Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Okay, okay,” the officer said, “we're taking you to the station, sir.” He turned to Neighbor Bob. “Please put away the gun. Mr. O’Neill is going with us, and ––”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  Oh, the outrage in I-am-a-private-investigator’s voice. When no one answered him he lost his cool and started to blabber how he was the wrong person and he’d been hired by some very important higher up (he didn’t explain what he meant by higher up). He did, however, get my attention with the “wrong person” bit. Wrong for what?

  I ended up leaving Dior with the over-perfumed widow, who offered to keep him until I got back from doing my civil duty or whatever it was the cops wanted from me. By the time it was all said and done, they'd even taken pictures of my injured foot and a kind policewoman had given me a pair of those Styrofoam slippers you get from nail salons after you get a pedicure, so I’d have some footwear.

  Private Investigator O’Neill got locked up. Neighbor Bob had a big audience for his tales of his heroic service in the Arizona National Guard. And me? Well, I had the gash on my foot all cleaned and bandaged by a rather handsome EMT. That was the good part.

  It got complicated and a little, okay, a lot, ugly when I tried to explain about my sleeping arrangements on the sofa, and how it wasn’t my house, and that I had no clue where Brenda Baker, the owner and my former aunt, was spending the night. I told them they were welcome to call her cellphone, but I was ready to bet it was turned off.

  Since no EMT or officer of the law offered to give me a lift, I rode home with Neighbor Bob. The sky revealed its first glimmer of light by the time I retrieved Dior from the widow’s place. I was able to secure Brenda’s front door despite it having been broken open, but I dragged the Great Dane to my own house in the back of the property, where I felt safer.

  I checked all the doors and windows just to be sure. Then I ignored the blinking light telling me I had voice-mails waiting. I limped into the bedroom with Dior on my heels, stripping off my sweats on the way. We both fell asleep on my bed just as the sun came up, the bright light slipping through the shutters, painting my bedroom gold.

  FOUR

  I FOUGHT THE hands shaking me. Fought and lost.

  “Okay, okay. I’m awake, stop already,” I said to Brenda. “You know I bruise easily. When did you get back?”

  “Not early enough apparently. Glad to see you and Dior are okay. Monica, I need a quick rundown of last night events before the police get hold of me. They’ll probably insist I press charges.”

  “Whoa, wait, wait. You know about the so-called private investigator who broke into the house?”

  Brenda nodded then she sat down on the edge of my bed and patted Dior’s head, but it was a mechanical gesture. Her eyes stared past me. I turned and glanced at my blank bedroom wall. Nothing to see there. Something wasn’t right with Brenda.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  She nodded again but just kept on staring. How bizarre. What happened to all the giddiness and inner smiles she usually hauled back with her after each overnight ‘business’ trip with the married skunk? Maybe she sensed my curiosity. She shook her head as if clearing her mind.

  “Let’s get some coffee.” Brenda stood and Dior, now fully awake, decided to leave my bed and follow his mistress, no doubt thinking of breakfast.

  “I have coffee,” I called after her.

  “I know. I've tasted it. Put on some clothes, then come over and let’s talk. We don’t have much time.”

  We don’t have much time? For what? And what did she mean put on some clothes? What was wrong with my pajamas? I looked down and realized I wasn’t wearing any. I'd fallen asleep with only my underwear on, the underwear I wore yesterday and on my trip to the police station. I needed a shower, no, a bubble bath and clean clothes and I should re-bandage my cut foot. Better find something appropriate to wear on my feet. Wait until I tell Brenda about that.

  “I’m waiting.” Brenda’s voice carried from her place to mine because she had left all the doors open.

  Damn. I grabbed the icky sweats and headed toward the bewitching smell of fresh brew.

  I don’t know how she managed it, but next to my favorite coffee mug Brenda had placed a small plate with a pumpkin filled empanada that looked scrumptious and as far as I knew, could only come from a small pastry shop off Dunlap and Central, in the Sunnyslope area. The shop was owned by a south-of-the-border mother and daughter team. I knew all that because I liked the Mexican pastry so much, I often found excuses to drive through Dunlap just to visit the bakery. I never bought more than one empanada because, to me, if you didn’t eat it right away it simply didn’t taste the same.

