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

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Calm down boy, you can’t jump off the truck, wait, wait.”

  I hiked myself up on the running board, close enough to clip the leash on Dior’s collar before Max unlocked the door to let him out. It was sloppy kiss fest, with a tail that couldn’t stop wagging. I hopped in the truck with Dior at my feet, and we headed home.

  Max explained how he'd seen Dior standing at the signal of Shea and 40th Street. That was the road we traveled for our mountain hikes. The Great Dane had remembered and was going out to walk himself, the ding dong. I was so glad and thankful to Max, and feeling like dirt for my previous behavior toward him.

  Max parked on the street so as to not block the driveway. That was a good move because seconds later Tommy came from the back, straddling and pushing his Harley. He obviously wasn’t too concerned about finding Dior. What a creep. Thank god for Max.

  Tommy stopped next to us, a mean smirk on his face. “Oh, look here, the pool boy with his bitch and her dog.”

  I didn’t see it coming. Max leaped out of the car, two inches from the big front tire of the bike, and slugged Tommy so hard he had to fight to keep the bike from tipping over. Dior’s barking and jumping got away from me to join in the fight was icing on the cake. Front porches lit up, and doors opened. No doubt some neighbor was already calling 911. The bike fell over and skittered down the driveway while the two men fought.

  Brenda to the rescue. Perfect timing. Except for the fact that this was really happening, it played out like a choreographed show. Brenda stepped in quickly, grabbed Dior’s leash, asked few questions. We both knew if the police were called it meant back to jail for Tommy, and by now I was sure he too had it figured out. When Brenda said “Enough” Tommy sheepishly wiped the dark drool from his lips (blood?), righted his motorcycle, hopped on uncertainly and drove away.

  Ten minutes later, after a long hug, Max got back into the truck and left. I followed Brenda and Dior into the house.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  OFFICER CLARKE CAME knocking just as Brenda uncorked the wine bottle. She opened the front door barefoot and with the bottle in hand.

  “That was quick.”

  She moved to the side to let our local cop in, while I finished feeding Dior.

  “If my patrol car were a horse it would have the route memorized by now.” He smiled. “We’ve had more 911 calls for this address in the last few weeks that in all the years I’ve been assigned to this precinct.”

  “Can I offer you a glass of wine?” Brenda asked.

  “Thanks. My shift isn’t over. What happened? The neighbors reported a fight, a brawl.”

  “Oh, that.” She stifled a yawn and pointed at me as I entered the room. “Two boys, one girl.” She shrugged as if the fight were inevitable with those numbers.

  Officer Clarke’s attention shifted to me. “How are you doing? I heard about that awful accident. You were with that young man from the party, Mr. Dumont, right?”

  Was that a trick question? I nodded, balancing my weight from one foot to the other, impatient to talk with Brenda about so many things. Celine, Tristan, a new car, Tommy. “Yes, Tristan Dumont. My boss asked me to show him a horse ranch in Tucson.”

  “I suppose there isn’t going to be any complaint filed for this two boys-one girl situation, just like the car vandalism situation? They wouldn't be connected, would they?” He kept his eyes on me the whole time.

  He was close, but no cigar. I went to sit next to Brenda on the couch. “No, no complaints.” I met his stare.

  He didn’t appear to be in a big hurry to go save some other citizens in distress. “My shift is over in about ten minutes, so I might as well tell you about O’Neill's cause of death. The report came in a few hours ago and will be made public in the morning.” He spoke directly to Brenda, “It may help you with your, what should I say, predicament? With the former Mrs. O’Neill.”

  That certainly got Brenda’s attention. “Please, do tell.” She nervously pushed her unopened pack of cigarettes to the side and circled the rim of her stem glass with her finger as if drinking wine was sort of a playful ritual.

  Was she flirting with the cop? Part of me wanted to jump up and run across the driveway to the place I called home, but the more nosy part was winning, so I stayed put.

  “He was well aware of his allergies, since he carried an injection pen in his fanny pack at all times. And he used it. The M.E. saw the needle mark on his thigh. The used pen was at the end of the path to the back door to the kitchen, probably rolled there after he used it just outside the door. Unfortunately it didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t work?” Brenda’s fingers grabbed the edge of the coffee table and I could read her tension by the way she stiffened her torso.

  “The injection pen. Yes, I know, I questioned the results just as you're doing. Apparently it was way past its shelf life, expired sixteen months ago. And, according to the lab, O’Neill may not have been aware that in the desert, the heat can shorten the shelf life. O'Neill had eaten some of the almond cookies, surely not realizing nuts were in them, or not knowing that he was allergic to almonds. Anyway, all these details together contributed to his death. I hope this helps you sleep better.”

