decided to get out of there before he devoured me. “I don’t suppose you know the name of the hotel Chief Myers is staying at in Niagara Falls, do you?”
Melvin turned his head slowly to an impossible angle. Quite possibly he was trying to point with his chin. “The sign on this desk says ‘Melvin Stoltzfus.’ That’s me. I’m in charge while the Chiefs away. Got any more questions?”
“No, so in that case I guess I’ll just be going. Thanks for everything.”
The bulging blue-gray eyes seemed to have focused on me before his head had fully turned back into position. “It’s quite all right, Magdalena, but next time try not to let your imagination get the best of you.”
“Bull!” I said. That said it all.
Chapter 14
Susannah and Shnookums were in the kitchen when I returned. I didn’t actually see Shnookums, but since he is never a dog’s breath away from her, I knew he was there. Susannah, at least, appeared to be making toast and coffee.
“What’s the matter? Can’t sleep anymore?” I asked pleasantly enough.
Susannah rolled her eyes, which for her is a fairly tolerant gesture. “I am not the lazy thing you think I am, Mags. I’ve been up for at least forty-five minutes, doing my nails.”
A quick glance at the wall clock told me it was seven minutes till one. Just as I’d thought. Only sinners are capable of sleeping past noon.
“And besides which,” she continued, “I’m working right now. I’m making lunch for Her Highness.”
“What? Is Jeanette back already?”
“Not that Her Highness. Mrs. Ream.”
“Lydia came back already?”
Susannah opened the fridge and got out some cottage cheese and hard-boiled eggs. “She never left in the first place. Scared me to death when I saw her. I was coming downstairs for a Pepsi and Little Debbies when I ran into her on the stairs. We both nearly fell down those damned stairs and broke our necks we were so frightened.”
“Susannah!”
“Well, do you want to hear the juicy details, or what?”
I sold out my principles for the juicy details. “Do tell.”
Susannah talked while she fixed Lydia’s plate. “I asked Mrs. Ream why she was back already and she told me she’d never left. Said she hadn’t been feeling so well after breakfast, a stomach thing, and thought she should stick close to the house. She also said she’d started to feel a little better and had gone out for a short walk. Just to look at the barn and stuff. Only I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”
“What do you mean?” I have to hand it to Susannah. She attracts interesting bits of news like black wool attracts lint.
“Well, for one thing, there’s that fight she had with her husband this morning. I think it’s Garrett, not diarrhea, that kept her home. Although, how can you tell the difference?”
“Susannah?”
“Well, you know what I mean.” She poured coffee from the percolator into a small serving pot. “Anyway, after I recovered from shock on the stairs, I noticed there were some pine needles caught in her hair.” Susannah paused and waited for me to say something.
Eventually I obliged. “So?”
“So! Mags, the only pine trees we’ve got on the farm are back in the woods. It’s all maples up by the house, and there aren’t any trees by the barn. So don’t you think the woods is a wee bit far to go if you’ve got the runs?”
“You’ve got a point,” I said excitedly. “And if Lydia was in the woods, she might have seen someone, or at least could verify that shots had been fired.”
Susannah put a little pot of homemade boysenberry jam and a salt and pepper set on the tray. “Except that she came back from her walk several hours after you claimed you were shot at.”
“Not claimed—was!”
“All right, was. My point is that she couldn’t have heard the shots or seen anyone, because she wasn’t even in the woods then.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Say, you’re not the only one with news. Guess who I saw in town?”
“Your old boyfriend, Sam?” Susannah pointed to the bags of produce that I still had not bothered to put away. After all, there was no hurry. How limp can Sam’s bok choy get?
“That’s not who I mean. I saw”—I paused for dramatic effect—“Melvin Stoltzfus!”
“Our new acting Police Chief.”
“You knew?”
“It was in the paper, Mags. You really ought to get more in touch with the world.”
“That’s not fair! I read.”
“Yeah, books. But not important stuff. Isn’t Melvin cute?”
“Cute? You think Melvin Stoltzfus is cute?”
‘You’re always too hard on people, Magdalena. You’re far too picky. Even Mama used to say so. Melvin’s got the most adorable eyes. You know—bedroom eyes they call them.”
“I wouldn’t think there’d be room for his eyes in my bed,” I said, perhaps cruelly.
“There you go! Running people down. That’s why there’s never been anybody in your bed, Magdalena. And probably never will be.”
“That’s not true at all. I don’t sleep with men because I’m not married. It’s as simple as that. And even if I were to throw my morals to the wind and be a slut, like some people I know, I wouldn’t go to bed with someone who has to use his fingers to count to ten.”
Susannah slammed some silverware down on the tray. “Melvin never got kicked by any damned cow. That story was just made up by Sarah Berkey because he jilted her.”
“Bull.”
“What?”
“Never mind, just take the tray up to Lydia.” It’s a hard lesson for me to learn, but if I bite my tongue hard enough, and think of Mama turning over in her grave, I can sometimes extricate myself from our arguments before it’s too late.
“I’m gone!” shouted Susannah. Then, too studied to be an afterthought, she turned with the tray and gave me what I suppose she thought was a coy wink. “I almost forgot to tell you, Mags, but you had a phone call.”
“I did not switch the prices on Sam’s salad dressings,” I said, perhaps a bit too defensively.
“Not Sam. This was from a man, a Jim something. Big Jim, I think it was. Anyway, he wouldn’t leave a message, except that he’d call back sometime. And he called you doll!”
Susannah laughed like a blithering idiot and ran upstairs with the tray containing hot coffee. How is it that she managed to negotiate those impossibly steep stairs at high speed and not even spill a drop of java, whereas poor little Miss Brown ended up like a sack of potatoes at their foot? A sack of mashed potatoes.
I decided not to dwell on that morbid subject any longer, nor did I particularly want to think about Jumbo Jim’s call. My brief conversation with him had been far too much fun. If it involves a man, and is fun, it has got to be wrong, or so Mama always told me. When your mind starts to get too busy, or filled with unwelcome thoughts, the only way to clear it is to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty. Dirty hands, you can always wash. A dirty mind, however, is a first-class ticket to hell.
I left the groceries where they were and went out back to help Mose shovel out the henhouse. We do it twice a year, when the weather’s not too cold, but cold enough so that it moderates the fumes from the acrid droppings. The fall rakings, which include a lot of straw, are spread over the vegetable patch, and come spring, it’s tame enough to make a lovely fertilizer. The spring rakings go on the compost heap. By late summer they’ve mellowed enough to assist the fall crop.
Our chickens are range fed, which means they don’t spend a lot of time in the henhouse, except at night, or to lay. Often there’s no one at home when we shovel. There’s something therapeutic, almost religious, about shoveling excrement in an empty henhouse twice a year. It’s not only humbling, but in addition to cleaning the joint, I usually feel like my soul has been somehow cleansed as well. Of course, it may be just the fumes.
“Say, Mose,” I began, once the job was done, “did you see Mrs. Ream, the Congressman’s wife, taking a walk this morning?”
Mose shook his head. “I didn’t see any of the English this morning.”
“Well, that’s strange, because Mrs. Ream told Susannah she went out for a walk by the barn after breakfast.”
Mose took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve. “I didn’t see any of the English,” he repeated, “but there was someone out by the barn.”
“You heard someone?”
“No. Matilda did.” Matilda Holsteincoo is one of our two remaining cows. To hear Mose talk, you’d think they were the daughters he never had.
“What do you mean Matilda did?”
“She wouldn’t let down her milk for the longest time. It makes her nervous, you know, if someone else is there.”
“What about Bertha? Was she nervous too?”
Mose knew I was teasing him, but as usual he never let on. “Bertha knows no shame. She gave even more than usual.”
“That hussy!”
Mose smiled despite himself. Then his face darkened. “Magdalena, which one of the English does that car belong to?” He pointed to the asphalt-gray jalopy once owned by the deceased Miss Brown.
“Ah, that belonged to the woman who accidentally fell down our stairs. Heather Brown. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know much about cars, Magdalena, but that one’s broken in back. Where you put stuff. I think it happened here.”
“You mean the trunk?”
“That’s what I mean.”
We walked over to the car to take a closer look. Sure enough, the trunk lid was open. The evidence suggested that it had been forced. There were scratch marks around the keyhole, and along the bottom of the trunk lid there was a series of indentations. It would have been obvious even to Melvin’s mother that someone had used a crowbar to force it open.
“What makes you think it happened here?”
“It didn’t look like that yesterday.”
“You sure?”
I thought I saw Mose blush. “I’m sure. I had my eye on that one. If Freni and I were ever to get a car, it would be one like that, I think. Not too worldly. Of course, we would paint it black.”
“Of course.”
I peered into the trunk. It was empty. If there had been something worth the trouble to force it open, it was no longer there. The floor of the trunk was carpeted, gray of course, and, as I would have expected from Miss Brown, must have been recently vacuumed. But then, just as I was turning away, something caught my eye. Just inside the trunk, almost hidden by the curve of metal that formed the rear lip, was a single sunflower seed. Once I saw it, it was as obvious as a diamond on a coal heap.
Mose saw it too. “The Englishman. The tall, skinny Englishman. He eats seeds like that.”
For some reason I felt immediately defensive of young Joel Teitlebaum. “One swallow does not a summer make,” I countered. “And besides, Mose, does he seem like the type who could jimmy this open with a crowbar?”
“Freni could.”
I politely rolled my eyes by turning my head away first. “Freni could do anything, Mose. She was born on a farm. I doubt if Joel could even open one of Freni’s jars of pickled watermelon rinds. I think it was someone else, trying to make it look like Joel. It seems too obvious to me.”
“What do you mean?”
I told Mose about the fire escape door being left open, and the trail of sunflower seed shells.
Mose pointed to the gravel at our feet. “Well, whoever it was, they chewed tobacco too.”
Then I noticed the glob of still-damp spittle containing tobacco fragments. Hernia is filled with tobacco chewers, not to mention consummate spitters of all kinds.
“It was an outsider,” I said. It had to be. I couldn’t imagine the Congressman, or Delbert, chawing down on a wad. And Joel was far too much of a health freak to do such a thing. Billy Dee came the closest to fitting the profile of a chaw chomper, but he was too much of a gentleman to break into anyone’s car trunk. Especially a woman’s.
“Maybe you should call the Chief,” suggested Mose.
I shook my head and practically stamped my feet. “The Chiefs off in Canada catching fish and saving his wife from going over Niagara Falls. Melvin Stoltzfus is his replacement.”
“The Melvin Stoltzfus?” asked Mose incredulously.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I heard that old bull he tried to milk will never be the same. He moos in falsetto now.”
Old Mose didn’t even have a twinkle in his eye, so clearly he believed the story. Of course I didn’t. “Mose, I think we should just try and wire the trunk lid shut the best we can and say nothing. Who knows why an outsider would want to break into Miss Brown’s trunk, but Melvin sure isn’t going to know either. So why borrow trouble, right?”
“Melvin is trouble. I’ll see if I can tie down the trunk. But, Magdalena, I need to ask you a question.”
“Ask away, Mose.”
“Can Freni have her job back? You know how she is when she’s not working.”
“Can it be any worse than when she is working?” I tried to laugh pleasantly. “Okay, I suppose so, Mose.” His face lit up. “You aren’t too mad at Freni, Magdalena?”
“Of course I’m mad, but I’ll get over it. I always do.”
“Good. You are like the daughter she never had. She is very fond of you, Magdalena. She doesn’t really mean what she says. She just has trouble with her temper.”
“Like me?”
He flushed. “I didn’t say that.”
I looked over at the field where Matilda and Bertha were peacefully grazing. “Tell her she’s welcome back anytime. All she has to do is apologize.”
Mose shook his head ruefully and headed silently for the barn. We both knew it would be a sweet-smelling day in the henhouse before Freni Hostetler said “sorry” to me.
I had just put away the last of the groceries when the first of the guests returned. The first one I saw, anyway, was Billy Dee, who came bounding into the kitchen in search of something cold to drink. Having been in the woods definitely seemed to agree with him.
“I take it their protest was not successful then?” I asked, as I handed him a glass of Bertha’s milk. Or was it the shy Matilda’s?
“Heck no, Miss Yoder. We didn’t see hide nor hair of them folks the whole day.”
“Which, of course, was none of your doing.”
“Exactly. It weren’t my fault we got lost twice on our way to the game lands, even if I was leading the way, and it certainly weren’t my fault we parked on the opposite side of the ridge from the Congressman. And when we did go into the woods for just a bit, someone took a potshot at Jeanette.” He laughed heartily. “That really weren’t my fault.”
“Someone shot at Jeanette?”
He was still laughing. “Maybe it was a bear hunter! She sure don’t look like a deer to me!”
“Mr. Grizzle! You of all people!”
Billy Dee sobered immediately. “You’re right. I should be the last one to find this funny. I guess it’s just my nerves working themselves off. Coming up here ain’t no picnic for me. It’s just something I had to do.”
“Was Jeanette hurt?” It wouldn’t be so bad if she got hurt just a little bit, would it? Nothing serious, mind you, but just enough to send her packing.
“Hurt? Nah, she was gabbing so loud she didn’t even know she was shot at. Not till I pointed it out. Bullet came whistling right past her head and hit an old stump nearby. I dug it out.” He reached into his pocket and produced a shiny lump of metal. “Funny thing is, this ain’t no rifle bullet. This is from a revolver. A Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, if you ask me.”
“You mean to say that someone tried to kill her? That it wasn’t a stray hunter’s bullet?”
He nodded. “Course, I didn’t tell her that. I just said there was some blind fool of a hunter in the vicinity and the wisest thing was for us to get back to the car.”
“And?”
He sighed. “And she agreed, after she’d made a few comments that I’d just as soon not remember. That woman has all the sensitivity of a brood sow in heat. Oops. No offense, Miss Yoder.”
“No offense taken. Drink your milk,” I ordered. “It’s the best thing there is for nerves. Say, you wouldn’t happen to cook, would you?”
He smiled gratefully. “I make a mean venison stew. Why?”
I crossed my fingers under the kitchen table. “Well, tonight’s Monday night, of course, and that’s our traditional night for potluck suppers. You see, everyone at the table has to make their own favorite dish to share. Of course, you wouldn’t be making venison stew because we don’t have any, but—”
“But I do.”
“What?”
He smiled broadly, like the old Billy Dee Grizzle. The milk must have taken its effect. “That ain’t no problem at all. Got me an eight-pointer tied to the roof of my car right now.”
“You what? I thought you gave up hunting.”
“Well, now, I didn’t shoot it. I picked this one up alongside the road. With all that shooting going on, them deer crowd the road for safety, and every now and then one of them gets just a little too close. Like this one done.”
I nearly gagged. “You mean you want to make a road kill stew right here in my kitchen?”
Billy Dee looked almost hurt. “This here ain’t no run-of-the-mill road kill, Miss Yoder. There’s hardly a scratch on it, and besides, it was as warm and red as a fresh-baked cherry pie when I picked it up.”
“Thank you. Cherry pie will never be the same again.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Did anybody else see you pick up the deer?”
“Not a soul. I was the last car to leave, and by the time I pulled up here, they’d all gone in.”
Call me daring or just plain foolish, but I’d already survived two whizzing bullets and was feeling surprisingly adventuresome. “Quickly, pull your car around the back side of the barn. I’ll go open the main door. You skin and gut it in there.”
The look on Billy Dee’s face was priceless. “Don’t that take all!”
“Of course, you’ll do a good job of cleaning up in there when you’re done, and you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone?”
“I swear! I mean, yes, ma’am!”
By the time I’d squared Billy Dee away in the barn, and watched him at work for a while, the Congressman and his aide had returned. One by one, I cornered the guests and gave them my spiel about it being potluck night, and, much to my great surprise, one by one they volunteered dishes. Even Jeanette was cheerful and cooperative, which only goes to show you that a near miss by a bullet can do wonders for one’s morale.
The Congressman volunteered to make Senate Bean Soup, but since he didn’t have time to soak the beans, he settled on a doctored-up version of canned baked beans.
Lydia said she knew a wonderful recipe for vegetable curry she was sure everyone would like.
“But I don’t have curry powder,” I explained. “The Amish aren’t big on exotic Oriental dishes.”
