Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  Eh...Gonna play it by ear. And yes, the Abby voice in my head sighed with defeat.

  Rather than a hall, the top of the stairway became a curved landing that circled to reach each office on that floor. I spotted my quarry, Arnie Morz, through his open door, but I got waylaid first by his assistant Delayne Kent. In high school, she’d been a carefully styled brunette who belonged to a roaming band of mean girls who seemed to always want to put me in my place. Actually, she’d been leader of the pack. Her freshly pressed red suit, perfect makeup, and the bitter expression on her face alluded to nothing having changed in the intervening years, and her “greeting” proved it.

  “Mr. Morz has a full-slate of meetings and financial duties today, Lissa.” She clutched my elbow and tried to steer me back to the stairs. The woman had a vicelike grip and her face had that “I’m in training constantly” angular look that branded people who focused on their workouts. A big change from high school. As she moved us closer to the stairs, she added, “If you’d like to make an appointment—”

  “I have an appointment.” I jerked free from her grasp and did a quick sidestep. “Mr. Morz said he’d fit me in. This won’t take long.”

  We’d been speaking in lowered voices, but the sound of our words carried. In the next instant, Arnie was at his office door and waving me inside. He was medium height, broad shouldered, and was a local contender for any triathlete fundraiser held in our town. Those well-developed muscles made his over-the-rack blue suit fit tightly in places, and I wondered why he didn’t use a tailor.

  Moving the fingers of one hand toward the side chairs like he was shooting a gun, he directed me to have a seat. “Good seeing you today, Melissa. How’re Derek and the boys?”

  Wow, he must have pulled my file ahead and read the crib notes. Too bad it didn’t include the names we actually use in real life.

  “Fine,” I said. “I know you’re busy. Thanks for squeezing me in. What I wanted to speak to you about—”

  “You want some coffee?” The man moved back to his office door. “Hey, Delayne, can you bring us a couple of coffees?” He looked at me. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re good with black? Okay. Good. Delayne, two black coffees, but bring me two creamers in case I change my mind and backslide.”

  Arnie beamed at me for a second, then frowned as he sat behind his desk. “She’s right that I only have a few minutes. But it’s the talk all over about what happened to you this weekend, and I wanted to make time if I could. I can’t imagine what it would be like to find someone that way.”

  There it was. The real reason he worked me in for an appointment. He wanted to know about the murder. When Abby was right, she was right. Time to head him off and get the info I came for. “Yes, it was kind of awful, but that’s not why I’m here, so I’ll only take a minute of your time, if I can.”

  “Sure, but—”

  Delayne walked in with the coffees, and she alternated a glowering expression at me and a smile for Arnie. I wondered if she got facial whiplash. We divided the spoils and sent her on her way with our thanks. I didn’t plan to drink the brew, but used the interruption to my advantage and spoke up, “I understand there’s a real estate list floating around with my home on it as one going on sale cheap. Naturally, I’m interested in how the list was compiled, and why my house is there.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. Have you talked to a realtor? Sometimes they think owners are more interested in selling than is true. Might be a misunderstanding.”

  “It’s definitely a misunderstanding. Apparently, my house is there because it’s part of a group of impending foreclosure properties.”

  That woke him up. Arnie’s eyes bugged, and he shook his head. “We have some properties like that on the books, but I don’t remember seeing any currently occupied homes being promoted for sale. And we would notify you before we offered the house on a list like that. How far behind are you on payments?”

  “Only a few days. I haven’t paid this month’s yet. It was due last Wednesday.”

  Arnie chuckled and flashed a look of relief. “That’s definitely nothing to worry about. There’s no way you could be on any kind of foreclosure list. But you will have to pay a penalty.”

  “I realize that. Thanks,” I said and waved a hand toward the computer on his desk. “Though if you wouldn’t mind checking, please? In case there’s some kind of mistake?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Arnie, you need to leave this minute, or you’ll be late for the meeting,” Delayne called from the doorway, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

  He glanced at his Rolex. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, Delayne. Melissa, I’m sorry, but I really need to go.”

  “Couldn’t you check the file first? Make sure there’s no accidental entry?” I asked.

  He waved Delayne closer. “Take a minute and make sure there isn’t an alert of any kind on the Eller account. Other than the current billing due.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at me as he scooped up his coffee and hurried out of the office. “Delayne will get you fixed up, Melissa. I’m leaving you in good hands.”

  She stepped around the desk and stood punching the keyboard, pursing her lips as if sucking lemons. Funny, I had that effect on her in high school too.

  After a minute, she stopped and said. “It all looks good. Whatever list you heard about didn’t get the information from us.”

  “Would you mind if I checked for myself? See it with my own eyes for the peace of mind.”

  “Sorry, only employees can have access to the bank’s records.”

  “Even when the records are mine?”

  “That’s the rules.” She hit several keys. I assumed to get out of whatever screens she was in. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you out.”

  “I think I can find my own way. Thanks.”