  Had Brenda spent the night on that side of town? I didn’t know there were hotels around there. Whatever. It was too early for such elaborate questions, and my stomach agreed with me by growling rather loudly, almost as loudly as Dior’s annoying kibble crunching.

  “I’m listening.” Brenda blew smoke through her puckered lips and then brushed away some imaginary tobacco with her index finger.

  In the six years since I’d known her this was only the third time I'd seen her smoking in the house. The first time was when her brother, my ex-father-in-law, Tommy’s dad, died of a heart attack. The second time was when Tommy, her only blood relative remaining, was arrested for the first time. I held my breath, waited for the third shoe to fall. It didn’t. Brenda sipped her coffee and smoked, her gaze planted on me as if I were the modern version of the Oracle of Delphi.

  “Just what is it that you think I know?” I asked between sips and bites.

  “It's not what you do or don’t know, it's your version of last night events. In other words, what is it that you told the cops?”

  I shrugged, easy peasy. “Not much, I woke up to someone breaking or at least attempting to break into the house, your house. The outside light came on at the same time as I screamed and Dior howled. Next thing I knew I was chasing a dark figure down the street. Neighbor Bob got to him first and pointed a gun at the man, holding him prisoner until the cops arrived.”

  I thought that sounded like a more interesting version than an exact recalling of the incidents.

  “At that point, the thief claimed to be a private investigator hired — listen to this — by a 'higher up'. Oh, his name is O’Neill and he said I was the 'wrong person'.” I managed the air quotes by setting down my mug. “Seems like I hear that a lot. I’m either the wrong person or at the wrong place at the wrong time. And how was your evening?”

  I slurped up a blob of wonderful pumpkin filling that had slipped off the empanada and landed on the back of my left hand. Hum, heavenly. Brenda didn’t answer, instead she snuffed out her half-smoked cigarette inside her coffee mug. How utterly disgusting. That was certainly a first. Her mind was elsewhere.

  “I got stood up,” she said softly.

  “Wow. Why would that married jerk do that? Did you tell him what a piece of crap he is? How dare he ––”

  “Monica, calm down. It wasn’t him.”

  “Huh? Seriously? You have a new boyfriend? Good for you. Well, not so good if he stood you up and —”

  Brenda did not look happy. As a matter of fact, she kept shaking her head. And her shoulders, usually as taut as a Kardashian’s bottom, were hunched up. And her uncombed hair fell to her chest exposing gray roots at the very top of her head. It was as if Brenda, my Aunt Brenda, had aged a decade in one night.

  “Monica, listen. There is no new boyfriend. Someone pretending to be him contacted me and set up the — evening — and I think it was a ruse to get me out of the house so that hired help, maybe this investigator, could get in and snoop around. I guess I owe you a big thank you for saving the day.”

  “My pleasure, but wait — after all these years, how can you not tell his voice from an impostor? And also, what do you have that’s worth going through all that trouble to break in here to take from you? Jewelry? Oh, I bet his wife found out and she paid someone to
steal the jewelry he gave you over the years so she can wear it. B***h.” My goal to get a smile from Brenda with the girl-bonding epithet had failed.

  “I doubt the wife had anything to do with it. As for his voice… that’s not how we communicate and that’s what makes it so scary. Before you ask, he’s out of the country until the end of the week. Let’s forget about it. The less you know, the better it is, for your general welfare.”

  She cracked a half smile and went to answer the ringing phone. If Brenda’s remark about my general welfare was aimed at making me feel at ease, she had no idea how people’s minds worked, or at least my mind. Good thing her job description at the retirement community put her in charge of food only. She returned from the short call.

  “Thanks for the empanada,” I said. “I’m impressed you remembered the location of my favorite pastry shop after I only told you about it once, months ago.”

  “You’re welcome,” her voice said. Her eyes weren’t so convincing.