“Well, do you have cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, coriander, cumin, garlic, and chili?”
“Everything but cumin.”
“Then I can make my own curry. A cumin-less curry unfortunately, but still a curry.”
Happily, I found the spices for her. You have to admire a woman who knows how to make her own curry powder, that’s for sure.
Joel, bless his heart, was as flexible as a willow twig in April. Before I’d even told him about the produce haul, he was all set to make something.
“You do have potatoes?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Of course!”
“Apple sauce?”
“Organic to the core.”
“And sour cream, for those who want it?”
“That would be Matilda’s. She’s the nervous one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. What are you making?”
“Latkes. Jewish potato pancakes. After all, in just six more weeks it will be Chanukah.”
“Bless you.”
“That will be my main dish contribution. Then for dessert, I’d like to make my famous broiled bananas.”
“Double bless you.”
Linda wasn’t quite as cooperative as I’d expected, at least not until I’d mentioned that Sam had sold me some six different varieties of leafy green things with foreign-sounding names.
“There’s a Belgian something, a Swiss something, a Roman something—or was that Romanian?”
“Well, I might put together a nice fresh salad,” she conceded.
I decided not to clarify the fresh part. “Great! And I have lots of dressing in the fridge.”
Linda looked like I must have when Billy Dee mentioned his road kill. “You mean commercial, bottled dressings?”
“Yeah. Brand names even.”
“Hmm. I do have an hour of hatha yoga this afternoon, and Ms. Parker did want me to do some channeling before dinner. Perhaps I have just enough time to make up a bottle of natural dressing. Without preservatives in it. You wouldn’t happen to have organic dandelion vinegar and fresh tarragon, would you?”
“I think there’s some dandelion vinegar in the cellar,” I said. “On a shelf, way in the back corner. There’s a flashlight by the cellar door you can use.”
Sometimes when I’m nasty like that, I wonder if I’m adopted. Neither Mama nor Papa would have, for even a second, considered sending an arachnophobiac down into a cellar swarming with spiders. But so help me, some people deserve what they get.
Jeanette had already volunteered to make a vegetarian stir-fried dish, providing, of course, I could come up with some fresh, crisp vegetables. With my fingers crossed, I assured her I had.
That left only Delbert, Susannah, and me. I, however, didn’t plan to make anything, because I would have more than my hands full supervising everybody else in my kitchen. Besides which, I’d already cooked breakfast, packed lunches, washed dishes, been shot at, shopped, matched wits with a witless lawman, shoveled offal, and watched Billy Dee butcher a battered buck. There’s only so much a body can do in one day. Fortunately, Joel had volunteered to make two dishes, so mine wouldn’t even be missed.
Delbert James, as it turned out, was just as generous. He graciously offered to cook two dishes as well, but I reluctantly turned him down. While I knew I would love his macaroni and ground-beef casserole, I wasn’t too sure I could handle the tripe and suet pudding he proposed, even though he offered to go into town himself to pick up the ingredients. Delbert James, I was forced to conclude, had humbler origins than one might normally expect of a Congressman’s aide.
As for Susannah, her concept of nutrition is taken straight from the Freni Hostetler School of Cooking. If it tastes good, eat it. Unfortunately, her boiled cookies were the only thing nobody got to sample that night.
Chapter 15: Susannah Yoder Entwhistle’s Boiled Cookie Recipe
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 cup milk
½ cup chunky peanut butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 stick margarine
3 cups rolled quick oats
Mix the sugar, cocoa, and milk together in a heavy pot. Boil for one minute.
Stir in the peanut butter, vanilla, and margarine. Remove from heat and add the rolled oats, mixing well.
Using a teaspoon, drop the still-warm mixture by the spoonful onto waxed paper.
When cool, peel off the waxed paper and enjoy.
Chapter 16
It got a little crowded in the kitchen around six p.m. Since Billy Dee Grizzle had a stew to make, he’d got there first and had appropriated the left front burner of our six-burner, institutional stove. Billy had started browning his meat around five, and by six his stew was well underway, filling the kitchen with a heady, but not altogether disagreeable odor.
Delbert James was the next cook on the scene. His macaroni-hamburger casserole required some stove-top cooking in its initial stages, but was eventually transferred to the oven to bake. The cheese-topped concoction was already merrily bubbling and browning away in the oven when Jeanette and Lydia showed up at the same time.
“What the hell is that stench?” demanded Jeanette. “This room is fouled with the odor of simmering flesh.”
“It smells delicious to me,” said Lydia firmly.
“Just how the hell am I supposed to cook with that stuff stinking up the joint?”
“No need to,” said Billy Dee warmly, “there’s plenty in this pot to go around. Just put up your dogs and relax for a spell. Let us men do the cooking.”
“Like hell I will."
Normally I didn’t tell my guests how to talk, but this was Mama’s kitchen, and poor Mama had already done enough turning over for the day. If someone didn’t make Jeanette put a lid on it, Mama would soon be spinning so fast she might start generating electricity.
“I don’t allow swearing on these premises, Ms. Parker,” I said as graciously as I could.
Jeanette’s face turned as red as her hair, but she shut up for a minute. I wish Lydia had.
“What’s in your pot, Mr. Grizzle?” she asked politely. Billy lifted the lid and deeply inhaled the escaping steam. “Venison stew, ma’am.”
“Deer meat?”
“That, and a few onions, carrots, and spuds.”
“Bambi?” Jeanette almost shrieked. “You’re cooking Bambi?”
“I knew a Bambi once,” said Billy Dee pleasantly. “Things were definitely cooking with her.”
“That’s disgusting, and so is your stew. I thought you’d given up hunting, Mr. Grizzle. After what you did to your daughter.”
A muscle in Billy’s left cheek twitched slightly, but other than that, he managed to keep his cool. “I have given up hunting, Ms. Parker. This is just something I scraped up off the road.”
Jeanette looked as if she were about ready to toss her cookies. Instead, she tossed her flaming red hair out of her eyes, stomped over to the fridge, and demanded to see what vegetables I’d come up with. Humbly I showed her.
“You call that bok choy? That’s as limp as Delbert James’s wrist.”
“Hey, I heard that,” Delbert called from his position by the stove. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem at all miffed. If anything, he sounded amused. I, for one, was not amused. It meant that Susannah had got her information right, and that Billy Dee probably did have a girlfriend. Not that it concerned me, of course.
“And are those supposed to be Chinese pea pods? I’ve seen pureed vegetables crisper than these!” shouted Jeanette.
“Children, children,” said Lydia gently. She turned to me. “Would you happen to have any clarified butter, Miss Yoder? I need it for the curry.”
I confessed that all my butter was blurry. “Can you make your curry without butter? Then maybe everyone will eat it.”
Lydia smiled patiently. “But the curry contains yogurt. If they won’t eat butter, they certainly won’t eat yogurt.”
“Keeping animals penned up is a form of slavery, and forcibly taking milk from them is a form of abuse,” Jeanette butted in, “possibly even sexual abuse. And besides which, dairy products clog one’s arteries, not to mention, milk is a leading cause of flatulence.”
“Do you have any olive oil then?” asked Lydia graciously. How I admired that woman!
“Yes, I do,” I said happily. I normally don’t stock the stuff, but this bottle was left behind by a guest, an Italian count, who had a fetish for anything extra virgin. The two-liter bottle he left behind was hardly compensation for all the times he chased me around the inn. Had he not been an octogenarian, or at least a little cuter, he might have caught me.
“Good. Olive oil will do just fine,” the saintly woman said.
That settled, we all set back to work. In a few minutes we were joined by Joel and Garrett. Then by a disgruntled Linda.
“There isn’t any dandelion vinegar in the cellar, Ms. Yoder. Just millions and millions of horrible spiders. You must call an exterminator!”
I could see that she was shaken, and her face was the color of a peeled leek bulb, but I hadn’t heard any screams. “Are you sure you went all the way to the back, to those shelves behind the furnace?”
“Ms. Yoder, even Indiana Jones couldn’t do that! The place is crawling with those things. I insist that you call an exterminator.”
Those were pretty strong words coming from a mere snippet of a kid, if you ask me. “Ms. McMahon, I am shocked at how you talk. And I thought you reverenced life! Killing spiders, indeed. What, pray tell, is worse? To kill a nasty old cow for food, or to slaughter an entire community of innocent insects?”
“Spiders are not insects! And they aren’t innocent. They’re horrible!”
“Have you ever been bitten by one?”
“No.”
“Mugged, raped, or otherwise accosted?”
"Very funny,” said Jeanette. That woman butts into more things than a drunken billy goat. “Leave the poor kid alone. She’s absolutely right. This place is a dump. What a dump!”
“Bette Davis you’re not,” said Delbert gaily.
“But dumpy’s another thing.” I think I said that.
“What?”
“If you don’t have any basmati rice, then ordinary long grain will do,” said the ever vigilant and cooperative Lydia.
“Now where are those canned beans I’m supposed to doctor up?” asked Garrett impatiently.
Before I could reply, Susannah and Shnookums meandered in. At first I could only assume that Shnookums had accompanied her, but it would have been a safe bet. Susannah was wearing enough yardage to conceal a Great Dane. Just thinking that made me count my blessings. If Shnookums had been a Great Dane, those wouldn’t have been pellets I found on my pillow the week before.
Billy obligingly transferred his stew to a cast-iron Dutch oven, which he then stuck in the oven, so as to open up more stove-top space. I made Susannah say thank you.
Because Susannah is anything but competent, and claims to be more anemic than a perpetual blood donor, I myself got out the huge pot for her cookies. Susannah did, after all, want to make a double batch.
Susannah’s recipe only requires a few minutes at the stove, but my sister was determined to make them count. Quite unexpectedly, she burst into a high- pitched wail. I’m sure the sound startled everyone in the room but me, who immediately recognized it as a tune from the centuries-old hymnal, the Ausbund. This isn’t even a Mennonite hymn, but an Amish one, and I can only guess that Susannah’s motive was to give her captive audience the authentic flavor of Pennsylvania Dutch life, which her cooking couldn’t deliver.
That Susannah even remembered the hymn surprised me. Mama used to sing it to me as a child, but I am ten years older than Susannah, and I can’t remember Mama singing it after I reached my teens. At any rate, the hymn, like many others in the Ausbund, sounds more like keening than singing to English ears.
And while Susannah’s rendition was neither musically nor lyrically accurate, it definitely was loud.
I scurried over to the stove to tell her to put a lid on it, before someone else did. But before I could even open my mouth, Susannah opened hers even wider. What seconds before had been keening was now genuine screaming. I’m sure that at first I was the only one who could tell the difference.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. “What is it?”
Susannah wrenched free and faced the pot again, her screams louder than ever. Then she began to gesticulate wildly at the pot, almost as if she were trying to do the breaststroke. Perhaps there was something about the pot that was not quite right. I bent over and examined its contents closely. Then it was all I could do to keep from screaming myself.
There, blinking up at me, totally covered with chocolate and peanut butter, was Shnookums. His little mouth was open too, and he would have been screaming as well, except that it was clogged with peanut butter.
Without even thinking, I yanked the pot off the burner and dumped its contents into the sink. Then I turned on the cold-water faucet as far as it would go and aimed the sprayer hose at the half-cooked canine. Susannah, in the meantime, had fainted. Fortunately, Billy Dee managed to grab her before she had a chance to slump over the stove.
“What the hell is going on now?” Jeanette demanded.
“Go away!” I snapped. The cold water wasn’t doing much to dissolve the hot goo from the dog’s coat. I switched to warm.
Jeanette pushed into my space. “What the hell is that? I demand to know. My God, it’s a rat!” she shrieked. She too began to faint, but when nobody made a move to catch her, she revived in time to brace herself against the sink.
“This is not a rat!” I shouted, so that everyone could hear. “This is Shnookums, my sister’s dog.”
Linda gasped, and although my back was turned, I’m sure she tried her hand at fainting too. “First spiders,” I heard her say, “and now rats. I’m calling the board of health myself.”
Just about then, I stuck my finger in the little dog’s mouth and dislodged a glob of peanut butter. Immediately I heard Shnookums wheeze, and then his little chest began to move up and down. Seconds later he was revived enough to get loose with the most pitiful yowl I have ever heard. Even I felt sorry for the matted mutt.
“It is a dog!” I heard Lydia say.
“Rats can sound like that too,” Jeanette and Linda said together.
Susannah had, by then, regained consciousness and was struggling to her feet. Billy Dee, ever the gentleman, was concerned that she might collapse again and was trying to coax her to remain prone. “Please lie still, Miss Entwhistle,” he begged. “You’re paler than a Yankee come February.”
“Let me go!” she screamed. “That’s my baby over there!”
At the sound of his mistress’s voice, Shnookums began to wail even louder.
Reluctantly Billy Dee helped Susannah to her feet and walked her over to the sink. By then I had managed to do a fair job of cleaning the canine, and he bore at least a faint resemblance to Shnookums. Of course, any small animal, dog or cat, looks half their size when wet. Frankly, I’ve seen rats twice the size of the soggy Shnookums.
“See! It is a rat!” shrieked Jeanette. “It fell right from the ceiling into the pot. God knows what all we’ll be eating tonight.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” moaned Linda.
Susannah grabbed her baby out of my hands and held him to her face for close inspection. He continued to wail. She began planting kisses all over his tiny body. He wailed even louder.
“I think you’d best take him to the vet,” suggested Billy Dee.
Now Susannah began to wail. “My baby, my poor little baby, and it’s all your fault.”
I think she meant me. After all, it had been my idea that she cook something for supper. Of course she wasn’t being fair, but this was no time to point it out.
“I’ll get our coats and then we’re heading straight for Doc Shafer,” I said calmly. “Lydia, would you mind seeing to it that supper gets on the table and everyone gets a chance to eat? Mr. Grizzle, would you please call Dr. Shafer and tell him we’re coming? I think he closes at six. His number is by the phone at the front desk.”
Papa would have been proud of me for my level-headedness. I think I got that quality from him. Anyway, acting calm in a crisis and delegating responsibility seem to come naturally to me, except when something really serious comes along, like being shot at. Papa always used to say I should become a manager and manage something, like a business or an organization. Susannah, on the other hand, says I should manage my own business. Mama probably agreed more with Susannah than with Papa, but she was too gentle ever to say such a thing.
While Susannah and Shnookums wailed, I calmly drove them to Doc Shafer’s, who lives six miles on the other side of Hernia. Old Doc is primarily a farm vet, whose specialty is delivering breech births in cows. Doc has been treating our livestock since before I was born. In recent years, however, his arthritis has prevented his getting down on his knees and reaching up the birth canal of a Holstein, so he’s shifted his focus to treating pets.
“Evening, ladies,” said Doc cheerfully.
Neither Susannah nor Shnookums were at all coherent, so I filled Doc in on all the details. “I immediately got the chocolate mixture off and rinsed him with cool water,” I concluded.
“You did fine, Magdalena. I always said you would have made a good veterinarian.”
I felt myself blushing. By and large I get fewer compliments than Saddam Hussein. “Thanks, Doc. Are the burns bad?”
He shook his head. “As far as I can tell, mostly first degree. With these smaller breeds, the problem is shock as much as anything else. What I’d like to do is give him a sedative and keep him overnight for observation. But I think he’ll be as good as new by tomorrow.”
You would have thought I’d plopped her pooch in a bun and smeared him with mustard the way Susannah carried on. “I won’t leave without my baby!” she screamed. “My baby! My precious little itsy-bitsy baby! My Shnookums Wookums!” I had never, ever seen an adult woman carry on that way. If she had been a character in a movie or a book, someone would have slapped her silly to get her to stop. Although I doubt if it would have done any good.
“What you really need to do is give Susannah a sedative,” I couldn’t help saying.
“I could give her a shot of something to calm her down,” Doc agreed. He gestured at the rows of bottles on the shelves behind him.
“Would that be legal?” I asked hopefully. “I mean, I don’t want to be doing anything wrong.”
Old Doc smiled. “I’ll be eighty-two next month. If they take my license away, I’ll retire. So, who are you going to trust, me or the legislators?”
I thought for a second about Garrett Ream, and decided to choose Doc. It was either that or leave Susannah with him for the night. I simply did not have the energy to sit up with her screaming all night.
“Stick it to her,” I said.
