Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  Poppy’s parents had celebrated their thirty-fifth anniversary last June, but it would be hard to claim that Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid were still in love, especially since he seemed to spend every waking moment at the police station.

  Then there was Boone, whose folks hadn’t spoken to each other since he was five. Oh, they were still married and still lived in the same house, but they communicated only through notes. The invention of e-mail had been a real blessing for them, not to mention saving a lot of trees.

  When neither Poppy nor I could meet Boone’s challenge, she said, “Okay. Maybe romances aren’t that realistic, but neither are the suspense thrillers you read. How many serial killers can there be who decapitate their victims and screw their corpses?”

  “Uh, guys.” Before Poppy and Boone got into an all-out literary debate—all three of us were avid readers, but with extremely different tastes—I intervened. “Could we discuss my problem before I’m too drunk to care?” To prove my point I chugged the remainder of my drink.

  “Sorry.” Poppy and Boone apologized in unison.

  “Okay, then.” I took a deep breath and told them everything, recapping what I had said on the phone and fleshing out the details.

  “How does Woods know the fingerprints on the murder weapons are yours?” Poppy asked.

  “The cops fingerprinted me when I was arrested after my old boss’s Ponzi scheme came to light.” My heartbeat still skittered into high gear when I thought about that time. “And even though Boone bailed me out within a few hours and the charges were eventually dropped, my prints are still in the system.”

  “That’s certainly not fair,” Poppy huffed. “They shouldn’t keep your prints if you’re innocent.”

  “Honey, you have no idea how much data the government has on all of us.” Boone wrinkled his nose. “And they never willingly get rid of any of it.”

  Boone was a bit of a conspiracy nut, and I knew I had to stop him before he started in on JFK’s real killer, and the true story behind the most recent stock market crash, so I asked, “How much trouble am I in?” Since he was the lawyer in our group, his opinion carried the most weight.

  “It’s hard to say.” Boone pushed a swath of tawny gold hair off his forehead. “Most of my practice is in real estate and divorce, not criminal law.”

  I cringed. Boone messing up his perfectly styled tresses was never a good sign.

  “Depending on how big a jones this Detective Woods has for you, he could make your life miserable.” Boone frowned, then used his thumb to smooth the line between his brows. “You probably wouldn’t be convicted, but then again, juries are a crapshoot, and with your past…”

  He didn’t have to draw me a picture. A jailbird father and a crooked boss wouldn’t win me any sympathy or earn me much benefit of the doubt. “Damn it all to hell!” The Irish coffee threatened to come back up. That was not the answer I wanted to hear.

  “Do you think Woods would go as far as planting evidence?” Poppy asked.

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “When I was employed at Stramp Investments, I worked with people so shady, their code of ethics and a list of the seven deadly sins were identical, and they didn’t scare me half as much as Woods does.” I rested my chin on my fist. “What am I going to do?”

  “I have one idea.” Boone whipped out his cell and put it on speaker. “Maybe if I, as your lawyer, lodge a complaint that Woods has a conflict of interest regarding you, another detective will be assigned to the case. I’ll also mention that he sent his partner away when he interviewed you.”

  Poppy and I listened intently as Boone spoke to Woods’s superior officer. Boone’s argument was persuasive, and my hopes soared, until I heard the lieutenant say, “Thank you for your concern, Mr. St. Onge, but I assure you Detective Woods would never indulge in a personal vendetta. I’m sure Ms. Sinclair misunderstood him. And partners often split up to conduct interviews.”

  After Boone hung up, the three of us sat in frustrated silence until Poppy jumped up and said, “Time for another drink.” She headed to the bar. “Then we’ll figure out who the real murderer is.”

  Two margaritas later, I was feeling slightly better, though we hadn’t made much progress in figuring out who the killer was. Both Boone and Poppy were eager to try their hand at investigating, if only they could agree on who got to be Nancy Drew.

  “Hey, guys,” I piped up, interrupting their bickering, “could we get serious about this? My neck’s on the line here.”

  “Geesh!” Boone complained. “You’re no fun.”

