by Julie Chase
“It’s complicated.”
My shoulders drooped. Complicated was where I jumped ship. I was swimming in complicated already. I slid one arm around Imogene’s middle and tugged her against my side. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“I hope you’re right. If we don’t get another Lockwood woman down here soon, all hell’s going to break lose.”
I’d heard her say that before, and I worried every time that she might mean it literally. “Gotcha.” I stepped away and adjusted my dress. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. You’ve got your own troubles.” She nodded to window.
Across the street, Mrs. Becker came into view. She exited a restaurant holding hands with a dashing older man. “Hey.” I nudged Imogene. “Who is that?”
Imogene squinted. “Looks like Mrs. Becker.”
“Not her. Him.”
Mrs. Becker leaned against the man’s side, releasing their entwined fingers so she could wrap an arm around his back. He tipped his head against the top of hers.
“Awful handsy to be any relation.”
I agreed. No wonder she was so quick to pin her husband’s murder on the easiest target. She also had something to hide. A boyfriend, AKA motive. “Can you keep an eye on things for a minute?” I asked Imogene. “I want to say hello.”
“I don’t think that is a good—”
I zipped outside before she could finish her suggestion and crouched behind a delivery truck on the corner.
The happy couple kissed before climbing into an expensive-looking black car at the curb.
I patted my pockets. “Dang it.” I’d left the shop too quickly. My phone was on the counter, and I didn’t even have a pencil to jot down the car’s license plate number.
Imogene waved from the window. I mimed taking a picture, hoping she’d get the message and snap a shot of the car and its license plate before they spotted me or drove away.
She beamed back, open mouthed, and made jazz fingers.
“Blah.” I turned my attention to the happy couple. Their car pulled into traffic, leaving me hunched behind a box truck with no way to follow. “Dang it!” I creaked upright and dashed my toe in disappointment. Mrs. Becker and her dirty little secret were getting away.
I slunk back into Furry Godmother for my purse and went out again. My tummy churned. Humidity clung to my brow. I needed a cold, fruity hug to cheer me up and clear my head. The line at Frozen Banana, the smoothie shop on the corner, curled through the doors and along the sidewalk to meet me. I went to the end and leaned against the brick building for emotional support. I dialed Jack while I waited.
“Oliver,” he answered.
“Hey.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Why assume something’s wrong?”
“Have you ever called for another reason?”
“I think all information is a matter of perception,” I countered. Maybe it was good news that we had a new lead and not bad news that I’d forgotten to bring my phone to capture the details. “I followed Mrs. Becker and a man from their romantic lunch date”—I paused for dramatic effect—“to his car, where they kissed before driving away. I didn’t get the license plate number, but I can describe the car to you.”
“You did what?” he asked. The eerie calm in his voice sent chills down my arms. Jack wasn’t a yeller, but this wasn’t my first experience with his warning voice. He didn’t have to yell to make a point. He scared the bejesus out of everyone without it. “Were you even listening to me earlier?”
“Yes. I didn’t go looking for the information, it fell into my line of sight. What would you have had me do? Close my eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s too late for that now, and this is good news. A new lead, right? Imagine it. Two men. One woman. Fisticuffs ensued. Perhaps leading to a head injury and deadly night in the freezer. You see what I’m saying?” I crept forward with the slow-moving line.
“I’m sending you an e-mail on stalker behavior. I think you’re having a tough time with the concept,” he grumped.
My jaw dropped. “I followed a lead. You do it all the time.”
“I’m a detective.”
A young couple lined up behind me, sandwiching me in and reminding me to keep it together. I lowered my voice. “They were right outside my window. It’s not as if I was waiting in her bushes with binoculars.” Hurt rolled through my stomach. What did a woman have to do for an accolade these days?
“Lacy.”
I waited for the apology.
“Following a woman who has tried to get a restraining order against you supports her argument, and it ticks me off.” His voice boomed on the final three words.
“Don’t use that tone. It makes me nervous.”
“Oh, sure. That makes you nervous.” He grumbled a few creative swears before settling down. “You might as well tell me about the car.”
“I think it was a Cadillac. One of those decked out numbers with big shiny hubcaps and dark windows. Black. Probably new. I should also tell you I have a line on Mr. Becker’s mistress.” I cupped a hand around my phone and mouth, attempting to muffle my words from prying ears.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the mistress when I was with you an hour ago?”
“How? You were busy scolding me about something else and then the subject changed entirely.” I imagined him grinding his teeth in the silence. “While I was at Cuddle Brigade yesterday, one of the nannies suggested that Mr. Becker was seeing a worker named Kinley.”
“Kinley what?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Becker came and chased me away.”
Jack snorted. “None of my murder cases were this animated before you.”
“Thanks.” I made it through the Frozen Banana doors and sighed in contentment. Scents of spun sugar and warm vanilla encased my head, lulling me into tranquility.
“Did you just ‘mmm’?”
I nodded, despite the fact he couldn’t see me. “Why does it always smell like heaven and warm pound cake at Frozen Banana?”
“They make their own sugar cones.”
My mouth watered. “I have to go.”
