by J.J. Chow
“I still can’t quite believe it.” Heather perched on a seat opposite them and stared off into space, a dreamy look on her face.
Winston felt Marcy kick him under the table. Ouch. That was probably his cue to move things forward. “Yeah, Bill. Who knew he was so generous?”
“Right,” Heather said. “I mean, he did mention last month giving whoever succeeded him some money, but we all thought it was a joke.”
Or had they? Maybe someone had been plotting a sinister end to Bill all along. “He was a nice guy,” Winston said. “Too bad about his fall.”
Heather shuddered. “It was horrible seeing his body twisted like that. I went closer, but couldn’t bear to touch him, to feel for a pulse. I had to stare at the ground to keep from”—she rubbed at her throat—“tossing my cookies.”
Yuck. Wait. Did she say ground? “Did you happen to look at the grass?” Winston asked. “See anything funny?”
“It was flattened in a weird spot and”—she bit her lip—“no, I only imagined that.”
“Imagined what?” Winston asked, leaning forward. Did she suspect foul play like he did?
“It looked almost like mini train tracks on the grass.”
“Huh. Odd.” What could have made marks like those?
“Speaking of strange,” Marcy said. She looked straight into Heather’s eyes. “It was weird I never saw Bill at the Halloween party.”
“Well, he was out of town,” Heather said. She pushed the platter toward Marcy. “Brownie?”
“No, thanks,” Marcy said. “Heard he left for an inventors’ conference—on your dime.”
“Who said that?”
Winston piped up. “Your nephew.”
“Oh.” Heather recovered her poise. “I had extra tickets and thought Bill would enjoy it.”
“How convenient.” Marcy smirked. “Bill was away while you were throwing a secret neighborhood bash.”
“I had to,” Heather said. Her voice rose an octave. “He never would have let it happen. It was supposed to be the party of the century—until it wasn’t.”
“I understand,” Winston said. He grabbed a brownie and made a show of taking huge bites. Heather seemed consoled after his display of munching. “You wanted to coordinate something big, the best. To advertise your new business.”
Heather nodded at him. “Yes. I would show Bill, everyone—even my ex-boss—that I could organize an extravaganza.”
Marcy leaned in. “But it failed,” she said. “Got too rowdy and went downhill.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Heather said. “Must have been a few crazy neighborhood teens.” She glared at Marcy. “And you, too. Dancing like it was a rave and singing at full volume.”
Marcy shrugged. “Only having fun. But back to you—after it was all over, how did you explain to Bill that you had gone against his wishes?”
Winston frowned at his sister. Why was Marcy doing the questioning? Because she wore a fancy trench coat?
Meanwhile, Heather stared down Marcy. “I knew I could unruffle Bill’s feathers. Any man’s in fact.”
After saying that, Heather offered another brownie to Winston, which he took with delight. Marcy gave him a look and mouthed the word Buddha while staring at his belly. He took a bite of the fudgy brownie and licked his lips. “Win a man through his stomach.”
Heather nodded. “That’s right. I get along with my neighbors.” She lowered her voice. “Not like Zack. Always fighting with Bill. Even the night before the ladder incident.”
That sounded promising. And it was high time for Winston to take the lead in the questioning. He was the professional after all, not Marcy. “Do you know what they argued about?” Winston asked.
“Not the specifics,” Heather said. “But I heard the word kill being tossed around.”
Winston and Marcy looked at each other. For a moment, Winston wondered if Heather was trying to distract them with the new info. But his happy stomach testified of her innocence—could such a generous baker really be a murderer?
Besides, the pull of the word kill was too strong. It could be the solid clue they needed.
CHAPTER 20
WINSTON CHECKED THE curbside, and sure enough, he noted a Prius parked near Zack’s house. It even displayed a bumper sticker that read: Humans are animals, but animals are more than human. Sounded like the nature-lover’s philosophy.
“Come on,” Winston told Marcy. “He’s gotta be home.”
