“I didn’t realize there were so many people that hate Sam as much as I do.”
The carrot on the stick was all it took.
There went the donkey giving chase.
“Those are just for starters.”
“You mean there are more?”
Eunice nodded. The dark green of the silk pants was not complementary to the lilac top, but the fashionista resisted the urge to run upstairs and pick out something more flattering for the town gossip to wear.
That included almost anything.
“Absolutely. True Phillips for one.”
True Phillips?
Lyddie choked on the mouthful of coffee she was trying to swallow. She’d give a lung to meet True Phillips, and Sam had not only met, but insulted him? How the heck did her ex-friend get so fortunate?
“Are you all right?” Eunice asked.
“Yes … just went down the wrong pipe,” she wheezed, slapping on her chest as she coughed several more times. The spate didn’t last long and her airways were cleared and ready for more breathing.
It was nice how it worked that way.
“Now … what about True?”
“She never told you?”
Eunice’s narrow brown eyes could cauterize a wound.
“No,” Lyddie replied, holding back a remark or two. Snark would damage the in-roads she’d spent the morning forging. She was a pathmaker, a firewalker, a drummer that used a set of spoons to set her own rhythm to march to and—
“It’s so like her not to confide. Pretending to be your good friend all these years and holding back something heinous. She’s a devil. A man-eating-out-for-herself banshee.”
“She ate True?”
It slipped out.
“It was a figurative remark, dear, but in a very real way, she did. I know it’s shocking for you to hear these things about someone you thought you were close to, but you do want to know everything, don’t you? I can stop if you think you can’t handle the rest of—”
“No! Please don’t stop! I have a right to know what she’s hidden from me all these years!”
As she summoned up a tear, she realized she had no idea she had that sort of acting talent.
And to think it had been going to waste.
“Well, only because you asked,” Eunice replied, a carnivorous glint worthy of a hyena shining in her eyes. Taking a few hits of coffee, she resumed slinging dirt.
Lyddie listened intently, and what she heard was worthy of another trip to the bathroom.
Now … if there were only more room on that pad.
CHAPTER 10
There she was.
Sitting on the couch a few feet from the distraught mother.
Patricia Cunningham looked as if she’d been dragged through hell and back, but who could blame her? Her daughter had been healthy and full of life when she’d last seen her, and now?
Doris was embalmed and awaiting burial at Skoratz Funeral Home.
While her ex-friend Lyddie was pumping the town gossip for info, Samantha was doing her part of the job. The strategy devised called for the work to be split down the middle. And with Lyddie covering the bases in tracking down Sam’s enemies, the only thing left was to find out if Doris had any. After all, they still weren’t sure of who the intended victim was, and to leave out investigating Doris would be sloppy—a characteristic neither she nor her former best friend possessed.
Hence Sam’s visit to Patricia Cunningham’s.
Sam felt no guilt in what she was doing. She’d planned on paying her condolences anyway. Although she hadn’t been a friend of Doris, it was the unfairness of murder that made it incumbent. Murder cut short the promise of what was to be. And the fact that it happened in her establishment meant she was involved—whether she liked it or not.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Cunningham,” she began. “I just wanted to express how sorry I am in person.”
“I understand,” the somber woman in black responded. The clothes she wore were inexpensive, but it was a case of cost not impeding good taste. There was an aristocratic quality about Patricia, one that shone through whatever she wore. Her comfortable home reflected the axiom. While it would never be featured in Architectural Digest, the furnishings denoted harmony and a confluence of the right touches of class.
“It must have been awful for you … finding her that way,” the mother commiserated. “Did you know my Doris … I mean, before you discovered her?”
“Yes, yes, I did. I worked as a realtor for Bliss Happy Homes and we used to order from Cunningham’s quite a bit.”
