Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 02 - Murder, Lies & Chocolate

by Sally Berneathy

  Chapter Eleven

  We left Henry snoozing happily in his catnip-induced stupor and hurried to Paula’s house.

  “Are you all right?” I demanded as soon as she came to the door.

  “I’m fine. Relax. It may be nothing. I may be overreacting.”

  “Not likely.” Fred rose from the sofa as Paula closed and locked the door behind Trent and me.

  “How did you get here before me?” I asked. “I live closer.”

  “I know the secret way,” he said smugly, resuming his seat.

  Paula smiled. “I called him first. I hated to bother you when Trent was visiting, but Fred insisted I should.”

  “Oh, good grief!” I sank onto the sofa beside Fred. “I can’t believe you hesitated to call me. We weren’t doing anything but eating and arguing.”

  Trent shrugged. “Yeah, it was one of our more exciting nights, but we don’t mind being interrupted for a good reason.” He walked over to Paula, took her arm and guided her to an armchair. “Tell me what happened.” The quintessential cop.

  Paula folded her hands in her lap. She appeared calm and collected, but I knew her well enough to know how good she was at faking it. “I’d just got Zach down for the night when someone knocked on the door.”

  Those folded hands in her lap were clenched pretty tight. I could see the white knuckles from across the room. I suppose when you think you’ve killed your abusive husband and hide from the cops for a couple of years, you learn to fear anybody who knocks on your door after dark. Or before dark, for that matter.

  “I went to the door,” she continued, “turned on the porch light and looked through the peep hole. It was a woman, but nobody I knew. I asked who she was. She said she was with Universal Insurance and wanted to talk to me about a key-man life insurance policy that Rick bought for you, Lindsay.”

  I shot to my feet. “What? Rick took out a policy on me? That proves it! He’s trying to kill me so he can—” I stopped mid-rant. “Key-man insurance? That doesn’t make any sense.” I considered the ramifications of insurance often purchased on the life of an executive critical to the success of a company to insure the company could survive if something happened to that executive. “I don’t understand. He wants to be certain the chocolate shop survives?”

  “I don’t think so,” Paula said. “I think that woman was lying.”

  “Sit down, Lindsay.” Fred patted the sofa beside him. “Let Paula talk. Remember that word we discussed earlier, patience?”

  “And remember what I said about that word?”

  “Go ahead, Paula. Tell us what happened.” Trent crossed the room and sat on my other side, giving me a phony smile and lifting a finger to his lips.

  Two of my three favorite men—the third was passed out at home—trying to keep me quiet.

  Inadequate.

  “She asked if she could come in, and I told her no. But I wanted to get a better look at her, see if she had any scratches, so I put the chain on the door and opened it a few inches.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from asking if the woman had scratches. Patience.

  But Paula understood what I needed to know. Friendship means anticipating your friend’s needs. “She was wearing a pant suit with long sleeves, so I couldn’t see her arms or legs, and she had on a lot of makeup.” Paula gave me a rueful smile. “Sorry.”

  “A lot of makeup?” I repeated. So much for patience. “Makeup like maybe a stripper would wear?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose that’s a good way to describe it. Her pantsuit was hot pink, she had really long, really black eyelashes, thick foundation, bright red lipstick, and Marilyn Monroe blond hair.”

  Trent gave me a curious look before returning his attention to Paula. “What did she say about the insurance policy?”

  Paula spread her hands then clenched them again. “She said she just needed to ask me a few questions to verify what Rick put on his application. I told her to go ahead. I wanted to find out what she was up to. She asked if Lindsay was reliable, if she showed up for work every day, what our hours were, pretty banal stuff, but then she asked if Lindsay had recently come into a large sum of money.”

  I didn’t have to interrupt. She paused. I simply took the opportunity. “That’s a strange question,” I said.

  “Not if that woman was the one who dug up your basement and found nothing where she thought she’d find money,” Fred said. “You’d be her first suspect for having that money.”