They walked together and rang the doorbell. After waiting a bit, Winston started pounding. “I know you’re in there, Zack.” He paused. “Your Prius is parked right here.”
Reluctant steps sounded from behind the door, and it opened a minute later.
“Hey, Winston.” Zack did a double take on seeing Marcy standing there. “Oh, hi.” He ran his fingers through his unruly hair and tried to smooth his T-shirt. “I’m not really ready for company.”
Winston peeked over Zack’s shoulder. The place looked a mess. Containers of potted plants were scattered across the floor. An open bag of cat food lay next to Zack’s feet. Nearby, a few buckets of soapy water took over the foyer.
“We just have a few questions,” Winston said. “About the day Bill died.”
“What?” Zack started backing away and almost knocked over a full bucket. “I wasn’t even around then.”
“I saw you moving behind the bamboo,” Winston said.
Zack rubbed the back of his neck. “Those plants cast a lot of moving shadows from the sunlight filtering through them.”
Winston frowned. “I saw your Prius parked nearby that day, too.”
Zack put his hands up. “So sue me, okay? Don’t I have a right to be at home?”
Marcy nodded. “Of course you do.”
What was this? Good cop, bad cop? But his sister’s charm seemed to help Zack relax, as the man put his hands down.
Marcy continued, “We were talking to Heather, and she said—”
Zack gave a shake of his head. “Heather and I are only friends. Forced to be, really. We’re just neighbors.”
Was the guy trying to hit on his sister? Maybe after Marcy had called Winston baby brother at the last meeting, Zack thought she was available.
Winston stepped toward Zack and flexed his muscles. Or tried to. He couldn’t feel any hint of straining against his T-shirt. “Anyway,” Winston said, “Heather overheard you talking to Bill the night before he died. She said you used the word kill.”
“Kill?” Zack tried to make eye contact with Marcy. “I would never use such an ugly word.”
“So what exactly did you say?” Winston asked.
“I said . . . skill. It takes so much skill to install solar panels.” Zack grinned at Marcy.
Winston wanted to kick over the potted plant closest to him, but he refrained. Besides, he was wearing flip-flops, and he’d probably stub his toe. “Speaking of panels, what about cleaning them? Does that take mad skills? That must’ve been what Bill was doing right before he died.”
Zack frowned a little. “Bill went up and down those rungs without a problem for years—but I guess he was getting up there in age.”
“It’s so sad that he fell,” Marcy said. She peeked into one of Zack’s soapy buckets, as though reading a vat of tea leaves. “I wonder if you saw anything odd, what with your expertise and often climbing ladders yourself.” Her gaze moved up to Zack’s face, searching.
Mr. Eco blushed. “In fact, I did.” He nudged one of the buckets with his foot. “Noticed that Bill didn’t even finish cleaning. Only scrubbed the side of one panel and left behind all these suds.”
“You took his bucket?” Winston asked, shuddering. What a ninja looter. Who would take a dead guy’s stuff? That must have meant he’d climbed onto Bill’s roof after the old man fell, maybe even used the same fallen ladder.
“Of course I did,” Zack said. “Couldn’t let the beautiful gray water go to waste. Look at all these plants I can feed with it.”
Winston noticed how the ho
useplants gleamed with health—all shiny leaves and sturdy stalks.
Zack crossed his arms while thanking Winston and Marcy for coming. He must have been offended by Winston’s last remark, and Winston knew they weren’t going to get any more information.
Winston scooted out the door, while Marcy lingered. She gave Zack a shy smile, and Mr. Eco ducked his head before waving goodbye.
When Marcy joined Winston on the doorstep, he asked her, “Why would an old man climb down so suddenly when he hadn’t even finished cleaning?”
“Are you sure he didn’t slip off the roof?”
Winston shook his head. “I don’t think so. The ladder lay on the ground like it’d been knocked down. And what about that flattened grass?”
She stared over at Bill’s house. “What next then?”
“We need to find more witnesses, so I guess the real question is who next?”
“What about Ryan?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Winston said.