“I’ll run the name Kinley against the employee roster at Cuddle Brigade, and I’ll see if anyone in Mrs. Becker’s social circle has a new Cadillac registered to him. Meanwhile, drink your smoothie and stay out of this. At the very least, don’t get caught following a woman who’s accused you of stalking her.”
“Fine. I won’t get caught.”
“Fine.” Jack disconnected.
My phone buzzed immediately, and Scarlet’s face appeared on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I got a new scoop on the Beckers.”
Excellent. “Spill.”
“A woman in my mommy and baby exercise class lives on the Beckers’ block. She jogs past their house twice a day with the stroller, and she said there’s always a ton of arguing going on in there. Once, the commotion was so loud, it made her daughter cry. She stopped to comfort the baby, and a minute later, the Beckers stormed into the side lawn yelling about infidelity.”
“I just saw Mrs. Becker kiss a man on the street outside Furry Godmother.”
Scarlet clucked her tongue. “So the new question is whether they were arguing about his infidelity or hers.”
Personally, I had a whole buffet of questions on my Becker menu.
I ordered my smoothie and collected it with enthusiasm while I contemplated the most pressing theories first. “She could’ve wanted to get rid of Mr. Becker, but needed a way to ensure she’d get all the money. Why split the assets in a divorce when you can kill your cheating husband instead? Or maybe Mrs. Becker had had enough of his cheating and wanted to teach him a lesson. When having her own affair didn’t work, she got violent.”
“I should come over soon,” Scarlet said. “We can make a list.”
I pumped my straw in and out of the lid a few times, then sucked it flat. “Yes, plea
se.”
“Ugh.” Scarlet scolded someone for eating rocks and disconnected.
By dinnertime, I’d polished everything inside Furry Godmother to a high shine and performed a handful of fruitless Internet searches on Kinley, the Cuddle Brigade nanny and potential mistress of Wallace Becker. Hopefully Jack had more luck.
A black Cadillac inched through traffic outside my window. It wasn’t Mrs. Becker and her date this time, but the sight of it sent my wheels turning in a new direction. “Imogene?”
“Go on,” she said from behind the counter.
I grabbed my bag and jogged across the street to the restaurant where Mrs. Becker and the man had emerged after lunch. Salu was a bistro I frequented regularly for lunch and had visited with Chase for happy hour once or twice. The food was mind-bogglingly good, and who doesn’t love a two-dollar margarita?
“Hi.” I bounced onto a stool at the wide mahogany bar and smiled at the bartender. Spicy scents of Cajun shrimp tickled my nose and enticed my tummy. Puffs of butter-drenched steam burst through the flapping kitchen door as servers zoomed in and out, trays of piping-hot entrées overhead. “Is the manager here?”
“Sure thing. Can I get you something while you wait?”
“No, thanks. Just the manager.”
He winked one big brown eye and headed for the back room.
I tapped anxious fingers against the high-polished wood and wiggled on my seat. With any luck, the manager remembered seeing Mrs. Becker today.
A broad man with a crooked nose and round belly emerged with the barkeep and smiled when he saw me. “Lacy, how are you?”
“Hi, Stan. I’m good. Sorry to bother you.”
He whipped a white towel over his shoulder. “Nonsense. What can we do for you today?” He scanned the empty space in front of me. “Where’s your drink? Your appetizer? We’re not making you wait, are we?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I just came by to pick your brain. Do you know Mrs. Becker? Her husband, Wallace, owned Cuddle Brigade.”
“No.” He wrinkled his brow. “Why? Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” I struggled for a less stalker-like reason to continue asking about her. “I saw her leaving here earlier, but I was too slow to say hello. She was gone in a flash. I hate that I missed her.” My cheeks heated with the lie.
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Have I ever thanked you for sending those pupcakes to my Dalmatian, Hugo? He loved them. Couldn’t get enough.”
I smiled broadly. Delivering samples to every business owner on the street at Christmas had been a fantastic decision. “Hey, listen, this is going to sound strange, but did you happen to see a tall, thin, fifty-something man in here not too long ago? He was with Mrs. Becker.” I chewed my lip, struggling to recall anything else about the man’s appearance. “He wore a black dress coat and bright-yellow tie. Mrs. Becker is a small woman. Same age. She has short, dark hair.”
Stan straightened. “The man had glasses? Round frames?” He circled a finger in front of one eye.
“Yes!”
“I think you’re talking about my guy Stewart. He’s a regular.”
“Stewart?”
“Sure. Dr. Stewart Hawkins. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”
I shook Stan’s hand and smiled.
Nice guy? Murderer? I’d be the judge of that.
Chapter Twelve
Furry Godmother’s words of wisdom: If you’re feeling under the weather, check for a storm cloud.
I had to show a photo ID to visit my parents. A security guard shined his flashlight on my license and examined my face for a match. “Thank you, Ms. Crocker.” He radioed someone via walkie-talkie and motioned me ahead.
I opted to park on the street for a clean getaway. There was an unidentified car in the drive, and I didn’t want to get boxed in if Mom had invited a bunch of ladies over and more cars were on the way.
