Murder and Mozzarella

by Carole Fowkes

  “No. the witness’ll talk to me. Alone.”

  “Either you’re very persuasive or you know her.”

  He gave me a cocky grin. “Both.”

  “How do you know she isn’t the killer?”

  He snorted, then turned away, but I wasn’t about to give up.

  I hopped in front of him. “Who is she?” When it was obvious he had no intention of telling me, I added, “I’m a private investigator and I’ve got a deal for you. If you make it easy on me and tell me who she is now, I promise when I talk to her, not to make up a story about how you blabbed her name all over town.” My stomach twisted. This wasn’t what the nuns taught me at school.

  He looked as if he wanted to punch me. Instead he mumbled under his breath, “Deal.” He then snarled, “Darcy Mills.”

  “Thanks.” I speed walked toward my car, hoping he wouldn’t follow.

  Once I was sure he wasn’t after me, my mind turned to the three murders, Parker, Collin, and now this latest. It was the same killer. I could feel it in my bones, my gut, and my brain. Furthermore, John Vanderson had a part in all this. Although the thought of confronting the man made my legs jiggle like meringue on a pie, it had to be done.

  On the way to his office in Shaker Heights, I noticed I had a message from Mrs. Vanderson. A call from her this early in the morning didn’t bode well. Not that her calls ever did.

  Her tone as dead as Jennifer Nelson, my client announced, “I went to see that woman who was allegedly sleeping with my husband.”

  I sucked in a breath. “When? I mean, when did you see her?”

  “Around one in the morning.”

  “Did anyone see you go in or leave?”

  “Nobody called out or stopped me.” A short pause. “Why?”

  “Jennifer Nelson is dead.”

  “No! Oh God! No!” Her voice broke.

  Amazingly, I kept calm. “Mrs. Vanderson, tell me everything that happened, starting from when you arrived at her home.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she began. “I couldn’t sleep. John was, well, he wasn’t home. I drove to the woman’s house. Not to do anything. Oh, maybe in the back of my mind I wanted to confront her. Anyway, I just sat in my car for a few minutes. I was going to leave, but then she pulled into her driveway. God knows what came over me. I flew out of my car and confronted her. She refused to talk to me outside but, I suppose rather than let the neighbors hear us, she let me come inside.”

  This day was getting worse by the minute. “Then, what happened?”

  “Of course she denied having an affair with John. She laughed and claimed they were business partners. She wouldn’t explain any further except to advise me to stay out of it. Then she practically shoved me out the door.”

  She blew out a nervous breath. “So I left, furious at her, but I swear to you. I didn’t harm her.”

  “She was alone?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “At least I didn’t see anybody.”

  One bad thing after another was wearing me down. I had no answers. Only more questions. What did Jennifer know and who was afraid she’d share it?

  No idea as to what that information was, but both Fenton and John Vanderson came to mind as the answer to the ‘who’ question. Unfortunately, I had no hard evidence to back up my suspicions. And why would she fear either of them?

  My thoughts bounced back to my client’s future. “Have the police talked to you yet?”

  Fear seeped into her words. “You don’t think they’ll suspect me?”

  “If anybody saw you at Jennifer’s house, they may. I suggest you talk to your attorney.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right.” Then silence for so long I thought perhaps she’d hung up. After a quiet, “Thank you,” she did end the call.

  It was in that instant that I knew I had to dig into John Vanderson’s role in all this. Which meant I needed to know the details of his life. The devil is in the details, they say. And I wondered if Vanderson’s pitchfork was responsible for a few more souls arriving in Hell.

  Pulling into a Starbuck’s parking lot, I rested my head against the steering wheel, trying to process it all. It took a while, but with the help of a large tea, I fortified myself to hunt down John Vanderson. Maybe I should have gotten a double chocolate chunk brownie to go with it.