  Poppy saw the unhappy look on my face and said, “What we really need to do is come up with some better suspects than you. Ones that detective can’t ignore.”

  “It’s always the significant other.” Boone’s grin was wolfish. “Which means Noah Underwood did it.”

  The rivalry between Boone and Noah had started when Noah was elected class president in sixth grade. It had continued throughout high school and into their adult lives. When Noah and I were dating, he and Boone pretended to get along. But the minute Noah betrayed me, Boone’s true feelings reemerged. From then on, he never bothered to hide his contempt for the good doctor.

  Shoving aside the big lump of regret that seemed to form in my stomach whenever my ex-boyfriend’s name came up, I tried to focus on the Noah of today: the thirty-year-old successful physician whom the rest of the town adored.

  Including Poppy apparently, since she immediately leapt to his defense. “Noah wouldn’t murder anyone.” She shook her head. “From what I saw when Joelle came in here, she was a scum-sucking slut, but she did get Noah to come out of his shell.”

  “Out of his shell?” I snorted. “What is he, a man or a mollusk?”

  “You know, even though he dated, he was never the same after you two broke up.” Poppy’s voice sounded suspiciously affectionate. “Of course, neither were you.”

  “We did not break up.” Poppy’s soft spot for the doctor was beginning to annoy me. “He dumped me during the worst time of my life. And I wasn’t the same because my dad was in prison and my mom ran away, not because Noah dropped me like a rancid doggie bag rather than be sullied by my family’s disgrace.”

  “Still.” Poppy’s expression was stubborn. “That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “Then give me some other choices,” I said in as even a tone as I could muster, majorly disappointed in my BFF.

  “And we’re not taking him off the list.” Boone dramatically produced a slim gold pen and wrote Noah’s name on a cocktail napkin.

  “How about those friends of Joelle’s?” Poppy suggested. “When she and Noah became engaged, they were mad enough to spit nails.”

  “That’s right. The Country Club Cougars.” Boone dissolved into what could only be described as a fit of giggles. He had coined that nickname for the ladies who hung out at the country club and were on the prowl for husbands. He called their younger counterparts the Country Club Kittens.

  “Boone,” I admonished. “Focus.”

  He sobered and said, “I was here the night Poppy’s talking about, and I thought the Cougars were going to snatch Joelle bald when she showed off that five-carat diamond engagement ring.”

  “Yeah.” Poppy nodded. “You have to watch women like that. They’re mean because they’re hungry. The only calories they consume are in their martinis.”

  I chuckled. It had taken me years to become comfortable with my curvier-than-acceptable figure, but I was no longer jealous of the size double zeros Poppy was talking about—at least not very often.

  “Put that skanky Anya Hamilton on your list,” Poppy ordered. “She and Joelle were supposed to be besties, but the minute Joelle got that Jaguar from Noah as an engagement gift Anya started trash-talking her like they were both competing for the same beauty pageant crown.”

  Boone inked the words Anya Hamilton on his napkin, then added Nadine Underwood. “And we can’t forget dear old Mama. I heard she just about busted a gusset when her little sonny
boy brought Joelle home for Christmas dinner and proposed in front of everyone.”

  “My mom’s in the same prayer circle as Mrs. Underwood,” Poppy said with a snicker. “And she said Mrs. U had a mock wedding invitation made up that said: ‘You are regretfully invited to the wedding of my son, the doctor, to some scheming, lying floozy. My heart attack is scheduled for 7 p.m., Saturday, June 21st. Hopefully the divorce will take place Sunday, June 22nd.’ Mom said she passed them out at last month’s meeting.”

  “Oh, my God!” I squealed. “I wonder if she’s sorry now that she objected to Noah dating me.”

  “Nope.” Boone shook his head. “She wants her sweetums all to herself. She’d hate anyone he married.”

  “You know,” Poppy said, tapping a fingernail against her lips, “we’re making this all about Noah, but there was at least one guy who wanted Joelle for himself.”

  “Geoffrey Eggers,” Boone said. “Did you hear about the huge scene he caused at the New Year’s Eve ball?”