CHAPTER 21
RYAN LET THEM IN AT the first chime of his doorbell. “Thought you’d come my way,” he said. “Your job after all.”
“Solving crimes?” Winston said, holding his head high.
“Sticking your nose in other people’s business.”
Marcy gave Winston a confused look, but he wasn’t surprised at Ryan’s sourpuss attitude. Winston had found out that the man wasn’t the bank manager he claimed to be, but only a teller. And Ryan had just missed inheriting a substantial amount of money by not being voted new block captain.
Without being asked to make himself comfortable, Winston wound his way over to the leather recliner in the living room and sat down. “So, how’d you feel about Heather getting that money?”
Ryan gave an odd smile, like he’d swallowed a fly. “Good for her.”
Marcy settled herself on the matching leather couch. Pushing the electronic button, she relaxed as it reclined. “High tech,” she said. “Why don’t you come sit and chat with us?”
Ryan shook his head and remained standing.
“It’s great that Heather can invest in her new company,” Marcy said, sighing a bit as she snuggled deeper in her spot.
“Yeah,” Ryan mumbled. “Then she can forget us little guys.”
Winston sat up. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Ryan shifted from foot to foot. “Ask your questions, then get on your way.”
Winston steepled his fingers and tried to be more official-looking, like a modern-day Sherlock. But Chinese-American—and with less deductive capability. “Where exactly were you when Bill died?”
Ryan stopped fidgeting, and his voice grew hard. “At the bank. Where else?”
But Winston remembered seeing the curtains flutter at Ryan’s house the day of the death. “Are you sure?” He tried to lean menacingly at Ryan, but the leather was too soft and supple. Instead, he sank even more in his seat.
“I was working hard,” Ryan said. “As usual.”
“Anything you can tell us about that day?” Winston asked.
“Nothing.” Ryan’s posture stiffened, and he turned to face the door in a not so subtle hint. “Guess I answered all your questions. Time for your little investigation to end.”
While Winston wiggled out of his chair, Marcy tried pressing the button on the sofa to move the footrest back into place. No such luck. She tried pushing it manually with her hand, but as she did so, Winston saw her face scrunch up.
“What’s under here?” Marcy asked. From beneath the sofa, she pulled out the object that had been blocking the reclining motion—a small glittery purse. “Whose wristlet is this?”
Why did women have so many different names for their bags? “Put it back,” Winston told his sister. “Obviously, it’s his girlfriend’s.”
Marcy looked at the label. “Your gal into fake Gucci?”
“What?” Ryan scowled. “Of course not. That purse belongs to—”
“Diana.” Marcy had pulled out a driver’s license and held it up.
Ryan examined his shiny fingernails. “Yeah, found it in the bushes the other day. Just haven’t had a chance to give it to her.”
Really? Winston couldn’t tell if the man was lying. Finance folks had inscrutable faces.
Marcy kept hold of the wristlet and fixed the couch so it was back to non-reclining mode. “We’ll make sure to give this back to Diana.”
“Right now,” Winston added.
Ryan’s face looked impassive, but maybe Diana could shed insight on why Ryan had her purse. And tell them more info about the day Bill had died.
CHAPTER 22
WINSTON AND MARCY SHOWED up at Diana’s house, where she welcomed them in, but started apologizing right away.
“Oh, so sorry. It’s a mess in here.” Diana started picking up—dirty socks, a discarded jersey, and a pair of cleats. She stuffed them all into the hall closet. “Why don’t you sit down at the dining table?”
As they passed through the living room to reach the kitchen, Winston knew why she’d had asked them to move along. The sole couch in the area was piled with experiments. A large magnifying glass lay on top of a jumble of rocks; the mess took over one side of the couch. A chemistry kit reigned over the other half. The smell of sulfur floated in the air.
Arriving in the kitchen, he examined the dining table. The straight-back chairs looked uncomfortable, but at least they were uncluttered. He sat down on one and felt the hard wooden back push against his spine. Marcy, in another chair, gave a discreet wiggle and scooted an inch forward in her seat.