  “Bad news?” I walked to the sink to rinse out my coffee mug.

  “A nuisance, it was work. One of the chefs went home sick. I guess I’ll be having dinner at the Silver Sage tonight.”

  “Oh, what’s on the menu? Anything special?”

  “Everything we serve is special. Over 75% of the regulars have specific dietary needs –– low sodium, low carbohydrate, low fat, low everything. Comes with age and genes. Otherwise they wouldn’t need my expertise. Any old cook could do. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Oops. I’m not sure I can wear shoes.” I lifted my injured foot to show her.

  “You’ll be fine. You’re sitting at a desk most of the time anyway, right? Did they tell you to keep the foot elevated?”

  “No.”

  “Did you need stitches?”

  I shook my head. If she asked me if it hurt what was I going to say? Lie to get her sympathy? She didn’t ask, instead she promised to bring me back some of the terrific carrot cake they served in the main dining room. My mouth watered at the thought of it. It came with cream cheese frosting.

  I was almost out her back door when her phone rang again. This time it was the police department calling. I had no desire to stick around and hear the fictional version of her night away that Brenda might share with whomever was working on the break in.

  In less than ten minutes I was lowering my body into my bathtub overflowing with bubbles.

  FIVE

  WITHIN MINUTES OF arriving at work, I made sure the whole office knew about the break in. Then I spent thirty minutes relating all the details and showing off my injured foot. Silly Scott, who was in charge of installing and removing the posts for the realty signs, wanted to autograph the cast, except I only had a bandage. He wrote his name on my ankle instead with a red felt pen. That tickled.

  When Celine, Sunny’s daughter, showed up the fun was over. She didn’t work there. She just stopped by when she wanted something from her mother. Money, I’m guessing. The general office gossip was right about one thing, no one liked Celine, but we all enjoyed working for Sunny.

  According to our boss, she'd named her daughter Celine because she was a big fan of Celine Dion. According to the gossip, it was because she got pregnant while attending one of Celine Dion’s concerts. Either way, no one knew who Celine’s father was.

  We all agreed that the twenty-something blonde was a real pain in the butt, and we were oh so thankful that she didn’t aspire to be a realtor like her mom. I had no idea what she wanted to be or do, besides wear pricey, trendy clothes and drive a 2010 frosty blue Sebring convertible that was the envy of all the females in the office. Except me. Long live Fiat.

  Everyone scuttled back to their own cubicle as Celine strode through the main room. I couldn’t go hide anywhere since I was Sunny’s assistant and my desk sat just outside the glass walls of her office.

  “Where's my mother?”

  No hello or how are you, straight for the wallet holder's whereabouts.

  “She’s presenting a contract to one of her clients in Scottsdale.” I kept my eyes on the keyboard of the computer I'd just started up.

  “Get her,” the blonde ordered.

  “Get her — what?” I batted my eyelashes to show my naiveté, which in my mind was my best imitation of Audrey Hepburn in her Oscar-winning performance in Roman Holiday.

  My impersonation seemed to really piss her off. Celine went straight for Sunny’s office door, which was locked, and shook the glass door by its handle. She shook hesitantly at first, then with all her might. She was off her rocker. I quietly inched my chair on wheels away from her and the glass pane before it shattered.

  Perhaps Celine was part witch, or with eyes in the back of her head, because she called out, “Hey, where do you think you’re going? Get yourself off that seat and unlock this door, now.” It was more hissing that talking.

  I swiveled my chair around so I could face the lunatic. “I’m sorry, Celine. I can’t help you,” I lied. “Your mom has the key. And she’s the only one as far as I know.” I knew my boss didn't like people going into her office when she was gone. That was why she locked it, for heaven's sake.

  “Oh, yeah? No problem, no problem at all.”

  Celine bent down and tried to lift the potted philodendron that was next to the door. Oh, my god. Was she going to hit the glass with it? She raised it about ten inches from the floor and then the sleek, heavy, ceramic pot slipped from her fingers and landed on her right foot. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that brought everyone in the building rushing to my desk.

