Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1)
Page 2
Brenda’s home phone rang. Might as well answer it, very few people had her personal number and I knew most of them.
“Hello…” A recording. A collect call from the corrections department. “Push nine to accept the call.” I didn’t wait for the rest of the message. I didn’t need to. This wasn’t my first collect call from jail.
“Hello, Tommy.”
A pause. “Monica? I thought I called Aunt Brenda.”
“You did. She isn’t here. What did you do this time?”
Breathing, labored breathing. “Well, f**k, I need her to get down here and bail me out. Tell her I’m good for it. She knows. I can’t call back. Did you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. You still haven’t told me what you’ve been arrested for.”
“What the f**k.” He must have realized I was his only hope of Brenda getting his message. “Monica, come on, sweetie, it’s nothing. A DUI. Just tell Aunt Brenda, okay?” Sweetness coated his voice like caramel on apples.
“I will.”
He hung up before I'd even finished speaking the two short words.
TWO
TALKING WITH MY mouth full, and not spitting food on Brenda, who sat across the table, wasn’t the easiest thing to do. I tried anyway because I really needed her advice. “So, what do you think?”
Brenda shrugged and kept on chewing the delicious pasta she'd cooked for us. Pasta Primavera she called it. The name may have been Italian, but I'd never eaten it in Italy. Or if I had, it hadn't made an impression.
“Look Monica, Max seems like a nice kid. If you don’t want to go out with him just tell him. The sooner the better; it’s not fair to lead him on.”
“Lead him on? How so? I told him from day one we were just having sex. Period. How much more straight talk does he need?”
“He probably thought just sex sounded good. Then he found himself falling for you, especially since you made it clear you weren’t looking for a committed relationship. Same old story –– we always want what we can’t have. Forbidden fruit and all that jazz.”
“Oh, is that your excuse? Because the senator from hell is married?”
“No.” Short and forceful. “No. I knew what I was getting into. I have no excuses and, really, I don’t want to talk about it. How's your pasta?”
I pointed to my stuffed mouth and nodded enthusiastically.
Dior had been watching us eat. He sported the pathetic look he must rehearse when we aren’t around, because it was really effective. He let out a long, soulful whining sound. The dog had figured out that at this rate there would be no leftovers. But really, it was pasta with vegetables, and Great Danes aren’t vegetarians.
“What’s up with Tommy? Did you bail him out?” I asked.
“It’s his money.” She shook her head. “Can’t believe what an idiot he is. I’m glad my brother isn’t around to see how low his only son has stooped.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He’ll hire the best lawyer money can buy, probably get credit for time served and go on probation, which he will then violate. Let’s change the subject, it’s too depressing. Count your blessings you’re no longer involved with him in any way. Settling for a lump sum instead of monthly alimony was the best decision ever.”
“I can’t take all the credit for it. You are my shining light, my guide and ––”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I need a favor.” She refilled our glasses, keeping a steady glance on me.
“I knew it, I knew it.” This time I didn’t care if I spit food on her. “The hair color, the spa pedicure and manicure… it’s him. You’re going to ask me to take care of Dior while you go away, let me guess, on 'business.' Am I right or what?” Maybe I could use the dog-sitting excuse not to go to the dinner with Max. Ah!
“I’ll only be gone one night. And it’s not on a weekend. It won’t interfere with your office hours. I can talk to Sunny, she won’t mind.”
“I bet you already did.”
“Did what?”
“Talk to Sunny. You two are sure chummy. Chummy. That’s such a strange word, don’t you think so? Chummy, yummy, how do people come up with stuff like that?”
“Oh, Monica, you’re too funny. And yes, I had lunch with Sunny and the subject of you taking a few hours off may have come up. By the way, I may be in charge of the catering for the Dumont’s house warming party.”
“The place is really done? When do they move in? I’m dying to see what they changed inside. The outside looked pretty classic with low-key sophisticated touches. A terrace, worn-looking pavers starting at the street and going all the way to the front door. All without messing up the home character. I liked what I saw.”