Susannah never saw it coming, but undoubtedly she felt it. But only for a second. Almost immediately her screams faded to sobs, and then weak little whimpers. Amazingly, Shnookums quieted down too, and soon it would have been impossible to tell, had I been wearing a blindfold, which sound was coming from whom. “Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
“She’ll sleep like a baby. Actually, maybe more like a lamb. That was my best sheep tranquilizer.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Say,” he began almost shyly, “I’ve got some baked ham and scalloped potatoes in the back. I don’t suppose you’d join me for supper?”
Doc’s wife, the former Anna Speicher, had been dead for seventeen years. In the old days, Mama used to invite Doc to stay for supper all the time. Daddy use to tease Mama and say it was because Doc was easy on the eyes, but I’m sure it was more than that. Mama had a soft spot for anyone who was lonely or needy, and besides which, Anna Speicher Shafer and Mama were third cousins. Even without any “removeds.” So when old Doc returned the favor, it didn’t take me long to accept. Especially not after I let a quick vision of the bunch back at the PennDutch flit across my brain. “What about Susannah?” I asked.
“She’ll be just fine on the sofa in there. That way we can keep an eye on her vital signs for a while before you take her home.”
He put the now quiet Shnookums in a cage and I helped him get Susannah to the couch. Then Doc and I settled down and had a good old-fashioned meal, like the kind we were meant to eat. In addition to the ham and scalloped potatoes, Doc served up green beans with bacon, dried corn pudding, and rhubarb-strawberry pie. Both the rhubarb and the beans, he confessed, had been canned last spring.
“Do you eat like this all the time?” I asked in amazement. Doc waited until he had swallowed a bite of freshly baked roll dripping with butter before he answered. “Guess I have to. I live to eat, and if the eating’s not worthwhile, I may as well just give up and die.”
“Some people say they just eat to live,” I countered.
Old Doc snorted. “Then they’re sick.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s a fact, at least with animals. If something doesn’t like to eat, chances are it’s sick.”
“Pass the ham, please,” I said quickly, proving I was healthy as a horse.
Doc smiled approvingly. “Makes my heart glad to see a woman eat like that, Magdalena. It’s a sure sign of passion, you know.”
Somehow I doubted it. “Look, Doc, I have to ask you something.”
“Then ask away.” The old geezer was waving a spoon full of scalloped potatoes seductively in front of me. Of course, then it all made sense. Old Doc must have been sweet on Mama too, and Mama had made Roseanne Barr look like a barrette.
I ignored the proffered spuds. “It’s this, Doc. I suppose you’ve already heard about the woman who took a tumble out at the inn.”
He nodded.
“Well, Chief Myers says it might have been an accident, and it might have been foul play. But if it was an accident, Doc, I could be sued for everything I’ve got. I might even lose the inn!”
“Says who?”
“Well, Melvin Stoltzfus, for one.”
Doc snorted. “That boy couldn’t find his way south from the North Pole. It seems to me, Magdalena, that you’d really have a problem if the other scenario was true.”
“You mean that nobody would want to stay at a place where someone had been killed?"
“That might come later. But for now, I’d say your biggest worry should be that you just might have a killer staying at the inn.”
“You mean now?”
Doc’s look was all the answer I needed. Melvin, move over. Why hadn’t I seen the ramifications myself? “Why didn’t Chief Myers make that a bit clearer to me?” I asked, as soon as I could speak.
“What? And spoil a perfectly good fishing trip?” asked Doc. He didn’t sound like he was kidding.
I temporarily hoped that Tammy Myers not only stood too near Niagara Falls, but that she managed to pull the Chief in with her when she fell. I filled Doc in on a number of things.
Doc listened intently, but he seemed to be most interested in Jumbo Jim’s Fried Chicken and Seafood Palace. “How much is a bucket of extra crispy?” he asked, interrupting my narrative.
“Too much to go driving two hundred and fifty miles for,” I snapped.
“Easy, girl, easy,” said Doc. “I sense I’ve hit a nerve. How long did you talk to this guy?”
“I’ll let you know when I get my phone bill.”
“That long, huh?” Doc sounded like he just might be jealous.
“And he called me once, but I was out,” I said just to be nasty.
“How did he get your number?” Doc was definitely jealous.
“Beats me. Susannah took the message. Say, Doc, do you want to hear the rest of what’s been going on, or not?”
“Sure,” said Doc. “Anyway, Baltimore is a long ways away. You won’t be hearing from this guy again.”
I ignored Doc’s last comment and proceeded to tell him how I had found the fire escape door open, and that the trunk of Miss Brown’s car had been broken into. Of course, I pointed out, it was possible, even probable, that neither of those things had anything to do with Miss Brown’s becoming intimate with my impossibly steep stairs.
“Nonetheless, do you want me coming back to stay the night?” Doc asked kindly.
I declined the offer. What possible protection could an eighty-two-year-old Lothario provide? I thanked Doc for the bounteous supper and politely but firmly refused a good-night kiss.
Susannah snoozed all the way home and wasn’t any trouble at all. When I got back to the inn, Billy Dee was the only one still up, and I enlisted his help in carting Susannah off to bed. Then, as a reward, I made a pot of hot chocolate and invited Billy Dee to join me in the parlor.
“Just had me some tea, Miss Yoder. But I’d be glad to sit and shoot the breeze for a spell.”
I happily drank Billy Dee’s share of the reward. “So how did supper go?” I asked casually. I was dying to know. I also wanted to know who had done the dishes.
Billy chuckled. "You missed a night to remember, Miss Yoder.”
“Please... Magdalena.”
He nodded. “Yep, it was quite something. The Congressman and his missus, and that Delbert guy, they all liked my venison stew. Although the Congressman didn’t like the bay leaf. But them other folks! Whew! You’d’a thought I’d drug a skunk in, the way they all scooted down to the other end of the table.”
“How about the other dishes? Did you taste them?”
“Some. But you couldn’t pay me enough to taste that mess Jeanette served up. Leeks is something that happens to your faucet. Not something you oughta be eating.
“However, that casserole your cook brought over sure hit the spot. Had me two helpings of that.”
“What casserole, and what cook?”
“You know, that sort of short woman with the... uh... the uh... the big... uh...”
“Freni? Freni Hostetler was here?” The department Freni was big in was all too obvious. Susannah and I have often mused that her branch of the family had somehow usurped all the mammary genes in our pool. It may be only a slight exaggeration, but if Susannah and I laid flat on our backs we would make excellent putting greens.
“Yeah,” said Billy Dee, "Mrs. Hostetler, that’s her name.”
“But Freni doesn’t even work for me anymore!”
“You fire her?”
“She quit. But with Freni it’s all the same. How long was she here for?”
“Just brought the casserole and left. Oh, she did ask where you were. Seemed kinda disappointed you weren’t around.”
“Well, that’s the breaks. How was Linda’s salad?”
“Miss Yoder, I mean Magdalena, when I don’t know the name of something, I ain’t likely to eat it.”
“But it was just a salad.”
“That’s what she said, but there were vegetables in there I ain’t never seen before.”
Considering the state of Sam’s produce, I doubt if even Linda could provide the correct nomenclature. “What about Lydia’s vegetarian curry?” I asked. “That sounded delicious to me.”
Billy sighed. “Mrs. Ream is an awfully nice woman, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, not after she ate my stew and everything, so I tasted the stuff.”
“And?”
His expression told me everything. “Couldn’t get more than a bite down,” he said needlessly. “But I did like the Congressman’s beans. And you know what? Even that stuff Joel made wasn’t that bad. I ain’t never had broiled bananas before, but they’re better than they sound. In fact, everyone liked them so much, Joel had to get up and make some more.”
“I’ll have to get his recipe,” I said, although I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like them.
Billy Dee and I chatted on a bit more. He confessed that he and Lydia had done the cleanup and all the dishes, but Lydia had made him promise not to give her any credit for the good deed. He also informed me that the next day’s plans were pretty much the same as they had been for today. Except, of course, that his team was going to be more vigilant and not let the Congressman’s party get away from them. To that end he had already taken the liberty of making up some sandwiches for his group.
“And don’t worry about breakfast,” said Billy Dee. “We’ll each just make our own, if it’s all right with you.”
“That’s perfectly fine. Didn’t the Congressman and Delbert have any luck at all today in their hunting?”
“They claim they didn’t see a single buck worth taking. But,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, even though there wasn’t a soul awake to hear us, “just between you and me, I don’t think they even went hunting. Not after deer, anyway. No, sir, I don’t think deer’s their kind of game.”
“Then what is?” What a shame Billy Dee was slipping from the rational category into the absurd.
Billy smiled a wide, Cheshire-cat-like grin. “I aim to find out tomorrow. For sure.”
Chapter 17
For only the second time I can remember, I outslept Susannah. The first time was the morning following my high school prom. No, I was not up all night partying and drinking. I was up all night crying because Mama wouldn’t let me go, even though I had been invited by Eldon Shrock, who was a fourth cousin twice removed, and the son of Hernia’s mayor. Mama said, and Papa silently agreed, that dancing was the tool the devil used to get younger people to fornicate.
“All that rubbing together,” Mama had explained, “leads to urges that the body can’t control.”
“But we’ll mostly just be doing the twist,” I argued. “We won’t even be touching.”
“Just the same, Magdalena, vibrations will be jumping back and forth between the two of you, like lightning between two thunderheads.”
“But, Mama, the twist is fun. It’s no worse than drying off with a towel!” I demonstrated briefly for her benefit.
Mama had blushed and turned quickly away. “Not even with your Papa could I imagine doing such a thing!”
That was it, then. No prom for me, just buckets of tears and eyes that stayed red for a week. Of course, for Susannah, who is ten years younger, everything was different. They were no longer doing the twist. Even the Freddy had flopped by then. At Susannah’s prom couples groped and grappled in a dimly lit gym, as thoroughly entwined as a French braid.
By then it was no use asking Mama why Susannah got to go and I didn’t. By then the world had changed too much, and Mama with it. At some point in the interim Mama had cut off the long braids she traditionally wore coiled around her head. I was still recovering from the shock of that when she bought a pair of pants to wear for working in the garden. Had Mama lived longer, she might eventually have worn slacks into town and put on lipstick. I still miss Mama terribly, but there is a part of me that is glad she went when she did. Perhaps it’s unfair of me to say so, but mothers should look and act like mothers, don’t you think?
At any rate, when I awoke that morning, it was because Susannah was shaking me and shouting in my ear.
“Go away,” I said. I turned over on my right side and pulled my pillow over my head.
“If you don’t come with me, then I’ll just go by myself,” Susannah shouted. “Shnookums must be absolutely frantic, not knowing where his mama is.”
“His mama lives in a kennel in New Jersey, Susannah. Why don’t you just write him a letter explaining that?”
“Very funny, Mags. Are you coming with me, or am I driving your car?”
“How did you sleep? Like a lamb?”
“Not bad, although, frankly, I can’t remember anything after Doc said he wanted Shnookums to stay the night. Guess I was kind of tired from all the stress.” Poor Susannah, sometimes it’s not even fun pulling the wool over her eyes. Grudgingly I got up and drove her over to Doc’s. Even before I got out of the car I could hear Shnookum’s high-pitched barks through Doc’s closed door.
Doc was just setting up to perform gall bladder surgery on a sharpei when we arrived, but he seemed glad to see us nonetheless. “About time, ladies. This little dog of yours is anxious to get back home.” Susannah looked at me accusingly, and old Doc looked at Shnookums like he might regard a laboratory rat that had bitten him one too many times.
“How is he?” I asked. It doesn’t hurt to be hopeful.
“He’s as good as can be expected,” said Doc noncommittally.
For the moment at least, Susannah’s mutt looked like the picture of health to me. As soon as he was released from his cage, Shnookums leaped into Susannah’s arms, licked her face a couple of times, and then hopped unceremoniously into the nether reaches of her bosom. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.
When we got back to the house, I suggested to Susannah that we really ought to take advantage of the peace and quiet by doing a thorough dusting and sweeping of all the public rooms.
“But I promised Melvin I would go with him into Breezewood tonight to see a movie,” my little sister whined. “I need to wash my hair and get ready.”
“Susannah, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. You’ll have plenty of time to get ready. And which Melvin is this, anyway? Not Melvin Stoltzfus, our acting Chief of Police?” I was mature enough not to make any reference to the bull who hadn’t liked being milked, and the consequences of that experience.
“Isn’t he dreamy, Mags?”
I rolled my eyes and wrung my hands.
“Well, it’s your fault, Magdalena. I hadn’t seen him for ages, and then you mentioned seeing him yesterday. So, this morning, while you were sleeping, I called him up and asked him out for coffee, and he invited me out for dinner and a movie instead.”
“Why, bite my tongue! But in the meantime, you can help me with the housework, or you’re not going to see one thin dime this week.” Papa, in his wisdom, left the farm to me with the provision that I see to Susannah’s needs until such time as she proved herself competent and productive. If such a day ever comes along, I am morally, if not legally, bound to turn over half the estate to her. So far I haven’t come close to worrying about an impending partnership.
Susannah made one of her defiant faces; one that Mama might have found amusing, but not me. “Okay, if you’ll just chill for a minute. First let me run upstairs to my own room and find Shnookums his binky. I think it might be under the bed someplace.”
I sighed deeply as I acquiesced. A happy Shnookums was a happy Susannah, and if retrieving her dog’s binky from under her bed was what it took to get some work out of her, I could live with that. Even though the very notion of a pooch with a pacifier was beyond my comprehension.
“Okay, but make it fast. And don’t touch anything in there. That’s a guest room now. We have to respect our guests’ privacy.”
Susannah headed upstairs while I changed the head on the dust mop. I had just gotten the new cover on when I heard Susannah scream. Even if the house had been full of people, I would have recognized that scream as hers. Hers is an exceptionally high-pitched scream, and while it won’t break any glasses, it will curdle milk and put the hens off laying.
Only twice before, not counting Shnookum’s bath in the batter, had I heard Susannah scream like that. Once was when she was about eight and stumbled across a still-born calf in the north pasture. The second time was when Reuben Metzer, Hernia’s onetime pharmacist and prominent pedophile, exposed himself to her. That happened during a lightning storm on Susannah’s tenth birthday. Even though there was an entire room full of little girls already in full scream by then, I immediately picked out Susannah’s.
I flung the mop down and bolted up those impossibly steep stairs two at a time. That’s when I found Susannah standing in the doorway, staring at the corpse that was clutching Mama’s best dresden plate quilt.
Like I said before, it was immediately obvious to me that this was a corpse, a victim of murder, not just someone whose time had happened to come during a snooze on Susannah's bed. After I sent Susannah downstairs to look for the borax, I took the phone out into the hallway and called the police. It wasn’t until Melvin Stoltzfus picked up the phone that I remembered Chief Myers was out of town.
“I’m sorry, I must have a wrong number,” I said. I’m normally not a fast thinker, but I would rather bury a corpse out in the north forty by myself than involve Melvin Stoltzfus.
“Magdalena, is that you? Tell Susannah my mother just called and she wants me to stop by and check out a buzz in her washing machine, so I won’t be picking her up until six. Oh, and tell her I’ll be wearing my green suit and a green and yellow checkered tie, so she’ll know what to wear. Also, do you happen to know if she likes licorice, and if so, does she prefer the bites, the sticks, or the ropes?”
That did it. Melvin Stoltzfus deserved to have a corpse thrown in his lap while his superior was away. Literally, if at all possible. “Put your mother’s washing machine and Susannah’s licorice on hold, Melvin. I need you to come out to the inn right away. There’s been a murder.”
“Quit jumping to conclusions,” said Melvin sanctimoniously. “It might just have been an accident. Did you call Alvin Hostetler yet?”
“I’m sending you a compass for Christmas!” I screamed.
“A what?”
“Never mind! I’m not talking about Miss Brown, Melvin. This murder just happened. There’s a corpse lying in Susannah’s bed.”
“Susannah’s been murdered?”
“No, not Susannah. One of the guests!”
“Was he her lover?” Melvin sounded as if he were about to burst into tears.
“It’s not a he, Melvin. It’s a woman.”
“Oh my God, that’s even worse.”
“Get a grip on it, Melvin. They weren’t lovers, that’s for sure. We needed Susannah’s room for one of the guests, so she’s been staying with me. How soon are you coming out?”