  Poppy nodded, but I shook my head and asked, “What did our beloved mayor do?”

  “His Honor got drunk and challenged Noah to a duel,” Boone informed me, nearly wiggling with glee.

  “How did I miss that juicy bit of news?” I really had to get out more. “Why didn’t you two tell me about it?”

  Poppy and Boone looked at each other uncomfortably until Boone reached over and patted my knee. “We know you hate it when we bring up Dr. Noah Dull.”

  “That’s not true.” It was my turn to look sheepish. I hadn’t realized I was that obvious about my feelings. “I don’t care if we talk about him.”

  “Liar.” Poppy leaned forward and punched me lightly on the arm, then turned her attention back to the original topic. “Anyway, what if Geoffrey decided that if he couldn’t have Joelle for himself, he’d kill her and make it look like Noah did it?”

  “If that was his plan, he did a piss-poor job of it.” I blew a curl that had escaped my ponytail out of my eyes. “Which actually lends credibility to your theory, since he’s done a rotten job of everything he’s tried since becoming mayor thirteen years ago.”

  “Right.” Boone turned up his nose. “He could barely run the bank back then. He should have left running the town to someone else.”

  “You know, he was in here not long ago telling me how depressed he was.” Poppy drummed her long red nails on her black-leather-clad knee.

  “Why was he telling you?” I didn’t think they were that friendly.

  “He wanted me to give him something to make him feel better,” Poppy explained. “You know, a bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.”

  Boone laughed. “You are so bad.”

  “Hey.” Poppy shrugged. “I tried being good once, but I got bored.”

  After we all became serious again, I said, “But isn’t His Honor way too old for Joelle? He’s about the same age as our fathers.”

  “True,” Poppy sneered. “But Joelle wasn’t as young as she claimed to be. She’s at least forty.”

  “Really?” I thought back to that day when the willowy brunette had sashayed through the door of my shop to order the basket for Noah. Her high, exotic cheekbones, delicate features, and thick dark hair that hung in long, graceful curves over her shoulders had suggested a woman hovering on the brink of thirty. “How do you know that?”

  “Her hands.” Poppy demonstrated by holding out her own graceful hands, palms down. “See, mine are smooth and unblemished, but around forty age spots start to pop up and wrinkles appear. Women can use makeup, dye their hair, and have plastic surgery for everything else, but the back of their hands will give them away every time.”

  “Hmm.” I raised a brow. “You’d think a physician would notice that.”

  “Not when those hands are squeezing your balls,” Boone scoffed.

  “Yep,” Poppy agreed. “Talented fingers make men blind to a lot of things.”

  Not wanting to picture Joelle and Noah in those circumstances, I quickly changed the subject. “So, do you really think if we give Detective Woods these other suspects he’ll leave me alone?”

  “Probably not.” Boone sucked on the end of his pen. “There’s got to be something more we can do to get his attention off you.”

  “Well.” Poppy got up and blew an imaginary speck of dust from a bridle hanging on the plank wall. “You did say that Woods accused you of still being in love with Noah, which was why he claimed you killed Joelle.”

  “Yes.” I recognized the look in my friend’s eye and braced myself for the bomb she was about to drop. “He seemed to think I quit my job so I could fulfill my lifelong goal of marrying Noah.”

  “So, if you’re seen around town all hot and heavy with someone else—pfft.” Poppy snapped her fingers. “His motive for you is gone.”

  “There’s only one flaw in that plan.” My shoulders sagged. “How to find a guy to date. There aren’t exactly a mob of them knocking at my door.”

  “She’s right,” Boone said to Poppy, then poked me in the shoulder. “When’s the last time you went out with someone?”

  “Before I bought the store and Gran started needing more attention.” I scowled at him. He knew perfectly well it had been over a year. “There just aren’t many single guys around here. At least not any I’d have anything in common with.”

  “Forget in common,” Poppy ordered. “We’re not looking for your soul mate. Just someone hot that you can do the horizontal tango with for a month or so to show that detective you aren’t still mooning over Noah.”