“You sound like a house designer. I promise to take you with me when I go meet Mr. and Mrs. Dumont. So, deal? It would be easier if you just stayed here, in the guest room, for one night so Dior doesn’t feel neglected and tear up my shoes or the furniture.”
It was my turn to shrug. I didn’t mind spending the night at Brenda’s instead of my place out back. I'd done it before. “When are you going?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“That’s an odd day, isn’t it? Where are you going?” I picked up the last piece of wide pasta from my plate and gave it to Dior.
“Monica, don’t do that,” Brenda chided. “He’ll never stop begging as long as he gets what he wants.” She took her empty plate into the kitchen.
“At least one of us gets results, huh, Dior?” A wet tongue on my hand was the dog’s happy answer. “Oh, you big boy, come here. How would you like to go hiking with your Auntie Monica tomorrow? Huh?” I scratched his neck and watched his tail go at the speed of the best fan money could buy. “Yeah, you big pooch, we’ll go hiking in the morning, just the two of us. Okay?”
“Who are you talking to?” Brenda asked from the kitchen.
“No one. I’ll take Dior hiking in the morning. We’ll do the 40th Street Trail. I’ll pick him up around seven-thirty.”
“Whatever.”
I was already in bed by the time I realized Brenda had avoided answering my question about her overnight trip. The clever weasel.
IT WAS PERFECT weather for a morning hike. Most of the parking spots were already taken by the time I drove into the lot. People and a few dogs could be seen on different trails. The usual show offs stretched their muscular legs, checked their shoelaces, then hit the mountain trail.
Dior behaved like the perfect hiking buddy, following my pace instead of pulling on the leash. I carried two bottles of water, one for each of us. Even in November the morning sun could fry your head, and there weren’t many shady spots. Among chollas, big saguaros, a few suffering ocotillos and the resilient Palo Verde, the only guaranteed shade was the one you brought with you, your hat.
I headed for the north side of the preserve because it’s flatter, making it better for dogs, even if we often had to move to the side to let mountain bikers or horses pass. Trail etiquette was clearly posted next to the trail maps. Horses first, bikers second, then humans and dogs. I wondered how old the rules were, and if they were made by some horseback-riding sheriff.
Dior could hardly control his enthusiasm. We had almost completed the easy trail and were headed back to the parking lot when I spotted a horse coming toward us. Horses on the trails were a given. A single rider was less common. This one had a lively horse, not dragging along. It walked at a steady pace, its head held high. The man, at least it seemed to be a man from the distance, didn’t wear a hat. I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen either one before. After a few years of hitting the same hiking spots, the regulars begin to feel like family, but this guy was anything but familiar, and he rode dressed in a –– white shirt? It had to be a white dress shirt.
Seriously?
I shielded my eyes with my free hand to get a better look. Yes, white shirt and red bandanna. Probably a city slicker out to impress young, naïve damsels. I was willing to bet he wore expensive, exotic leather boots.
I was so focused on the rider and its mount that I didn’t notice the mountain bike arriving from behind me at full speed until I heard a shout, “On your left.” Unfortunately, my instinct had me jump to my left pulling poor Dior along. The biker ended up on his side in a narrow ditch. I slipped and fell, or rather sat, on dry brittlebush. Ouch.
The biker got up and offered his gloved hand to help me up. By then the horse and rider had caught up to us and when I raised my glance, I saw Mr. Red Bandanna was off the black horse and walking toward our little chum duo of dust gluttons.
“Are you two all right?” The man’s eye volleyed from me to the biker and back.
We nodded our heads in unison, like the bobble-heads you see in the back window of low-rider vehicles.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to the biker.
A shrug. “Shit happens.” He said it in a matter of fact way, then got back on the mountain bike and started pedaling away.
