“What?” And here I thought I was being so discreet, he’d never get it.
“I am a detective,” he said with a slow smile, “a real one, remember? And I can figure things out.” He gestured toward the couch, and we both sat down. “That’s why I came to tell you in person.”
“Okay, Mr. Real Detective, are you going to tell me what happened?” I said. His face had softened into the Barry face I was used to. It wasn’t full of expression, but it was worlds away from his blank, bad-news cop face. I supposed over time he’d learned to shield his emotions as a way of protecting himself. It had to be horrible to be the one who had to break the news that a loved one was dead. Barry wouldn’t talk about the emotional part of his work. He also didn’t talk much about his past. Even though I wanted to know the dirt about his ex-wife, I thought it was honorable that he didn’t bad-mouth her. He kept saying that all that mattered was now. I didn’t totally agree about that and chipped away at him until he had begun to let things slip out.
One rainy night, he’d told me why he became a cop. It had to do with his parents owning a convenience store that kept getting robbed and the cops never finding the culprits. It made him want to be one of the good guys. Another time he told me the way he dealt with the dark parts of his job was by remembering he was speaking for a victim who couldn’t and trying to bring some peace to the victim’s family. Then to lighten the somber mood he’d added, “And of course, I get to drive fast and carry a gun.”
Now, he sighed with resignation and said, “I’ll tell you what happened, if you promise not to get involved.”
I didn’t answer, which I guessed he realized was the same as not agreeing to his bargain. He grimaced and clenched his jaw a few times, then gave in and told me anyway.
“Pixie Bullard got worried when Arnold didn’t show, and she went down to his office and found him slumped on his desk.”
“Was it a heart attack or did someone . . .” I started to ask, afraid he was going to leave the story at that.
“It looks like foul play,” Barry said. “There was a paper bowl of soup on his desk, like he was eating it. There were also two expelled bug bombs. The office still smelled of insecticide when the first officers arrived. They called the haz-mat crew.”
“So the bug bombs did him in?”
“Don’t know for sure yet, but it’s certainly a possiblity. The soup is being tested, but I’m guessing they will find something in it—some kind of sedative or knockout drops. Nobody would sit there and inhale bug bombs.”
“What kind of soup was it?” I asked.
He seemed surprised by the question. “Southwestern corn chowder, but I don’t think it makes a difference.”
“Then it’s your case?” I asked, and he gave me a withering stare and shook his head.
“Someone remembered that you had been caught stalking Bullard. And that he threw some kind of fit at the bookstore. I can’t take a case if my girlfriend is involved. If you keep it up, I may never get a case again.”
“Who did get it?”
“I’ll give you one guess,” Barry said.
“Detective Heather, right?” I said, and Barry nodded. But then something struck me as strange. He knew an awful lot about it despite the fact it was not his case, so I asked how he’d gotten the information.
“I was talking to Heather and she filled me in.”
“You were talking to Detective Heather?” Instantly I had an image of her white blond hair and well-fitted suit. No doubt as they were talking she was doing the hair twirling thing and touching his arm. Personally, I thought it was very unprofessional.
“We work together, remember?” There was a flicker in Barry’s dark eyes. Mr. Detective knew he’d hit a nerve and he went for it. Even though I knew what he was doing, I went nuts anyway.
“You know, Molly, the way you keep not wanting to commit to anything, even a trip to Maui? Well, some guys would appreciate the attention from someone like Heather, who just happened to mention that Maui was her dream romantic vacation destination.”
I was stuck on the image of her in that fitted suit and this ridiculous question popped into my mind: Where did she carry her gun? Barry laughed when I asked him.
“She has this special underwear holster,” he said, then laughed harder when he saw my look of horror. “Not that kind of underwear. You wear it under your clothes. By the way, she told me; she didn’t show me.”
Cosmo woke up and headed for the back door, and Barry got up to let him out. “You can ask her about it yourself,” he said over his shoulder. “She wants to talk to you about what happened at the bookstore and why you were sitting outside Bullard’s house.”
Great.
When Barry came back from letting the dogs out, I offered to make some scrambled eggs. He smiled and nodded hungrily, but then his cell rang.
“Greenberg,” he answered in his all-business, even tone. The slight downturn on his lips told me it was work.
“Rain check,” he called, heading toward the door.
Jeffrey called shortly after. It was hard for him to admit it, since he was trying to be such a man, but there were noises and he was scared. I couldn’t help myself. Like I said, when it comes to animals and children, I’m a total pushover. I went over to get him and left a message on Barry’s cell.
Jeffrey seemed a little embarrassed but looked relieved when he saw me. He was thirteen and still had that soft unfinished look, though he tried to hide it by gelling his hair into a spikey style. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and had grabbed a jacket. I suggested he bring along his pajamas and said he was welcome to sleep at my house.
