“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Spencer observed fondly. “I happen to really enjoy being around you.”
“Yes, but that’s different.”
“Different? How?”
“I like you,” Izzy reddened, having spoken more truth than she was ready to say. “I mean… we have, oh I don’t know, it’s just easy with you, and you’re as strange as I am in some ways, and… oh geez, I really just need to shut up now,” her blush deepened.
Spencer finished wiping off his hands and chuckled, going over to the nervous young woman and taking her gently by her bare shoulders. Looking down into her wide hazel eyes, he smiled with encouragement.
“Look, you’re a pretty amazing person, and I’m quite confident that you’ll be able to make enough small talk to get through breakfast. If not, who cares, you’re still talented, and smart and beautiful.” He brushed a stray wisp of auburn hair away from her forehead as she gazed up at him.
“Who is this guy that has you so rattled anyway?” Spencer dropped his gaze and his hands and turned back to the safety of his workbench.
“I don’t know. I heard Maggie call him Steve, and he pulled up in this crazy expensive red Italian car,” Izzy shrugged, as Spencer’s blood turned to ice.
“Is he here right now?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know… Maggie was helping him get settled in, why?”
“What did he look like?”
Izzy stared at the Marine, noticing the profound change in his demeanor.
“Why do you ask?”
Spencer recovered in the blink of an eye.
“Well, if I know what he looks like, I can greet him when I see him,” he shrugged with a smile.
The author regarded him closely, her eyes narrowed.
“Yeah. Makes sense,” she said quietly, not convinced. “He’s about your height, maybe a bit taller, thick build, brown hair that’s receding a bit, wire-rimmed glasses, 100 kilowatt smile.”
Izzy watched Spencer’s face as she ticked off the characteristics of the new guest, but he gave away nothing.
“Sounds like a man who came to Florida to play some serious golf,” he smiled.
“Don’t they all,” she replied faintly.
She watched him work for a few minutes, then decided to head back to the inn.
“Well, thanks for the pep talk,” she smiled shyly.
“Anytime.”
“Think you’ll be up for a walk on the beach tonight?”
“Maybe. I have some things that I need to take care of, but I’d like to.”
“Okay… well, you know where to find me,” Izzy waved on her way out the door.
The author had only been gone for a few minutes when Spencer stopped working and turned around, just in time to see Janssen slip into the garage. His manner was as casual as ever, but his eyes spoke volumes.
“You see what’s parked out front?” the scarred veteran asked.
“Let me guess, a red, Italian sports car?”
“What are you gonna do about it?” Janssen challenged.
Spencer gave him a long look.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“You know that as well as I do. He can’t see us, man. Figure the odds that he’s up here on vacation. If he finds us… something bad is going to go down.”
“What do you hear from the others?” the Marine sighed.
“Zilch. Nothing but some really loud silence for weeks,” Janssen shook his head.
“You think he found them?”
“Hope not.”
“Surely we would have heard something by now if he had,” Spencer commented, his voice grave.
“Maybe.”
“You going to tail him?”
“As best I can. I doubt that he’s up here alone.”
Spencer gritted his teeth in frustration. He’d built a life for himself here—one that was simple and straightforward and didn’t have him looking over his shoulder every other minute, and now all of that might very well be compromised. Was it his fault? Had he gotten sloppy?
There was no time to play the blame game. He had to be hyperaware starting now, so that his past didn’t catch up with him and put an end to all that he held dear.
“What are you going to do?” he asked his scarred Marine buddy.
“Whatever I have to, man, and you should do the same,” Janssen replied, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER 11
Warren Metzler was a gracefully aging man who wore his British custom-tailored suit with style and dignity, but the suit was a couple of years old. Metzler invested his clothing dollars well, and made the most of every garment purchased. Similarly, his shoes were also a couple of years old, but were buffed to a high gloss and in perfect condition. His tie was his only new accessory; his wife had splurged on the paisley silk for his birthday. He lived comfortably, but found ostentation and conspicuous consumerism distasteful to the extreme.
Warren stood when Chas Beckett entered the interrogation room, and shook the detective’s hand. Most folks in Calgon had no idea of Chas’s extremely wealthy family ties, but Metzler made it a point to know key things about key people, and respected the detective’s heritage.
“Mr. Metzler, thank you so much for coming down here to meet with me,” Chas greeted the co-owner of Walter Schenkman’s business. “I think we’ll actually be far more comfortable chatting in my office, if you’ll follow me.” He opened the door and led the way down the hall.
“Certainly,” the older man agreed, trailing along behind the detective.
“Please, have a seat,” Chas indicated a club chair across the desk from his. “Would you like coffee?”
“Goodness, no,” Warren chuckled. “I love the taste of the stuff, but I’d be up all night.”
“I completely understand,” Chas smiled briefly, settling into his leather executive chair. “I just have a few questions for you regarding the nature of your relationship with the Schenkmans and to see if you have any insight as to what might have happened to Mrs. Schenkman.”
“Terrible thing,” Warren shook his head. “I went over to the new nursing home where she moved Walter last week, and the poor guy was just broken up over it.”