Diana also settled herself down and then noticed the tabletop. She pulled aside a stack of college brochures and applications (Winston noticed an essay titled, “My mom, my hero”). “There, now we can talk.”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Winston said. “My sister and I were wondering if you heard or saw something strange the day Bill died.”
Diana gripped a piece of the bright-red tablecloth near her. “Why? Did the police say something?”
“No,” Winston said, “but we came from Zack’s, and he said Bill still had a bucketful of suds. Meaning that Bill hadn’t finished cleaning his solar panels, which was why he went on the roof in the first place. According to the paramedic at the scene, Bill definitely fell off the ladder. But if he wasn’t done, why did he come down?”
Diana’s fist tightened around the cloth she was holding. “Good question. I don’t know. But I didn’t see or hear anything. I only came out after everything happened. You saw me, remember?”
“Of course I did.” Winston noticed Diana’s hand relaxing. She released the tablecloth. “I saw something strange on the ground that day, though.”
Diana leaned forward. “What did you see?”
“Flattened grass. Near the knocked-over ladder.”
“Tracks?” she blurted out.
He spoke of the first thing that came to his mind: “You mean, like a train?” Heather had said something similar.
She squirmed in her seat. “Of course not. I meant critter tracks. Pests come around here all the time.”
Ones large enough to flatten the grass? Only skunks and raccoons frequented the area. Unless it was like a Mutant Ninja Turtle. No, there must be a more reasonable explanation . . .
“I was thinking that the tracks might have been footprints,” Winston said. “That someone else was around, and that’s why Bill came down unexpectedly.”
“Another person? But it was a fall.” Diana started shivering and wrapped her arms around herself. “Sometimes that happens, right?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“If you ask me”—Diana stopped trembling and clucked her tongue instead—“it was that shameful party that did him in. All the stress. The shock of the event happening when he’d already said no to that willful Heather.”
Winston detected a hint of jealousy. Maybe from the money going her neighbor’s way instead of into her son’s tuition fund?
“Really,” Dian
a continued, “the nerve of Heather making our neighborhood into an absolute circus—”
“Mom?” A voice called from the recesses of the house. “Can you give me a hand with this tread?”
Diana yelled back. “Not right now. We have company.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.”
Diana grimaced and turned toward them. “Cam hates unexpected visitors. Well, you’d better get going.”
Marcy rapped her knuckles against the dining table. “Not quite yet. You were talking about the party. Well, guess what we have?” She brandished the little sequined bag.
“You found it!” Diana almost squealed with delight. “I thought I’d never see it again.” She snatched it from Marcy’s hand.
“Definitely yours, right?” Marcy asked.
“Of course.” Diana glared at Marcy. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“You didn’t lend it to anyone at the party?”
“I would never.” Diana gave Marcy an incredulous look. “It’s got my credit cards, my ID—”
“Is everything still there?” Winston asked.
Diana checked the contents. “Wow, yeah. Even my credit card.” She hugged the purse to her chest and glanced over at Marcy. “Where’d you find it?”
“At Ryan’s,” Marcy said.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Diana breathed a sigh of relief. “I know it’s safe with him. He’s a banker.”
Bank teller, Winston corrected in his head.
“And rich,” Diana added. “Look at that Lexus he drives.”
“But didn’t you get some unauthorized credit card charge? You mentioned it at one of the meetings,” Winston said.
Diana shrugged. “Maybe it was a fluke. Because nothing else has happened since then.”
Cam’s voice called out again. “Mom, are you done yet?”
“Of course, dear.” Diana got up and showed them out the door.
Once they’d exited, Marcy turned to Winston. “You know, I remember seeing that purse.”
“Really? Where?”
“At the party.”
The party again. Maybe the Halloween fête had really done Bill in—or rather someone at the event had. After all, hadn’t Marcy mentioned Bill’s floodlights turning on? Had someone even back then been trying to sneak into the house to kill Bill?