“I’ll be right there. In the meantime don’t touch the gun or anything else.”
“There is no gun, Melvin.”
“What? No gun? But you said it was a murder.”
“It is, Melvin. Come out and see for yourself.”
“An axe then? Or a club? A shovel maybe?”
“Just a quilt, Melvin. Like I said, come out and see for yourself.”
“A quilt? I see, strangulation then. The victim was undoubtedly smothered.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. Come out and see for yourself.”
“Then maybe it’s not a murder after all. Are you even sure the so-called victim is dead?”
“Melvin, for Pete’s sake, just come on out. And call an ambulance.”
“Then she isn’t dead?”
“Melvin Stoltzfus!”
Melvin showed up in eight minutes flat, just in front of the ambulance staffed by the volunteer rescue squad. Immediately after calling Melvin, I’d called old Doc Shafer. He showed up on the tail of the ambulance, which goes to show you that not all octogenarians putter along at nine miles an hour. If Melvin hadn’t been at the head of the procession, he’d have given old Doc a ticket for sure.
Hernia does have a full-time people doctor, but most folks would rather eat a spoonful of the plague than set eyes on Harold P. Smith III’s stethoscope. Young Harold is the epitome of arrogance, and I’ve heard that most dictionaries revived their definition of that word the year following his birth. Even Susannah says she would rather date a poor lawyer than go out with Harold, so you see what I mean.
Anyway, I’d asked old Doc to come, not for what he might do for the stiff, but for help in controlling Melvin Stoltzfus. It was one of Doc’s patients who kicked Melvin in the head, after all, and it was Doc who undoubtedly patched both of them up. At any rate, everyone in and around Hernia knows and respects old Doc. Doc was my insurance card for getting through the ordeal still sane.
I ushered everyone in and led the way up the stairs to the victim’s bedroom. By this time Susannah had returned from the laundry room, without the borax, and was standing by the bed moaning. From within the nether reaches of her blouse Shnookums was following suit with tinny little yowls of his own. I decided that everyone needed a contingent of mourners, even unintentional ones, and to just let them be.
To his professional credit, Melvin appeared to notice the corpse before he noticed Susannah.
“Is this exactly the way you found her?” he asked.
“Naw, she must have gotten up and combed her hair.”
“Very funny. Now you and Susannah stand back so I can examine her. This might be rather gruesome.”
“No more gruesome than what we can see now,” volunteered Doc. “She’s been poisoned.”
“How the hell do you know that?” snapped Melvin. Quite frankly, I was surprised to hear him swear.
Doc sighed. “Professional instincts, man. Just look at her. It’s obvious she died in a great deal of pain, and too quick to call out for help, or to have anyone hear her. Although it’s possible, I’d say it’s not likely she died of a coronary, given her age.”
“How old was she, anyway?” asked Melvin, turning to me.
“Linda is twenty-three.”
“Poison then, for sure,” said Doc.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Melvin, a little less belligerently.
“Can’t be absolutely positive,” said Doc, “not until there’s been an autopsy. But my best guess is she was poisoned, and at least twelve hours ago. No more than fourteen.”
“Twelve hours?” Melvin and I asked at once.
“By the looks of it. Maybe an hour or two more, like I said. Again, the autopsy will take care of that. You sending her right down to the county coroner?”
For a moment Melvin looked wildly around the room. It was obvious that this was his first solo murder, maybe even his first corpse. Perhaps he expected to see a set of instructions flashed against a wall. “Yes, yes, of course. God, I hope he’s back by now.” He nodded to the two men who had come with the ambulance. They had remained just outside the door and even now seemed reluctant to cross the threshold. It took a couple of sharp words from Melvin to put them into action.
“Be careful of Mama’s quilt,” I admonished them.
Of course they didn’t pay me any attention. They slid the corpse, quilt and all, onto their stretcher. With the very first step he took, one of them stepped on a dragging edge of the quilt, almost pulling the body off with it onto the floor. The quilt pried loose from the clutching hands, but I was sure I heard it rip.
“Now see what you’ve done!” I said. “I could never make stitches as neat as Mama’s.” I scooped up the quilt, soiled though it was, and laid it on the bed. That’s when I noticed that both on the bed and on the floor, where the quilt had touched down briefly, there was a sprinkling of sunflower seed shells.
“Help me strip the bed,” I snapped at Susannah.
“Don’t touch a damn thing,” said Melvin sharply.
“Why not?”
“Because you might be disturbing evidence, that’s why.”
Clearly Melvin Stoltzfus watched too much TV. “There aren’t any fingerprints on the sheets, Mel.” I started to tug at a corner of the bedding.
“Hello, what’s this?” asked Melvin. He reached past me and picked something brown and wrinkled-looking from the bed.
“Oh, it’s just a sunflower seed shell,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “Linda ate them all the time.” Melvin hiked his pants up over his hipless pelvis with one hand, and with the other practically shoved the stupid shell up my nose. “Trying to hide evidence, were you, Magdalena?”
“Get a grip on it, Melvin,” I said as calmly as I could. “If I were trying to hide evidence, wouldn’t I have picked up all the shells before you got here? It’s not like they’re not obvious, after all. There’s a blue jillion of them scattered around.”
“Ah, but in The Purloined Letter,’ ” said Melvin pompously, “it was obvious too.”
Somehow that rang a bell. I thought back and then remembered my eleventh grade English class, a story by Edgar Allan Poe, and something about a letter that was hidden by being placed in plain sight. “Melvin,” I said slowly, so that he could read my lips if he needed to, “nobody was trying to hide these sunflower seeds. You can’t possibly think that they’re poisonous. Can you?”
But possibly Melvin did. He got down on his hands and knees and picked up every one of the little shells and deposited them carefully in a small plastic bag he had brought with him.
Chapter 18
I waited until Melvin was quite done picking up the shells before I spoke again. “Now may I strip the bed?” I asked reasonably.
“Hell, no!” he nearly exploded. “There still may be more evidence.”
“Then you strip it yourself when you’re done,” I said calmly. I grabbed my still-moaning sister by the shoulders and steered her from the room.
Doc hung back a few minutes, then followed me. We headed downstairs to the parlor. "You know this guest well?” he asked.
“What?”
He gestured back at the room, occupied now only by Melvin. “The corpse, I mean. Did you know the lady well when she was alive?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Just two days. All I know about her is that she’s a vegetarian, and she was here to protest hunting season. Oh, and if the rumors are true, she’s the illegitimate daughter of the Congressman.”
"What Congressman?”
“Oops, sorry. Garrett Ream.”
“That young fart? Anyway, did you know if she was pregnant?”
“Linda? Pregnant?”
“Just a guess, like everything else, but maybe a good one. Of course we’ll have to wait until the autopsy comes back.”
I trusted Doc enough not even to bother asking why he suspected Linda was pregnant. But I asked him anyway.
Doc laughed, which, at his age, is likely to come out as a cackle. “Intuition, Magdalena. That and the fact that there was a bottle of prenatal vitamins on her night table. Although it’s possible, it isn’t likely that anyone who wasn’t pregnant would be taking them.”
“Well, I’ll be. Linda pregnant. But if that moron in there sees the pills, he’s liable to think she tried to commit suicide.”
“By swallowing vitamins?”
I reminded Doc about Melvin’s experience with the bull. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure even Melvin Stoltzfus couldn’t be that dumb. But then again, you have to be pretty stupid to get a story like that started in the first place.
Old Doc laughed until I thought he would have a coronary. “Unfortunately I don’t remember such an episode. But if it did happen, I’m sure Melvin was the one involved. Here,” he reached into his pocket and brought out the bottle of vitamins. “Even Melvin can’t misinterpret these if he doesn’t see them, Magdalena. I nabbed them when the fool was picking up all those sunflower seeds. No point in allowing him to muddy up the waters prematurely.”
“But Doc! Isn’t that illegal? Swiping evidence?”
“What evidence? No one is going to believe this young lady tried to kill herself by overdosing on a bottle of vitamins. No one, that is, except for young Melvin, who will eventually see the light anyway. So actually, I’m just speeding up the time it will take him to separate the evidence from the incidental. Incidentally, did you happen to notice that the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door was still facing out?”
“What ‘do not disturb’ sign? We don’t use those signs around here.”
“Yes, you do. Red letters, on a white background. About this big. Saw it myself. Plain as day.”
“Well, it isn’t ours.” I shook Susannah gently. “Did you notice a sign on the door when you first went in there?”
Susannah burst into tears and threw her arms around me. I hate it when someone does that. Even my own sister. My personal space is very important to me. Of course, Susannah didn’t notice my discomfort. “I shouldn’t have gone in there,” she wailed. “I should have started mopping right away, just like you said.”
“Nonsense,” I said comfortingly. “Your going after Shnookums’s binky had nothing to do with Linda’s death. Now was there, or was there not, a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on the door?”
Susannah nodded. “There was, Mags. But I swear I knocked first, before opening the door. I knocked real softly, too. I mean, I wouldn’t have gone in at all if there had been any kind of an answer.”
“Well, how do you like that? A bogus sign. You don’t suppose the killer—”
“Put the sign on the door so that no one would discover the young lady’s death for a long time, thereby giving him or herself extra time to get away?” old Doc finished for me.
“Does that mean that whenever the guests come back from the woods this afternoon, Mags, the killer will be the only one not to show up?” asked Susannah, with surprising sensibility.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Not necessarily, and probably not at all,” said old Doc.
“But you said—”
“I suggested it as a possibility, but I don’t think it’s at all likely. This killer’s too smart to let him or herself be identified by their absence. My guess is that whoever killed this young lady is pretty confident and plans to wait things out.”
“But then, why leave the sign?”
“That was just to make sure the poison had a chance to run its course before the victim was discovered. Even if the victim did make some noise, a sign on the door would probably keep people away. At least for a while. Most people are reluctant to investigate even very loud noises when there are ‘do not disturb’ signs on the doors.” I swear the old coot winked at me then.
Susannah laughed, far too bawdily. “You can say that again.”
I trust I didn’t blush. “Care for anything to eat?”
“Would I ever!” said Doc. He did, after all, live to eat. “But only if you make it from scratch. Who knows what the leftovers in your fridge contain.”
I laughed nervously. “Actually, there are no leftovers. At least from last night. Billy Dee, that’s one of the guests, said he and Lydia Ream, the Congressman’s wife, pitched everything out when the meal was over. They’re the ones who did the cleanup,” I explained.
Old Doc looked suddenly serious. “That might be your evidence, right there.”
“Billy Dee? Lydia Ream? I don’t think so. They’re the most likable pair in the bunch. I haven’t heard a negative word come out of Lydia’s mouth, and as for Billy Dee, he gets along with everybody, except maybe with Ms. Parker. But it wasn’t Ms. Parker who was poisoned, it was Linda McMahon.”
“That’s conjecture,” said Melvin, entering the room. “We won’t know what she died of until we get the lab report back.”
“Do we have to wait until then to see if she’s even dead?” I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t help myself.
Doc chuckled, Susannah flushed, and Melvin just plain glared. Fortunately for his sake, I couldn’t see how Shnookums reacted.
“Well, some things are obvious,” I said.
Melvin drew himself up to his full height, which diminished the praying mantis image but made him look like a wide-eyed child playing grown-up. “When you assume,” he intoned, “you make me an ass out of you and me.”
“I do not allow obscene language in this house, Mr. Stoltzfus.”
“For chrissakes, Magdalena, he was only trying to make a point,” said my much misguided sister.
“Susannah Yoder! Mama would...”
“Entwhistle, Mags, and leave Mama out of this. What Melvin said is true. You’re always jumping to conclusions. And another thing, you’re always judging people. Always coming down on them with your own rigid standards. Like you’re the only one who’s right. Like what’s right for you has to be what’s right for everyone else. You’re always critical, you know? You’re too hard on people, Mags. Give us a break sometimes.”
Well, I didn’t have to just sit there and take that. “Doc, about lunch, why don’t we convene to the kitchen, where we’re not unwanted?”
“Good idea,” said Doc.
“Hey, we get to eat too,” said Susannah.
“Fine, then you go to the kitchen and make lunch.”
“You want to stay for lunch, honey?” Just when their relationship had had time to blossom to the honey stage was beyond me.
“Well,” drawled Melvin, “I do need to stay and question the suspects when they return. How about if you and I order in pizza?”
“Dreamy,” drooled Susannah.
I knew for a fact that poor Mama was going to get a lot of exercise that day. Hernia does not have a pizza parlor, and whatever it was Susannah and Melvin planned to do in Mama’s parlor had little, if anything, to do with lunch.
“Remember this is a Christian house, Susannah,” I admonished her futilely.
My sister feigned shock. “There you go again, Mags. Always jumping to conclusions.”
“At least it’s a decent form of exercise.”
“Too bad you can’t compare the two,” she countered cruelly.
I didn’t subject myself to any more of that. Instead I took my frustration out on fixing Doc the best lunch he’d had in seventeen years. At least that’s what he said about it. We barricaded ourselves in the kitchen and pigged out like we were teenagers.
We were just finishing up the last of the cherry cobbler, with black cherry ice cream, when Billy Dee came bursting into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on, Miss Yoder, and just who the hell is that in the parlor?”
Perhaps it was because I was satiated, or maybe because I realized it was pointless, but I ignored Billy Dee’s profanity. “You do know that Linda’s dead?”
Billy Dee sat down heavily on one of the kitchen stools. “That’s what the fellow in there says. Is it true? My God, he’s got Jeanette hysterical with his accusations.”
“Linda is dead,” I said gently. “That’s for sure. Susannah found her. I saw for myself. It was awful. And as for that guy in there, he’s with the police. I had to call him.”
Billy Dee shook his head in apparent bewilderment. “I just can’t believe it. There weren’t a thing wrong with her last night. And that fellow says there might have been foul play. Do you think there was?”
I looked over at Doc.
“Can’t say for sure,” he said, “but it would appear so. Looked like poisoning to me.”
Billy Dee rubbed his hands through his still-thick, only slightly graying hair. “It’s just so damn hard to believe. Who would do such a thing?”
“Your guess has got to be better than ours,” I said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you did know Linda better, much better, than I. You’re much more likely to know why someone would want her dead.”
“Linda? Not a damn clue! Jeanette, yes, but not Linda. Hell, I’ve been tempted to kill Jeanette myself, but I don’t know nobody that’s got a thing against Linda.”
“Well, maybe it was an accident then,” I suggested. Old Doc licked the foam of melted ice cream off his lips. “Could be. If she’d eaten toadstools or something. But from what’s available on Sam Yoder’s shelves, you’d have to be a wizard to put together something that toxic.”
“I don’t know about that. Sam sells some weird produce, Doc.”
Billy Dee didn’t appear to be listening. “It’s my fault,” I thought I heard him mutter.
“What did you say?”
“I might have been able to save her, Miss Yoder.”
“How so?”
He shook his head from side to side. “Last night, after I said good night to you, I went up to see if Linda was still awake. I wanted to see if she could talk some sense into Jeanette. I thought maybe Linda could convince Jeanette to hold a simple press conference and call this whole stalking thing off. Because it really ain’t nothing more than harassment. It doesn’t accomplish anything.”
“Harassment seems to be Jeanette’s specialty. But go on, how could you have saved Linda?”
Billy slapped his leg hard with the palm of his hand, as if punishing himself. “That damned sign was already on the door then, so I didn’t even bother to knock. But I should have suspected something was fishy. There ain’t no sign like that in my room, so it should have been a clue.”
“Naw,” said Doc wisely, “that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of folks travel with their own ‘do not disturb’ signs. You know what I mean?” He winked lasciviously, presumably at me again.
“I wouldn’t know about that, Doc.”
Just then Joel stuck his head in the room. From where I sat, he looked like he had been crying. “The officer wants to see you, Billy Dee,” he said.
Billy Dee got up and walked off slowly. Joel took his place on the stool.
“This is Doc Shafer,” I said by way of introduction. “And this is Joel Teitlebaum from Philadelphia.” I don’t know where my manners had gone when it was time to introduce Billy Dee.
“I’m the animal kind of doc, not the human kind,” said my friend modestly.
Joel couldn’t have cared less. “It’s all my fault,” he practically wailed. At this range it was obvious he had been crying.