  Paula nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  Trent whipped out his little notepad and pen. Good grief. He always carried those items, apparently even when he wasn’t at work. If we ever made it to the bedroom, would he whip them out and take notes?

  “This is not official,” he said, pen poised, “but if you’ll give me all the details you can, I’ll see what I can find out about this woman. Did she give you a name?”

  “Dorothy Wheeler. I doubt that’s her real name.”

  “I doubt it too, but it could be a lead. Description, blond hair and lots of makeup. Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

  “Taller than me. Probably Lindsay’s height. Slim.” She looked at me assessingly. “Very similar to Lindsay’s build except—” She gestured vaguely in the area of her breasts.

  “Similar to my build if I had a boob job,” I finished for her.

  Paula blushed. “A double, uh, job.”

  Stripper, I thought. Lisa. But I didn’t voice my suspicions. Fred and I weren’t planning to do anything illegal, but I felt it best not to share our plans with Trent. He can be really uptight about some things.

  “Any other details you can remember? Jewelry? The way she walked? Accent when she talked? Kind of car she drove?”

  “No jewelry, no accent. She drove a light sedan, white or beige. I’m sorry, I’m not good with car makes and models.”

  “No problem. This will help.”

  Paula smiled. She has a pixie face, and at that moment she looked downright impish. “There’s one more thing. I got her license number.”

  Yay, Paula!

  Trent scribbled in his notebook as Paula recited the number. Fred looked aloof and unconcerned, his normal expression. But I knew he’d remember the number and probably have a name before I went to sleep. Trent wouldn’t get that information until tomorrow. He had to play by the rules.

  ***

  We played by the rules that night too. Trent slept on my sofa. He’s about three inches longer than said sofa. I tried to get him to stay in my guest room, but he said he wanted to be downstairs so he’d hear if anybody tried to break in. He didn’t think an intruder was likely to break in a window on the second floor where the guest room was located unless that intruder had wings, so staying up there would be pointless. He slept on the sofa, and Henry and I slept in my room. Playing by the rules can be a crashing bore sometimes. Most times.

  I slept late, until 6:00 since it was Saturday and we only serve brunch on Saturday. Henry slept late too, though he seemed none the worse for his binge the night before. Maybe I should switch to catnip instead of margaritas.

  I tried to sneak quietly downstairs, but Trent sat bolt upright on the sofa when I hit a creaky step.

  “Just me,” I said. “I’m going to work.”

  He gave me a sleepy kiss and was snoring again before I got out the front door.

  I was eager to get through the morning, close up the shop and go meet Lisa, check her for cat scratch marks.

  I arrived home shortly after 3:00 and changed into my disguise. I took my hair down from the pony tail and spritzed it with water to bring out the frizz. The makeup took a little more effort, but when I finished and surveyed myself in my garage sale cheval floor mirror, I was pleased. The black suit, red blouse and big gold hoop earrings provided a nice contrast of somber and happy. A hooker going to her ex-husband’s funeral.

  I gave Henry some more catnip to placate him and stumbled over to Fred’s in my four-inch heels. Those shoes were so tantalizing when I bought
them. Who knew they’d be so much trouble to walk in?

  With his white hair slicked back, wearing a black pinstripe suit and dark purple shirt open halfway to his waist exposing white chest hairs that almost covered a gold chain, Fred looked like a pimp trying to look like a businessman or a businessman trying to look like a pimp.

  “Interesting disguise,” I said. “I suppose we’re taking your car.”

  “Of course. I don’t want my dead body to be found dressed like this.”

  “Don’t want to upset your kids, eh?” I asked in my ongoing efforts to uncover Fred’s secrets.

  He stepped out onto the porch beside me and locked the door behind us. “From what I’ve seen on TV, I think kids might find this outfit cool.”

  Curses. Foiled again.

  We made our way slowly—always hovering right at the speed limit—across town to a trailer park in an older area of Kansas City. Following the GPS chip in his brain, Fred drove to a dilapidated trailer with orange curtains over the small windows.

