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

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Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 11

by Maria Grazia Swan


  “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

  She didn't need to help me, because Officer Clarke was heading our way and in within minutes he walked me to a room where two other men sat, one bald man in uniform, the other dressed like an office worker. They were both past forty and neither seemed too excited to see me. For all the jokes and stereotypes, there wasn’t a single cup of coffee on the large table, nor any kind of donuts. The uniformed cop studied an open laptop.

  “Thank you for coming by, Miss Baker,” bald man said.

  “You can call me Monica. What is it that you need to ask me?”

  The three of them exchanged glances and I didn’t like that at all. It felt—rehearsed.

  “How well did you know Bill O’Neill?” asked civilian clothes, who introduced himself as Detective Valdez.

  “Not well at all. I only spoke to the man twice, and both encounters ended up with you people getting involved. Just ask Officer Clarke. Right?”

  I looked at Office Clarke with high hopes of getting a nod, a handshake and an escort out of there. My high hopes remained just that, high hopes. Clarke didn’t say a word.

  “What were you two arguing about just before O’Neill tumbled down the slope?” Detective Valdez asked.

  “Whoa, I'm not sure who you’ve been talking to, but there was no argument, none at all.” More glances all around. Not good. “Well, not by Italian standards. It takes two to argue in Italy. All I did was mostly shout at his back as he hurried out of there. I’m sure you know a lot more about what happened once he left the kitchen than I do. Did he have a heart attack?”

  “Heart attack?” Officer Clarke paused then asked, “Had he discussed his health with you?”

  “What? I just told all of you I never discussed anything with him. We spoke twice, once when he got caught after the break in, and the second time when I discovered he was the temp called Bill at the party. We certainly weren’t meeting socially.”

  “And yet he called you.” Detective Valdez smiled.

  The bald cop kept his eyes on the laptop constantly.

  “He called me what? I mean he was angry, but I don’t remember him calling me names. Who told you that?”

  For a nanosecond the whole mood changed, sort of a freeze frame. The men’s expressions shouted “stupid woman.”

  Clarke cleared his throat and spoke to me as if I had the comprehension level of a four-year-old, “Monica, we're asking you about a phone call, from O’Neill. We know he called you. What was it about?”

  “O’Neill called me? No, he didn’t.”

  Now Valdez wasn’t smiling. “We know he called you. We have the print out of all his phone calls.”

  “Oh, yeah? Show me. Better yet, you show me on my phone.” I fished my cell from the bottom of my purse. “Here. Help yourself.” I handed it to Valdez. “Show me where I received a phone call from O’Neill.” I sat back and breathed deeply, mostly not to let them see how nervous I was.

  “He didn’t call your cell.”

  “That’s my only phone.”

  “He called your office.” Valdez said it like I should have known that.

  “How would he know where I work? I can’t believe you had me drive all the way here for this nonsense. You still haven’t told me how he died.”

  “We were hoping you would tell us how he knew where to find you.”

  “Well, you hoped wrong. He never called me. Or maybe he wanted to buy a house and that’s why he called the office. A coincidence. And I’m not the only one working there.”

  “He called once and we know for a fact that you were working that day.”

  “You do? How?”

  “Monica, that was the day I came to take the report about your car,” Officer Clarke said. “Remember? You called from outside your office. Your Fiat was in the Desert Homes parking lot in the Agent of the Month spot.”

  Was he making fun of me? “So? I was gone much of the day, showing a property on the West side. We drove in the buyer’s SUV. I found my car vandalized when I returned. You can check that with Kassandra, the receptionist.”

  “You think O’Neill did it, vandalized your car?” The idiotic question came from Valdez.

  “O’Neill? No. Why? It was the same person who just wrote “bitch” on the back window of my car. Okay? Can I go now?”