Both Cosmo and Blondie were happy to see him and followed him into Samuel’s old room, which had recently been vacated by Morgan. I turned on the lights and told Jeffrey to make himself at home. He took me up on the offer of a snack. I think he and Barry lived on pizza when they were on their own. Jeffrey ate the scrambled eggs, toast and fruit with obvious hunger. I sat at the table with him while he ate, and he told me about the latest in his acting career. He’d gone on a casting call for a commercial and made it through the first cut.
“Next time, I think they’re going to tape me. It would be so cool if I got it.” He set down his fork. “Then maybe my dad would see I’m serious.” I listened and nodded. I thought it was going to take a lot to get Barry to accept Jeffrey’s aspirations. And he’d never accept his son changing his name to Columbia. Jeffrey was yawning by the time I gave him some vanilla ice cream with strawberries on top. As soon as he finished, I suggested he might want to go to bed. He nodded and got up. Before he walked away he turned back. “Thank you,” he said, coming back to hug me. I ruffled his spikey hair and hugged him back and wished him good sleep.
I didn’t hear anything more from him, so I guessed he’d gone to sleep right away. By now I was too wired to sleep. Between the news about Arnold Bullard and my surprise guest, my mind wouldn’t quit.
I found the Trader Joe’s plastic shopping bag with my shawl in progress. Then I dialed Dinah. It was late, but we had long ago agreed that no hour was too late if either of us needed to talk.
“Arnold Bullard is dead?” Dinah repeated after I’d told her what Barry had said. She’d sounded sleepy when she answered but was completely alert once I told her about the tall bald orthodontist. “But he was so high on our list of suspects. Now we’ll never know why he was so angry at Drew or if he’s the one who killed him.”
“I know,” I said. “And now there’s no way to get Detective Heather to consider him a serious suspect, which means she’s still going to focus on Sheila.”
“Have you told Sheila yet?”
I said I was going to do it in person in the morning. Sheila was in such a fragile state I was afraid of how she might take the news. “There’s no chance we’ll get to see the murder scene this time.” I’d told Dinah what Barry had said about it, but hearing a description of the scene wasn’t the same as actually seeing it.
“I
t sounds like someone wanted to get rid of a pest,” Dinah said, then yawned.
“But who? And isn’t it strange how soup played a part in both Drew Brooks’s and Arnold Bullard’s deaths?” I told her what Barry said about there probably being some kind of knockout drops in the Southwestern corn chowder.
Dinah yawned again. “Did Barry say where the corn chowder came from?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t believe he told me about the possible knockout drops.”
I looked down at the shawl. I’d done several rows while we were talking, but somehow the pattern made of double crochets and spaces, which were supposed to look like tiny windows, had gotten screwed up so that there weren’t any open spaces in some spots and in others they were so big they resembled sliding glass doors. When I finally hung up, I looked over my work and realized I had to tear out all I’d done. It made me so grateful for the ease of unraveling crochet. As I redid the rows, I kept thinking about what Dinah said. Where did Arnold Bullard’s soup come from?
I held up the shawl and realized it was big enough to lay on my shoulder and get an idea of how it would feel when it was finished. Even though it covered only one shoulder, the effect was comforting. Someday, when it was finished, it would offer comfort to somebody who really needed it. Knowing that made me feel proud of what I was doing. At the same time, I was thinking about the soup and the only expert I knew in making it. As soon as the Cottage Shoppe opened, I was calling Kevin.
In the morning, while I was making coffee, Samuel breezed in the back door. Before I could stop him he went in his old room. A moment later he was back. “Why is there a kid sleeping in my bed?” he asked incredulously.
Barry showed up about then, and I left them all to work it out.
As soon as I got in my car, away from prying ears, I called the Cottage Shoppe. Kevin answered.
After exchanging hellos with him and reminding him who I was, I went right to the point. “What kind of soups did you have yesterday?”
“Why do you want to know?” There was caution in his voice. Then he sighed and went on talking without waiting for an answer. “Look, I heard about Dr. Bullard. There was nothing wrong with the ingredients in my Southwestern corn chowder.”
“Then it did come from your place.” I tried to downplay my surprise, but I was practically high-fiving myself. Wow. I even impressed myself at how easily I’d found out where the soup came from. I was good. And then Kevin gave me even more.
“Dr. Bullard was one of our first to-go customers. He worked evenings a lot and needed something to give him a pick-me-up that wouldn’t tire him out. Soup was perfect.”
I didn’t want to bring up the fact that it hadn’t exactly worked that way this time. “So then, he got the soup himself yesterday?”
Kevin’s tone made it clear he thought it was a ridiculous question. “No. His wife got it for him.”
Pixie got it for Arnold? While I was digesting that fact, Kevin realized he’d been talking too much and asked the purpose of my call. I didn’t want to make him feel bad and inquired about the current soup offerings. I noticed there was no Southwestern corn chowder or tomato bisque. I guessed a death connection was a no-no in the soup sales department.