“Let me see,” I pretended to muse, “you saw the ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on Linda's door, and you didn’t disturb her, when doing so might have saved her life?”
Joel stopped a silent sob in mid-sniffle and regarded me with surprise. “How did you know?”
“Intuition. But never mind that. Tell me, how’s Jeanette holding up? After all, she is Linda’s mother.” I tactfully omitted saying that I personally thought Jeanette was as capable of feeling love as was a turnip.
Young Joel’s mouth fell open about as wide as mine did the day I got home from school early and discovered Mama and Papa having sex. “She’s what? What did you say?”
“I simply stated that Jeanette is, or should I say, was, Linda’s mother. Surely you knew that.”
“I just can’t believe that. I mean, how do you know?”
I shrugged. “I guess someone told me. Sorry, I thought it was common knowledge. But anyway, how is Jeanette doing?”
Joel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and in so doing spilled a few sunflower seeds on my kitchen floor. “Jeanette is very upset, of course. After all, they were close, even if they were just friends. Which, of course, I guess they weren’t, since they happen to be mother and daughter.”
“They seemed close,” I conceded. “Then again, all you A.P.E.S. members seem close, which doesn’t leave much room for suspects, does it? Unless the murderer is one of the Congressman’s party?”
I thought I saw Joel squirm, but he might just have been shifting slightly on his stool. Those stools are rather hard and uncomfortable. “Why in the world would any of the Congressman’s party have it in for Linda?” he asked wide-eyed. “She never even saw them before Sunday night.”
“Beats me. But speaking of which, did you guys catch up with them in the woods today?”
Joel’s long sculptor’s fingers picked aimlessly at a sunflower seed that was stuck to his handkerchief. “If you ask me, they didn’t even go hunting today. We drove by every public access to state game lands in the country and didn’t see a sign of their car. They’re obviously not playing fair. This whole thing isn’t fair. Linda never hurt a fly, and now she’s dead. The Con-gressman, on the other hand, is a sleaze, and he gets away with everything. Life just isn’t fair.”
“Life is never fair, Joel. Those times when it seems like it, it’s just coincidence.”
“Life sucks,” said old Doc succinctly. “I ought to know. I’ve lived enough of it to be something of an expert on the subject.”
“But my God, this is too much,” sobbed Joel. He buried his face in the handkerchief with the sunflower seed still clinging to it. “Linda didn’t deserve to die. And I know you don’t like her, Miss Yoder, but Jeanette didn’t deserve to lose a daughter, either. She must be in terrible pain.”
I got up and headed for the parlor. I had to see for myself how Jeanette was doing. Much to my surprise, Melvin didn’t seem to mind when I slipped into the room. Perhaps he didn’t even notice.
But Jeanette did. She was sitting on a footstool, weeping quietly in front of the fireplace. Billy Dee was down on one knee with an arm around her, and on the other side Susannah was doing the same. Melvin was standing a few feet to Susannah’s left, seemingly staring off into space. Together, they looked like a Norman Rockwell painting that might have been titled “Grief.” Except for Jeanette, nobody seemed to notice my entering the room. The second I slipped in, she rose to her feet and pointed a finger in my direction.
“There she is!” she screamed. “There’s the woman who killed my little girl!”
For a split second I thought of slipping out again, but of course it was too late. With that one accusation Jeanette Parker had undoubtedly sent Mama spinning so fast in her grave that the heat she generated might compel God to send her to the other place. For Mama’s sake I had to stay and sort things out.
Chapter 19
Melvin Stoltzfus snapped to attention. “What did you say?”
“She didn’t say anything,” I ventured. “She screamed.” Jeanette’s finger, which was still pointing at me, vibrated on the end of her hand like that obscene thing I once saw Susannah hide away. “Murderess! There’s the woman who killed my little girl.”
Melvin flashed me a look that would have been a smirk on someone with lips. “Why do you say that?” Jeanette sat down again. “She’s the one who bought the food that poisoned my little girl. She’s the one who asked us all to cook something for that disastrous meal. And then she didn’t even stay to eat it. Doesn’t that prove it?”
“Let’s say it raises some questions,” said Melvin. Frankly, I was surprised at his restraint. I would have thought the praying mantis would have been glad for any excuse to pounce on me.
“Yeah, like the fact that Susannah didn’t stay to eat it either. In fact, it was Susannah’s fault we had to skip out to begin with.”
“Thanks a lot, Mags!” sang out Susannah. “Melvin, it’s not just because she’s my sister, but I really don’t think Magdalena would do such a thing.”
For once I was proud of my baby sister.
“And why not?” asked Melvin. It was obvious he respected Susannah’s opinions.
“Well, for one thing, Magdalena doesn’t even kill spiders. And for another thing, that’s not like her at all. My sister is just too... too...”
“Too dull?” I asked. “How about the fact that I don’t have a motive?”
“Oh, well, there is that, too,” Susannah admitted.
“But speaking of motive,” I continued, “you might find one or two amongst Congressman Ream’s party.” Jeanette seemed to shift on her stool, just like Joel had.
“How’s that?” asked Melvin.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at Jeanette as I spoke, so I focused on a spot above the fireplace mantel where Mama had hung a painting of “Jesus Knocking at the Door.” The painting was gone now, and in its place hung a brightly colored Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign. It seemed like an appropriate place to look. I began to explain slowly.
“Well, it has been brought to my attention that the Congressman is the victim’s biological father.” Jeanette gasped but said nothing.
“Go on,” said Melvin.
“So, you see the connection, don’t you? Maybe the Congressman wanted Linda out of the way for political reasons, especially since he may well decide to run for President, if he gets as far as the Senate. An illegitimate daughter,” I swallowed hard, “might be too much political baggage for even Garrett Ream to carry.”
“Now wait just one cotton-picking minute,” said Billy Dee. “Who told you that?”
“If you don’t believe the Congressman is Linda’s father, just ask Ms. Parker.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Billy Dee impatiently. “Who told you the Congressman has plans for national office?”
I hope Susannah was proud of me, because I didn't even glance in her direction. “I have my sources. And anyway that’s not the issue. The issue is that Garrett Ream has a motive.”
“Hardly,” said Melvin. “Nobody’s likely to kill his own daughter just to be President. The issue is the daughter, not whether she’s alive or dead.”
I must admit he had me there. “Well, what about Mrs. Ream?” As much as I liked the woman, it was better her skin than mine.
“What about her?”
“Well,” I fumbled, “maybe she couldn’t stand to be confronted with her husband’s indiscretion.”
Jeanette stood up and jabbed her finger in my direction again. “Linda was not the result of some indiscretion. Garrett and I were lovers. True lovers. We loved each other passionately, and long before he met Ms. High and Mighty.”
“Well, that certainly isn’t our business, is it? I mean, about you and the Congressman being ‘true lovers.’ That sort of thing.”
“Apparently that ‘sort of thing’ has never been your business, so why don’t you just butt the hell out?”
“Ladies, ladies,” chided Billy Dee gently, “like the man says, we need to stick to the issue.”
“Well, what about Delbert James?” asked Susannah helpfully. Although she’s my own sister, sometimes it seems like Susannah’s bulb is so dim even an owl couldn’t read by it.
“What about him?” Melvin and I asked together. Susannah sat gaping silently at us like a hen who has seen the hawk but doesn’t know in which direction to run.
“Actually, she might have a point,” said Billy Dee gallantly. “Delbert James might have done it. In fact, any of us might have done it, inadvertently.”
“You mean that possibly the intended victim was someone other than Linda McMahon?” Melvin seemed to come alive with this new realm of possibilities.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Now take this Delbert guy, I don’t hardly know him, but him and the Congressman are too tight, if you ask me. Like maybe one’s got something on the other. Maybe he was trying to poison the Congressman, or the other way around, and Linda ate whatever it was by mistake.”
“Or maybe Delbert and the Congressman are gay and Mrs. Ream was trying to poison Delbert,” suggested Susannah. Honestly, she should have left well enough alone.
“Don’t be such a stupid twit,” said Jeanette. “Garrett is far from gay.”
Nobody speaks to my sister like that, except for me. “Well, then, maybe you were trying to poison Garrett because he dumped you, and you accidentally poisoned your own daughter.”
“Nobody dumped me,” Jeanette practically shrieked. I didn’t flinch. “Or maybe you were trying to poison Lydia Ream because you were jealous of her.”
“Why the hell should I be jealous of that insipid, bourgeois sheep? Garrett and I split up twenty-three years ago.”
In order not to escalate the hostilities, I suppressed a chuckle. If Lydia Ream was bourgeois, then so was Princess Di. “May I go now?”
I had addressed the question to Melvin Stoltzfus, but Jeanette Parker answered. “By all means, do. Nobody asked you to come in here to begin with.”
“I do own this place,” I reminded her.
“But not for long, I promise you that. I plan to sue you for everything you’ve got, Ms. Yoder. You can expect to hear from my lawyers as soon as I get home.”
“Ha! Not if someone else beats you to it,” I said. “You can’t squeeze blood from a stone.” I’d rather have the mousy Miss Brown’s estate wring me dry than that loud-mouth Jeanette.
“The inn is entirely in my sister’s name,” Susannah piped up.
“The rats are jumping ship now, are they?” I asked her.
“Leave Shnookums out of this!”
I glared at everyone in the room, including Billy Dee, who hadn’t offered anything like the support I had hoped for, and left the parlor. I grabbed my coat from the front closet by the desk and went out the front door and around the house to feed the chickens and gather eggs.
That Mose had already attended to them was irrelevant. I have always found surrounding myself with chickens to be therapeutic. There is something about their squawking and squabbling that empowers me, especially if it is I who have generated the hee-cack. Chickens have many human characteristics, if you stop to think about it. They can be “mad as a wet hen,” “gabby old hens,” “cocky,” have “something to crow about,” and, of course, just plain old “chicken.” I suppose your average therapist would have a field day with this, but I enjoy being a Brobdingnagian in their Lilliputian world. Chickens fear and respect me, which is more than I can say for anything else in this world.
As usual, the chickens were flapping and squawking out of my way as I reached into their nest boxes to get out the eggs. In most instances hens will stay put and sometimes even peck the hand that tries to pluck their eggs, but not my darlings. Even the dumbest of them learned early in the game that I will goose any hen who doesn’t vacate her box immediately.
I had just managed to intimidate Pertelote, the boldest of my hens, into leaving her nest, when I heard the most awful disturbance behind me. Foxes might be historically infamous for raiding henhouses, but in Hernia it’s coons, nine times out of ten. And lately, raccoons have gotten bolder and bolder and are as likely to make a foray into fowldom in broad daylight as they are at night. If I wasn’t a pacifist by heritage, I would buy a gun and blow those masked bandits to kingdom come.
I whirled around, half-expecting to see a raccoon. “Lydia!”
“Hello, Magdalena.”
“What on earth are you doing here?” Even in her hunting clothes Lydia Ream looked far too elegant to grace the inside of a henhouse.
“Magdalena, I need to talk to you.” Lydia advanced a few tentative steps.
“Don’t worry, those hens are just as afraid of you as you are of them.”
Lydia pointed down at her shoes. “It’s not them I’m afraid of.”
“Right. Why don’t we step outside into my office?”
She continued to weave her way across the floor to me. “No, I’d rather talk in here.”
“Suit yourself then.” After all, if a Senator’s daughter and Congressman’s wife, not to mention a potential First Lady, wanted to chat with me in a chicken coop, who was I to object?
“We just got in,” said Lydia. “No sooner had we walked through the front door than this monstrous little man pounced on us and said Linda was dead. Said she was poisoned. He also said everyone here at the Inn is a suspect, at least until they get back the coroner’s report. Is that true?”
“That monstrous little man is Melvin Stoltzfus. And, yes, Linda is dead. Susannah found her in bed late this morning. As for all of us being suspects, some of us are less so than others.”
Lydia shook her head. “What a tragedy. Linda was so young. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And that man—that Mellwood somebody—doesn’t seem to possess an ounce of sensitivity. Garrett and Delbert are in there talking to him right now, but I had to find you right away.”
“Praying mantises eat their mates,” I said simply.
“What?”
“Never mind. How did you know where to find me?”
“Your sister told me. She said you find chickens comforting.” Lydia smiled as if she approved. “Magdalena, the reason I need to talk to you is because you are such a sensible woman. Why, just look, even your shoes are sensible.”
Lydia paused while I glanced down at my feet. When Susannah says that I wear sensible shoes, she means it as an insult.
“And, so,” continued Lydia smoothly, “I was hoping that you might help extricate us from a delicate problem.”
“Who is us, and what’s the problem?” The last time I was asked that question was when Susannah was still a teenager. She had wanted me to buy condoms for her boyfriend, Noah Miller. Of course I told her “no,” and then I told Noah to keep his pecker in his pants where it belonged.
Lydia smiled, and as much as I liked her, I could still tell it was a political smile. “Well, I guess by ‘us’ I meant the Congressman. You see, Magdalena, my husband has been fighting a slight problem with substance abuse.”
“Are such problems ever slight?”
She smiled again, this time patiently. “What I mean is that Garrett can still function. You know, carry on with his duties. But he does have a problem, I’m not denying that.”
“I see.”
“But I’m afraid you don’t.” Lydia reached out and grabbed my sleeve with a perfectly manicured hand. “We aren’t here as hunters this week, Magdalena. In fact, hunting is the farthest thing from our minds.”
“Then why are you here? The food?” That was supposed to have been a little joke.
Lydia didn’t even smile. “We’re here scouting out a new rehabilitation clinic in the Laurel Mountains. The Grossinger-Beechman Clinic. Have you heard of it?”
I nodded. There had been a big stink about it in the Hernia Weekly Herald. Something about drug-crazed rock stars invading our peaceful domain to get their heads screwed on straight at the risk of our homes and hearths. Since I hadn’t recognized any of the names, and it was all privately funded, I hadn’t paid the matter any attention.
“The first day we were here, Monday, Garrett did go hunting, but just as a ruse to get them off his scent. Today, however, we headed straight for the clinic, where he had his interview. Tomorrow, he had planned to commit himself for a three-week stint.”
“And you planned to keep all this a secret?”
“From the press, surely. And from that awful woman, Jeanette Parker, who is worse than the press. That woman has been relentless in her persecution of Garrett ever since he took office. She is obsessed with her crusade to do him in politically.”
“And that awful woman, of course, just happens to be your husband’s ex-lover.”
I did not mean to be cruel. Nonetheless, Lydia’s mouth fell open like a trapdoor with a sprung lever. “You know about that?”
“The walls have ears, Lydia, or in this case make it the floorboards. Take it from an experienced innkeeper, whenever you’re not in your own home, you’re in public.” Boy, did I know the truth of that statement. Susannah and I had been living in a fishbowl, albeit of my own making, for ten years now.
Lydia didn’t seem to appreciate my advice. “What else did you hear?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What else did you hear through those floorboards, Magdalena?” Even classy people can sound nasty if they try hard enough.
“Well, you needn’t worry about that!” I had begun to get huffy myself. “Susannah has oiled all the bedsprings.”
Lydia laughed then, perhaps with relief. “Well, I guess I did get carried away there for a moment. Anyway, what I came to ask you, Magdalena, was for help in keeping this matter a private one.”
“I see,” I said, although actually I didn’t. “How on earth can I help in that regard?”
Lydia rubbed the sole of one of her expensive shoes against a clump of straw. “Well, you are well-known in the community here, and I imagine you exert a considerable amount of local influence. Perhaps you can talk this young officer, whom you seem already to know, into not disclosing publicly where Garrett was today or what his plans are. You know, use some of that influence. After all, it has nothing to do with young Linda, and revealing it could be disastrous to his career.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Me? Influence Melvin Stoltzfus? I can’t even get my sister to pick up her dirty underwear. But speaking of which, Susannah is the one you should be talking to. If anyone can influence Melvin, she can.”
Lydia seemed taken aback. “Well, then,” she said at last, “could you talk to your sister for me? This is a difficult subject for me to talk about, as you might imagine, and I haven’t really gotten a chance to know your sister.”
