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

by Maria Grazia Swan

  I froze. Tristan Dumont wanted to walk me to my car? Why?

  “You guys stay put. I’ll be right back,” he said to his guests.

  He walked me in silence to the front door, then opened it and put his arm around my shoulders in a relaxed, brotherly manner.

  “You must be pretty upset over this. Don’t blame yourself, it’s not like you pushed him on purpose. I mean, you hardly knew the man. I heard your aunt tell the policemen he was a temp sent over by an agency. It’s too bad. He may even have had a heart attack. Unfortunately it happens to men of a certain age. That’s what killed my father.”

  He paused and cleared his throat. His sudden change of mood was palpable. We stepped out of the house together, into the cool night air.

  “Too early to know, really,” he continued. “I’m to provide a list of all the guests to the officers and someone else will come by tomorrow, to check out the steps I suppose.” He turned so we were facing each other. “What I’m trying to say, Fiat, is don’t beat yourself over life’s unpredictable twists. Everything it’s going to be okay. Right?”

  “Right.”

  I looked up to the night sky where stars played peek a boo with fleeting clouds. I knew he was only being kind, but my heart happily responded to the warmth of his arm on my shoulder. It was late. I was tired. I forgave myself for enjoying this married man's comforting words and touch. I told my brain to shut up.

  SIXTEEN

  MONDAY MUST HAVE been a slow day for news. O’Neill’s death made the front page of the local newspaper's website, with a picture of Tristan Dumont’s handsome face. I checked it out as I sipped my morning coffee at home.

  The article, written by a J.S. Smith was part news and part gossip. Lots of ink was dedicated to the party, but luckily my name didn’t appear anywhere. Brenda’s catering business did however. The only new info I gathered was that O’Neill’s autopsy and cause of death were still being processed. Deep down, and for purely selfish reasons, I held hopes that the man had died of a heart attack. It would make everything so simple. No one to blame, my sense of guilt gone, maybe. Being Catholic, guilt was fed to me daily, from birth, by brimming spoonful.

  The absence of Sunny’s car from the office parking lot was the first odd thing I noticed when I arrived at work. Once I entered the front door, it became obvious this wasn’t going to be a typical Monday morning. Kassandra was not at her desk, and the bullpen was empty.

  I spotted Kassandra next to several of our realtors who were gathered around the ample table in the conference/meeting room. One of the agents read out loud to the group from a computer screen. Quite a few faces exhibited surprise. I assumed the article in question was the same one I had read earlier. I bypassed the buzzing assembly and went to the kitchen to get myself some more coffee.

  None of them had been at the party so they would be more apt to believe anything the journalist wrote. But I knew better because I was there. The journalist had embellished the story to the point of it being unrecognizable. A new sense of importance encroached on my soul and I felt an inch or so taller when I returned from the kitchen.

  Kassandra had positioned herself between the path to the coffee maker and my desk. “Did you see that?” She pointed to the table where about five realtors were still discussing the newspaper article in a rather animated tone.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I nodded and sipped my coffee. It tasted bitter, must be old. Was I that late? Before I could comment on anything, Sunny showed up, and just like that, everyone hurried back to their desks. The boss wore a stilted smile and a very functional yet appealing dark blue suit. Our eyes met. She motioned me to follow her and we moved toward her glass office. I left my briefcase on my desk before stepping into her inner sanctum and closed the door behind me as usual.

  It was then I noticed the bag from Snooze, a new, trendy breakfast place around Camelback and 20th Street. That explained her late arrival. Somehow I didn’t picture her as a fan of that type of restaurant, then again, what did I know?

  “Monica, we need to talk about two things, your real estate career and the way to keep you out of this mess with Billy — I mean Bill O’Neill, the deceased.”

  “Okay.”