“Bliss Harper? You worked for her …” she muttered. “I’m not one to repeat gossip … or believe it, but I’m sure she’s not anything like what they portray her to be. Success breeds contempt,” the mother added with a hurtful sigh. “Same thing happened with Doris. People said the most awful things about her … didn’t they realize I’d hear?”
Her finely-crafted features contorted as she turned away, but then some people were like that. For Doris, pain was private and not to be put on display. That was why she kept it inside.
“I didn’t realize that, Mrs. Cunningham. I guess I was too busy working to pay much attention to what people were saying,” Sam replied.
“Yes … yes, you’re one of those that tend to their own business and not others’. It’s why I agreed to meet with you. I don’t want my private thoughts shared, and you keep things to yourself … always have. But you’re another one. I don’t know if you’re aware, but a lot of townsfolk were wishing you’d fail.”
The remark surprised her.
“Why?”
“Because of the way you look … and because you’re not like them. They say you put on airs, but that’s only an excuse. The real reason boils down to jealousy. The Lord warns us about harboring malice in our hearts, but it seems scriptures have gone out of style. Not for me they haven’t. That’s why I know whoever did this will be caught and punished. I have faith in that nice detective and his partner.”
She couldn’t be referring to Detective Death, but the awful feeling in the pit of Sam’s stomach assured she was. Why anyone would describe that man as nice was beyond her, but then Patricia Cunningham hadn’t been privy to the conversation that she’d overheard.
Wouldn’t she be surprised that the nice man was gunning for the woman who put on airs?
“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Ms. Powell? Lots of neighbors brought me food—too much to eat by myself.”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“Won’t be a minute.”
The five-foot-four-inch woman rose.
Yes, aristocratic. The carriage … the set of her shoulders … it was all in how someone carried themselves, and Patricia Cunningham carried herself like a queen. Sam was only surprised there was no gossip about her. Even an attribute like the one exhibited could start a landslide of condemnation, but perhaps there had been and she’d failed to hear.
Getting up, Sam stretched her legs from the morning run by walking around the living room. Her coffee shop clouded her thoughts; she was worried about sales. She’d hung around JUST ADD COFFEE before heading here. Ostensibly, it was to help Katy, but there’d been no need for her being there. There’d been no need for Katy either. No one came.
No one.
The reality of not one single customer translated into her Hiccup Fund dwindling, but it was too much to dwell upon right now. She was here to find out about Doris, and that was why she’d switched gears and noted the photos decorating the parlor. Patricia’s wedding pictures were stunning. They proved she’d always exhibited a classic elegance and that it wasn’t an acquired taste. The timeless v-necked form-fitting gown could be worn today without anyone batting an eye.
Not even Lyddie.
A sharper examination began of the man Patricia had vowed to love forever. Clifton Cunningham had been attractive enough. There was a maturity present … a solidity that he’d be there for her—through thick and t
he thinnest of times. With that opinion formed, she moved on to a clustering of baby pictures that featured Doris in a variety of rompers, onesies, and frilly girly-girl baby dresses. Adorbs didn’t begin to cover it.
Patricia and Clifton’s only child was documented through her formative years by the collection of framed shots. It always was comforting to know a child’s parents cared and Doris’ parents had.
Now if every child could be this loved.
“Here we go,” Patricia announced with an accompanying clatter. A pot of coffee and sampling of breakfast treats filled the silver tray. The pastries were similar to what Sam sold in her shop.
Or used to sell.
“I couldn’t fit all the photos my husband and I took of our little girl, so I swap them out every so often. She was the light of my life—especially after Clifton died,” she said, nodding towards the wedding pic.
“What did your husband do, Mrs. Cunningham? If you don’t mind my asking,” she hastily tacked on.
“Why, no. He was in sales … insurance. He wasn’t always, but felt a steadier job could better provide for his family. It was so like him to do that. He was so loving … and such a fantastic husband, but people only saw that he was twelve years older than me. It’s another example of what I was talking about. I mean, his age never bothered me, so why it did others, I don’t know.”