I studied Lydia Ream for a moment. I savored that moment. There is something uniquely satisfying about having a rich, elegant, well-bred socialite beg for one’s help in a chicken coop. “Okay, I’ll talk to Susannah, but I doubt if it will do any good. If Melvin Stoltzfus has already made up his mind about something, it simply won’t be possible for anyone, even Susannah, to change it.”
“But you’ll have her try?”
“She’ll try, but like I said, don’t count on his being reasonable. He was kicked in the head by a bull, you know.”
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, nothing, just a joke. Now, unless you have any other requests, it’s about time we got out of here. Chickens carry fleas, you know, and when it’s cold like this, the fleas in the straw on the floor hop up on humans seeking warmth.”
Lydia exited rapidly, and I followed. She might have been fleeing the fleas, but I was feeling ravenous again. Stress always does that to me. Fortunately, I still have the metabolism rate of a teenager, otherwise I’d be as big as Aunt Agnes was in her prime. When my mother’s sister died, they buried her in the packing crate her Frigidaire had come in. Even then, I’m told, they had to band the box with metal straps to keep her from popping out.
“Have lunch yet?” I called out after Lydia.
She must not have heard me, because she didn’t even answer. I can’t blame her, though, even if she did.
Women in Lydia’s league don’t often face flea infestation from henhouses. Even their dogs are dipped more often than soft-serve cones at Neubrander’s Dairy Bar.
As for me, all I could think of then was food. Fleas, and come to think of it, praying mantises like Melvin Stoltzfus, would just have to wait until after I’d had something else to eat. With any luck I would find Joel still in the kitchen and convince him to whip me up some of his famous broiled bananas. Since they were the only dish that everyone had eaten the night before, and in fact had even had an encore, they must have been good. I couldn’t wait to taste this interesting concoction.
Chapter 20: Joel Teitlebaum’s Famous Broiled Banana Recipe
Ingredients:
Several large, unripe bananas
An ample supply of lemon juice
Copious amounts of brown sugar
A generous amount of cinnamon
An inquiring mind
Butter or otherwise grease an ovenproof dish. Peel and slice the bananas into quarters. Arrange seed-side up in the dish. Splash with lemon juice. Heap with brown sugar. Sprinkle with cinnamon.
Broil in the oven, about six inches from the heating element, until the brown sugar begins to melt and caramelize (about 3 to 5 minutes). Spoon lemon juice-sugar syrup mixture from the pan over the bananas and serve hot.
Chapter 21
Unfortunately Joel was not in the kitchen. Doc still was, however, and he was happily making himself a plate full of fried baloney and ketchup sandwiches. He asked me to join him, and of course I accepted.
“Want some fresh eggs to go with that?” I asked. Pertelote’s issue was still warm to the touch.
Doc said he would, and I got out another pan and fried up Pertelote’s egg and three others. I like my eggs greasy, slightly runny, and almost black with pepper. Doc likes them the same way.
“Called Ed Houlihan, while you were out,” said Doc casually. Mr. Houlihan was the county coroner, a trained pathologist, and a contemporary of Doc’s. They’d started in medical school together, before Doc switched over to veterinary medicine. Ed was the antithesis of Melvin Stoltzfus in that he had been at his job since back in the days when God was still young. As far as I knew no one had ever run against Ed in the elections, and I don’t suppose they ever will. County coroner is not a glamorous job in these parts. That probably explains why Ed can afford to take four-day holiday weekends.
“Ed’s back finally? The autopsies are done already?”
Doc waved his spatula in annoyance. “You young people have no concept of patience. You can’t even butcher a chicken that fast. I just wanted to tell you that Ed said he’d give me a call when the results are in.”
“When do you think that will be?”
‘You’re always in a hurry, Magdalena.” He waved the spatula again. “Ed has to send a few samples from each of them down to Harrisburg, and you know how slow those boys are.”
“I see.” If they were anywhere near as slow as the boys in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, neither Doc nor I stood a very good chance of living long enough for the results to come back.
“But in the meantime, it’s pretty clear that both women died of respiratory failure. Miss Brown was apparently dead before her fall.” Doc let that sink in for a moment.
My Stoltzfus blood fought valiantly to keep me in the dark, but then the light broke through. “You mean she was murdered?” I cried joyfully. The PennDutch was mine again; Jeanette’s suit didn’t stand a chance.
Doc nodded. “It would appear so. But it’s not conclusive yet. Her falling down the stairs might have been the result of her dying, but that doesn’t automatically mean she was murdered. She may have stopped breathing for a number of other reasons.”
“And Linda? You said she died of respiratory failure as well. So then it wasn’t poison?”
Doc gave me a look that would have curdled buttermilk, had there been any out in the open. “I didn’t say it wasn’t poison. Respiratory failure is often the cause of death from fast-acting poisons. Both plant and animal poisons.”
“Animal poisons? What kind?”
“Snakes, mainly. Some marine life as well.”
“Spiders?”
Instead of getting angry again, Doc laughed. “Give it a rest, Magdalena. It wasn’t a spider that did Linda in. Ed could tell that much already.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It’s not that I didn’t care about Linda, but I cared even more about avoiding a lawsuit for negligent housekeeping, or whatever it was they would have charged me with, had it been a spider. That is, had the spider in question been a homegrown one and not some fancy imported variety.
“If it’s any comfort,” said Doc needlessly, “that young lady died about as quickly as it’s possible to die.”
I flashed up a picture of young Linda, lying on Susannah’s bed and clutching one of Mama’s quilts. “She might have died fast, but it sure wasn’t painless. I’d just as soon go in my sleep.”
“Wouldn’t we all.”
I was about to say something witty about the way old Doc would undoubtedly depart the Earth, but my mind flitted back to the scene I’d just conjured up. There was something definitely wrong with it. Something was very much out of place, but I couldn’t seem to hold the scene in my mind long enough to figure it out.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Doc gently.
“They aren’t worth much right now, that’s for sure. I’ve been thinking about seeing Linda lying there on Susannah’s bed, and something’s just not right.”
Doc smiled. “Besides the fact that she was dead?”
“Yes, besides that.”
Just then Freni came into the kitchen through the back door. She seemed surprised to find anyone there, especially Doc.
“Afternoon, Freni,” said Doc with what was undoubtedly forced joviality.
Freni jerked her head in acknowledgment. She was no more fond of old Doc than he was of her. The Doc / Freni feud, I’m told, goes back even to before I was born. I’m not even sure what it’s about, but I am sure it’s as clear as crystal in both their minds. Neither of them forgets anything, and both of them seem to have a genuine need to be generally disliked. Freni more so than Doc. Doc at least has Ed Houlihan and a few other old cronies to pal around with. Freni, now that Mama’s gone, has only Mose and me.
“Thanks for bringing the casserole over last night,” I practically sang out. I’m all for diverting confrontations.
“No problem, Magdalena, except, of course, that you weren’t here.”
“Sorry, Freni, but you did hear what happened to Shnookums.”
“Grown men should have more important things to do than treating English dogs,” said Freni, looking somewhere just past Doc’s ear. “Anyway, Magdalena, I’m here to start supper. Same old crowd, I suppose.” Freni opened the fridge and began rummaging around.
“You suppose right, Freni. Well, sort of, anyway. One of them’s dead.”
Her voice showed no sign of surprise. “And which one is that?”
“The young woman. Linda was her name.”
“A shame,” said Freni simply.
She started busying herself with supper preparations without clearing anything with me first, including her employment status. From the way she acted, Freni knew exactly what she planned to cook, and that was that. By the looks of what she had lined up on the table, Jeanette and Joel were simply going to be out of luck. Freni, it was clear, had come back with a vengeance.
Doc and I ate our second lunch in respectful silence. We were very careful, however, to chew our food slowly, so it should have been obvious, even to Freni, that we were not at all intimidated by her presence.
When we were quite done, I said good-bye to Doc, who had a four-o’clock appointment to spay the Methodist minister’s Doberman. Then, after a quick prayer and a couple of deep breaths, I worked up enough nerve to sneak back into the parlor. The game was essentially still the same, except for the addition of a few more players.
“Then where were you, if you weren’t hunting?” Melvin was asking the Congressman. Incidentally, Melvin used the same tone of voice with the Congressman as he did with me. I took some comfort in that.
The Congressman, on the other hand, did not seem to possess the bottomless font of patience that I am so famous for. “Look here, kid,” said Garrett, “either I’m a suspect or I’m not. If I’m not, then my whereabouts today are none of your damn business. And you can be damn sure the Governor’s going to hear about this. Delbert, give Paul a ring as soon as this cretin lets us go.”
Perhaps I did feel just a wee bit sorry for Melvin. After all, he was a local boy, and probably really was some kind of kin if I looked hard enough. “Pardon me,” I interjected, “but there’s a phone call for you, Melvin. In the kitchen.”
Melvin looked desperately grateful, although I fully expected him to chew me out later for having addressed him by his first name. At any rate, he followed me like a puppy dog into the kitchen. It was clear he wasn’t actually expecting there to be a call waiting for him, and I thought briefly, and then discarded the notion, about revising my opinion of his intelligence.
“Melvin, dear,” I began, “there’s something important I should tell you.” “Dear,” in case it’s escaped your notice, is a form of address reserved exclusively for use by middle-aged women when they want to be condescending. Although usually this form of condescension is employed by sales clerks, we hoi polloi have rightful access to it as well. Of course, as we all know, at about age fifty-five we need to substitute the word “honey” for “dear” when we stoop to condescend. The principle remains the same, however.
As a truly acculturated man under forty, Melvin responded much better to condescension than he ever had to confrontation. “Yes, Miss Yoder?”
I told Melvin about Lydia’s conversation with me in the henhouse. By the time I was through, Melvin Stoltzfus looked like he was about ready to cry. He was clearly out of his league. “What do you think I should do, Miss Yoder?”
“Pray more,” said Freni. I’m sure she meant it.
“Have you considered calling in the big boys?” I hadn’t meant to be insulting. “What I mean is, can’t you just turn this over to the county? You know, call the Sheriff in on it.”
Melvin shook his head, probably to hide the fact that he was blinking. Given the size of Melvin’s eyes, he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Jeff, I mean the Chief, put me in charge while he’s away. I’m supposed to handle everything that comes up within this jurisdiction. He’s counting on me, Miss Yoder. I’m supposed to follow normal procedure.”
“Well, then, what is normal procedure in this case?”
It wouldn’t have surprised me if Melvin had consulted a handbook, but he didn’t. “I am authorized to detain everyone who was on or had access to these premises, for the next twenty-four hours, or until the coroner’s report is returned. At which time I must—”
“Freni!” My kinswoman and sometime cook was trying to sneak out the back door. What with supper just hours away, I couldn’t afford to let that happen.
“I’m just going out to get some eggs,” said Freni haltingly. Most Amish women are terrible liars.
I smiled. “No need to, dear. I just collected them all a half hour ago.”
Freni’s face turned a nice, deep red, which actually went quite well with her blue gingham dress. “W-w-well,” she stammered, “t-this recipe requires a lot of eggs. I’m going to need some more. Maybe some have been laid since then.”
Maliciously I opened the fridge door. “Do you need more than four dozen?”
“I was only here for ten minutes last night,” said Freni. “All I did was bring a casserole. And this is the thanks I get? Being accused of murder?”
“No one’s accused you of anything,” Melvin tried to explain, but Freni would have none of it.
“Your grandmother and I are cousins,” she said. I’m sure she meant the term loosely. “But we’re more like sisters. And your grandfather and I are cousins on the Bontrager side. I’ve known you all your life, Melvin, long before that bull kicked you in the head, and you have the nerve to accuse me of murder?”
“Freni!” This time it was Mose. I hadn’t seen him come in, so compelling was Freni’s performance.
I let Mose try and calm Freni down while I attempted to do the same with Melvin. That comment about having been kicked in the head clearly seemed to have upset him. Perhaps there was truth to the rumor. Undoubtedly Melvin had heard it before.
“Don’t pay any attention to what she said, Melvin. Freni Hostetler is as high-strung as a telephone pole on Mars. She speaks first and thinks later. But deep inside she’s a pussycat.”
“Cats have claws, Miss Yoder. Anyway, what do you think I should do now?”
“Detain all the guests,” I advised, “but let Freni go home for the night when she’s done here. It’s not like we don’t know where to find her. What’s she going to do, make a mad dash for the Maryland border in her buggy?”
Much to my surprise, Melvin accepted my advice. He told everyone except Freni that no charges had been levied yet but that none of them was to leave the township of Hernia until the coroner’s report came in. I was surprised again when virtually no one complained about having to spend another night at the Inn. Perhaps it was because they were all paid up through the end of the week. At any rate, even the Congressman seemed to have calmed down a bit.
To Freni, Melvin said not another word. The Hostetler farm, incidentally, lies just over the township boundary, a fact undoubtedly known to Melvin. I think Freni should have been grateful that he seemed to have dropped the matter, but of course she wasn’t. She didn’t even bother to put her supper makings back into the fridge before she left.
“I will not be spoken to like that by Sarah Stoltzfus’s grandson, Magdalena. Your mama would turn over in her grave if she knew that little Melvin had accused me of murder.”
“Leave Mama out of it, Freni!”
“And don’t you use that tone of voice on me, Magdalena. I won’t stand here and take that.”
“Then go home, Freni.”
“Good. I will. I quit!”
“Until next time, Freni.”
Fortunately, at that point Mose managed to shuffle his wife out the door. Needless to say, I felt sorry for him. He was forever having to extricate his wife from unpleasant situations—situations caused by distinctively un-Amish behavior on her part. Freni needed either to see a therapist or to seriously consider becoming a Baptist. A pacifist, she was not.
I looked at the mess Freni had left spread out on the table. Whatever it was she had planned for supper, it was beyond me. Something with pig’s knuckles and spiced apple rings, no doubt, but certainly not a menu that would garner even the majority approval of our guests.
“What can I make for supper that everyone will like?” I asked myself. Several times. It is a well-known fact that talking to one’s self is proof of high intelligence.
The very intelligent, of course, talk back to themselves. “Why bother to even try,” I heard myself eventually answer. “Just make them tomato soup and grilled peanut sandwiches. Given the circumstances, they should be happy to get anything.”
And for the most part, they were.
Chapter 22
Jeanette didn’t even come down to supper. I can’t say as I blamed her. When Mama and Papa died, I went about a week without eating. Anyway, I took a bowl of soup and a grilled peanut butter sandwich up to her when supper was over.
“Thanks,” was all she said.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d expected at least one heavy-duty criticism, maybe even a repeated accusation, but such was not the case. “Let me know if you need anything,” I offered. I meant it.
“Thanks,” she said again.
I went back downstairs feeling more than a little uneasy. This was not the same Jeanette who had flung accusations at me in the parlor just hours before. This woman was almost a stranger.
Her subdued responses aside, there was something very different about the woman. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but I thought it might even have something to do with the way she looked. The intense energy, albeit negative, that Jeanette usually projected, was curiously absent. This Jeanette looked about as perky as I must look when I wake up from a too long nap.
Of course I didn’t dwell on Jeanette. She was a big girl, after all. And anyway I had problems of my own to contend with.
“How dare you?” screamed Susannah when I got back to the kitchen.
“How dare I what?”
“Melvin just called, and he’s canceling our date tonight altogether.”
“Somebody should be grateful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Magdalena, this is all your fault. If you hadn’t gone and opened your big yap, I’d be in Breezewood right now, buying popcorn for the movie.”
“Did you wash the quilt and Linda’s sheets like I asked?” With Susannah, you stand at least a fifty-fifty chance of deflecting her if you abruptly change the subject.
“Yes, I washed them. And that’s another thing, I don’t see why that had to be my job.”
“You do want clean bedding for tonight, don’t you?”
Susannah stomped her right foot and slapped the kitchen table so hard it must have jarred poor Shnookums. At any rate, he yelped. “Oh no, I’m not, Magdalena. I’m not sleeping up there where somebody just died.”
“Then pick a spot on the floor in the parlor,” I told her. “You’re for sure not sleeping with me.”
“Magdalena!”
I reminded Susannah that Grandma Yoder had died in my bedroom, in fact in my very bed. That did the trick. Susannah had always been a little afraid of Grandma Yoder, although I can’t say that I blamed her. Grandma Yoder had been a gaunt, hollow-eyed, perpetually angry woman as far back as I can remember. She died when Susannah was only five, but my sister remembers seeing the old woman standing at the foot of her bed on at least two occasions after that. And, as I’ve already shared with you, I’ve seen her about myself a number of times. Apparently these were facts Susannah had forgotten.