  For the second time the three men went silent, then Officer Clarke tried the friendly approach, “If you know who's vandalizing the car, why don't you tell me? We can write a citation, you know. You can probably get reimbursed for the cost and ––”

  “And I would lose my job. Forget about it. I need a four door for my job anyhow. Plus, how am I going to prove it without any security camera?” I had visions of them forcing me to name Celine, and my getting sacked. I had to stop that from happening. “I’m leaving, and next time you people want me to come down to listen to your make believe scenarios, give me plenty of notice. I’ll bring the pop corn and a lawyer.” I got up and muttered, “O’Neill calling me… incredible.”

  I walked out and they didn’t even pretend to stop me. But I moved fast, the sense of outrage for their accusations still fueling my energy, along with a fear of losing my job after they dragged Celine, cuffed, out of the office before her shocked mother.

  It wasn’t until I reached my car that it dawned on me that the strange phone call Kassandra relayed to Sunny, the phone call that was the reason Sunny asked me to drive Tristan to look at the horse property on the West side, was probably the call they meant. Kassandra said a man calling about Belle wanted to talk to Sunny, and then Sunny had become all strange.

  O’Neill and Sunny? That would explain their arguing the evening of the party. And when she mentioned him yesterday she called him Billy, not Bill. Something told me that wasn’t just a slip of the tongue.

  Now excitement replaced outrage. I had to ask Sunny. Better yet, I had to ask Brenda. This was what they had wanted to get straight before I spoke to the police. I was kind of glad they hadn't done that, or I would have surely looked like I was lying in the police station, claiming to know nothing.

  I pulled out a tissue from my purse and wiped the word “bitch” from my car window. I left “Ciao” intact. I only knew one bitch, and I'd just saved her from getting arrested.

  EIGHTEEN

  KAY’S FIRST REQUEST was that I not park the “dirty pink rat” anywhere near the open house. My beloved Fiat ended up on a side street. Strike one with my new mentor.

  Before the last prop was in place, decorating the house to make it seem homey, Max stopped by to say hello. He had seen the open house ads with my name on them. Our stilted conversation was excruciatingly awkward as we both knew we had unfinished business to discuss. His presence garnered me some dirty looks from Kay. Strike two with my mentor.

  And then J.S. Smith, the reporter/gossip from the local paper, decided to pay us a visit. Kaboom! I looked like the least professional real estate agent in the world.

  Of course I didn’t know that the woman with the gorgeous red mane was the reporter when she walked in. I noticed that the color was natural, and that she was my first open house prospect. I was thrilled. But not for long.

  “Good afternoon and welcome. I’m Monica Baker. How are you, Miss…?”

  “Monica Baker? Perfect. I was hoping to be able to talk to you.”

  Huh? “Me? Oh, you saw my name on the open house ads?”

  The redhead giggled. “Sure, that's why I'm here. Oh, wait, maybe it was because I saw your name on the police reports. I’m Jessica Smith, but you can call me Jessie.”

  Jessica Smith? Police reports? In a flash I put together the name and the face with the small photo that had accompanied her on-line article. “You're the reporter.”

  She shrugged. “Was the reporter. Got canned for the piece on the Dumonts.”

  “Huh?” I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. What was she doing here?

  Kay circled around us and she didn’t look too happy. I guesse
d my first open house would garner me a solid F from my mentor. But I couldn’t control the urge to say what was on my mind, and it was totally unrelated to my presence in this lovely home we had been hired to sell.

  “You got fired? Probably because you suggested Tristan Dumont had something to do with what happened to O’Neill.”

  “You don’t say. I suppose you’re another one of Tristan’s adoring fans. At least you’re not a sibling.”

  “Sibling? I was helping with the catering and ––” No. What was wrong with me? I just volunteered the very information Brenda didn’t want made public, that we catered a party where a man died. Brenda wasn’t going to be happy about it. Unless she never found out. “So you’re no longer a reporter, right?” I tried to sound sympathetic but wasn’t sure I succeeded.

  “That’s right. I’m no longer a reporter for the local paper, I’m so much more.”

  “Like a television reporter?” I prayed she say no.

  “Sort of, not quite. I’m an investigative reporter for the We Dig Deeper magazine.”

