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

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Oh, I get it. Letters from the cheating politician. He entrusted them to you for safe keeping?”

  Brenda laughed, that short, raspy laugh of hers. It ended in a cough. “Hell no. I kept them as a — how can I explain? The letters were written during the first four, five years of our relationship. They're like a diary. Sweet, when all is good. Sad, when the love is losing steam and down right dangerous if in the hands of the wrong person.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? Someone hired O’Neill to steal the letters from you to use them against the author? Who? The wife?”

  Brenda shrugged. I had the feeling she was already sorry to have shared the info with me. “My guess would be that the whole deal was politically motivated. If those letters were ever exposed to the media, it could end his career just like that. The wife is too happy with the perks being a politician’s wife offers, which is why she's never agreed to a divorce. Monica, it’s really better if you forget we ever had this conversation, okay? I’m taking tomorrow off and getting things straightened out.”

  “How?”

  “Have faith, Monica. Let me handle this. Time to make a few phone calls. They are way overdue.”

  Dior moaned and hid his nose under the couch. I had a feeling the dog had more common sense than we did. I left Brenda to her overdue tasks.

  NINETEEN

  “TAKING THE DAY off. Went for a walk with Dior.”

  The handwritten note was taped to my garage door so it was impossible to miss. So she was serious the night before. I couldn’t remember when, if ever, Brenda had played hooky from work. She loved her job. Unlike me, especially this morning.

  Something nagged at me deep inside. I hoped she (we) could resolve the O’Neill situation quickly without more unexpected visits from the cops, or innuendos from strangers who assumed to know better. Of course the gossipy reporter, owner of the bouncy red mane, was first in line. Although, I would sure like to sit down with her somewhere private and find out what she meant by “Tristan’s adoring fans and siblings,” He had brothers and sisters? Apparently there was a lot I didn’t know and common sense would suggest keeping it that way. Sigh.

  Ten o’clock in the morning and the parking lot of Desert Homes Realty only had one space taken. Just Kassandra’s old beat up car. I searched as I steered Pink Beauty into my spot, but didn’t see Sunny’s chariot. Strange.

  When I walked in to the office Kassandra had the phone pressed to her ear. She raised her hand and motioned me to wait. I mouthed “coffee” and headed for the kitchen but the pot was empty. I went back to the front office just as Kassandra's phone conversation ended. She stood up and handed me a large, empty box.

  “What’s this for? And what happened to the coffee?”

  “We're out. Sunny told me to send Scott over to Costco and get whatever we needed. We don’t have any sign installations today anyhow. As soon as he gets back we’ll have coffee. As for the box, Sunny suggested you move to one of the bullpen cubicles, so I figured the box should ease your task.”

  Whoa. “Where is Sunny? Where is everybody?”

  “Some of the agents are at a paid seminar for fix and flip properties. They signed up months ago, before you got your license, and Sunny is taking the day off.”

  Sunny is taking the day off? Brenda was also taking the day off. Coincidence? I doubted it, but I said nothing to Kassandra. I suddenly had a strange sensation that she was sleeping with my ex. The less he knew about Brenda’s and my life, the better.

  “You need help moving your stuff?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I don’t have that much. Most of the paperwork on my desk is Sunny’s. I assume this means I’m no longer her assistant?”

  “That you’ll need to discuss with Sunny. I’m following orders. Speaking of orders, your friend the cop will be coming by soon.”

  “My friend the cop? What are you talking about?”

  “Officer Clarke will be stopping by. I’m supposed to make available a complete list of phone calls we received here at the office on specific days. I’m not sure what it’s all about. Sunny told me he had the legal papers authorizing him to get the info. She didn’t sound too happy about it. Come to think about it, maybe that’s why she isn’t coming in.”

  I had no doubt the police were still trying to figure out who O’Neill had called. Well, it wasn’t me. Case closed, I hoped.

  “Hey Kassandra, can I pick whichever spot I want in the bullpen?”