She took a deep inhale before fiddling with the tray she’d placed on the coffee table between them.
“Thank you for giving me an excuse to keep busy,” she continued. “It feels good to be useful … and I don’t want people’s kindness going to waste. My friends have been so generous, so please … please, help yourself, Ms. Powell,” she encouraged.
Luckily, Sam’s stomach was plugged in on ravenous because of the jog taken, but then, a run always amped up her desire for food. She piled a muffin, bun, and Danish high on her plate and called it a day.
“Thank you and please call me Sam. Everyone does.”
The woman with the salt-and-pepper hair nodded as she took a sip. Evidently, she drank her coffee black. Sam filed it away in case she ever came into her shop.
“What did your husband die of, Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Heart attack. He was sixty-five. I thought it was much too young to say goodbye, but I’m glad he isn’t around to see this,” she mumbled, her eyes hazy from grief.
“I can understand,” Sam stated, empathizing with the sentiment. “But you said you had confidence in the—
“Detectives … yes … that’s right … I do,” she said as she took a glazed donut and put it on her gold-edged plate.
“Mrs. Cunningham, I’m sorry to get into this, but was there anyone that would want to hurt your daughter?”
The slanted eyes focused on Sam.
“Lots,” she pronounced with authority.
What?
The twenty-eight-year-old was taken aback by the admission. No way was she prepared for that response. While most people have one or two people with whom they’d crossed swords, Doris’ mother was pointing to her daughter having a horde.
A bite of the Danish dunked in the full-bodied roast helped her recover. There was a hint of Sumatra in the blend; she’d recognize it anywhere.
“Really, Mrs. Cunningham? Who?” she asked as the woman who’d lost her husband and daughter dug in.
CHAPTER 11
“Jeezus, Lyddie! This writing is claustrophobic!”
Sam beat Lyddie back to the coffee shop, but then she’d been in more of a hurry. Ever the optimist, she’d been hopeful that business at JUST ADD COFFEE had returned to normal, but all she found was Katy spraying her little heart out. Sam had had no choice but to let Nellie, her part-timer, go. It was sad, but as Connors said, the lay-off was nothing personal and part of the hard decisions made when doing that thing called business.
The counters sparkled from the dowsing of the all-in-one lemon-scented cleanser.
Now if there were only customers to appreciate the effort.
“And?” Lyddie fired back.
“And I can feel the walls closing in, but can’t read a word you wrote!”
“Well, I can! And the notes were for me and not you!”
Strange.
Sam’s ex-friend had never been this defensive before—well, not over writing anyway.
“But what if you got hit by a car on the way here? I’d be stuck with a bunch of undecipherable scribbles!”
“Well, e-x-c-u-s-e me for not taking my own mortality into consideration! You really are exactly the way Eunice described. That’s why you have so many enemies, Sam. All these people hate you.”
Her traitorous ex-buddy enjoyed saying that way too much.
“Thanks for buoying my spirits! I didn’t know you were seeing Eunice to join forces in eviscerating me. Maybe you and she could join forces with all these so-called enemies she named and storm my coffee shop with torches in your grubby little hands.”
“In the first place, my hands are not grubby … and in the second …. yeah … I’m game for a job scene … but there should be a guillotine erected first!“
“Lyddie!”
“It was a joke, Sam! Cheesh! What is wrong with you?”
“Being accused of murder is what’s wrong with me. I told you that.” Rubbing her shoulders, she took hold of her pashmina shawl and wrapped it around her slender frame.
“Cold?” Lyddie queried.
“No. I’m coming down from a sugar high if you must know. I don’t know why I ate so much. I was trying to do Mrs. Cunningham a favor and binged my way into a stupor, but it was worth it. I learned a lot. Did you know Doris was married?”
Lyddie paused, indulging in one of her wide-eyed poses.
“No, I did not,” she uttered as a palm went over her heart to demonstrate sincerity. “To whom?”
