There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3)

by Wendy Delaney

  “It’s a tight-knit group of three employees besides Jeremy. Cameron was just the only one who said yes,” she explained as if anticipating my next question. “Phyllis wouldn’t come to our wedding either, so I’m not surprised she declined the invitation.”

  Phyllis was the former girlfriend who had given Marty the salsa. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she didn’t want to sit ringside and bear witness to Marty’s wonderful life with Victoria. At least what had appeared to have been a wonderful life.

  A tiny frown line etched its way between Victoria’s perfectly arched brows a second before she broke eye contact. “And I can’t tell you why Bob didn’t come,” she said with a lip press that suggested that she couldn’t tell me because she didn’t want to.

  “Bob?”

  “Bob Hallahan, the assistant manager at the store and one of Marty’s best friends.”

  I knew Bob a little from having waited on him a few times at Duke’s.

  “He gave Marty the bottle of scotch when they went out for lunch yesterday. It’s…” She hesitated, seemingly censoring herself. “…not typical for Bob to turn down an invitation to dinner.”

  It would be if something were to happen that he didn’t want to see.

  Criminy! Darlene and Nicole’s claims that Marty McCutcheon was poisoned were rubbing off on me.

  I needed to rein in my imagination and focus on doing the task at hand: getting statements from everyone who attended the birthday party, which meant retrieving my notebook to capture the information Victoria had just provided. “I’ll be right back,” I said on my way to the kitchen table, chiding myself for acting like a rookie.

  Death investigations weren’t an everyday occurrence in rural Chimacam County. I’d only participated in one, and today was just my third time to venture out of the courthouse on official coroner business. Still, I needed to get it together and not wear my inexperience on my sleeve.

  Seconds later, I met Victoria mid-stride in the center of her kitchen.

  She offered me a box of plastic wrap. “Would you like to wrap this around Marty’s plate so that you can take it with you?”

  Clearly she wanted me to. Again, not what I’d expect to hear from Darlene’s black widow.

  I’d seen and heard nothing to give any credence to the former Mrs. McCutcheon’s accusations, but Victoria’s action struck me as being a little too helpful—as if she’d known that someone from my office would stop by today and she had mentally prepared herself for that knock on her door.

  Tucking my notebook under my arm I took the box of plastic wrap from her. “Yes, thanks. Out of curiosity, did anyone from the coroner’s office call you this morning?”

  “No. You’re the only person I’ve talked to today. Well, aside from Jeremy. He called to make sure I was okay.” She drew in a deep breath. “And to let me know that his mother might make some trouble. I assume you’ve already talked to her?”

  I nodded. “She has some concerns.” To put it mildly.

  Victoria McCutcheon met my gaze, her dark eyes hard like flint. “So do I. That’s why I called the Sheriff the moment I got home last night.”

  That tidbit of information wasn’t in the file Frankie had given me.

  “A deputy arrived about an hour later. He took my statement much like you did, snapped a few pictures, and then very politely reminded me that they did everything that they could at the ER, but until the sheriff’s department is told otherwise, my husband died because he had a bad heart.”

  Despite the fact that I was willing to take some bottles and leftovers back to the office with me, I knew that I was accomplishing little more than that sheriff’s deputy.

  “So please, take whatever you need and find out what killed my husband,” Victoria said with an icy intensity that made my skin prickle with gooseflesh.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Returning to the courthouse forty minutes later, I walked into the bowels of the third floor carrying a paper sack containing the remains of Marty McCutcheon’s last meal, a half-empty bottle of green chili salsa, and a nearly-full fifth of scotch whisky.

  Karla Tate, Frankie’s death investigation coordinator in charge of cataloguing the evidence brought into the department, looked up at me over her computer monitor. “Brown bagging it today?”

  “It’s evidence. Maybe.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

  “If Marty McCutcheon ate or drank anything that caused his heart to stop last night, it’s evidence.”

  Leaning over her desk, Karla frowned at the bag. “Is that a bottle of booze in there?”

  I nodded and told her the rest of the contents of the bag.

  She puckered, accentuating the network of wrinkles that decades of smoking had carved into her upper lip. “You know that if there were any real indication that Marty died from anything other than a bum ticker, the Sheriff would be storing that stuff in his evidence room instead of us cluttering up ours.”

  “I know it’s a big if and we’ll probably end up throwing all of this into the trash, but if there’s even a chance that Frankie wants something analyzed after the labs come back….”

  “Fine,” Karla muttered on a sigh. After pulling out some evidence tags from a drawer, she led me down the hall to the storage closet that doubled as an evidence room.

  It contained a four-tier wire rack unit that shelved boxes of holiday decor and party supplies, coils of extension cords, a cardboard box piled high with telephones that appeared to be leftovers from the last century, and a covered plastic storage bin containing a roll of aluminum foil along with assorted sizes of baggies and gloves.

  To the right of the shelving unit stood a tall, two-door gray metal cabinet. Filling up the majority of the remaining space a white refrigerator/freezer softly whirred.

  Nothing about this closet screamed Evidence Room except for the fact that both the cabinet and the refrigerator were secured with padlocks.