  Oh, no. That was one of the top gossip tabloids in the nation. Time to make a dignified retreat. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Jessie, but I need to get back to my open house, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, now I know where to find you. Either at Desert Homes Realty or at your catering job with Brenda Baker. Is she your mother? Never mind. I’ll see you soon.” And with that she waved her lovely hand sporting crimson painted nails (probably blood) and left.

  Kay, who I’m sure had been waiting for a chance to share her state of mind with me, didn’t waste any time. But before she could do more than shake her finger and grumble some admonishments, a mature couple, nicely dressed, entered the home. I finally got a chance to do my job.

  I’m guessing I didn’t do too badly, because before they left I had their names and phone number and a good idea of what they were looking for. All in all, mission accomplished, except we didn't have an offer on the house at the end of the day.

  While helping Kay retrieve the open house signs, I asked if she wanted to join me for happy hour. She didn’t, claiming she needed a soothing cup of tea after our exciting afternoon. I left and spent my drive home rehearsing what I would tell Brenda about my spilling the beans about her food catering business and me and being linked to O'Neill's sad death. Anything I came up with didn’t really matter, as it turned out.

  I spotted a dark sedan parked in front of Brenda’s place. She had visitors. I hoped that was good, and that she'd be in a better mood than she’d been in the last few days. I drove to the back as quietly as my Fiat would allow, and parked in my garage. Brenda was waiting for me by her back door by the time I left the garage. She stood on the threshold, one hand on her hip, not looking too happy.

  “Monica, better get in here. These gentlemen would like a few words with you.”

  Gentlemen? Wanting to talk to me?

  In her living/dining room, I found Detective Valdez and Officer Clarke sitting on two dining room chairs. No sight of Dior. He was probably in a bedroom, away from the men with guns. I followed Brenda to the couch, she tapped her hand on the pillow next to her, and I sat like a well-trained puppy. On the coffee table, next to an unsealed pack of cigarettes sat an empty stem glass. It looked to me like the gentlemen had interrupted Brenda’s evening routine.

  What did they want from me? Wasn’t yesterday's conversation enough? I glanced at Brenda’s tight lips and tense expression and a feeling of doom surged in my chest to the beat of a thousand imaginary drums.

  “Well, hello.” I nodded to the men, but I was determined to wait, and not make any foolish comments. So I sat, back straight, hands folded on my lap.

  The tension in the room grew.

  Officer Clarke spoke first, “We were just telling your aunt that O’Neill’s cause of death was anaphylaxis and––”

  “Ana what?”

  Brenda explained, “It’s caused by allergies or one allergy in particular.”

  The cops nodded in agreement.

  “Oh, poor man,” I said, and I meant it. “What was he allergic to?”

  Clarke answered, “Nuts, apparently. Tests are still being run. O’Neill was aware of the allergy. He appeared to have used an allergy injection pen, an Epi pen. The needle mark was observed during autopsy and the discarded pen was found on the ground near the spot where he collapsed. Again, more tests are being processed. However, it raises questions. Like, did he voluntarily ingest food he knew he was deadly allergic to, and why did the pen fail to work?”

  “And you are bringing all these question to us… because?” The anger in Brenda’s voice was hard to miss.

  I could feel the couch shake a little. Brenda tended to rock back and forth when under stress and she was rocking even while keeping her hands anchored to the couch, probably fighting the urge to reach for the cigarettes.

  Poor Brenda. What was wrong with these cops? First they came after me and now Brenda? What was it they really wanted? A scapegoat? My Italian relatives were right.

  “Gentlemen,” Brenda stood up suddenly, “I’ve been accused of many things in my life, stupidity was never one of them. You are aware that the dead man is the same person who broke into my house. And you know that B&B Catering supplied all the food. You’re here because I own and run B&B Catering. You didn’t come to share information; you came looking for it. We are done here. Next time you want to speak to me or to Monica Baker, it will be in the presence of our lawyer. Monica, would you please see the detectives out?”