  “This is where Lisa lives?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  Fred arched an eyebrow, didn’t even bother to answer that.

  We got out and walked across the hard-packed ground to the door. True, I’d never met Lisa, but this was not the home I’d pictured for the most recent love of Rick’s life.

  The woman who answered the door was tall and blond and certainly got her money’s worth for her boob job. She could have been the woman at Paula’s door, but she definitely had no scratches on her face or hands or arms or legs or shoulders or stomach or the top seventy-five percent of her boobs. As for her butt, I couldn’t say. Thank goodness. Her gold spandex shorts and top covered the essentials. Barely.

  “Lisa Whelan? We spoke on the phone. I’m Dorian Gadeken, and this is Crystal McAlerney.”

  “Come in,” she invited in a little-girl voice, giving Fred a huge smile. I’d had a tiny concern that she might identify me as Rick’s ex-wife from a picture or description, but I needn’t have worried. She didn’t even look in my direction. Darn! All that effort with the makeup wasted.

  Her living room was tiny and cramped and not overly clean. The gold shag carpet had several dark stains. Through a door on one side, I could see a small kitchen with dirty dishes piled everywhere, and through a door on the other side, I saw clothes on the bed and on the floor. The living room had probably held some of the litter of each room before she tidied it in anticipation of our visit.

  When she invited us to sit, I could see Fastidious Fred weighing his options…stand the whole time and torture his cranky knees or sit on the stained green sofa and have to throw away those pants afterward.

  He sat, and so did I.

  Lisa perched on the matching arm chair, stretching her long, muscular legs in front of her, pointing her crimson-tipped toes in gold spiked-heel sandals toward Fred. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and she smiled, unaware it was her dirty sofa making him uncomfortable, not her feminine charms.

  “Ms. Whelan—” he began.

  “Please call me Brandy.” She crossed her ankles, ran her fingers through her blond curls and batted her eyes. I have nothing against false eyelashes. In fact, as a red-head, I think they can be a definite asset when nature doesn’t provide enough of the real thing. But when they’re so long and thick that a couple of spiders could be hiding in them, that might be too much of a good thing.

  Okay, maybe I’m being a little extra tacky because the woman actually was gorgeous. Even with my bright lipstick and hot red shoes, I felt dowdy and plain sitting there in that frumpy living room next to that spandex-encased, overly-made-up, top heavy stripper.

  “Brandy,” Fred continued, “as I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, Crystal and I represent an entertainment company based in Las Vegas. We have agents constantly scouting for the best talent out there, and we’d like to discuss your career.”

  Lisa beamed and batted those eyelashes again.

  “I heard there’s a new hurricane forming down on the coast, stirred up by winds way up here in Kansas City,” I said making a snide reference to her eyelash batting.

  “Really?” She didn’t sound particularly interested.

  Fred glared at me. “No, not really. Brandy, if you’re chosen, would you be interested in moving to Las Vegas?”

  “Yes! I’ve worked Vegas before. I love it out there.”

  “So you have no ties to this area?”

  She shook her head. “No ties. Kansas City is…” She looked around the room. “Kansas City isn’t a very exciting town for a woman like me.”

  Definitely not planning to marry Rick and raise a family in my house. I’d be willing to bet Rick knew that.

  “I understand you’re recently widowed,” Fred aka Dorian said.

  Lisa flinched. Her sexy blond bimbo persona flickered, and for an instant I thought we might see a real person, but she got the mask back in place immediately. She dropped her gaze demurely. “Yes. I lost my husband a few days ago.”

  “Murdered.” Fred dropped the word like a bomb in the small room.

  She lifted her heavily lashed blue eyes. “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “We require that all our dancers have a spotless reputation with no hint of scandal.”

  “I’m not a suspect.” She seemed genuinely indignant.

  “We know that. But we also know Rodney was in prison when you met him.”

  Really? We knew that? Perhaps Fred and his invisible friends knew that, but it was the first I’d heard of it.