“Your room, where sweet young Linda expired, is in the new wing. Grandma was never in there,” I reminded her. “And besides which, since you’ll be by yourself, you can watch TV all night.”
Susannah was cooperative after that.
Even by the time I got done with the few supper dishes, without Susannah’s help of course, virtually everyone else had retired to their rooms. Or so I thought. I nearly let out a scream when I came back from checking the front door and found Joel Teitlebaum crouching on the floor behind the check-in desk.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, when I finally had control of my vocal cords.
Joel stood up sheepishly. He held up a fistful of postcards. “I was looking at these, trying to pick out a couple to buy, when they all kind of just slipped out of my hand.”
I took a couple of deep breaths. “Well, you almost scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had gone to their rooms.”
Joel tucked most of the postcards back on the rack. “I’m off to bed myself, soon as I pay for these. It’s been a long day, even if it is early.”
“You were fond of Linda, weren’t you?” I wasn’t being nosy, just sympathetic in my own way.
“Yeah, Linda was okay,” said Joel. That’s one thing I like about young people today. They’re seldom maudlin.
“I’m sure you’ll miss her. I’ll bet you two were really close.”
Joel cleared his throat before speaking. “Miss Yoder, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy. It wasn’t me and Linda who were close, it was Linda and Billy Dee.”
“I see.” I should have seen earlier. How uncharacteristically stupid of me. After all, I had seen Billy Dee and Linda having a tete-a-tete over the quilting frame in the dining room, while Joel sat alone in the parlor munching sunflower seeds.
“Good night, Miss Yoder,” said Joel. He seemed more embarrassed now than he had a minute ago, when I’d discovered him on his hands and knees.
“Good night, Joel. And thanks for pitching in the other night with your famous broiled bananas. I hear they were the hit of the house. In fact, I was told they were the only thing that appealed to everybody.”
Joel blushed. “Yeah, well, I got the recipe from a West African roommate. They’re very easy to make. I’m just glad everybody liked them. I felt sorry for Mrs. Ream. Nobody ate her vegetable curry except for we three vegetarians. You’d have thought her own husband would have given it a try.”
“I heard it looked pretty bad,” I said in Billy Dee’s defense.
“Yeah, well, that’s still no excuse for being rude.”
I refrained from pointing out that Joel probably hadn’t touched Billy Dee’s venison stew, or the Congressman’s beans, which had been doctored up with bits of bacon. There is no point in trying to change someone else’s perspective, anyway. We all just see what we want to see. That goes double for the young. I decided to just ignore his comment.
“Say, Joel,” I said, “you wouldn’t be interested in playing a game of cards, would you?”
He looked at me in surprise.
“Oh, not with face cards,” I assured him quickly. “We Mennonites don’t use those. I’m thinking of Rook. I could see if Susannah wants to play, and we could use the kitty as the fourth hand.”
I was surprisingly un-tired, given the kind of day I’d had. I would have thought that having a second corpse show up in my inn would wear me to a frazzle, send me emotionally and physically escaping into the depths of dark, safe sleep. But not so. Maybe it was because I’d slept so late that morning, or maybe it was because I’m a psychological misfit, but I was still feeling as perky as all get out. Shamefully so. Maybe even high—not that I’m sure I know what that feels like.
Apparently Joel did not share my vim and vigor; either that or he simply had no interest in playing games with someone old enough to be his mother. He said he was feeling unusually tired and thought he might even be coming down with something.
We said good night again, and having nothing else to do, I went to my room, lay down on my bed, and began to read. I guess I should confess right now that I absolutely adore reading. I’m sure some people think that just because I live a simple lifestyle, I have a simple mind. If only they knew.
When I was in the third grade my teacher called Mama in and told her the school had determined that I had an I.Q. of 146 and they were recommending that I be promoted to the fifth grade. Mama refused to even consider such a thing. Having me skip a grade would lead to prideful and arrogant thoughts on my part, Mama told the teacher. I was never to know I was smarter than anyone else in my class. And then, just to make sure she counteracted anything my teacher might be doing on the sly, Mama established her own program of teaching me all the fine points of modesty and humility.
It wasn’t until Susannah was in high school, and she found out from her guidance counselor that she had an I.Q. of 142, that the light began to dawn. If Susannah was that smart, I reasoned, so was I. If not smarter. But by then I had lost confidence in myself and had long since put the idea of college behind me. Still, one day in an argument with Mama, the truth had come out. Just between you and me, Mama deserves a couple of extra turns in her grave for what she did.
Anyway, like I said, I love to read. My books have taken me far beyond the limits of my natural world, and I don’t think I could survive my life here at the PennDutch Inn without them. Unfortunately, Hernia doesn’t have a library, even a tiny one. Old Doc Shafer does, though. When I was a child he used to bring books by the bushel basket for me to read. Mama didn’t mind at all, providing she got to sort through them first.
Nowadays, even the library in Somerset offers slim pickings when it comes to books I haven’t read. Fortunately old Doc has a niece in Pittsburgh who visits him almost every other week, and she doesn’t seem to mind at all making trips to the Carnegie Library for me. Occasionally she even stops at the Mystery Lovers Bookshop in suburban Oakmont and picks up a good whodunnit or two.
I had just started a book by Paul Theroux, my favorite travel writer, when the phone rang. I answered the phone on the seventh ring, but perhaps I should have waited longer. Even then I must have sounded crabby. “Miss Yoder?” asked a timid voice.
“That depends on who wants to know.”
“This is Melvin, Miss Yoder. Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“Speak up, Melvin. I can barely hear you.”
“Miss Yoder, I just got a call from the coroner, and there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”
“Ask away, Melvin.”
“Did you know that Linda McMahon was pregnant?”
“She never breathed a word to me about it,” I said quite honestly.
“Well, she was. Just about to enter her second trimester, as a matter of fact. Which brings me to my second question. Would you have any idea who the father might be?”
“Why, Melvin Stoltzfus, you should be ashamed!” I said with righteous indignation. “This is a Christian establishment, and I don’t allow any hanky-panky. And anyway, you just said yourself that she was three months pregnant. If that’s the case, it surely didn’t happen here. For all I know, Billy Dee Grizzle is the father.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Melvin, dear, I was being flippant.”
“I’ll have to question Mr. Grizzle about that in the morning,” said Melvin, quite seriously. “In the meantime, there’s something I think you should know.”
“Go on, Melvin, I’m listening.”
“Both Heather Brown and Linda McMahon were definitely poisoned.”
“I said, go on, Melvin. I already suspected that.”
“Both women were killed by the same type of poison, but the killer used two different poisons on Linda McMahon.”
“Two poisons?”
I thought I heard Melvin take a deep breath. “Yes, two, but only one of the poisons killed her.”
“Come again?”
“You see, Miss Yoder, the poison that killed the women was a very fast-acting type of digitalis. It causes respiratory failure within a matter of minutes. Respiratory failure is when—”
“I know, Melvin. Go on.”
“Well, Harrisburg plugged their computer into Washington’s and came up with the interesting fact that this particular form of digitalis is found only in one species of plant, and that plant is native only to Morocco.”
“Morocco?”
“The lower slopes of the Atlas Mountains to be precise. The Arabic name for the plant is gouza. It’s a very unusual plant in that it produces green flowers. It’s these flowers that are the most toxic part of the plant. Although they are more lethal if consumed fresh, when dried and put into tea they also remain deadly.”
It sounded like Melvin was reading a pamphlet the C.I.A. had faxed him. Perhaps he was. “And what about the second poison, the one that didn’t kill her?”
“Ah, that. That was just common old Aethusa cynafium."
“Sounds common enough to me.”
“You know, ‘fool’s parsley.’ ”
“Fool’s parsley! That stuff grows everywhere you don’t want it to. I’m forever trying to get it out of the garden.”
“Exactly. So that one at least was easy to come by.”
“How toxic is it?”
“Well, let’s see. It contains something called cynafine, and cicutoxin."
“Speak English, Melvin.”
“It’s apparently not nearly as toxic as that Moroccan plant. People have been known to die from it, but sometimes the symptoms don’t even show up for as much as three days. Although they could show up in a few hours, depending on how much the person ate and their general state of health.”
“I see. What are the symptoms, Melvin?”
“Well, the coroner didn’t say too much about that one, since it isn’t the one that killed her... no, wait, he did say something about the first symptoms being a general tiredness, a gradual weakening of the muscles.”
I tried to remain calm. “Melvin, if it takes a while for the poison in fool’s parsley to kick in, isn’t it possible that others besides Linda might have eaten some? That the poison might be slowly working in some of us right now?”
I thought I heard Melvin scratch his head. “I suppose that’s possible, Miss Yoder, but it doesn’t make any sense, does it? The killer used two poisons, remember? If any of you had been given the Moroccan poison, you’d be dead as a doornail by now.”
“But Melvin,” I foolishly persisted, “what if there are two killers? What if the one who used the Moroccan poison only wanted Miss Brown and Linda dead, but the second one wanted to kill more than just the two women? What if there are two independent killers, with two different agendas, Melvin?”
I’m sorry to say this, Mrs. Stoltzfus, but your son laughed just then. “Magdalena! Susannah was right. You do have an active imagination. Two killers in one place at the same time, with different motives? Do you know what the odds are of such a thing happening?” What did odds have to do with anything? What were the odds of anybody dying in the PennDutch Inn to begin with? I mean, even Mama and Papa didn't die here, and as for Grandma Yoder, she was ninety-seven and should, by rights, have died in a nursing home. What were the odds that Miss Brown would check in, and then “check out” before she even had a chance to check out? So, what did it matter what the odds were, when Susannah walked in and found Linda dead, clutching in her hands a quilt that wasn’t even supposed to be in that room to begin with.
“Forget odds!” I practically screamed. “Use your noggin. Why on earth would someone give a person a slow-acting poison if they were going to give them a fast-acting poison later on? And how come Miss Brown got only one poison when Linda got two?”
“I didn’t appreciate your comment about my head,” Melvin snapped. “And as you are a civilian, Miss Yoder, I don’t think we need to carry this conversation any further.” He hung up.
“But, Melvin, I think I know who one of your killers is,” I said anyway.
Immediately, I tried to call Melvin back, but the line was busy. I called at least six more times in the next ten minutes, but it was always the same.
Finally I gave up and rang old Doc instead. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Doc?” But I never got to say any more than that. Because at that very second the door to my bedroom opened and Billy Dee Grizzle stepped in. In his hand he carried the same hunting knife he’d used to skin the buck.
Chapter 23
“Put the phone down,” he said softly.
I obeyed.
“Now come here.”
I got off the bed, where I’d been sitting, and tried to take a step in his direction. But I found that my feet had suddenly been rooted to the floor. I willed them to move, but they would have no part of it.
“I said, get over here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Billy Dee took a couple of steps forward, the knife plainly in view. “I’m sorry to say this, Miss Yoder, but if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to have to slice you wide open like that buck this afternoon.” He ran the tip of the knife lightly across his clothing, from his throat down to his groin. “Then I’m going to gut you.”
I screamed then, at least in my mind, but no sound came out that I could hear. Like Susannah, I had become a silent screamer.
Billy Dee sprang forward and grabbed me by the hair with his left hand. Then he spun me around and slipped his right arm around my neck. The tip of the knife now rested against that soft spot between the back of my left ear and my skull. “Walk!”
I commanded my feet to walk. Like reluctant and disorganized troops, my feet at last obeyed, and I lurched forward. With each step, I could feel the tip of the knife prick into my skin. With each breath I took, I could smell Billy Dee’s breath, which was saturated with alcohol. Like a monstrous pair of mating beetles, we staggered in tandem to the door.
“The kitchen,” he grunted.
Maybe it was Billy Dee’s breath, or maybe simply because my mind was no longer able to sustain such heights of terror, but I felt a sort of awakening. A tap had been turned back on, and energy that had been temporarily dammed up was flowing back through me. I no longer had to command each foot to move, remember to take each breath.
As soon as the kitchen door closed behind us, Billy Dee let go of my hair. With his left hand, he pushed me toward the center of the room.
“Now turn around,” he ordered.
I turned.
“Don’t even think of running, Miss Yoder. I can hit a stump at fifty yards with this thing.”
I just looked at him.
He seemed almost embarrassed. “You know, I kinda liked you, Miss Yoder. It’s a pity you had to go and get yourself involved.”
I thought of one or two smart things to say, but bit my tongue.
“Course, now that you are involved, I ain’t left with any choice, am I?”
I tried to look motherly, but apparently Billy Dee was beyond guilt. “And it was such a damn good plan, too, Miss Yoder. Letting Jeanette feel just what it’s like losing a daughter. Much better than killing her, herself, don’t you think?”
Thankfully, after what seemed like an interminable pause, even Billy Dee decided it must have been a rhetorical question. “I didn’t mean to kill my only kid,” he said quietly. “I sure as hell didn’t deserve to go to jail for it. And I sure as hell ain’t going again.
“You know, I ain’t much of a thinker, but this was one hell of a thought-out plan. Ever since that bitch told me six weeks ago that we was coming down here to protest the Congressman, I knew I had me my chance. We can’t afford to let chances pass us up, now can we, Miss Yoder?”
I shook my head. Anything to encourage him to keep on talking. His knife was a lot sharper than his tongue.
“And I’ve been doing my homework the whole time, too. When I found out that the Congressman had taken him a trip to Morocco, I knew just what I was going to do. You see, they have this wildflower there. Kind of a strange-looking green thing they call—oh, what the hell, I can’t remember the name of that damn thing. Some damn Arab word like—”
“Gouza," I said.
"Yeah, that’s right.” He seemed almost to welcome my interruption. “Anyway, I got me a buddy, still in the merchant marines, who puts into Tangiers every now and then. He owed me a favor. A big one. And he’s got connections, the kind you wouldn’t know anything about. So I had him send me some of the stuff. Of course it ain’t as potent when it’s been dried, but as you can see,” he chuckled morbidly, “it’s still strong enough to do the job.”
“It sounds like you went to an awful lot of trouble,” I said. I tried to sound admiring, not critical.
Billy stared at me.
“I mean,” I hurried to explain, “there are probably a whole lot of poisons you could have gotten closer to home. Without sending off to Morocco.”
He burst out laughing. “But don’t you see? That’s what I mean about it being one hell of an idea. I knew Jeanette and the Congressman had it in for each other. No siree Bob, that was no secret. Not on Jeanette’s part, anyway. She was always making out how she’d been wronged by him. Called him a sleaze. Right in front of Linda.” He tapped his forehead with a finger. “Didn’t take no genius to figure out that she had been blackmailing him neither.”
“Blackmail?”
“Yes, ma’am. Even poor Linda knew about it, and she hated her old mama.”
“Linda told you that?”
“A little sweet-talking goes a long way, if you know what I mean.”
I wanted to slap the smirk off his face. “That’s absolutely disgusting, Billy Dee. Linda was just a child.”
“Anyway, once I knew the Congressman was being blackmailed, I knew I had me the perfect scapegoat. What with his drug habit and all, he couldn’t afford no blackmail. Coming up with the Moroccan thing was the easy part.”
“You knew about the Congressman’s drug abuse too?”
“Like I said, Miss Yoder, I did my homework. Then I made sure that another interested party knew just as much as I did. Kinda gave her a motive to match her husband’s.”
“Not Lydia!”
“Hell, yes. And that’s a damn shame too. Pretty woman like that shouldn’t have to hear such things.”
“But why would Lydia go after Linda? You’d think it would be Jeanette or Garrett she’d want to punish.”
“And what better way to punish them both, Miss Yoder?”
“But what about the baby, Billy Dee? You knew Linda was pregnant, didn’t you? How could you kill your baby? Especially after having lost Jennifer Mae?”
For a few seconds Billy Dee’s upper lip quivered. “Leave Jennifer Mae out of this, Miss Yoder! I didn’t know Linda was pregnant until just a week or so ago. By then it was too late, of course.”
“How was it too late?”
“The wheels of justice had already begun to turn, Miss Yoder.” He laughed. “You see, justice must be served, Miss Yoder, at all costs.”