  “Glove up,” Karla said, reaching into the plastic bin and handing me a pair of nitrile gloves. “I assume you were wearing gloves when you removed this stuff from the house?”

  “Uh, no, but I only handled the plate after wrapping it in plastic and the other two bottles already had their lids on them.”

  Karla heaved another sigh as she snapped on a pair of gloves. “If this ever goes to court the defense attorney will rip you to shreds for not following protocol. In the future, if you think we need to collect some evidence, call me.”

  My cheeks burned from the criticism of the senior staffer who had been training me to be her backup. I’d made another rookie mistake.

  She pulled the plastic-wrapped plate from the bag. “This looks nasty.”

  I couldn’t disagree. “Yeah.”

  Palming the plate she met my gaze with a look worthy of a disapproving schoolmarm. “And it isn’t cold.”

  “I know. Mrs. McCutcheon left everything on the table, just as it was after her husband became ill.”

  “So it sat out all night, uncovered.”

  “Yep.”

  “You know what I said about that defense attorney ripping you to shreds?”

  I nodded.

  “Ditto. Fortunately for us, Marty didn’t fall victim to anything more sinister than the poor diet that’s been hardening his arteries the last thirty years, and your evidence won’t be needed.”

  “Right.” Try convincing the McCutcheon women that their loved one had simply eaten his way into an early grave.

  After another few puckers and sighs, the remnants from Marty McCutcheon’s last meal were bagged, tagged, and stored under lock and key, and I was handed a plate to return to his second wife.

  Not today, I thought, washing it in the breakroom. My only order of business today was to speak with everyone who had shared that last meal and then get my report to Frankie.

  I made a quick trip to my desk to store the plate in a drawer and check my messages, then I headed for the door to interview the next person on my list: Jeremy McCutc
heon.

  On my way out I glanced up at the brass clock mounted above the front door that along with the red brick courthouse, dated back to the late eighteen hundreds. Since it was eleven twenty-two and approaching lunchtime for most of Port Merritt’s occupants, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of catching Nicole’s brother at the shop where he’d worked for Marty. The same could be said for Cameron, the half-brother Nicole and Jeremy didn’t know they had, Phyllis, the salsa lady, and Bob, Marty’s whisky supplier.

  With any luck, I’d be able to get most of their statements, take my own lunch break at Duke’s, and then walk back to McCutcheon Floors & More to finish the job.

  That would leave only one name on my interview list: Austin Reidy. I just needed to make sure that my lunch had settled before I visited Austin. Not that history would repeat itself and I’d cap off our meeting by upchucking on his shoes. That ugly little slice of mortification pie was served only to sixteen-year-olds foolish enough to chug their first beer on a dare. Wasn’t it?

  I reached into my tote bag and fingered the roll of antacids I kept in a side pocket. Yep, I was armed and ready for Austin Reidy. At least that’s what I told myself.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as the door to McCutcheon Floors & More swung shut behind me, two things seemed very inappropriate given the reason for my visit: the business as usual atmosphere in Marty McCutcheon’s store and the bright smile on his son’s face as he greeted me.

  “How’re you doing? Can I help you find something?” Jeremy McCutcheon asked without waiting for an answer to the first question.

  I looked up at the younger, golden-haired version of his father. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Charmaine Digby and I work for the Coroner.”

  The wattage of his smile dimmed as his heavy-lidded brown eyes scanned my face. “Yeah, I remember you.” His gaze dropped to my hips. “It’s been a while.”

  At least fifteen years since I’d served him a burger at Duke’s and double that many pounds. “I’d like to speak with you if you could spare a few minutes.”

  He shook his head. “You couldn’t have picked a worse time.”

  No doubt his father’s death had to have made getting through this work day especially difficult.

  “We’re kicking off our annual fall sale today.”

  A sale? Today of all days?

  He thumbed in the direction of the two couples walking through the laminate flooring section. “I’m kinda busy.”

  “I can see that.” I also noticed a twenty-something dressed in the same polo shirt/blue jeans combination as Jeremy, who was assisting one of the couples. That’s where the similarity between the two men ended. Where Jeremy, a solid-packed former state wrestling champion, looked like he’d enjoy the taste of his own blood, the dark-haired guy with the more angular features looked long and lean like a distance runner who preferred fresh air to the stink of a wrestling mat. At least I’d thought they had nothing in common until his gaze met mine, and I saw that they shared the same heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes—Marty’s eyes.

  This had to be Cameron, and he appeared to be as curious about me as I was about him.

  “I thought about closing things down today,” Jeremy said as I looked around. “But I didn’t think my dad would want us to do that, especially after he spent some bucks to advertise the sale. Instead, when I told everyone the news this morning, I said they could take the day if they wanted.”

  “Anyone take you up on your offer?”

  “Just Bob Hallahan. He and my dad went way back, so he took it pretty hard.”

  “Understandable.”

  “If you could come back Monday, after the sale—”

  “Sorry, this can’t wait, but I promise I’ll be brief. Is there somewhere private where we could talk?”