He disappeared in a crunching of pebbles while I stood there, my mouth open in surprise, not totally sure how the shit had all happened. Dior kept pulling hard on his leash trying to get closer to the beautiful black steed. Well, mostly black. Now that I could see the back of the horse, right where saddle ended, the horse behind was covered by white spots, from a distance it could look like a black and white blanket. I'd never seen that before on the trail. I glanced at the horse's rider and took in his pristine white shirt, red bandanna, snug jeans and fancy boots. Dior’s tail started to wag, and the pulling of the leash got more intense.
“No, Dior, you can’t play with the horsey.” Horsey? I was using my baby voice. Damn.
“Dior? Your dog’s name is Dior? Like the late French designer?”
“Yes. No. I mean, it’s not my dog, and yes his name is Dior. You have a problem with that?” Why was I snapping at him?
I looked up and saw that Mr. Red Bandanna was fighting to keep a straight face. And-oh-my-god. It was him. The construction worker. With those amber eyes. And he was laughing at me. And he knew who Christian Dior was? The poor designer had been dead for half a century. In my limited experience, the only men my age who knew about fashion designers, dead or alive, were gay men.
I knew the legendary fashion icon’s story because growing up in Italy, my nonna would talk about him often, about how the great Signor Dior died a mysterious death while vacationing in Montecatini the same week she, grandma, had been there on her honeymoon.
“You. I remember you. You’re the construction worker from the Dumont’s home.” I sounded like a high-pitched witch to my own ears. What was wrong with me?
He stepped back, tightened his grip on the horse’s reins and seemed to really see me for the first time. This time he wasn’t in a hurry. He cocked his head and locked eyes with me, until I lowered mine. I'd noticed in that moment that the amber eyes were not even his best feature. He had high cheekbones and olive skin that reminded me of that actor—Johnny Depp, in his younger years. Mercy me.
“Fiat.”
Did he just say Fiat? “What did you mumble?”
Another step back. “You’re the girl with the pink Fiat 500.” He sort of bowed his head, or maybe he had a gnat tickling his collarbone. Then he turned on the heels of his shiny crocodile cowboy boots, and easily hopped up onto the back of the black horse. Like a classic cowboy story hero, he rode off without telling me his name.
I watched him go, my mouth open in awe, as his perfect silhouette formed against the intense desert sky.
THREE
I OPENED MY eyes in the near dark to white dots flicking on the television screen. I had fallen asleep on Brenda’s couch. What time was it? Fumbling around, my hand found Dior’s bristly back. He was sleeping next to me. Maybe the Great Dane had had a bad dream, yelped and disturbed my peaceful rest?
Aside from the muted television, the only light came from the kitchen. The microwave clock? I obviously had never made it to bed, since I had on the same sweats I'd worn all evening.
A soft scratching—what was it?
The hair on my arms stood at attention while my heart somersaulted in my chest. That scratching again, ever so light. Dior didn’t budge, he kept on sleeping. What about dogs’ acute sense of hearing and all that? Maybe I imagined the noise? I knew I should get myself to bed, but I didn’t move. Instead, I held my breath so as not to miss a thing, while repeating to myself that the Great Dane would bark if a stranger was at the door.
The next worrying sound was hard to miss. Metal hitting concrete and something rolling down two steps. It must be Brenda coming back earlier than expected and accidentally dropping the key, I told myself. Except — keys don’t roll.
The phone, where did I leave my phone? I had to call 911.
Now.
In my panic I hopped off the couch and bumped Dior. He landed on the rug and let out an annoyed growl. I crawled around trying to find my shoes and my phone, but I couldn’t remember where I'd been when I'd last used it. The moment I heard creaking from the front door being forced open, all my common sense bid me goodbye.
Whoosh, went the door.
I screamed.
Dior howled.
The powerful outside motion-detector security light finally came on, yet the alarm didn’t go off. I had forgotten to turn it on. I glimpsed a human shadow created by the light, framed in the front doorway. The shadow turned and took off running.