“Never mind about that. Let’s start with this list you’ve crammed into one square inch of space. Your telling me is the only way I’ll know who hates me enough to carry out a vendetta.”
Lyddie snatched her pad back, squinting to decipher the scrawl.
“Okay, here goes. Number one—”
“You,” Sam snapped accusingly.
“Me? You still think I could be the one who tried to kill you? Even after I risked all in going behind enemy lines?”
“What better way to divert suspicion?” she shot back, her expressive eyes tightening. Lyddie matched the look with one of her own and raised the ante.
“You want it that way, Ms. Nobody Likes You? Okay! Game on!” the more than buxom blonde retorted as she fished for a pen. Pulling one out of her purse, she wrote her name in expansive script across the top of the page and added a large numerical one.
“Big enough to meet your approval?” she taunted.
“Yes,” Sam replied in a clipped tone.
Lyddie rearranged her legs and adjusted her sitting position.
“Number two: Zeke Rogan. Seems you stepped on his testicles.”
“I what?” Sam blurted.
“Eunice’s words, not mine. Now are you going to shut up and listen because I am not talking over you … not!”
The girl in the black skinny jeans and a tee emblazoned with “I’d rather be home in bed with my kitty” backed down, running her fingers over her lips. The imaginary zipper she’d pantomimed closing indicated no more interruptions.
The beautifully penciled brows raised in triumph. Lyddie’s arms stretched out, her hands taking a firmer hold of the pad, but then—
Who didn’t like to win?
“Three: Holly McCallister. She was interested in Zeke and you ruined her chances. You also stole her job at Bliss Happy Homes.”
Stole?
Sam had applied and interviewed—like the rest of the applicants.
Lyddie continued, undaunted.
“Four: True Phillips. Ditto number two. Balls … blender … why you’re so picky I have no idea. It’s not like your good looks are going to last forever. You’ll be old, wrink
led, and alone, texting me about what happened to your life and probably seeing Dr. Stuart, the only psychologist worth seeing in this town, to help you adapt to no one wanting you. But the answer can be summed up in one word: karma!”
Okay, why her ex-friend was so keyed up on hostility wasn’t immediately apparent, but the deal was that Sam would keep quiet during the reading of the list. However, oh, by the way, there had been no formal agreement about remaining silent while her friend tobogganed into Lecture Land.
Time to mount a defense.
“FIVE!” The booming voice made Katy jump. It also cut Sam off from launching a fearsome rebuttal.
“Frank Blushi. He’d been counting on doing that kitchen remodel. He paid for a semester of private schooling for the child who should be in kiddie prison and not an educational institution, but that’s my opinion and not Eunice’s. Evidently, dear old Dad disagrees with me and plunked down the wad based on a verbal agreement that you reneged on all because a competitor undercut his bid … and … there was that other reason. You were mean to his wife. Shame, Sam … just shame.”
Sam’s thin arms crossed over her chest as she sank back against the chair.
Keeping her mouth shut was tougher than she thought.
“Six: January Winters. You were supposed to help raise money for her charity by baking cookies, but you pulled out at the last minute and the fundraiser was a bust because of you!”
The tone reproachful, Sam wondered how much more of this she could take.
“Seven: Biff Swallers. Ditto two and four. Since he couldn’t scale the mountain he wanted, erections are difficult for him now. Although a young man, he’s forced to spend a fortune on Viagra.”
She bit down on her tongue, resisting by clamping her hands over her ears.
“Eight.” Lyddie paused. Whether it was to regain her sanity or for dramatic effect, Sam didn’t know, but she had the sinking feeling she’d find out. She hoped it wasn’t the two names she most dreaded being against her.
Please not my parents! PLEASE!
No child should hear that their parents want them dead!
“Corona Pete Blanchard.”
Okay, so it wasn’t her parents, but Corona? That name was a shockeroo. She leaned in, intent on hearing his reason.
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