“Even at the cost of your ownflesh and blood?”
Billy Dee responded by plunging the knife into my kitchen table. The blade seemed to penetrate about an inch into the hard, aged wood. For a split second I considered bolting for the door, but in that split second Billy Dee pulled the blade out again. It gleamed, just as wicked and sharp-looking as ever.
“Any more questions, Miss Yoder?”
I swallowed the cantaloupe in my throat. My prognosis did not look very good. If I was going to check out, I might as well go with all my questions answered.
“Yes, actually, I do have another question. What did Miss Brown have to do with all this? Why did you kill her? You did kill her, didn’t you, Billy Dee?”
A big smile crept across his face, the kind of smile that signals smug satisfaction. “Ah, Miss Brown. Yeah, I killed Miss Brown, or whatever her name was. Only it sure as hell wasn’t Brown. That bitch was a Fed.”
“What is a Fed?” Look, there isn’t any point in worrying about appearing stupid when you are about to die.
Billy Dee’s smile softened and appeared almost benevolent. Perhaps the man had a knack for teaching, particularly slow learners. “A Fed is a Federal Drug Enforcement Officer. Miss Brown, or whoever the hell she was, was one busy woman. She had a line on my buddy’s connections back in Morocco. One of them was an American who liked to ship stuff back home.” His smile slipped into a laugh. “It’s a small world, ain’t it, Miss Yoder?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen too little of it to tell.”
“Then that’s a shame,” said Billy, and it sounded like he really meant it. “But take my word for it, it’s a real small world. Real small. Turns out Miss Brown, or whoever, also had a line on the Congressman. And guess what? Them two lines was tangled. Seems that good old Garrett was buying from my Moroccan supplier on a regular basis. Not too dumb a move on his part, either, because them South American sources are too closely watched these days.
“Anyway, this woman comes here to see if she can catch the Congressman with his fingers in the sugar bowl, before he can check into that clinic—uh—”
“Grossinger-Beechman.”
“Yeah, that’s the place. Y’see, if she coulda done that, she’da had leverage. Might have been able to pull in a whole handful of lines; most of them with one end tied to Morocco.”
“And one of them yours?”
He looked surprised, and then amused. “Hell, no! I don’t do drugs.”
“You just buy deadly poison?”
“Yeah, you might say that. Real deadly poison. The best. Anyway, I wasn’t afraid that Miss Brown would arrest me—it’d take a lot more than her to put me in the slammer again. What I didn’t want, though, was her mining it all by reeling in the Congressman before I had a chance to pin Linda’s death on him. So, I took me a vote and decided that Miss Brown would take a nice trip down them stairs, after she had a taste of gouza.”
“I’m sure you’d make a good cruise director, but I’m also sure Miss Brown didn’t swallow your gouza willingly.” He laughed surprisingly loud. Surely someone had heard him. “She was a feisty little woman, for her age, I’ll give her that. Course, I set me up a diversion, just in case there was any noise, by putting that spider on Linda’s bed. Anybody who knew Linda, knew how she felt about bugs, specially spiders. And finding one here was a piece of cake. Face it, Miss Yoder, you ain’t much of a housekeeper.”
Even while sitting in the lap of death, I felt my face sting at such an accusation. “It was Susannah’s room!”
His eyes twinkled cruelly. “This one I found in the dining room, on one of them corncobs you got there. Stuck him in that jar you let me have for them night crawlers. Honestly, Miss Yoder, I don’t mean no disrespect, but a farm woman like you oughta know don’t nobody go fishing in November with worms.”
“But Papa...” Then I remembered that February was the off-season month Papa fished in, only it was ice-fishing, and he used smoked bacon for bait.
“Yes siree Bob! This here spider was a nice, plump little critter. And I wouldn’t have had no place to keep him if it hadn’t been for that jar you so kindly gave me.”
“That jar! I—uh—I saw it in Miss Brown’s room.”
“Did you now? Well, it ain’t there no more. Didn’t get me a chance to go back that night to get it. Woulda been too noisy with that room sealed up like it is. But I finally got it. Of course I shoulda figured a snoop like you, with all the time in the world, would beat me in there.”
“I am not a snoop,” I said. If I was going to die, I at least wanted to set the record straight.
“And I suppose you figured out it was me who broke into the old bag’s trunk?”
“Not soon enough, I’m afraid.”
“Of course there weren’t nothing in there to worry about. What a waste of time and energy. No papers or nothing mentioning me or the Congressman. Tweren’t nothing at all in there, as you know.”
“Except for a sunflower seed. You should be ashamed of yourself for trying to pin everything on a nice young kid like Joel.”
Billy Dee shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta take the rap, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me. But how did you know it wasn’t Teitlebaum who opened the trunk?”
“You left your calling card at the scene of the crime. Tobacco kills, you know.”
“So do knives,” said Billy Dee softly. It took only a glance at the knife to drive the point home.
I tried to think of a stalling device. “I could fix you a cup of coffee, if you want. And a bacon and tomato sandwich. It won’t take any time at all.”
Billy Dee pulled a vial of pale emerald-colored liquid out of his shirt pocket.
“Speaking of time, Miss Yoder. Just a few drops of this stuff on the tongue, and you’re a goner. Of course, Miss Brown didn’t open her mouth voluntarily, but it weren’t really no harder than giving a cat or dog a pill. You ever done that, Miss Yoder? Given an animal a pill?”
“Some cats scratch pretty bad,” I said. “They also make a lot of noise when they die. Why don’t you just take off, Billy Dee? You got what you came for. Why don’t you just cut the phone cords, let all the air out of our tires, and take off? It’s six miles into town, and you could be halfway to Maryland before I got that far.”
In response, Billy Dee began scraping at the stubble on his cheeks with the knife. The blade was obviously razor sharp; little bits of whisker fell like pepper from a mill.
I could think of nothing further to say.
“Well, now, Miss Yoder,” said Billy Dee, filling in the silence, “we’ve done far too much talking tonight. It’s time for a little action, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I struggled to say.
“Sure, you do. You’re a fine-looking woman. A whole lot prettier than that Miss Brown. It’s time you and me had a little fun before we have to say good-bye.”
I knew that if I didn’t sit down then, I would probably faint. I tried to speak, but what come out wasn’t words.
“What was that?”
“Please, Billy, may I sit down?” I managed to say.
“Sit.” He kicked a chair under me and slowly moved the knife back up to my throat. With his free hand, he began to stroke my hair. “When you catch your breath, Miss Yoder, you and me are going for a little walk.”
I tried to catch my breath, but it seemed like I had rocks in my lungs. “Where are we going, Billy?”
His hand left my hair and slid to my face. “I seen you looking at me when we was in the barn, Miss Yoder. It was you put the idea in my head. That’s a mighty fine barn, Miss Yoder, so I figure you and me are going to put it to good use.”
“But Mose will be there,” I said. “One of the cows is ill, and he likes to stay the night when that happens.” It was of course a lie, but one of which even Mama would have been proud.
“I ain’t afraid of no old man,” said Billy. He sounded almost happy at the thought of a confrontation with Mose. “Now, it’s about time we head on out for there. I got me a lot to do yet before the night is over.”
“I can’t move with this knife at my throat,” I said. He pulled the knife back a few inches to allow me room to stand. “Now, get up.”
“Billy, please,” I begged. “You can tie me up here if you want to. Gag me, even. And then take off. I won’t cause any trouble until morning.”
I thought I heard Billy Dee grunt in anger then. I closed my eyes and waited for the slicing edge of the knife, or at the least to feel the onslaught of his fists. I would rather have died with Mama and Papa in the tunnel, but if this was how I had to go, I prayed he would do it quickly.
But no pain was forthcoming. Instead, the knife seemed to drop into my lap, and then slid harmlessly to the floor. I heard the ping of its blade as it struck the linoleum. As for Billy Dee, by the sound of it, he too had hit the floor, just seconds after the knife.
I kept my eyes closed, afraid that if I opened them the horror would somehow return.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, not Billy’s, that much I knew. “Magdalena?”
I forced my eyes open and could hardly believe what I saw. “Doc!” I screamed.
The hand on my shoulder patted me gently.
“There, there, Magdalena, it’s all right now. The son of a bitch is out like a prizefighter. Of course I gave him twice the dose I gave Susannah.”
“What?”
Old Doc waved the syringe proudly. “I’m just glad the bastard didn’t hear me sneaking in and turn around. Anyway, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, like they say. When you hung up on me, I knew something was terribly wrong. Would have gotten here even sooner, but I had to wait two minutes until it was time for my damn cake to come out of the oven. Of course I didn’t get a chance to frost it.”
“What?”
Doc smiled magnanimously. “No big deal. It’ll be nice and cool by the time I get back. Best time to frost it anyway. Shall I make it chocolate or vanilla? Which do you prefer?”
“Caramel,” I said, just to be difficult.
Chapter 24
By tacit agreement, we waited until our second piece of cake before we brought up the previous night’s events and the circumstances leading up to them. The first piece of cake, both Doc and I understood instinctively, was to be savored. One can’t pay proper attention to aroma, texture, and taste when one is talking.
Having swallowed my first bite of the second piece, I felt free to fill Doc in on some of the missing pieces of the story.
“It was the quilt,” I said. “That was the main thing. It kept bothering me in the back of my mind, but I was just too stupid to see it. I should have known right away, of course, when I saw Linda clutching Mama’s dresden plate quilt.”
It is permissible to talk with cake in your mouth, if you’re on your second piece, so Doc did. “What’s so damn special about that quilt? As I recall, you keep quilts in all the rooms.”
“But that’s it exactly! Every room has a quilt in it, but it’s a particular quilt. Each room has a quilt with a different pattern on it. The quilt, the dresden plate quilt that Mama made, belongs in Billy Dee’s room, not Linda’s.
“So you see, when I saw it in Linda’s room, I knew something was out of place, but it just didn’t register.”
“Couldn’t Mr. Grizzle simply have loaned it to Linda?”
I shoved in a bite of Doc’s incredibly moist cake. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened. Linda had mentioned to Billy Dee that she was feeling chilly, and so he offered to bring her a cup of herbal tea and an extra quilt. Of course, that was the perfect opportunity for Billy Dee to administer the poison.
“As soon as the poison started to take effect, Billy Dee grabbed the teacup and extra quilt and got out of there.”
“I see,” said Doc, “except that Mr. Grizzle, being your average, insensitive man, grabbed the wrong quilt.”
“Well, they do look sort of alike,” I surprised myself by saying in Billy Dee’s defense. “Linda’s original quilt was also a dresden plate pattern, but it wasn’t the one Mama made.” I swallowed hard and let the truth out. “Mama’s quilt isn’t nearly so nice.” Sorry, Mama, about that extra spin.
“More coffee, Magdalena?”
I nodded. “The weird part is, Doc, that Billy Dee seemed like such a nice man. He was always so polite to me, of course until last night.”
“Never fully trust anyone, Magdalena,” said old Doc sagely. “Want some more cake?”
I shook my head. “But Lydia, that was even more of a surprise.”
“Do tell,” Doc urged. “Melvin was rather cryptic when I called him this morning. Seems he’s not happy about having to share credit with you.”
“Ah, forget Melvin. He’s going out with Susannah tonight anyway. That’s payback enough.
“But back to Lydia. She too made a complete confession last night. I hate to say it, but Billy Dee was right on the money. Well, sort of. It was she who took the potshots at me. She’d stayed home that morning while Delbert attempted to take Garrett to the clinic. Apparently the Reams had had a fight that morning, because Garrett refused to clear some things up before his admission. Garrett, I mean the Congressman, changed his mind on the way there, but that’s another story.
“Anyway, when Lydia saw me set out for Freni’s across the field, she assumed it was Jeanette, possibly even meeting Garrett on a secret rendezvous. When she figured out it was me in the woods, she backed off. It was on her way back to the house, out by the barn, that she walked through some fool’s parsley, and the idea of poisoning Jeanette popped into her head.
“Although Lydia’s main objective was to get even with Jeanette, and to clear her out of the way for her husband’s presidential bid, she was not particularly reluctant to poison poor Linda as well. After all, Linda was concrete proof of her husband’s infidelity. Lydia, of course, knew that her husband wouldn’t eat that dreadful curry. He hates garlic, and she put four whole cloves in it.”
Doc hadn’t gotten a chance to appreciate any of Lydia’s finer qualities. “Yeah,” he said, “but she sure as hell didn’t care if she poisoned the rest of you. That woman deserves to fry until she’s a nice golden brown.”
I chuckled, perhaps inappropriately. “Whatever her ultimate punishment is, Doc, she’s suffering plenty in the meantime. Worst case of flea bites I’ve ever seen. It was like those fleas were just waiting for a nice, cultured English woman to come along and be their dinner.”
Doc smiled with satisfaction. “What about the Congressman’s aide, Mr. James, isn’t it? At dinner the other night you intimated that he and Mrs. Ream might be sweet on each other.”
I held out my cup for more coffee. “So I was wrong, Doc. That was all an act, at least on her part, to exercise control over him. Delbert, on the other hand, might well have a thing for Lydia. Melvin thinks it might have been Delbert shooting at Jeanette that first day out in the woods. He does, after all, carry a revolver to protect the Congressman.”
Doc put down the coffeepot. “Or, it simply might have been the Congressman who shot at Jeanette, using his aide’s revolver. Unfortunately, we’ll probably never know the whole truth. Both of those men are as slippery as three-day-old meat.”
I was glad it was just cake we were eating and not a main meal. “At any rate, Doc, I think it’s possible that Delbert does carry a torch for Lydia. He was pretty broken up when Melvin arrested her. Anyway, he seemed much too eager to come across as gay, if you ask me.”
“Like he was sending up a smoke screen?”
“Exactly. But Lydia actually despises the man. Seems she blames him for keeping her husband supplied with drugs, and for keeping the secret of his affair with Jeanette for so long. By her own admission, she would have been happy to have him chow down on her vegetable curry as well, but she forgot that he’s allergic to garlic and therefore wouldn’t touch the stuff, even though he likes the taste.
“Unfortunately, poor Joel, who isn’t even on her hate list, had to suffer. But he’s doing all right now in the hospital. Jeanette’s still in critical condition, but I’m pretty sure she’ll pull through. After all, only the good die young.”
“Which means you were safe all along,” Doc teased.
I felt a goose walk over my grave.
“Maybe. But you know, I would have eaten Lydia’s vegetable curry if I had been there.”
Suddenly I felt angry, both at Lydia, who had violated my trust, and at Freni, whose fragile ego had given rise to the whole situation to begin with.
“One thing’s for certain, Doc, I’m never letting any guests in my kitchen ever again. Not even if I have to cook every meal myself.”
“Good idea,” Doc agreed. “There should never be more than one cook at a time in a kitchen. Two maybe, at the very most. Like they say, too many cooks spoil the broth.”
“Make that crooks, Doc.”
We both laughed, and I poured some more coffee. “Say, Doc, I might just be going on a date this weekend,” I said shyly.
Doc beamed. “I haven’t asked you yet, but sure thing, kid.”
I patted his free hand warmly. “Thanks, Doc, but it’s with someone else.”
Doc’s face clouded over. “Sam didn’t leave his wife, did he?”
“Get real, Doc. Jumbo Jim called me this morning. We talked for almost an hour.”
“You mean that hot dog fella down in Baltimore?”
“Chicken, Doc. And that’s the one. Turns out he got my number from information. He wants to come up this weekend and meet me. He thinks we might have a lot in common.”
“Why? Is he rich?”
I tried to look aghast but found myself giggling instead. “I don’t know if he’s rich, Doc. But we both run small businesses, and he’s my age—”
“Ah, so that’s it! You don’t have time for an old, bald man. Think I’ve lost the spark, eh?”
“Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street, Doc,” I said quickly. I had no idea what that meant, but I’d heard Susannah say it once or twice when she had bald boyfriends.
“And there’s no snow on the roof when there’s a fire inside,” added Doc. He seemed to have perked up.
“Like I said, Doc, this is only a maybe. He might not even show up.”
“Here’s hoping he doesn’t,” said Doc, as he served me up another slice of his deliciously moist cake.
I ate it anyway.
Chapter 25: Doc Shafer’s Cocoa Mocha Cake