  “Any one that isn’t taken. Just look for the ones without personal items and then open the drawers. That should tell you. Oh, here comes Scott, finally. I’ll make some coffee. Hope he bought something to munch on, I’m famished.”

  Maybe if I hurried up, moved my stuff and called the prospects I met yesterday at the open house, I could leave before Officer Clarke arrived. The last thing I wanted to do was to answer more questions.

  While working in the bullpen, I heard Scott pause at Kassandra's station and say, “Look, Celine's going to have a hissy fit when she reads this. Maybe she already has. Maybe that’s why Sunny's not here. This is heavy stuff.”

  “Let me see.”

  At the sound of a rattling newspaper I froze with phone in hand before punching in the last number of a prospect. I stood up and looked around the corner. Kassandra saw me and held up the paper. A photo of J.S. Smith caught my eye, next to an article accompanied by photos of Celine and the new Dumont home, from before the renovation. I was so anxious to know what it was all about my stomach ached.

  Kassandra read the article to herself then let out a loud “Holy shit.”

  Our eyes met and she looked horrified.

  “What does it say?”

  “Celine and Tristan Dumont.” She asked Scott, “You believe it?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn't care less. Never liked that spoiled chick and don’t know the Dumont dude at all. But I have to admit, it’s some juicy story.”

  “Would you two tell me what it says?”

  “It says,” Scott put his finger on the page “that Celine and Tristan Dumont are half brother and sister because they have the same father, Philippe Dumont.”

  I sat down. My legs felt funny and so did my head. Did his wife know? Did they know? Sunny had to know. Wait, maybe it wasn't true. How could it be true? They were lovers, right? Sunny wouldn't let them be lovers if it were true.

  “Monica, Monica.” Kassandra’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “Girl, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stood next to me now.

  “I… I can’t believe this is true. And how would this J.S. Smith have access to this type of information?”

  “I don’t know. But she seems to have a bone to pick with Tristan, or Celine, humiliating them like that.”

  “Hello. Anyone home?” The front door bell dinged and Tristan Dumont walked in.

  I looked at Kassandra's hands to see if she held the article. Reading my mind, she pointed to her station around the corner. If Tristan hadn't already seen the article, he was going to see it now.

  “We're coming.” Kassandra dragged me around the corner with her.

  “I have a twelve o’clock appointment with Sunny. Looks like I may be a little early. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important?” Tristan tossed the newspaper back on the counter.

  We didn’t answer. Somehow saying, “We're just discussing whether you're sleeping with your half-sister,” just didn't feel right.

  TWENTY

  I SAT QUIETLY, a bit dazed, not sure how it had happened. One minute I was at the real estate office in disbelief about an article about Celine and Tristan, and twenty minutes later I was in Tristan’s Land Rover and we were headed to Tucson to take a look at a horse ranch.

  Once again Sunny had asked me to cover for her. I couldn't turn down such offer. With the property listed for a little over two million, I knew what my percentage would be if the deal went through. It would be a down payment on my soon to be purchased sedan. I just wish I could get that newspaper story
out of my head.

  The place was South of Tucson in a hilly area with lots of green and trees. The temperature felt at least ten degrees cooler than Phoenix. Tristan met with two of the men who would partner him in the business. I was sure one of them had been at the jinxed party. They spent a lot of time roaming around, on foot, by car and finally on horseback, while I sat on a comfy chair on a sunny patio attached to the main house.

  My mind was on Tristan, Angelique, Celine, Sunny, Philippe Dumont, and of course the red head from hell, J.S. Smith. How could she know such intimate details? Was there something personal in her mean reporting concerning Tristan? Or was it just for money? What if Sunny had been Philippe Dumont’s mistress?

  I turned my mind back to the property and the clients. The ranch was neglected. Someone had sprayed No Name Ranch with white paint over what must once have been the wooden sign with the official name of the place. An old, friendly couple in charge of keeping the place in decent order, looked like they could use their own caregiver. They joined me on the patio at a certain point, and entertained me with stories of horses, riders and everything in between from the ranch's heyday.

