“We’re not here to sell you anything.” I stepped to where she could see me better. “I’m—”
“Glory be, you’re Stormi Nelson.” The door opened all the way. A short, slightly overweight woman in expensive jeans and beaded top beamed up at me. She looked to be about my age, but the whiskey wafting off her was aging her quickly. She also wasn’t the woman in the photo on Miller’s desk. “What in the world brings you to my house?”
I smiled, prepared to continue the ruse the woman and Miller obviously had going. “I had the opportunity to speak with your husband yesterday and he mentioned you were a fan. Since I’m out running errands, I thought I’d bring you a signed copy.” I held out the book.
“Wonderful. Come in.” She stepped aside, ushering us in, while muttering very unflattering things under her breath about her husband.
I glanced at Maryann, who shrugged.
“I’ve just put on some coffee and baked a cake this morning. Please, sit, and enjoy some with me.” She left us in a floral-decorated living room and bustled out of sight.
I perched on a chintz sofa covered in plastic, wincing at the crackling sound as I sat. Doilies covered the arms of the sofa and two easy chairs. A crocheted table runner ran the length of the coffee table. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was sitting in my grandmother’s living room, rather than a woman’s around my own age.
“It’s a good thing I’m wearing pants,” Maryann said, “or my legs would stick to the plastic.”
“If something happened to you, there’d at least be DNA from the skin left behind.” I grinned, shifting to try and get comfortable.
“My apologies,” Mrs. Miller said. “My husband inherited this house years ago when his mother passed and refuses to let me change a thing. If not for my flowers, I’d go insane.”
Her flowers and her alcohol. A bottle of Kahlua sat in the middle of the coffee tray. She picked up the bottle. “Cream?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
Maryann’s eyes widened. “Just sugar, please.”
“Suit yourselves, goody-two-shoes.” She poured an ample amount of the drink into her coffee, then turned back with a smile. “I heard somewhere that you were also a private investigator, Stormi. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I took a sip of the most bitter coffee I’d had in a long time. I thought longingly of my mocha sensation in the car.
“Well, I don’t cotton to snooping, but my husband needs to be followed. I’d like to hire you. I hired that Dixon fellow, but he went and got himself killed. Carelessness.” She took a gulp of her coffee and closed her eyes. A look of pleasure crossed her face.
“What makes you think he needs spying on?” I pretended to drink.
“I forgot the cake!” She set her cup down, leaped to her feet and then rushed to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with thick slices of cinnamon bread on three plates. “Sometimes, I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached.”
I thought her forgetfulness might have something to do with the alcohol, but wisely held my tongue. “You were saying.”
“I really do appreciate you bringing me this book.” She caressed the cover. “I’ll treasure it always.”
“You were going to hire me—”
“Right. To follow my no-account, cheating husband.” She took another drink of her coffee. “What ridiculous amount do you charge? Dixon took a hundred dollars an hour. I gave him all the information he needed, too. All he had to do was take a few pictures. Instead, he got himself killed.”
“You don’t know whether he took any photographs?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t need you.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did I thank you for the book?”
I nodded.
She dug in her bosom and brought out a folded hundred dollar bill. “I’ll pay you the same.” She thrust it at me.
Gross. “Why do you think your husband is cheating, Mrs. Miller?”
“Everyone knows that, sweetie. He’s been chasing the skirt of that secretary of his for years. I just ain’t caught him.” Another swig of her coffee. “But you…you’ll catch him. You catch all them killers.” She cackled, then froze. “Are you looking for Dixon’s killer? The no-account thief.”
I decided to keep that information to myself. “I’m just here to drop off the book.”
“And take my case. Don’t forget that.” She set her coffee cup on top of the book I gave her.
I stifled a gasp. Did she have no respect?
“Eat.” She waved at the cake. “It ain’t poisoned. You writers are always thinking the worst. It’s because you have an overactive imagination.” As if she’d just noticed Maryann, she transferred her attention like a bat spotting a bug. “What’s your role in all this?”