  “Fine.” I squirmed. “But there’s still the little matter of finding someone who is willing to date me.” Boone opened his mouth, but I held up my palm to him. “Let’s face it—if a guy is just out for a good time, I don’t exactly look like a Playboy bunny.”

  “No,” Poppy agreed, a little too quickly for my taste. “But if you’d fix yourself up a little you wouldn’t have any trouble getting asked out.” She walked over and stood in front of me. “When’s the last time you wore makeup?”

  “The day I quit my job,” I mumbled.

  “You have beautiful hair.” Poppy leaned forward and touched my ponytail. “A lot of women pay big bucks to get this cinnamon gold color you have naturally, but you scrape it back into a ponytail instead of showing it off.”

  Not wanting to sound like I was trying out for the Poor Pitiful Me contest, I didn’t mention the reason for my ponytail. Having my hair cut by someone who knew how to handle the thickness and the curls was another luxury I’d had to forgo once I gave up the big bucks of the financial industry.

  Boone turned toward me. “Not to mention your gorgeous eyes. Do you realize people wear aquamarine contacts so their eyes will look like yours? But you do nothing to emphasize them.”

  “All right already.” They were tag-teaming me and I was beginning to get mad. “I get it. I’ll fix myself up a little.” Geez. You would think they’d never seen me looking good.

  As if reading my mind, Boone tilted his head. “You know, the last time I saw you wear anything but a business suit or jeans was our junior year of high school at the Valentine’s Day dance.”

  “I have worn dresses and nice clothes since then. You just weren’t present at the time.”

  “Boone’s right,” Poppy disagreed. “That dance was the week before you and Noah split up.” She bit her lip. “Maybe the detective is right about your feelings for Noah.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I cleared my throat—it was hard to talk around the lump that was stuck there. “How many times do I have to tell you that was over a long time ago?”

  “Was it?” Poppy’s expression was sympathetic as she added softly, “You know, unrequited love is painful, not romantic.”

  Before I could respond to her pronouncement, my cell started playing “Sunrise, Sunset.” I snatched it from my pocket and flipped it open. As I listened, I jumped up and shrugged into my coat.

  Dashing out of the alcove with Boone and
Poppy at my heels, I said into the phone, “I’m on my way. Thanks.”

  “What’s wrong?” Poppy demanded.

  I paused half in and half out of the front door. “Your dad just arrested my grandmother.”

  CHAPTER 3

  With my little black sports car in the lead, Poppy’s ginormous silver Hummer hugging my bumper, and Boone’s Mercedes sedan bringing up the rear, we looked like some kind of peculiar parade heading into town. Considering that my father was in prison for causing a fatal accident while driving under the influence, I was worried that none of us should be behind the wheel, so I kept my Z4 at a steady thirty-five miles per hour rather than my normal seventy.

  If I hadn’t needed to get to my grandmother right away, I would have eaten something and waited several hours before driving, but there was no way I would leave her in jail for that long. And Poppy and Boone had refused to stay behind at the bar, despite my assurances that I could handle springing Gran on my own.

  At least Boone had a legitimate reason to accompany me; Birdie might need a lawyer. I suspected, however, that Poppy was along for the ride more because she never missed an opportunity to pick a fight with her father than because of her friendship with me—especially since stirring up Chief Kincaid was so not the way to persuade him to release my grandmother.

  The police station’s location between the hardware store and the dry cleaners on Shadow Bend’s main street often made parking a problem. But seeing as it was long past normal business hours, all five spaces in front were free, and I took the one nearest the entrance. Poppy and Boone pulled in on either side of me, a little like the president and his Secret Service escorts.

  Happy as I was that we had arrived safely, I dreaded going inside. The square cinder-block building reminded me of a mini prison, and the newly installed bars and bulletproof glass on the front windows didn’t help matters.

  My stomach churned as I pushed the door open. What on earth had my grandmother done to get arrested? She’d been responding so well to the medication the geriatrician had given her, and he had assured me that since the onset of her dementia had been noticed unusually early, there was every reason to be optimistic.