  By the time we headed back to Phoenix, the sun was starting its disappearing act. Soon the afternoon's warm breeze became the chill of evening air in the desert. Tristan seemed caught up in his own thoughts, but he managed a smooth merge into the flow of traffic heading North on the 10. Exits with lovely names zipped by: El Camino del Cerro, Orange Grove, and then a big green sign announcing exits to Marana came up.

  “How do people decide on what to name a town?” I muttered to myself.

  Tristan looked at me, a bit dazed. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was wondering about the name of the town we're driving through. Marana. We have a mountain by the same name where I come from, Cima Marana. It translates to Marana Peak. It’s odd to have identical names in different countries, different languages.”

  He nodded. “What does Marana mean in Italian?”

  “I have no clue. What does it mean in English?”

  “I have no clue.” He chuckled. “It’s probably a Spanish word. Why don’t you Google it?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you miss home?” He patted my hand.

  Damn. There wasn’t anything sexual in the gesture and yet it touched me deeply. I wanted to take his hand in mine and hold it against my cheek. What was wrong with me? Sunny had sent me to represent her. I had to get a grip. But I would really love to rest my head on his shoulder and tell him the story of my life. Before I made a complete fool of myself, I leaned my burning face against the cool window glass.

  “I miss some people more than the place.” I closed my eyes. “How about you? Who do you miss most?”

  I opened my eyes and watched the last Marana exit disappear in the side mirror. No answer from my traveling companion. Better that way. Maybe he hadn't heard me. I sighed and relaxed again into the seat. Casa Grande would be coming up soon.

  “Who do I miss most?” He enunciated the words slowly, perfectly. “My mother.” His tone was low and guttural, full of emotion. “I would give anything, everything, to know that she’s aware of the changes in me. Of how I do my best to live life the way she always asked me to, with compassion and honesty, treating people the way I want to be treated. Unfortunately, she died before I became the person she believed I could be.”

  I fought an urge to embrace him, while mentally chastising myself for considering the dirty implications of J.S. Smith’s article. I cleared my throat of my emotions, and asked, “How old were you when you lost your mother?”

  “It’s not about age,” he said, in a surprisingly quiet tone. “It’s about keeping promises. I was twenty-six.”

  Two years older than me now. It must have been hard. I suddenly realized I had to call my mom when I got home.

  “It's been five years and yet it feels like yesterday. And then my dad—how did we get to this subject? Fiat, are your parents alive?”

  Before I could answer, my stomach growled, loudly, just as the first Casa Grande exit sign appeared.

  “Is that you? I bet you’re starving. Oh, Fiat, I’m sorry. I should have asked. We skipped lunch. I’m sure we can find a drive-through fast food here in Casa Grande, and ––”

  “No. Don't worry. I'll eat when I get home.”

  “I've probably killed your evening plans, too. I’m so sorry. I had no idea about Sunny’s last minute problems, and it was too late for me to postpone the meeting. I owe you one, a big one. I can’t even offer you a ride on my horse. Most women like that.”

  His horse? “I think Sunny was probably upset by the nasty article.” Why did I say that? My hunger was making me stupid. I slid lower in my seat.

  “Is she still upset about that piece on the party and the poor man’s death?”

  Could he really be that clueless? My stomach growled again. Did he hear it?

  “If I remember correctly, there's a rest area just ahead and they have vending machines.” He heard it. “No arguing. We’ll take a short break. We can both use it.”

  I didn't argue. Food would help keep my mouth shut.

  “I should have warned Sunny about that Silly Jes, she’s—never mind. I tell you what, let’s play a game. We take turns asking questions. One question and the answer must be the truth, or else.” Then in a conspiratorial tone, “Plus, it’s dark. It’s easier to forgo inhibitions, share secrets in darkness. Want to go first?”

  “Yes. Be happy to. Is Silly Jes the same as J.S. Smith and how do you know her?” I really needed food!

  “Hey, that’s two questions. But yes, that’s the same person. We met at U of A. Her name is Sally Jessica Smith. We used to poke fun at her, called her Silly Jes. I’m guessing she got tired of it and uses J.S. Smith as her nom de plume. Ah, my turn. Let’s see. What brought you to the United States and when? I know, two questions—it’s only fair.”