Maryann swallowed the bite of the cake she’d taken. “I’m Stormi’s assistant.”
“Yes. You do her dirty work, poor thing. You need some cream.” She poured a healthy dose of Kahlua into Maryann’s coffee.”
Since Maryann hadn’t keeled over dead from the cake, I took a bite. It was amazing. Sugar and cinnamon swirled together in a moist cake. “Delicious!”
“My mother-in-law’s recipe, God rest her soul.” Mrs. Miller stood again. “I guess you’d better be going. You have a lot of work to do. Give me a call if you find out anything.” She scribbled her phone number on the back of an electric bill from a side table. “Ooops. I bet you don’t want to be paying my bills.” She opened the envelope, withdrew the contents, and handed me the outside. “I want some photos.”
I was pretty sure I knew where to find some, too. If Dixon had taken any, they would be on the files Dakota was trudging through. “I’ll find out for you. It was nice to meet you. Thank you for the cake and coffee. Oh, and it isn’t good for the book to use it as a coaster.”
“It’s mine to do as I want.” She slammed the door behind us as we stepped onto the porch.
“That was the strangest visit I’ve ever had,” Maryann said.
“That woman is not his wife, but she thinks she is.” I cast a look behind us in time to see the curtains twitch. Yep, a strange woman, that one. “Why fool around on the respectable-looking, attractive woman I saw in a photo in his office?”
She shrugged. “Now what?” Maryann asked when we were in the car.
“We head home and see what’s on the files Dakota brought over. If Dixon had something on Miller, then we have it now.” I eyed my melted coffee drink. Deciding it had to still be better than what Mrs. Miller served us, I took a big sip. Yep, better.
Back at the house, I headed upstairs and sat in Dakota’s office chair while Maryann perched on his unmade bed. I scanned file after file and got nowhere. Dixon had the strangest filing system I’d ever seen.
I turned to Maryann. “Did you see a camera in Dixon’s house anywhere?”
“No, but he was bound to have one. If so, the police have it now.”
“They didn’t know about the hole in the floor. Maybe they didn’t find it.”
“Or…” she grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and punched in some numbers. “Yes, this is Nelson Investigations, and we’re looking into Mr. Dixon’s personal effects. Did he, by chance, leave anything with you to be developed? He did? Wonderful. We’ll be right over.” She hung up and grinned. “Digital age or not, he would still need quality photos to be printed. That printer he had in his office was not photo quality.”
“You are marvelous!”
We sped to the drugstore where Maryann repeated her spiel to the young girl behind the counter. The cashier then handed us a white cardboard envelope.
“Did you look at them?” I asked.
“I had to. I developed them. But, I’m also sworn to secrecy.” She shuddered. “There’s a lot of filth living in this town.”
I agreed. “Thank you.” We headed back to the car. I opened the envelope and pulled out an inch thick pile of photos.
The few on top were of the lovely Doctor Pritchard in lacy under
wear in a sleazy hotel. The next was of the mayor’s wife stepping through the doors of the same hotel with a man I didn’t recognize. Then, we feasted our eyes on a heavy set man paying for a lap dance at a bar. He must be Caldwell. Finally, the last five photos were of Lance Miller.
There wouldn’t be anything wrong with the photos taken through a large plate glass window, except the woman and children he was eating dinner with were definitely not the woman we’d just met.
12
Maryann and I took the photos back to the house and spread them across the kitchen table. “What do we do with this information?” she asked.
“Probably hand it over to the police.”
I turned to see Matt grinning from the doorway. I rushed into his arms and tilted my face for a kiss. “You know that isn’t going to happen short of an official demand.”
He obliged my want of a kiss. “I know. Show me what you have.” He shook his head. “The things I let slide with you.”
“Because you love me and know I always get my guy, or gal.” I took his hand and led him to the table.
“Sometimes at great expense, but yes, you always catch the bad guy.” He crossed his arms and stared at the photos while I filled him in on my conversation with Norma and everything else Maryann and I had done.