  Stuck in rush hour traffic, it took me almost an hour to reach Vanderson’s office in Shaker Heights. During that time I rehearsed boldly firing off my questions to him, and I patted my pocket at least twice to make sure my gun was easily accessible. Not that I’d need the weapon. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  Winding my way through one of those parking garages that seems to have an endless number of levels, I finally found a spot on the very top. With a quick finger comb through my hair, I located the elevator that would take me to Vanderson’s floor. It was no surprise that his law firm occupied the building’s entire fourth floor.

  The young receptionist was clear in her unwillingness to let me pass her desk. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Vanderson is in a meeting. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  At that very moment, the foolishness of drinking a large tea in its entirety hit me. I needed to find a restroom, and quickly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  After taking care of that personal business I looked in the bathroom mirror and did another quick finger comb. I blew out a breath and applied some lipstick. It was still morning, yet I looked as if I’d just pulled an all-nighter.

  Stepping out of the restroom, I spotted Abby at the same time she saw me. Of course, she looked shower fresh. Honestly, could she have been any more Disney heroine-like?

  We maintained eye contact and completed a half-circle around each other, as if I was a Jet and she, a Shark. Or vice versa. All we needed were switchblades and blaring, intense music. Almost simultaneously we asked, “What are you doing here?”

  I didn’t need an answer. At least not from her, since Corrigan stepped out of the men’s room. I swear, the look he gave Abby and me said loud and clear he wished he could duck back in.

  “Claire.” His voice was as stern as my father’s whenever I disobeyed him.

  Attempting the same tone, I responded. “Brian.”

  That vein in his temple shimmied. “Abby, would you excuse us for a second?”

  “Of course. I’ll wait in the car.” One side of her mouth turned up, and it made me think of how the serpent looked when Eve took a bite of the apple.

  Not until she was out of sight did Corrigan say another word. But when he did, I regretted that he hadn’t kept silent. “A witness claims they saw your client leaving Jennifer Nelson’s home early this morning.”

  I wanted to slide down against the wall. “You can’t think she did it.”

  “It won’t be long before we have enough proof to know she did.”

  “How?” My stomach was up into my throat, making my question sound like a croak. “You were,” I used my fingers to make quotation marks in the air, “in the ‘meeting’ Vanderson was in. What did he tell you?”

  He held up a hand. “Not at liberty to say.”

  No way was I going to give up. “At least you could tell me what Vanderson was doing at the time of Jennifer’s murder. You owe me that.”

  One eyebrow rose. “And, why do I owe you that?”

  Responding with, ‘putting up with Abby’ would have gotten me nowhere. Instead, I looked at him with my big brown eyes and placed my hand lightly on his chest. “Do I need to give you a reason?”

  He chuckled. “You’re adorable, but that’s not why I’m telling you. I’m telling you so you don’t go and harass Vanderson.”

  Removing my hand, I grinned. “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “Unlike your client, he has an alibi. He was eating breakfast in Youngstown. We’re verifying that.”

  There had to be something more. “Did he claim to know why Jennifer was killed?”

  His voice turned gentle and he cradled my chin in his hand. “I’ll fi
ll you in after Mrs. Vanderson is in custody.”

  Much as I loved it when he touched my face, it wasn’t going to appease me this time. Arguing with him wasn’t going to get me anything either. “All right. It’s a deal. Dinner tonight?”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’ll have to be a quick one. But okay. Pick you up at six?”

  “Sure.” I’d pump him for more information just as he’d be going in for dessert.

  He wore a relieved grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Um, I have to use the facilities again before I leave. Too much tea. You go ahead. Abby’s waiting.”

  His eyebrows lowered, though he didn’t question me. He gave me a quick kiss, but didn’t go away. I marched back into the restroom and paced, waiting for him to leave. I hoped against hope that Corrigan was wrong about Marlene Vanderson killing Jennifer.

  Hearing Corrigan’s footsteps retreat, I at last left the restroom again. Stymied though I felt, I marched myself back to Vanderson’s office. I just knew he could help me find the truth.

  Now all I had to do was make him talk. Feeling as if I’d have an easier time making a rock do that, I braced myself for the challenge.