“Get him, Dior, get him!”
Him? I had no idea if the runner was a man or a woman, but most scary movies had a man doing the dastardly deeds, so I went with that. Except that the Great Dane was taking his sweet time — waiting for a command in French?
In a rush of adrenaline, I actually found myself running down the street, barefoot, screaming like a woman possessed. I noticed lights coming on in the neighbors’ homes as I passed by. Dogs started barking.
Where was that creep? Was I even going in the right direction? A scampering sound came up behind me. Well, what do you know? Dior was gingerly joining the chase. Just then a sharp puncture under my left foot slowed me down.
I heard a series of disturbing sounds, a commotion from where our street flowed into the much wider and more traveled 36th Street. Then I reached the spot of the altercation and found Neighbor Bob, a retired National Guard, holding down a human shadow that squirmed on the sidewalk.
“You got him.” The siren of two Phoenix police cars drowned out the high pitch of my excited voice. They came to a screeching halt, filling the night air with the acrid smell of burning tires and aimed both sets of headlights at the two men. The standing man held a gun pointed at the human form spread-eagled under his foot, which he’d placed firmly on the perp’s back.
I stood barefoot, stunned and surprisingly silent. Dior without his leash kept just as quiet next to me, which was just as surprising. Neighbors moved in to get a glimpse of the free show. Neighbor Bob was headed for hero status, for sure. The cops had flashlights, too, as if the high beams from the cruisers weren’t blinding enough. They kept me from getting a good view of the burglar.
I should have been the one in the front row. I was the victim, sort of. It was Brenda’s front door he forced open… small detail. What if one of the local television station reporters came by? Damn, I was a mess… no shoes, no makeup. I looked at my feet and noticed the red trickle. Blood! My foot was bleeding and no one paid any attention to me.
The shadow was now upright and it was indeed a man, a man who didn’t fit at all my mental picture of a criminal. More like an office worker. Yes, a clerk more than a crook. Receding hairline, maybe a bit overweight, late forties. He wore a dark suit that looked like the type of suit one wears to a nice restaurant or a party. Who wears a suit to go rob a house? No wonder he got caught. He should have been wearing one of those black
tight numbers, like hired assassins or ninjas (at least in the movies they do).
“Miss, I'm Officer Clarke. Are you okay?” I would be the Miss. It was nice to be noticed.
“Yes, Officer, well, except for my left foot. You see, I –– I'm Monica Baker –– I chased after this thief, barefoot and ––”
The thief reacted to my statement in an exaggerated way. He looked at me square in the face and his eyes got so big I feared they’d hit the pavement, but instead they narrowed into slits. I watched his face quiver. Maybe he felt sorry for causing my injury?
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Who am I? The woman you tried to rob,” I declared with as much drama as I could pack in the short sentence.
He shook his head over and over. “I’m telling you, Officer Clarke, it’s all a misunderstanding. I’m a private investigator. Permission to get my license from my wallet?”
The policeman didn’t answer but helped himself to the perp’s inside pocket.
We were surrounded by everyone who lived in our neighborhood, surely. I bet this was the most entertaining night some of the folks had had in years. The widow from across the street kept fluffing her hair while inching closer and closer to where the action was. I could smell her perfume from where I stood.
“He’s telling the truth. Here's his license. Wait. He’s from California.” Officer Clarke shook his head and, after examining the rest of the contents of the man’s wallet, passed the license to the other policeman. “Not that it makes any difference, unless he was hired by the owner of the house he broke into, of course.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone. “Miss,” he turned to me, “you must get your foot examined and we’ll need your statement of the facts.”
“That’s easy, just take a look at the place. He forced the lock and ––”
The perp spoke up. “I did no such thing. I’m a professional. I don’t need to break locks. Regarding my license, I moved to Phoenix months ago and I work for an international agency that ––”