“The supposed Mrs. Miller is a few chips short of a Pringle’s can,” I said. “But, she did hire me to find out if her fantasy husband is cheating on her. What do I do with these photos? It looks as if the man has an entirely different family.”
“More like half a can,” Mom said, entering the kitchen and digging in a bottom cupboard. “I’ve known that woman since moving here. Cheryl Miller might be kooky, but she usually gets what she wants. There it is!” She pulled out a porcelain Dutch oven. “Greta wants to borrow this.” She straightened. “See y’all at supper.”
“I guess we visit these people.” Matt watched Mom leave, then turned to me. “They’ve all become our top suspects in Dixon’s murder. Stormi, you have wonderful instincts. What is your gut telling you?”
“Not much.” I sat in a kitchen chair. “Other than these pictures, I don’t have a lot of info to go on. Greta suggested I approach Susan Burnett about her gardening club, and I could see about getting a quote from Caldwell for renovations, but Amanda Pritchard is a mystery. I have no idea how to talk to her.”
“I’ll try to get a female officer from Little Rock to do some investigative work for us.”
If anyone could convince a woman of anything, it was my Matt. “Why don’t you visit her? All you’d have to do is turn on the charm.” I grinned.
“I’m too beautiful as it is. She’d never buy me looking into plastic surgery.” He winked and scooped up the photos. “I promise to make copies of these and give them back. We’re too small of a police force to turn down the type of help you can give us. Just be careful.”
“As always.”
“Right.” He planted a quick kiss on my lips, a peck on Maryann’s cheek, and left.
“Good thing we have the negatives.” Maryann waved the envelope in the air. “I recognize that look on my brother’s face. He’ll take his sweet time getting us those pics. It’s to the one hour photo for us.”
“You’re a genius.” I’d recognized the look, too, and was prepared to overdose my fiancé with my feminine wiles to get the photos back. I grabbed my keys and off we went again.
The young photo developer didn’t bat an eyelash at our return. She merely shrugged and got to work. A well-palmed twenty dollar bill put our job ahead of others.
“Do we head back to Miller first thing?” Maryann asked. She held up a coffee mug. “I think I’ll get one of these with mine and Michael’s picture on it and give it to him. If he drinks out of my face every day, maybe he’ll move our relationship along a little faster.”
I flipped through the catalog the photo shop had displayed on their counter. I still didn’t have party favors for the wedding guests. Maybe napkins with mine and Matt’s engagement picture on them? Speaking of…“I need a photographer fast for engagement photos.”
“I’ll take them.” Maryann frowned. “I have a great Nikon camera. Save your money for a wedding photographer.”
“Great. This afternoon, by the lake, at three o’clock.” I texted Matt to show up wearing jeans and the blue button up I loved him in. I’d actually don a maxi-length sundress. I could brave the autumn temperatures for the sake of a picture. One more thing off my wedding to-do list. “But, we still need a photographer for the wedding.”
“You really need to use the wedding planner book I gave you.” Maryann gave me a look that clearly said I was doing things the hard way. “It takes you step-by-step. You’re so far behind in some of the things you need to do, that it’s scary.”
“I have the dress and the groom. Everything else is extra.” I paid the developer and took the envelope with the newly developed pictures.
“I didn’t say anything last time,” the girl said, “but that picture of Dr. Pritchard looks Photoshopped.”
“Really?” I pulled out the photo.
“Look at the lighting.” She pointed to where the man had a definite shadow from a table lamp. The doctor had none. “Not only that, but look at her head…see where the neck doesn’t quite match up? This is only my opinion, but I think someone has it out for the doctor.”
It was very clear now that she pointed it out. “Thank you.” I wasn’t yet sure what I would do with the information, but it did give me a reason to visit the plastic surgeon. As a private investigator, of course.
Next, Maryann and I stopped for a fast food burger, eating it on the way to Cheryl Miller’s. I couldn’t quite call it Lance Miller’s anymore. It was quite clear the man preferred to be somewhere else. Not that I could blame him too much. Still, there were more moral, and lawful, ways of getting out of a fake marriage.