  Billy? Go on, Monica, ask her what the argument with the deceased was all about. Go on, ask. I didn’t ask. I stood there, mouth open, staring at Sunny, who seemed totally oblivious of my nervousness.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Let’s set you up for an open house during the week so the people coming by will be serious prospects, not your bored Sunday trolls. And you should work with Kay Moore, she’s the best at picking up new clients. You can watch her in action and learn a few tricks of the trade. What do you think?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “How about Wednesday? We still have time to run an ad. Take a look at our newest listings, find one that hasn’t held an open house yet. Actually, do that first so we can make the deadline for the ad. Go, go.”

  I stood back up and headed for the door.

  “And then let’s talk about the party, in case someone from the media connects you with the catering business and my real estate office. We need to get our stories straight.”

  I nodded. What stories?

  “First things first. Go pick a listing. And please ask Kassandra to come see me.”

  I nodded again. I was halfway out her door when she added the body blow.

  “And, Monica, one more thing, lose the Fiat. I know you love it, but it’s not a car for realtors. Lease a real automobile. Four doors, not flashy. Thanks, Monica.”

  And with that I was dismissed.

  I did ask Kassandra to go see Sunny, but instead of returning to my desk I sat in one of the empty cubicles in the bullpen and did my search for a listing there. I needed some time to sort out all that stuff Sunny had thrown at me.

  She'd called the dead investigator Billy. Not Bill or O’Neill. Billy. Interesting.

  And what was that nonsense about connecting me with Brenda’s catering and the real estate office where I'd just hung up my brand new license? What if the media did make the connection? Was it really such a big deal?

  Actually, there was something still bugging me about the news article. There wasn’t any mention of Mrs. Dumont, and nothing to suggest Tristan was someone’s husband. Why the missing detail? And really, was it any of my business?

  I was still trying to decide about general areas of town when Kay tapped my shoulder. I nearly fell off my chair from surprise.

  “Sorry, Monica, didn’t mean to startle you, Sunny told me ––”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, my mind was somewhere else. Not your fault.”

  “I understand. I would be a mess if I had to go through what you went through. I understand you were the one who found the corpse.”

  “I did what? Oh, no, no. Brenda and I were going out the back door when we noticed O’Neill on the ground. He was alive, so he wasn't a corpse, technically, was he?”

  She shrugged and ignored my morbid question. “Never mind, it's not important. Let’s work on our open house ad because it must be turned in by noon. It’s easy, we have templates ready. We just fill in the blanks. Scoot over, let me sit next to you, let’s get it done.”

  Kay was a whiz. I followed her suggestions and we picked an average home, three bedrooms, two baths, Northeast location, priced in the middle two hundreds. She kept a file with her most successful descriptions and soon we had our ad ready to go. The open house was set for Wednesday from noon to three. That way, Kay explained, we could catch some people during their lunch hour. And my name was next to hers. My first foray as a realtor. Wait until I told Brenda.

  We had hardly spoken to each other since the Dumont’s party. She'd had to provide the police with the names of all the people working for her catering business, including the temps. She said something about having to supply a list of the food served, and I don’t know what else. Poor Brenda, she was also concerned about the repercussion the incident might have on her job at th
e retirement community, which was her security blanket, so to speak.

  I spent most of my office time on the computer to get familiar with the properties for sale in the same subdivision where we would have our open house. When I left around three, Sunny was nowhere to be found for our “getting our story straight” meeting, and the office was almost deserted. I grabbed a drink from the fridge and noticed the Snooze bag in the trash bin in the kitchen. It appeared untouched. Weird.

  My not-a-car-for-realtors waited faithfully in all its flashy hot pink glory. It could use a good wash and shine. I couldn’t remember the last time I went to a drive-through wash. In a way, the grime hid that long, deep scratch left by the key job. In my heart I knew Sunny and Brenda were right. It was time to bite the bullet and get a comfortable four door that could easily accommodate any size prospect.

  I drove straight home and, since it was a lovely afternoon, I loaded Dior into my Fiat and headed for the 40th Street Trail. It was the perfect time of the day, the parking lot was half empty. The Great Dane was extra excited, pulling on the leash, dragging me along.