  Ignoring the receptionist’s commands to stop, I barged into Vanderson’s corner office, only to discover it was unoccupied. I spun around and practically walked into the man’s chest. Never a good way to begin an interview.

  His voice was low and dangerous. “Get out.”

  Pretending he didn’t intimidate me, I stood my ground. “Not until you tell me why Jennifer Nelson died.”

  He towered over me. “Even if I knew, you’re crazy if you think I’d tell you.”

  Struggling to maintain my balance and not run off, almost unconsciously I took a slight step backwards. At least I had the presence of mind to free my phone and flashed the photo of him and Jennifer together.

  That stopped him cold for just a second. Then he scrambled for my phone, but in an amazing feat, I quickly avoided his grab.

  “Where did you get that?” The rumbling of his voice shook me more than if he’d shouted.

  I couldn’t believe he didn’t know. Sounding much braver and more confident than I felt, I pretended to consider the picture. “You two look really cozy. Now, unless you want everyone to see this, tell me the truth about you, Jennifer, and Mark Fenton.”

  Maybe it was the mention of Fenton’s name. Or I just pushed too hard. Whatever it was, Vanderson’s whole body seemed to stiffen and all I got from him was, “Get the hell out of my office before I...just leave.”

  And we were getting along so well. I backed out the door and into the receptionist.

  Vanderson composed himself. “Chelsea, please see that this woman is escorted from the building.”

  I carefully placed my phone back in my pocket. “That’s not necessary.” Head held high, I strode past Chelsea and out the office, where a security guard stood waiting for me.

  Big of belly, but thin on speech, the guard refused to say anything other than, “Don’t come back.”

  It was a good bet Security had cameras in the garage so upon finding my car, I didn’t linger. My day so far had been one defeat after the other. But it was still better than Jennifer Nelson’s. For that matter, it was better than the two female Vandersons.

  The only person who seemed to be unaffected by this was Mark Fenton. Why? What made him so untouchable? Desperate for some break in this case, I decided to call Ed, hoping we could get into Fenton’s office tonight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My plea for action concerning Fenton would come across better in person. I recalled Ed was helping my aunt at Cannoli’s. Besides, my stomach would welcome a cannoli, bursting with ricotta and chocolate chips. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

  My estimation that I’d get to Cannoli’s before noon was optimistic. The place was crowded when I got there at twelve-thirty and I spotted Angie, my aunt’s best friend and employee, behind the counter.

  She finished with a customer then gave me a look of relief. “Thank God you’re here. Maybe you can stop Lena from destroying any more equipment. She’s already broken a rolling pin, and I had to rescue some mixer paddles.”

  “What? Why?” I didn’t need more drama, but this was family.

  Angie looked toward the ceiling and shook her head. “She found out your stepmother is doing the baking for Thanksgiving. Lena’s been upset about it ever since. Can you talk to her?”

  Groaning under my breath, I marched into the kitchen, but my aunt was nowhere around. The apron she always wore lay crumpled on one of the counters as the only evidence of her having been there.

  The back door opened and first Aunt Lena and then Ed came inside. My aunt’s face was red and her mouth was pinched tightly. Ed’s easy smile was nowhere in sight. This obviously wasn’t a good time to ask for favors.

  Never one to heed good timing, I went ahead anyway. With exaggerated cheerfulness I began my pitch. “Just the people I wanted to talk to.”

  Having tied her apron back on, my aunt slammed a tray of cupcakes onto the table. “I’ve got to get these frosted. Talk to Ed.” Her words came out overly crisp.

  “Claire and me will be outside.” Ed tilted his head toward the door.

  My aunt’s only response was a loud sniff.

  “I’ll be back, Aunt Lena.” I risked a kiss on my aunt’s warm cheek and then followed Ed out the door.

  Leaning against his car, all Ed said in way of explanation was, “She’s upset about Thanksgiving.”