“Mr. Schenkman was moved recently?”
Metzler nodded. “Clara took some big financial hits to the business in the past few months, and decided to make some cutbacks, so she moved Walt from Havenwood to Farmstead.”
Chas stared at him for a moment. “Wow, that’s a rather drastic change in living circumstances for Mr. Schenkman,” he commented neutrally.
“Yeah, broke my heart when I found out about it. Walt is a good guy, smart as they come—we’ve been business partners and best friends for years. I hate the thought of him in that senior citizen warehouse,” he sighed. “But that was the decision that Clara made, so what could I do?”
“Do you have any idea what other cutbacks Mrs. Schenkman made?”
“A few,” he nodded. “There was a major controversy last week at the office when Clara burned bridges with our primary local supplier and outsourced the majority of our materials from overseas. Now, our products will be made with cheaper materials, which were developed in a market and production facility that we know nothing about.”
“You said that you’re Mr. Schenkman’s business partner… what was your position on what she did?”
“I told her that it was wrong. We’ve always worked with the local guy, and he’s always been square with us. She tossed him aside like that kind of loyalty meant nothing to her. We were his biggest customer too—I don’t know if he’ll be able to recover from the loss of revenue,” Warren sighed and ran an impatient hand through his hair, clearly disturbed by the whole mess.
“Why didn’t she take your advice?”
“Because she has controlling interest, since Walt can’t be an active member of the board anymore. She makes decisions on a whim and doesn’t listen to the board at all. Frankly, if she had continued in
the same manner, she would’ve eventually driven the business into the ground.”
“What happens now that she’s deceased?” Chas asked.
“Controlling interest passes to me, with an honorary seat on the board for their daughter, Sharlene, who knows nothing about the business.”
“Do you think that Sharlene will be an active participant on the board?”
“Well, I didn’t think so, because she doesn’t even have voting rights, but it seems that we’ve heard from her attorney on the matter already, so who knows?” Warren shrugged.
“What was the nature of that communication? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She wants to contest the passing of controlling interest to me, apparently,” he sighed and shook his head.
“I see. You mentioned a supplier that Mrs. Schenkman let go… what was his name?”
“Melvin. Melvin Chandler. He owns SuppCo, here in Calgon. He’s a straight shooter who’s been nothing but fair with us since Walt and I started, back in the sixties.”
“Where did Mrs. Schenkman outsource to?”
“She decided to go with multiple international options, procuring various materials from the lowest bidders.”
“How did the rest of the board feel about that?” the detective leaned forward.
“Two resigned right during the meeting, a handful of others are on the fence. Or, at least they were.… Now…? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Would you be able to provide me with a list of board members and their contact information?”
“Sure, anything that you think might help. I know Walt will be relieved when this is all over with.”
“Isn’t Mr. Schenkman suffering from dementia?” Chas asked gently.
Warren Metzler nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he spoke, and the detective courteously pretended to review his notes while the older gentleman recovered a bit.
“Yep, he suffers from it, that much is true. But he has moments of total clarity, where his brain works just as well as it ever did. It frustrates him that he can’t stay that way,” Metzler cleared his throat again.
“I can’t even imagine,” Chas replied. “One last thing before I let you get out of here… can you tell me where you were and what you were doing on the night that Clara Schenkman died?”
“I was at home, watching old movies and nodding off with a gin and tonic in my hand. I do that pretty often these days,” Warren mused.
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
“My cat, Milo, but I’m afraid he’s not much of a talker,” the morose man attempted a half smile and failed miserably.
“I see,” Chas nodded, looking at him closely. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might be important, please give me a call. I’ll probably be in touch with you in a couple of days to follow up.”
“Okay,” the older man stood up, placing his palms on his knees for extra momentum.
Chas walked him to the door, and watched him walk away, shoulders slumped. Either he was innocent, or he was a brilliant actor. Receiving controlling interest in a company that was doing well could certainly be a motive for murder, and the detective would have officers discreetly following Warren Metzler until some of the evidence came back in, but something wasn’t sitting quite right with him. He had a whole host of folks to interview, and evidence to examine, so he called Missy and told her not to wait up—it was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 12
As luck would have it, Kel didn’t have to search out Sal Benson to ask questions about what had happened between Clara Schenkman and Melvin Chandler, the local supplier. When the artist took his lunch break at Betsy’s Diner, Mel was bellied up to the counter, apparently trying to drown his sorrows in Betsy’s porridge-like chili.
“Mel? Mel Chandler?” he approached the man, holding out his hand.
Melvin shook it.
“You look familiar, bud, but I’m afraid I can’t place you—I’ve got a lot on my mind, sorry. How do I know you?” the gruff-voiced older man asked the well-dressed artist.
“We worked together building houses for Home Grown Charities in the old part of town a couple of summers ago. You and I had a pretty good framing routine,” Kel grinned.
Mel nodded and brightened. “That’s right… you’re that artist guy.”
“Kel.”
“Yeah, Kel. I remember now.”
“May I?” the artist gestured to the seat next to the supplier.