  We walked toward the west side of the easy trail. I hoped the hike would help clear my mind and maybe help me find answers to some of my questions. The problem was that I didn’t really know if any of my questions were valid, or even any of my business. They just floated through my head.

  Dior seemed determined to follow the low path that circled the base of the peaks and that was fine by me. I found myself searching those peaks, the ones favored by horseback riders. Deep down I hoped to bump into Tristan Dumont. So when I actually eyed a lonely rider on a dark horse I had a hard time containing my sense of euphoria. It had to be Tristan, I just knew it. It was destiny.

  No, it wasn’t and I had to stop the nonsense.

  I shushed the brouhaha in my chest and changed direction, turning my back on the advancing steed. I had to. Tristan and I had nothing in common, nothing to talk about. He was probably here to seek solitude too, not to talk to me. He had been kind to me the night of the party, walking me to the car when he didn’t have to.

  I kept on moving in the opposite direction and I was never overtaken by a horse. At the end of our long trek, with Dior panting happily, we saw only a few cars left in the parking lot. While I could breathe with ease, the exertion had helped me lower my stress level. It was time to go home.

  A surprise awaited us. Someone had written on the rear window of my car in the layer of dust “Ciao Fiat”. Tristan. I looked around. Of course he had disappeared. Better that way. My face was on fire and so was my heart.

  I drove home with the window down, humming happily. Dior sat quietly in the back probably wondering what drugs I was doing. I tried hard to contain my giddiness when I walked into Brenda’s living room to drop off her dog. She’d stretched out on the couch, a glass of wine in hand. She didn’t sound too convincing when she asked me to join her, so I let her off the hook.

  “Have to pass, but thanks. Let me get some cold water for Dior. We had a long walk.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged without paying much attention. Her eyes were on the television screen where a rerun of a taped ‘Dancing with the Stars’ played without sound. The dancers looked pretty silly without the music.

  She watched old shows every Monday night during football season. Something was bugging her, I could tell. I stalled my exit, deciding to add some ice cubes to Dior’s water bowl. Instead of opening the freezer I absentmindedly opened the refrigerator. A bag from Snooze jumped out at me. Same as Sunny’s.

  Sunny and Brenda? They had breakfast together? Must have. There was only one Snooze and neither one of them lived close to it. They must have met to coordinate the information to feed to the cops. What information did they mean, exactly? All those annoying questions came back.

  I wouldn’t lie to the police, if that was what they wanted from me. No way. It looked like Saturday’s accident had messed up Brenda’s life. Perhaps it had to do with the insurance she had to carry for each hired worker? Bummer. I'd hoped to talk to her about my car dilemma. Buy or lease? New or used? It would have to wait.

  I patted Dior, saying “good boy.” Then I went out to my garage to admire the writing on the back windshield. Something to carry with me in my dreams.

  Boy, was I a mess, or what?

  SEVENTEEN

  I MAY NEVER wash my car again, I told myself, as the thought of Tristan’s finger writing such a sweet message made my heart bounce, or as Americans like to say—skip a beat or two. I was thinking like a schoolgirl and it felt fun.

  Then next morning I read the message every time I looked in the rear view mirror, on my way to work. The writing on the rear windshield helped me decide about the fate of my beloved car. I would keep it, with the scratch fixed of course, paid for by the insurance. I could lease a modest four-door for business. Hopefully, soon, when Brenda snapped out of her funk she could help me run some numbers. She had a real knack for that. Case closed.

  I drove to the office with little hurry and even less enthusiasm. Maybe I could ask Sunny if it was okay for me to move my office to the bullpen like the rest of the agents. It felt uncomfortable sitting at my usual desk, looking into my boss’s office, knowing something strange was up with Billy, the late PI. Up to now my only task had been to assist Sunny. She paid me a set monthly salary and I was at her service. All that was about to change.

  I was still running scenarios in my head of how to approach Sunny about changing my desk, when I parked my car in the lot. I walked into the reception room of Desert Homes Realty ready to face the task.