  Back in the Honda, I sat in thought for a moment before starting the car. If Carlisle’s list wasn’t generated from bank records, how did my house get on it? Unless Delayne was lying, and that was the real reason she wouldn’t show me the screen. Regardless, I had to assume she or Arnie would now get the property off any list it was on.

  “Unless she was the one who put it there,” I said, starting the car and checking behind me before I pulled out of the space.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  WHEN I RETURNED TO our street from my bank-information-gathering errand, Mrs. G sat in a chair on her front porch, looking lovely in one of her pink Sunday dresses and waiting to do her civic duty at the police station. I rolled down my window and called out, “I’ll be a second. I need to put Honey in the backyard.” She waved in acknowledgement.

  My sweet Lab met me at the front door. Probably recognized the sound of the Honda from five miles away, and I have to admit I appreciated the wiggly, tail-wagging greeting.

  “Hello, gorgeous, did you miss me?” I used both hands to do a double ear scratch, and she grinned her pleasure. As we crossed the living room to get to the kitchen and the back door, I saw her scoop up her squeaky moose toy, and I laughed. Until my gaze landed on our Ooma phone unit, and I gasped. The message light blinked so furiously, I thought it was emergency SOS, and I hit the voicemail arrow hoping neither of my boys had been in an accident.

  “Why didn’t they call my cell?” I said, but had no more time for that thought when the Ooma voice told me twenty-three messages awaited me. I leaned over the speaker, anxious to catch each word.

  “First new message,” the recorded voice recited, before a callback request played from a reporter who wanted to talk to me. A second later, another reporter, then another. Reporters from all over Green Country, in all media, wanted to speak to me about the murder. By the time the last one gave a pitch for info, I was past being grateful my boys were fine, and wishing we didn’t have a phone—even if Ooma was the best five-dollars I paid every month. Who’d guess I’d want to throw the u
nit out the nearest window.

  To make sure I didn’t have to listen to the phone ring all night, I pulled its plug from the wall. I’d still be able to go online that way and see who had called and/or left a message, but all the data wouldn’t appear on my phone so I had the tedious job of deleting each missed call one by one.

  “Come on, Honey. Outside.” I pulled the moose from her mouth. “But this is your inside toy. It stays in the house. You have enough chew stuff in the yard.” Besides, all she really wanted was a belly rub. Honey had me trained: we played squeaky toy of some sort for about three minutes, then she’d grab the toy, dared me to try catching her, and when I did she rolled over and expected me to scratch her belly. Truthfully, I could save money giving her anything chewable for a toy—they were each only a run-up to a good belly scratching, anyway, but she did love making things squeak.

  Five minutes later, she had fresh water out back, we’d had an abbreviated catch-me game and a too short reward rub with the promise for a better one soon, and I was in my car and pulling into Mrs. G’s driveway.

  My neighbor rose to lock the house door as soon as she saw me. I put the Honda into neutral and left it running to keep the A/C going, and I climbed out to help her get in. Thankfully, the weather season wasn’t hot yet, but the day’s stress left me running warmer than normal, and I figured Mrs. G would be the same.

  “I appreciate this, Lissa,” she said, as I climbed back into the driver’s side. “I could have taken the senior citizen’s van, but I would hate to tell anyone the police asked me to come in, even if it is simply for my fingerprints.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “People love a good gossip, and that would send tongues wagging. Trust me on this. I know how those old people love telling tales.”

  I smiled when she said, “those old people,” like she was exempt from the group. But my neighbor definitely wasn’t a gossip and always gave people the benefit of the doubt, which was probably what she in fact meant when she used the phrase.

  “I think people are always looking for a little excitement,” I said, focusing on the road to keep my mirth at bay.

  “Yes, and too many folks have too much time on their hands, and they look for drama and intrigue at every turn.” She gave a little huff. “I blame it on soap operas.”

  “A possibility for sure.” I couldn’t contain a chuckle but camouflaged it with a cough. When I could talk again, I added, “If anyone sees us and asks you about it, just tell them you were going with me for moral support. It’s all over town I found the body. Tell them the police needed my fingerprints.”

  “No, sir,” she said briskly. “I’m not telling anyone anything. I have no knowledge about the murder, and whatever information I might have is business for no one but the police. I will not help feed any rumor flame.”

  Obviously, Abby didn’t need to warn Mrs. G like she had me.

  “Was Honey okay about you leaving again?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Had to give her a belly rub before I took off, but what made me late was having to listen to phone messages. I had nearly two dozen and would’ve ignored them if not for worrying there might be some emergency with the boys.”

  “Nosy people?”

  “Nosy reporters. Wanting to interview me and get a quote.”

  “I had two calls yesterday,” she said. “Before I got smart and unplugged my phone.”

  “I did the same thing,” I said, laughing. She began laughing too, and I realized it felt good to cut loose and send the stress flying. Then the police station came into view, and all laughter in the car died instantly.

  We were a subdued duo as I hit the outside buzzer asking to be let in. I explained who we were, and the door released immediately.

  “Detective Baker asked us to come in to be fingerprinted for elimination purposes,” I said to a pert woman officer manning the front desk. She had stacks of paperwork in front of her, and she moved two closed files on top to hide the text.