  Lisa hesitated for a couple of heartbeats, and that time I saw an instant of a real person…a cold, calculating person. Only for an instant. She was good at her routine. “Rodney was a kind, gentle man. He made some mistakes, but don’t we all? He cleaned up his act. We were going to have a life together.”

  “Yes, I believe you were even trying to buy a house.”

  She swallowed and lifted a hand to her hair, but this time the gesture was nervous rather than sexy. “We wanted to have a family.”

  “And live in his grandparents’ old house?”

  She licked her lips. A few minutes ago, the movement would have been sexy, but that image was slipping a little more with each of Fred’s questions. “Yes. He was very sentimental.” Her little-girl voice had dropped a couple of octaves.

  Fred looked at her silently for a few long moments. She was starting to sweat. I could see it from across the room. I’d always thought Trent was good at getting people to confess, but Fred definitely had a talent for this. I fully expected Lisa to jump up and begin confessing to every crime from Rodney’s murder to Jack the Ripper’s murders.

  Fred smiled, and she relaxed. “Why was he sentimental about the house where George Murray’s grandparents lived?”

  Lisa shot to her feet. She didn’t teeter in her four-inch heels. Impressive. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you with the cops?”

  “I’m sorry.” Fred’s expression was again guileless. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re a very talented dancer, but we have to check everyone’s background carefully.”

  That seemed to mollify her, and she sat down again though she looked uncomfortable, and I didn’t think it was because of the stains on her chair.

  “So you didn’t know Rodney was lying to you about his grandparents owning the house he wanted to buy?”

  She sat stiffly erect on the chair. “Of course I didn’t know he was lying. Rodney was my husband. I trusted him.”

  It was obvious even to me that she was lying.

  “I understand.” Fred rose, and I followed his action, standing beside him. He took a business card from his jacket pocket. “I think we have all the information we need. We’ll be in touch. If you have any questions, please call me.” He extended the card toward Lisa. She stood, now almost as shaky on her four-inchers as I was on mine. She made no effort to take the card. Fred laid it on her coffee table beside a stack of magazines.

  He gestured for me to go ahead of
him to the door, then he turned back to Lisa. “Who do you think killed your husband?”

  She lifted her hands, fingers balled into fists, and for a moment I thought she was going to hit Fred. Instead, she crossed her arms over her bare stomach in a protective gesture. “I don’t think I want to work for you. You ask too many questions. You need to leave.”

  We did.

  Fred carefully dusted off his pants before he sat in his car.

  Lisa stood in the doorway watching us.

  “She met Rodney Bradford while he was in prison?” I said as soon as we pulled away from her trailer and out of her sight. “How did you learn that?”

  Fred shrugged. “They got married as soon as he was released. It was an educated guess.”

  Fred doesn’t make unsubstantiated guesses, educated or otherwise. “Okay, so it was a lucky guess. What does it mean?”

  He pulled onto the street, leaving the dismal, grungy trailer park behind, and I gave a sigh of relief. “It means one of two things,” he said. “Either she’s one of those women who are attracted to criminals, or she targeted Bradford specifically for some reason. I believe it’s the second, and I believe it has something to do with your house.”

  “Oh, goody! That makes me feel so much better!” I scowled at him. He didn’t notice. He was completely focused on the road.

  “There’s a possibility she targeted him because she thought he really was the grandson of the previous owner, but that doesn’t make sense. However, we need to consider the possibility that she used Bradford in some manner, and now she’s using Rick.”

  I brightened at that prospect. “So she may kill Rick too?”

  Fred eased the car around a corner. “She didn’t kill Bradford.”

  “Damn.”

  “But I think she knows who did.”

  I twisted in the seat and turned toward him. “Then why didn’t you grill her some more?”

  “You have to know when an effort is a lost cause and it’s time to switch tactics.”

  “You mean we can’t beat her with a rubber hose?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I leaned back in the seat and gazed at the road ahead. The scenery was gliding slowly by. “Then what can we do?”