I put the soup issue on the back burner of my mind for the moment, determined to figure out what it meant later. I had to get to work, but I had to talk to Sheila first.
The women’s gym where she worked was at the other end of downtown Tarzana. I wondered if Sheila had already heard that her best chance of getting out of Detective Heather’s spotlight of interest was dead. I walked through the glass door into the bright plant-filled lobby and threaded my way through the women in black stretchy pants and sneakers who were coming and going.
I got the answer before I even spoke to Sheila. Detective Heather was standing at the reception desk talking to her. I was still getting used to Detective Heather’s sleek new hairstyle. The old curly do had made her look a little ditzy even though she definitely wasn’t. The new style gave her an ice-queen look of authority, which she turned on me when I came in her line of sight.
“Mrs. Pink, don’t move. I need to talk to you.”
Sheila looked close to tears. “Molly, I didn’t mean to tell her. It just sort of tumbled out.”
Before Sheila could finish, Detective Heather was in my face. “Okay, where’s the handkerchief?”
I closed my eyes and groaned. I should have realized Sheila would crack under pressure. Detective Heather abandoned Sheila and suggested we go outside. I followed her through the doors, and then she turned on me. “Are you aware of the terms withholding evidence and obstruction of justice?”
I looked around helplessly.
“Barry’s not going to rescue you this time.”
What could I possibly say? Maybe the truth.
“It was just a mistake,” I began. “Do you know what no-show socks are?” I felt a tiny bit of relief when she nodded. “Well, then you know how if they slip off your heel, they get all crumpled in your shoe.” Detective Heather looked impatient and annoyed. What happened to that inscrutable detective expression she was supposed to have? “That’s exactly what happened. Well, it was really only the left one that got jammed under my arch.”
“Do you suppose you could get to the point?” Detective Heather had obviously heard enough details of what happened with my socks and recognized it for what it was—a stall while I hoped one of us would disappear.
“I took off the sock and put it in my pocket, and when I saw something white on the floor, I thought my sock had fallen out and picked it up.”
Detective Heather leveled her gaze at me. “Where exactly did all of this take place?”
I was hoping she wouldn’t ask. I tried to sound nonchalant when I told her it was in Kevin’s office.
“Was he present?” She took out her notebook and started writing. She seemed surprised when I said yes. Of course I didn’t mention I was under the desk and he had no idea I was there. It was my version of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell rule.
“And I suppose when you realized what you’d picked up, you thought you’d use it in your own investigation.”
She had caught me, and I sighed. “Something like that.” I looked to see if she was going to pull out some handcuffs from her purse. Instead she just glared at me.
“You’ll have to turn it over to me.”
I nodded and offered to bring it down to the station. “I’ll have it to you by this afternoon.”
“No. We’ll go to your place and get it right now.” She led me to her Crown Victoria and gestured toward the passenger seat. It was not a fun ride.
When she pulled in front of my house, she leaned toward me. “I know I mentioned withholding evidence and obstruction of justice, but I think I left out tampering with evidence. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in if it turns out that handkerchief is evidence?”
I didn’t think she expected an answer. What exactly qualified as tampering anyway? Oh dear. I’d touched the hanky, the pinchy winchy had touched it, and once it was in the plastic bag, a pile of books had flattened it.
And I’d been worried about her asking me about Arnold Bullard?
The dogs were obviously not expecting me home so soon. Cosmo had turned over the trash and was working his way through the contents. When he saw me, he took off across the house, leaving a trail of coffee-ground paw prints. Blondie, who always stayed in her chair when I was home, had relocated to the top of the couch and was surveying the action on the street. It was a slow morning—just a guy with a canvas sack distributing coupons for pizza. Blondie abandoned her post as soon as she saw us, and as she scurried across the house she did something she never did—barked at Detective Heather.
I got the hanky and surrendered it to Detective Heather. She turned over the bag, examining it. By now it had smoothed out with only an occasional wrinkle. She looked closer.
“If that’s blood, you’re really in trouble,” she said.
&nb
sp; “I’m pretty sure it’s tomato bisque soup.” I debated whether I should say more, like how I thought the soup got on the hanky, but I was afraid it might annoy her more, and she looked pretty close to the edge in that department. But I took a chance and mentioned having seen a piece of something like the handkerchief hanging off the drawer handle on Drew Brooks’s desk. “Your CSI people probably got it.”
She glared at me in response. I thought she was going to leave after that, but she took out her notebook. “What do you know about Arnold Bullard’s death?”
I didn’t know what to say since all I really knew was what Barry had told me. My silence didn’t sit well with her.
“The bookstore is just down the street from Dr. Bullard’s office. Maybe you decided to take a little walk and check up on him. There was a call about you stalking him before.”
I should have just kept quiet, but when she brought up the stalking issue I thought if I explained it might make it better.
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