  Mercy me. Pass the popcorn and watch the drama unfold… no charge.

  The crazy girl crouched on the floor, cradling her foot. I could see tears welling in her eyes. I felt sorry for her. When she removed her black sling back shoe and I saw the Dolce & Gabbana logo inside, my pity miraculously evaporated. That’s also when her broken acrylic nail fell off and her second scream hit the air. This one was pure anger and to the office personnel it was the equivalent of the fat lady singing. End of show. In a nick of time, too. Through the glass wall to outside, I could see Sunny’s Cadillac driving into her reserved parking spot.

  Ten minutes later, I headed out the door for my lunch break. The last thing I needed was to witness a family fight.

  I figured I was about five years older than Celine, but the age difference wasn’t the reason why the only common denominator we shared was that we both liked Sunny. Well, I liked Sunny. I just assumed Celine did, too. Oh, and apparently we both loved Italian-made products. Beside the D&G footwear, she often came in wearing Roberto Cavalli jeans, the kind with JustCavalli embroidered on the back pocket.

  I sighed thinking about them. Pretty cool stuff if you could afford it.

  Cavalli, horses, in English. Black jeans, white logo — out of nowhere the image of a black horse with a white spotted rear end entered my subconscious mind. And just like that I decided to take Dior hiking the 40th Street Trail more often. Who knew what might happen? We might bump into Mr. Red Bandanna again.

  That evening, as I drove up my street, I spotted Max’s truck parked by the curb again. Fortunately he wasn’t in the truck to see me. So instead of going home, I kept on driving.

  Chicken.

  The award dinner was at the end of the week, so I more than owed him an answer. I'd already made up my mind. I would use the foot injury as an excuse to say no, but I couldn’t get myself to tell him in person.

  Okay, I would text him in the evening then turn off the cellphone immediately so I wouldn't have to face his hurt reply until morning. Yes, that was a viable plan. Everything felt better in the morning, sunshine and all that stuff.

  I needed to grow a backbone. What was wrong with me? It was a weak excuse. Sunshine? We were in Phoenix, Arizona. We had sunshine 350 days a year, at least.

  I drove to Z’Tejas and called Jody, a coworker, to see if she wanted to join me for happy hour. She couldn’t, she was delivering keys to a new renter. That's how I ended up g
oing to Dillards and trying on sling back shoes I didn’t even like and I certainly couldn’t afford. And they looked ridiculous with my bandaged foot.

  Brenda got home around six o’clock, minutes after me. I'm not sure what time Max drove away, but he left a note on my door asking if there was something wrong with my phone since I wasn’t returning his calls. I loathed myself.

  I stuck Max’s note in my pocket and went over to Brenda’s without even unlocking my door. I found her sitting on the couch, apparently having already fed Dior, since I passed him in the kitchen gobbling food like a starving creature.

  “Hey.” She slid her unlit cigarette back into the pack. “How was your day?”

  I went to the refrigerator, found the open bottle of Pinot Grigio and a minute later handed Brenda a glass of wine. I sat myself down next to her and sipped from my own glass.

  “That kind of day, huh?” she said.

  We both laughed. We shared a glass of wine most evenings after work, regardless of how our days went, so she must have read my mood.

  “I go first.” I told her about Celine’s visit.

  “It’s stories like that that make me appreciate not having kids,” she said. “Poor Sunny, I don’t know how she manages to keep her wits. By the way, I’ll be in charge of the Dumont’s housewarming party. It's official now.”

  “Thanks to Sunny?”

  Brenda nodded.

  The two of them were good friends. They'd become friends in high school, and had managed to remain friends through Sunny’s pregnancy way back when and Brenda's secret life-long affair with the married man. About twice a year they spent weekends out of town together, in fancy spas or women’s retreats. Brenda sent clients to Sunny, mostly seniors selling their homes to move into the upscale Silver Sage retirement community. In exchange, Sunny often steered catering jobs for fancy parties to Brenda’s catering service. I hoped to find as a good of a friend before I got too old.