  “For the Carlisle case?” she verified.

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  She motioned toward brown chairs against the wall. “Have a seat and I’ll get someone to take you back.”

  Mrs. G had already picked a chair when I checked in at the desk, and I strode over to join her. Until an unexpected coughing jag hit me, and this time it wasn’t a fake one hiding any giggles.

  I loved living in our corner of the state. The regional name “Green Country” truly fit our rolling landscape and endless tree varieties. The problem with not being as dry as the southern end of the state, however, was that mold seemed to be on the allergy alert chart throughout spring. And with the constant winds that swept through from every directions, other states, especially Texas, shared their tree pollens with us constantly. I didn’t know if I’d breathed in an allergen as I walked through the parking lot, or something had made its nomadic way through the building’s air conditioning, but once it’d taken hold, I couldn’t stop coughing. The front desk officer hurried to a water cooler and brought me a cup.

  “Thank you.” I downed half the glass of water as she remained near. “I have no idea what started me coughing, but I couldn’t stop.”

  “I hate when that happens.” She smiled, then walked back to her desk, calling over her shoulder. “Help yourself to more if you need it. I’d offer you coffee, but you drink that at your own risk here.”

  “Good to know.” I finished the water and walked to the cooler. “I’ll just get a refill.”

  “That’s what I’d do.” She grinned, then returned to her paperwork.

  Minutes later, the son of one of my high school English teachers came to collect us. Tall, tanned and dark-headed, he was about eight or nine years younger than me, and I remembered when he’d hang out in his mom’s classroom after school. At one time I’d wanted to write for a living, and she went above and beyond mentoring me and helping me develop my own style.

  “Dylan, right?” I said when he walked into the lobby. He grinned and nodded. I asked about his mom, and he promised to tell her hello for me the next time he saw her. He’d met Mrs. G, too, through some community program the two were involved in the previous summer.

  So, after the embarrassment of the hacking fit and rescue by the woman officer, and now being shepherded through the halls by the son of one of my favorite teachers, I decided things were looking up, and I wasn’t nearly as worried. Even Mrs. G acted more relaxed, like she was no longer concerned the town’s chief gossipmonger would leap out and say, “ah ha!” at the next corner.

  The fingerprinting was a smooth procedure with no need for do-overs. There were statements to read and paperwork to review and sign. A little more than I’d expected, but all manageable.

  We’d finished and were getting ready to leave, when Dylan said, “Detective Baker also wants me to remind you not to talk to anyone about this case. The press might contact you too.”

  “They already have,” I said, waving a hand between Mrs. G and myself. “Both of us have unplugged our house phones.”

  “They’re likely to get your cell numbers too,” he warned.

  “Again, no worries. Any unrecognized numbers will be declined,” I promised. “A friend is an attorney, and she drilled it into my head to keep my mouth shut about anything I saw or found yesterday, whenever I talk to anyone outside of the police.”

  He frowned. “You called your lawyer?”

  “Abby’s my best friend, and she tries to keep me in line.”

  “So you already have legal representation. Correct?”

  This conversation wasn’t going the way I’d originally thought. “No. I mean, yes. What I mean is that Abby would be my attorney if I need one, but I don’t need one. See what I’m saying?”

  “Abigail Newlin was at my home yesterday when the strange body was discovered in my garage,” Mrs. G spoke up, sounding like the voice of reason to my clanging brain. “Abby talked to both of us about what to expect, helping your depart
ment as much as she helped Lissa and myself.”

  His expression told me he wasn’t entirely convinced—but to be honest, I wasn’t sure what he needed to be convinced about. However, the “oh, no, I did it again” feeling came back in hyper-worry mode.

  “Can we go?” I asked, holding my breath.

  The answer came a beat late, so I realized he took an extra second to think, but we got our reprieve. “Sure. Thanks for coming in so quickly.”

  “Wanted to do anything to help.” I smiled, but butterflies were fighting mortal combat in my stomach.

  “Thank you, Dylan. I hope we can work together again soon on another community project.” Mrs. G reached up and patted his shoulder. Then we moved back toward the exit, walking a little faster than we had when we’d first been shown into the back offices.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  THE MORNING TASKS EACH took a bit longer than I’d initially planned, and by the time I got Mrs. G settled back in her house it was already time to head to the school and pick up Mac. I started to drive home and rescue Honey, thinking she’d like some company for the day, finally. Then I remembered we might have Mac’s friend Robbie, too, and decided the Honda might not comfortably hold two exuberant little boys, a tired-before-her-time mom, and an extroverted Lab who’d had to settle for just her own canine company all morning.

  These were the kinds of real-life obstacle courses Abby needed to witness for herself, so she’d understand when I negated her great ideas about following my singing dreams to cattle calls for reality T.V. talent shows in far-flung states.

  Mac was waiting with the teacher. Robbie’s mother had picked him up for an orthodontist’s appointment, so my youngest and I headed back home to Honey and lunch.