“Go ahead, but I gotta warn ya, I’m probably not gonna be very good company,” Mel sighed.
“Rough day?” Kel asked, pretending to look at a menu. He knew exactly what he wanted, he ordered the same thing almost every time he came in.
“Rough week,” the businessman groused, shoveling in a mouthful of chili heavily laden with onions, cheese, and crushed-up crackers. “My biggest customer jumped ship this week. No warning, no negotiation, just boom—gone,” he shook his head in disgust.
“Think you’ll get them back?” Kel raised a finger to let Betsy know that he’d have his usual, and she came over and poured him a tall iced tea.
“Nah. The old witch made the deal last week, and ends up dead a coupla days later. Just my luck.”
“Heart attack?”
Mel shrugged. “No idea. The cops are lookin’ into it, according to the papers,” he washed down a mouthful of chili with a cup of coffee.
Kel eyed the rate and content of the man’s consumption. “I have some antacids in my car if you’d like,” he raised his eyebrows, teasing.
“Trust me, Kel, a little indigestion won’t even begin to take my mind off my real problems. Some folks drink, I abuse my stomach, it’s just how it goes.”
“We’ll have to get together for Betsy’s onion rings later, then. If the person who made such a bad deal died, won’t whoever takes over the company go back to doing business with you?”
“I sure as heck hope so,” Melvin uncapped a bottle of Tabasco and shook the fiery liquid into his bowl of already nuclear chili, clearly a man on a mission. “If they don’t, I’m done for… I don’t think my business can take that kind of hit and still survive, ya know? Been doing this my whole life, and now I may have to close the doors.”
Kel’s whopping California Club sandwich, with a heaping helping of parmesan-and oregano-dusted fries arrived, and the two men ate in silence for a while. After the artist paid his bill, he stood to go, shaking Mel’s hand.
“I hope it works out for you,” he said sympathetically.
“Me too. I think somebody offed the old prune, and if it’s who I think it is, things are going to get really interesting around her business,” Melvin commented, staring into his cup of coffee, which had been refilled at least five times since Kel had come in.
“Really? Wow. Who do you think would do such a thing?” Kel grabbed his iced tea glass and sipped at the dregs of it as a cover for lingering.
“I don’t wanna say, cuz he’s a good guy, but I have my suspicions. Seems to me that there’s only one man who stood to benefit from putting a hit on Clara Schenkman. It’s a shame, really.”
“You?” Kel gave Melvin a pointed look; Mel stilled, then slowly put down his spoon and stood up, nose to nose with the artist.
“That ain’t funny, art-boy. You best not be tossing those kinda thoughts around, you know what I’m saying?” Mel gritted his teeth.
“Just a joke, good sir, my apologies. I was trying to lighten the moment,” Kel replied easily, not budging an inch, nor looking away.
“Yeah, well, you’ll understand why I don’t happen to be laughing about it,” he muttered, sitting back down. “Mark my words, I bet when all the dust settles in this one, Warren Metzler is gonna have some explaining to do.”
Kel nodded, mentally filing away the comment, and took his leave before he chanced upsetting Melvin Chandler again. The poor chap had enough on his plate without someone of superior wit poking at his psyc
he.
CHAPTER 13
Detective Chas Beckett had a niggling feeling that there was something that he had missed, or overlooked, that might be the clue that would lead him in the direction of Clara Schenkman’s murderer. Taking a couple of his best forensic technicians with him, the detective decided to do yet another sweep of the woman’s home in hopes that something would turn up. He’d leave no stone unturned in his quest for the truth, because something about this case just didn’t feel right.
When he arrived at the scene, he noticed that the yellow tape sealing off the entrance to the home had been torn down and tossed onto a topiary next to the door. Drawing his weapon, and motioning for the techs to stay outside, he turned the doorknob slowly, and it gave way, the door swinging silently inward. Stepping inside, Chas stood, listening in the foyer and heard faint noises coming from the direction of Clara’s bedroom.
Back to the wall, the detective slipped silently down the hallway toward the bedroom, and heard what sounded like a woman giving orders.
“Hurry up, it’s not like I have all day,” an unpleasant, nasal female voice snapped.
Chas made a quick move into the doorway, weapon pointed in the direction of the sound, and ordered, “Freeze, police!”
A very startled housemaid and a socialite stared at him, one terrified, the other furious.
“Are you out of your mind?” the thin, sharp-featured woman hissed. “I don’t know who the heck you think you are coming into my home like this, but you need to just turn yourself around and get out of here before I have to get ugly,” Sharlene Schenkman-Wilkins snarled, hands on hips, while Rosarita, Clara’s once-a-week housekeeper, looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
The detective immediately realized who the prickly creature in front of him was, and strangely felt the missing pieces of the puzzle somehow beginning to fit together. He clicked the safety back into place on his weapon and reholstered it, never taking his eyes off of Sharlene.
“Your house? I can only assume that you must be Sharlene, Walter and Clara’s daughter,” Chas began, glancing around the room to see what she had been up to.
Caramel Creme Killer: Book 3 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Page 4