  “I was barely eighteen. I came as an au pair. That was the only way for me to work in the States legally, but I figured once I was here… you know.”

  I fell in love, got married to a jerk, and got divorced. I didn't ever want to tell him all that.

  “I don’t know, but I must say, I’m impressed. On your own, at eighteen, in a foreign country. You’ve got brains and guts.” He paused. “You have one more question.”

  My mouth was dry. I licked my lips. “Is it true? About Celine?”

  “Celine? Is what true?”

  “What J.S. Smith wrote?”

  “Jes didn’t write about Celine. Her article was a bunch of misinformation and fiction about that man and the party.”

  “I’m talking about the news story you saw in paper on the counter at the agency, earlier today.”

  “Fiat, I barely glanced at that paper. What did Jes make up about Celine?” He sounded sincere.

  Me and my big mouth. “Huh, this is… well… she wrote that you… Celine. She wrote that your dad, Philippe Dumont, is also Celine’s dad.”

  And just then I recognized Brenda’s jingle on my phone. Shoot, why now? I had to take the call, but my phone slipped out of my hands. “Well, true or false?” I asked while unlatching my seat belt and bending down to pat the mat, searching for my phone.

  “Need some light?”

  The overhead light came on to help me look under my seat. Suddenly my universe revolved and exploded, or at least that’s what it felt like. A rumbling so loud I thought my ears would explode engulfed us, then it seemed the vehicle somersaulted and we were airborne. The windshield shattered. We landed, hard, amid crashing glass, metal, and my screams.

  I watched both sides of the car implode, doors and all. No, no, it must be an optical illusion. I searched for Tristan’s grin but all went black and I could swear my purse hit one of my legs except my leg wasn’t anywhere near my seat. Was I flying?

  Another deafening crash, everything shook, my head hit something, things were tumbling, or maybe I was. Stuff fell on me, I didn’t know
what, and then I floated again briefly before landing, with my arm draped over something strangely warm.

  The warm thing moved and touched my hand. “Fiat, you okay?”

  “Tristan? What happened? It’s so dark. Are we in a tunnel?” My attempt to act normal wasn’t working so well. My teeth chattered, making my voice sound like an over-plucked string, and my stomach roiled as though I had motion sickness.

  His hand patted mine. “No. No tunnel. Don’t move. I’m not sure what happened, nor if we're grounded, on solid surface I mean.”

  “Grounded? Solid surface? If you’re kidding it’s not helping.”

  I could feel my body joining in the trembling, and for all the calm in Tristan’s voice, his hand wasn’t so steady. That rumbling outside the vehicle again, and his grip tightened.

  “Hold still.”

  The Land Rover, if we were still in it, shook again and then quieted with a prolonged hiss. A strange smell hit my nostrils. Exhaust fumes? Burning rubber? My eyes began to adjust to the pitch black surrounding us.

  “Tristan, did we have an accident? Crash the car?”

  My jaw hurt when I spoke. My head, too.

  “Shush.” He released my hand.

  I ran my hands all over me to reassure myself I was okay. A small flash of light came on. I saw Tristan in the driver's seat with his phone, the source of the light, to his ear.

  “Tristan, your phone works. Hurrah.”

  He shushed me again and keyed in a number. Muffled engine noises came from far away. I noticed he was still buckled in the driver’s seat, but judging by the shadows, the seat didn’t look right, but was tilted forward. He spoke to someone on the phone just as the car shook, like from a sudden attack of hiccups.

  “I believe we were in a car accident. I’m not sure. There wasn’t any vehicle ahead of me on the road and, yes, ma'am, we seem to be okay. Two, myself and a friend. Oh, well, we were on the 10 just past Casa Grande. No, we were headed to Phoenix and, yes, ma'am, I’ll hold.” He turned to me. “I can’t believe my phone works. You’re okay, correct?” He pointed to the cellphone and told me unnecessarily, “911 operator.”