  Time was slipping by. I had a client who was implicated in at least a couple of murders, and here I was dealing with my aunt’s hurt feelings. I exhaled and could see my breath in the cold. “I’ll talk to Suzy. Maybe she’ll feel so swamped she’ll welcome Aunt Lena’s desserts.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “There’s another issue, though. It’s about cleaning at Mark Fenton’s office.”

  “You don’t want to do it now? That’s fine by me. And thanks for talking to Suzy. She’s a fine lady.”

  “You’re welcome, and no, I still need to do it. But tonight.”

  Before he responded, former smoker Ed stuck a toothpick in his mouth, probably wishing it was a cigarette. That’s when I knew he was stressed. “The Nelson girl is dead. Bodies piling up like plowed snow after a storm. But that don’t mean we can get away with rushing things.”

  He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Tell you what, though. If you can smooth it all out with Thanksgiving, I’ll see what I can do to get us into that office tonight.”

  With a nod indicating it’d be taken care of, I called my dad. He’d talk to Suzy for sure. When Suzy answered the phone, my confidence vanished like a meatball in front of my dog.

  “Oh, hi Suzy. Didn’t know you’d be home.”

  “Hi Claire. Yeah, no clients until four, so I figured I’d get some things done. You know, what with Thanksgiving next week and my sister, Hailey, coming in tomorrow.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “You’re still coming, right? Is Brian?”

  “Uh huh.” I paused, wondering how to phrase my next comment. “Aunt Lena…”

  Her loud, tired sigh came through. “She’s upset about dessert.”

  “Did someone tell you?”

  I could practically hear her frowning. “No. Just a lucky guess. Ya know, if it means that much to her, she can make the pie or cake.” Her voice rose. “Or what the heck, both.”

  I winced, embarrassed for my aunt’s easily-bruised ego and my stepmother’s reluctant acquiescence. “Suzy, thank you for being so—”

  “Don’t say ‘understanding’ or anything like that. I’m not. Maybe this is a blessing. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew this time, with Hailey coming and all.” Her words grew thick. “Anyway, would you ask Lena or do I have to grovel?”

  “I’ll do the groveling. I’ve had more practice.”

 
After a bit more discussion, we ended the call and I turned to Ed. “Lena better decide what dessert she’s making for Thanksgiving.”

  Ed grinned and removed his toothpick. “Go tell her while I make a call about tonight.”

  It was my turn to grin. But only for a moment. Once I opened the kitchen door, I replaced that expression with one of concern.

  “Aunt Lena.” She paused in her effort to beat some eggs to death. “Suzy called me. She wanted to talk to you but figured you’d be busy.”

  My aunt resumed her mixing. Those eggs would never, ever separate.

  “She needs your help and wasn’t sure how to ask you. I mean, she’s sort of embarrassed to ask now. But with her sister coming in and all the other prep for Thanksgiving, she wondered if you’d make dessert.”

  Boldfaced lying wasn’t my forte, even in my business, but this was a good cause. Still, I had to force myself not to squirm under my aunt’s stare.

  “So now she needs my help? You sure you didn’t say anything to her? Or did Ed?”

  “Of course not. She just bit off more than she can chew. She realizes that now.” I hate lying to my family. But this was diplomacy, not fibbing.

  She rapped the beater against the bowl so hard it was a miracle the porcelain didn’t crack. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make the pumpkin pie. Of course, if I do that, I’ll have to bake a chocolate cream pie too. And maybe a pumpkin roll.” She cracked a smile. “Tell Suzy not to worry about dessert.”

  With that family crisis averted, I returned outside to see if Ed had any luck regarding getting into Mark Fenton’s office. By the cocky grin on his face, he had.

  “Okay, kiddo. We’re on for tonight.”

  At last. Something going right. Then I remembered my dinner plans with Corrigan. I bit my lower lip. “I’m supposed to have dinner with Brian at six.” Brightening, I added, “But he even said it’d have to be a quick one.”

  Ed nodded. “Then no problemo. I’ll meet you at your office at eight-thirty. If you’re going to be late, give me a holler.”

  That settled I went back into Cannoli’s kitchen to collect my well-earned cannoli. It was worth every effort.