  Kassandra's glare shook my resolve. She sat at her usual place, a step above the floor us mortals walked on. “Hey, kiddo, are you in trouble?”

  “In trouble?” I asked. “What do you mean? I haven’t done anything, at least not that I’m aware of.”

  “The cop has been calling.”

  “The cop? What cop?”

  Kassandra rolled her eyes. “Clarke. Is Clarke his last name?”

  I nodded. “Officer Clarke, yes. What does he want?”

  “To talk to you, what else?” She shrugged.

  “Did he leave a number for me to call back?”

  “No, he didn’t. That’s strange isn’t it?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Strange? Nah. Maybe he had questions regarding the Dumont’s party.”

  “Party? Don’t you mean murder?”

  “Seriously, Kassandra, murder? Did you get that from your Tarot cards?”

  I headed toward the kitchen just as the front door swung open and Sunny and Celine strolled in. Celine? Before noon? Something was up. I did a constrained wave and kept on moving, and when I heard Celine say something about “forgot… in the car” I forced myself to ignore her completely. Moments later Kassandra interuppted my coffee and bear claw pastry orgy.

  “Monica, phone. Where do you want to take it?” she called out from her station.

  I took my coffee and what remained of the bear claw with me. “Who?” I asked as I wiped crumbs from my lips.

  “Cop,” she mouthed.

  I pointed to the bullpen, practically deserted so early in the morning. We still had some old-fashioned rotary phones in the individual cubicles. I liked them –– less chance of pushing the wrong button.

  “Monica Baker speaking.” I wanted to sound very professional.

  “Good morning, Monica.”

  What? No Miss Baker? I guess I hadn't sounded professional enough.

  “We were wondering if you could stop by the office. We have a few questions and ––”

  “We? Who is we? And why can’t you ask them over the phone?”

  Celine walked by, staring at me, a smirk on her face. What was going on? Was everyone bent on annoying me? Had she touched my car? Again?

  “It’s better that you come downtown, same place we drove to after the break in. How soon can you make it?”

  Officer Clarke. I felt totally lost. I tried to remember the dialogue in those t
elevision cops shows. Did I need a lawyer? I did recall my relatives in Italy insisting that it was best to avoid saying anything to the police. They were not your friends. They were not especially clever. They just wanted to pin crimes on people, to close cases, to look good, to get promotions.

  “Uh, I don’t know, I need to check with my boss.”

  Kassandra’s stare burned into me. I had no privacy.

  “I doubt Ms. Novak would object to it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll be there.” I hung up. On a cop. Was that legal?

  Kassandra poked me. “You’re going?” When I didn't answer, she continued, “Don’t worry about Sunny, I’ll tell her. Beside, with Celine here she won’t even notice you’re gone. Go on, then you can come back and tell me what you found out.”

  “What I found out? They're the ones with the questions.”

  “Like you said, you haven’t done anything wrong. So why are you so upset?”

  “Upset? I’m not upset. I’m going. See?”

  I hurried back to the kitchen, rinsed my mug out, disposed of the last bite of the pastry, grabbed my purse and five minutes later I was driving to the police station.

  The place was busy, but I was able to find a parking space, finally. It was only then that I noticed the edit to the text on my back window. Someone (I knew who) had written “bitch” over the word “Fiat”. The last thing I needed was feud with the spoiled daughter of my boss. She clearly knew what Tristan's nickname for me was, and had guessed he'd left me the message. Anger rose inside me, making it hard to breathe. I had to keep on moving and calm down.

  I entered the lobby of the police department expecting someone to recognize me and greet me, naive thing that I was. Instead I went unnoticed until on impulse I walked up to a friendly looking policewoman. She wore her uniform with grace, but she didn’t wear high heels like the female cops on television. That was just as I suspected. I mean, how can they chase bad guys in tight skirts and high heels? And let's not even mention the bustiers on some of the TV detectives.