  I didn't know what went through Officer Clarke and Detective Valdez’s minds. I was too stunned to think straight. So, I fought to keep my mouth shut and went to open the front door. Officer Clarke seemed to hesitate but a stern look from Valdez got him moving. By the time I locked the door behind them and turned around, Brenda was attempting to light a cigarette. That was hard to do when your fingers tremble like silk ribbons in the breeze.

  I busied myself moving the chairs back to the dining table, and I could hear Dior scratching on the bedroom door, so I went to let him out. He rewarded me by hoping up, front paws on my shoulders and planting wet kisses on my face. The big goof ball.

  “Brenda were you serious about the lawyer? Not that I think it will happen, but hey, you really told those cops.”

  She poured some wine into her glass. I went to get myself a glass to join her.

  “Of course I was serious about the lawyer. What do you think would happen if word gets out that someone died after eating my food? Someone who had tried to take something from me by forcing his way in while I was lured away? Not only could I close my catering business and hope I don’t get sued by some career plaintiff, but I could kiss my job at the Silver Sage goodbye. I make a living feeding people with dietary problems, vulnerable, trusting people who let me into their personal space. Think about it.”

  “O’Neill didn’t die because of your food. How could he? I watched every bite he took. He started from Bland not Blonde, moved through Allergy Alley to finish up at Anything Goes and it didn’t look to me like he was picky about what he put in his mouth. Well, except maybe at the last table.”

  “Why were you watching him eat? Your job was to make sure he did what he was hired to do, mind the food table. Instead you watched him go from food station to food station? When was that? And why didn’t you tell me about it or set him straight?”

  “I tried. I did. First, I couldn’t find him, then I spotted him outside by the pool arguing with Sunny. That’s when I realized that Bill was Bill O’Neill, the guy who broke into your house, So I started to follow him. I wanted to talk to him without causing a scene. I failed with that. Wait.” An image of O’Neill stuffing his mouth with my beloved amaretti flashed in my mind’s eye… amaretti. “Oh, my god, that’s it,” I cried out loud.

  “Monica, what?” Brenda stared at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was.

  “He ate the cookies. Lots of them. O’Neill was eating amaretti,
stuffing his face with them. I know because I love them and at the rate he was eating them, there weren't going to be any left for me.”

  Brenda yanked my wine glass away from me, her eyes so big she scared me. “You watched him eat cookies made from ground almonds and Amaretto liquor made from apricots pits and almonds and you didn’t stop him? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Why would I stop him? I didn’t know he was allergic to nuts. I only saw the man once before, when he was trying to break into your house. Why are you acting like I killed him?”

  She backed away and now her whole being shook, the wine spilling from her glass. Her breathing was labored.

  “Brenda, what’s wrong. Are you okay? Look at us, fighting. Accusing each other of sins we didn’t commit. What's happening?” And just like that I started to cry.

  Poor Dior squatted by my feet. He must have been even more confused than we were, tearing each other apart over a death we couldn’t prevent of a man we didn’t know.

  Brenda hugged me and patted my shoulder. “I’m so sorry Monica. I’m angry at the wrong person. Forgive me. It's been a long, stressful day, but if the fact that you watched O’Neill stuff his face with amaretti ends up in the hands of the wrong person we’ll both be in a heap of trouble even if we didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I let her comfort me while silently praying that by the time the cause of O’Neill’s death made the news, J.S. Smith would have forgotten my connection with B&B Catering. But there was one thing I needed to know, and in a way I felt entitled to the information.

  “Now that O’Neill is gone, how about telling me what he came looking for?”

  “I guess I owe you that.” She sat back down on the couch and scratched Dior’s head without really paying attention, sort of an automatic response to the dog’s attention-seeking. “He was looking for letters.”

  “Letters? What kind of letters? I mean, who writes letters these days?”

  “You’re right. They were old letters. Love letters. The kind of letters that could ruin a political career if they ended up in the wrong hands.”

 

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