I hopped out with Penelope in her travel pack. The fine hairs along the back of my neck stood at attention. The sensation of being watched sifted into my bones. I checked over both shoulders, but only the guard seemed to notice me. He tipped his hat as I scuttled passed, giving him a wide berth. Not long ago, a less than stable man had posed as Mom’s hired help and tried to kill me.
Mom beetled down the driveway and met me at the gate. “Come on. Hurry up.”
I tiptoe-jogged to her side, trying not to shake Penelope half to death. “What’s with all the double-oh-seven? Did something happen? Were you threatened?”
“Heavens no.” She hustled me to the house and shoved me inside. “I told you about the added security. It’s better to make a spectacle of our overdone protection than to let anyone think we can be breached.”
“Ah.” I freed Penelope. “In other words, you were feeling helpless and wanted to do something about it.”
She frowned. “Maybe.”
“Well, now you’re speaking my language. The guard is probably a smart move.” Assuming he wasn’t a killer undercover. “If I was up to no good, I definitely would have kept driving.” I turned for an inspection of the silent home around us. “Whose car is in the drive?”
“Herbert’s. He’s the man at the gate.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
I set Penelope’s carrier on a pile of boxes near the back door. “Make mine coffee. I have an order for the Llama Mamas to take care of tonight.”
“Caffeinated tea, then.” She flipped her new haircut and bustled toward the kitchen. “Feel free to spill it on whatever you’re making that dreaded woman and her adorable livestock.”
I dropped my purse onto another box, impressed by the apparent headway Mom was making with the purging. “How’s the cleaning going?” I wedged a fingertip under one box lid and peeked inside. A row of aged book spines and puzzle boxes stared up at me. “Hey! These are my things.” I pried the lids open one by one. “You can’t give away my books.”
Mom appeared in the doorway. “Come away from there and sit in the parlor.”
I obeyed with a scowl. “Those are my books.”
“The ones in boxes were piled on your floor. I packed the copies with worn covers for donation and dusted the others for display.”
“The worn covers mean those were my favorite copies. I read them until the pages were soft from love and attention.” I gave her my business face. “I’m taking those home.”
She rolled her eyes.
That reminded me. I was already peeved at her for another reason. “Did you tell Jack you were holding him personally responsible for my safety and well-being, lest you throttle him?”
She stared defiantly.
“Well?” I crossed my arms and waited. “Why would you do that? I’m not a child in need of a sitter, and Jack has enough to do without feeling unduly burdened with your nutty requests.”
Dad arrived with a tray and place settings for three. “Lacy.” He set the tray on a small table before me and kissed my cheek. “I’m so glad to see you. How was your day?”
I smiled. “Good. Mom threatened Jack if he didn’t keep me safe.”
Dad gave her a cautious look. “She should’ve also told him not to mention it.”
My brows rose in slow unison. “Et tu, Brute?”
His expression fell. “I’m not happy about what’s happened to Wallace, or what’s happening to me, but I’m thankful for all that I have in this room, and I’m not opposed to setting measures in motion to protect it.”
Mom gave him a suspicious look. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you had to work late again.”
He lowered himself onto the antique Queen Anne chair beside mine. “I did, until my last two appointments cancelled. I hate to say it, but you might consider calling off the recognition dinner on Friday night.”
Mom scooted to the edge of her seat, a rare look of tenderness in her normally authoritative eyes. “This will pass. I promise you. We’ve been through much worse, and we’ve survived.”
Dad
nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
I crossed my ankles beneath me and stretched to pour a cuppa. “What have you been through that’s worse than a pending murder charge?”
“We raised you,” Mom said, her troubled expression lifting. “Zing!”
Dad laughed.
I’d walked right into that, plus it was true, so I let it go. “I saw something interesting this afternoon.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad asked. “What was that?”
“Mrs. Becker kissed Dr. Stewart Hawkins outside a restaurant on Magazine Street.”
He and Mom exchanged a look.
“Who?” Mom asked. “What sort of kiss?”
“Dr. Hawkins.” I sipped my silky tea with delight. “A romantic one.” My recently interrupted kiss with Chase crossed my mind. That moment needed to be addressed soon, but I hadn’t had the spare brainpower to decide how I felt about it.
“Oh, dear.” Mom lifted a cup and saucer from the tray. “Surely, she wasn’t seeing Wallace’s doctor on the side. How uncouth.”
I gave Dad a careful look. “You don’t know him?”
“No,” he answered. “This is news to us.” He checked with Mom for confirmation. She lifted her shoulders.
I settled my cup against my thigh. “I spent the last hour reading all about him online. He probably wasn’t Mr. Becker’s doctor. He’s a local plastic surgeon and philanthropist who looks good on paper, but I’m wondering if he could have killed Wallace to get unlimited access to Mrs. Becker.”
Mom returned her tea to the tray and rested her hands against her stomach. “You think horrible things.”
“Yes, and I made an appointment to see him in the morning.”
“Absolutely not,” Dad said.
Mom lifted her brows in interest. “You’re pretending to be a potential client? Is that safe?”
Dad shot her a look of disbelief. “Of course it’s not safe. She just told us she thinks the man’s a killer.”