  “Of course.” The smile crawling back onto his face, he bowed slightly, all politeness like the officious maître d’ at my former in-laws’ San Francisco bistro. So very accommodating to the big tippers, such a prick to everyone else. “Right this way.”

  I followed him past stacks of rolled carpet, halfway down a dimly lit hallway into a back office cluttered with catalogs, books of swatches, and laminate sample boards.

  Jeremy sat behind the desk and pointed to the two black vinyl chairs facing him. “Have a seat. Sorry about the mess. Pop was the carpet king in town, not the organization king.”

  Clearly that was the truth, but again it struck me how unaffected by his father’s loss Jeremy appeared to be. It was as if he’d shifted into an emotionally neutral state. Assuming, of course, that he was a man capable of experiencing highs and lows on a sliding scale of emotions.

  I sat in the chair closest to the door and pulled my notebook from my tote. “First of all, my condolences. I knew your dad from working at Duke’s over the years. He was a very nice man.”

  “We all thought so,” he said, his gaze cool as he tapped a steady beat with his index finger.

  I took that as a signal to cut the niceties short and get on with the interview. “I understand that you were at your dad’s house for dinner last night.”

  The tapping continued. “That’s right.”

  “Who else was there?” I already had the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him.

  “Victoria, my sister, Nic, her husband, Austin, Cameron, and me.”

  “Who’s Cameron?” I asked to watch Jeremy describe Cameron’s relationship to his late father.

  “New guy. My dad took him under his wing when he hired him a couple months back. Even had him to the house for dinner once before.”

  Again Jeremy was making like Switzerland. Completely neutral.

  “So it didn’t seem unusual for him to be there with your family?”

  “No, and why are you asking about one of our employees?” He sat up straight like I’d just jammed a stick up his backside. “Are you suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. The Coroner just wants to be thorough. You know, dot all the i’s, cross all the t’s.”

  Jeremy vented a breath.

  Righteous indignation? If that’s what he had intended to convey I wasn’t buying it, not with the lack of heat behind the carefully constructed mask he was wearing.

  “Whatever,” he muttered. “I need to get back to work so what else do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about your dad. You must have spent quite a bit of time with him yesterday. Did he say anything about not feeling well?”

  “He seemed fine. It was his birthday so Phyllis got him a cake. We all signed a card for him. What can I tell you? He seemed to be enjoying himself.”

  “And later on at dinner?”

  “The same. Laughing, joking around—normal stuff.” He knit his brows. “At least until he broke into a sweat.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten minutes after we sat down to eat. I didn’t notice it at first. Victoria did. Asked him if he was okay. Of course the old goat said he was fine. Too proud to admit he was in pain.”

  Nicole and Victoria had made it sound like Marty had become violently ill from something he ate or drank, but neither one of them had used the word pain. “Did he say something about anything hurting to you?”

  With a cavalier shrug of a shoulder Jeremy’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Didn’t have to. I was there for his last heart attack. Trust me, seeing him go all sweaty and pale—that’s not something you forget.”

  “Did you tell Victoria that you thought your dad was having another heart attack?”

  “I tried, but when he started throwing up she got a little hysterical. Honestly, I don’t think she heard me.”

  Hysterical? The cool and calm Victoria I met earlier this morning? Once again, I wasn’t buying what Jeremy was trying to sell me. And him throwing in an honestly line only served to make him less convincing.

  “But if you recognized the same signs that you saw before,” I said, struggling to phrase my question in a non-accusatory way, “did
you suggest placing a nine-one-one call?”

  “Victoria didn’t seem to want to call but finally…after…”

  “After what?”

  “Dad passed out on the bathroom floor, and I was yelling at her that we couldn’t wait any longer,” he stated matter of factly as if we were talking about something as inconsequential as the weather, not his dying father.

  His version of last night’s events was very similar to Nicole’s and Victoria’s except for the parts where he suspected that his father was having another heart attack and his portrayal of his stepmother as hesitant to get Marty the help he needed. The unflattering picture he’d painted made me curious about their relationship, especially since I knew that Jeremy was the one who had called to check up on her this morning.

  “But with the time it takes for the paramedics to get out to Clatska, it was already too late.” He heaved a sigh as if it had been scripted, but behind that sigh—nothing. No sense of loss, no indicator of grief.

  What was with this guy?

  The finger tapping resumed. “Anything else that I can tell you?”

  I knew there was plenty more he could tell me, but it would have been a waste of his time and mine if we were to continue this game of verbal dodgeball.

  “That’s all I need for now. Thank you. Would you ask Cameron to come in?”

  Coming to his feet, Jeremy narrowed his eyes at me, his gaze hard as granite for a split second before he shifted back into neutral.

  You don’t like me telling you what to do.

  “I’ll see if he’s available,” he stated slowly and clearly as if I needed a reminder that he was the one in charge in this office.

  Fine. At least he’d revealed an honest emotion. Not a particularly pleasant one since the guy looked like he wanted to wrap his beefy arm around my neck and put me into a head lock, but still, his emotional response told me a lot. Most notably that my read on him was correct.

  That didn’t mean that Jeremy McCutcheon had anything to do with his father’s death. It also didn’t mean that he didn’t.