We pulled in front of the house. Cheryl had clearly not stopped drinking and now swayed with a water hose, missing her plants more than she watered them. “Hellooooo.” She waved her fingers. “Fancy seeing you so soon.”
I took a deep breath and opened the car door. “We have what you asked for.” I grabbed only the photos of her husband, leaving one behind for my use.
She turned and soaked my shoes. “Ooops.” She bent and turned off the water.
Groaning, I handed her the photos, while Maryann stood a safe foot behind me and to the side. What was she afraid of? I’d already checked and other than the water hose, I didn’t see any weapons close at hand.
Cheryl studied the photos, then dropped them on the ground and stomped on them. “I suspected something like this. The man is never home!” She cursed then grabbed the water hose and soaked the photos. “I want to know who the woman is.”
“I don’t think that’s wise. The best thing to do would be to file for divorce on the grounds of infidelity.”
She laughed. “We aren’t married, sweetie. I’m the other woman. We just happen to have the same last name.” She bent over and pounded her leg, still laughing. “That rat told me he left his wife years ago and was going to marry me. What a lying cheater.”
That was a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, but I let it go.
“Here I am, waiting on that fool, at his beck and call, bored out of my mind.” She straightened, all traces of laughter gone. “Do you know how long it’s been since he’s visited? Six months!”
Again, I held my tongue as to why I thought he stayed away. “Have you thought of moving on?”
Before I could blink, her nose was an inch from my face. “Look at me! Look what waiting on him has done to me. I used to be beautiful. What man wants this?” She whirled and stormed into the house, slamming the door.
“You didn’t get paid,” Maryann said in a small voice.
“I’d rather not.” I glanced at the soggy, wrinkled photos, then headed back to the car. I really wasn’t in the mood to visit anyone else. Instead, I’d get ready for my afternoon photo sessi
on.
By three o’clock, feeling very pretty and a bit chilly in my summery dress, I waited by the lake for Matt. He’d texted that he was running fifteen minutes late. I sat on a bench next to Maryann and rubbed my arms for warmth.
A family skipped rocks across the lake’s surface. The father turned, and I gasped. Lance Miller in broad daylight. For some reason, I’d thought he might have his family and mistress stashed in separate towns, but I guess not.
He caught me staring and turned away. The louse probably thought Dixon had photos of him with Cheryl, other than the opposite. I contemplated about telling him, and decided a man like that deserved to stew for a while.
Oh, no. He’d obviously thought about it and decided to come talk.
I glanced at Maryann. “Keep a look out for Matt. I doubt this jerk will cause a scene with his family here, but you never know.”
“Miss Nelson.”
“Mr. Miller.”
“Have you thought more of what we discussed?”
I gave a wry smile. “I’ve thought on it a lot, and discovered you don’t deserve that lovely family over there. But, for the sake of the children, I’ll not say a word about your alcoholic mistress living a few miles away.”
His face darkened. “Good. See that you don’t.”
“You aren’t threatening my fiancé, are you, Lance?” Matt stood behind him, arms crossed, a stern look on his face.
“No, officer. Just making conversation.” Miller returned to his family.
Matt’s face softened as his gaze fell on me. “Ready to take some pictures of a couple in love?”
“More than ready.” I stepped into his arms.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfect, now that you’re here. Besides, I think he’s all talk. He isn’t going to jeopardize what he has. It’s pretty obvious the only one who doesn’t know the relationship is over is the mistress.”
“Let’s go before we lose the light,” Maryann said. “Shop talk can wait.”
“We don’t want to upset my bossy little sister.” With his arm around my shoulder, Matt led me to a tree displaying vibrant yellow leaves. The lake sparkled in the background.
Nosy Neighbor: All 7 complete Nosy Neighbor cozy mysteries PLUS: 2 short Christmas stories (A Nosy Neighbor mystery) Page 96