  Oh, yeah, he had the hots for Brenda, all right. Poor Clarke knew nothing about her twenty-year secret affair with a married scum bag. I’d had enough.

  “I’m tired,” I announced. “I’m going home, see you in the morning. Goodnight, Officer Clarke.”

  Dior must have taken my getting up from the couch as a signal for him to come into the room and check out our guest. I guess he made Officer Clarke nervous. He left after saying goodbye and smiling at Brenda, but not at me. Thank you Dior.

  Brenda took a long sip of wine. “Hopefully, the report will get us off the hook with the wife.”

  I told her the whole story of Tommy searching for something in her bedroom. “What is he looking for? Money?”

  She shook her head. “That idiot nephew of mine, we owe his last idiocy to O’Neill. Remember? Tommy was arrested for DUI? At some point weasel O’Neill must have found his name under B.L. for big loser and offered him a way to make easy money. Tommy left O’Neill's calling card on my coffee table, and not once, but twice, came over searching for the goods.”

  “The goods? What are you talking about?”

  “Letters, Monica. Plain old-fashioned letters. Way before the internet and computers. I told you about our exchanged love letters. That’s what O’Neill came looking for and then he must have recruited Tommy, convincing him the letters were worth a lot of money. What fools. The letters aren't even in the house. It no longer matters. She filed for divorce.”

  “She, as in the senator's wife? What’s going on? You look like you won the lottery.”

  “Better than that my dear, much better. We will finally be able to be together without having to hide.”

  “His wife found out and filed for divorce. Good for her. I’m sorry, you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. But she hasn't mentioned me in the divorce filing, otherwise we'd have reporters camped outside the front door.”

  “He called you and told you you’ll soon be together? That was nice of him, I’ll give him that.”

  Brenda fidgeted with her cigarettes. “I’m dying for a smoke. Let me walk you to your door. I don’t want to smoke in the house. Dior, you be a good boy, and mommy will be right back. I think you've had enough exercise for today.”

  She didn’t bother to put on her shoes. Brenda took my elbow and walked me out her back door. “I was doing a meet and greet at work, a new couple that just moved in. The woman was telling me how she was very much into gluten-free and all that, while the husband couldn’t care less. He fidgeted with a pad or tablet or something similar the whole time, listening to news websites. At some point I heard “Senator’s wife” and “divorce” and my man's last name. I have no clue what site the client was on, and I couldn’t find a thing on any internet service I’m familiar with . Very frustrat
ing.”

  She dropped her cigarette butt into an empty soda can she kept just for that, hidden near the pool. “I want to stay by the phone in case he calls me. All the years of feeling like a spare tire are finally going to be over. I’m so happy.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Good night, Monica.”

  I hugged her. “I’m so happy for you, Brenda. I still think he is a major scumbag.” Then I jumped back before she could slug me and I ran home laughing.

  That night I dreamed that Angelique filed for divorce from Tristan Dumont.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I OVERSLEPT, AND couldn’t find the will to get out of bed. My body ached in strange places, and when I checked my back in the mirror, I found bruises from the crash. I'd been tossed around the inside of the Land Rover like a rag-doll, so I wasn't surprised.

  By the time I got in my car, there was no sight of Brenda or Dior. They were probably jogging around the neighborhood to celebrate the happy changes coming her way. Good for her. She'd suffered a lot all these years, sneaking around, never knowing when she would be able to be with her love, always aware he would be going home to his wife. But all that would soon be forgotten and they would be officially a couple.

  I wanted to be happy for Brenda, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Her happiness would come at a high price. A marriage break-up, a family torn apart. I thought back to my own divorce. We had been married less than twenty months, and I had been unhappy at least fifteen of them. The decision was mutual.

  I drove slower than usual, listening to my voice-mail messages that had accumulated while my cell was dead. I dreaded getting to the office. Kassandra was bound to know about the incident with Max. I bet Tommy had a swollen lip. Plus, he was a master spinner. Who knew what version of the story he'd fed Kassandra.

  Ah, there was yesterday's message from Brenda about walking Dior. She must have called the office once she figured I wasn’t going to get her voice-mail.

  Then there was a message from Tristan Dumont. Tristan? “Hey Fiat, you just left my home and I know you won’t get this until you charge your cell. A monologue of sorts.” Soft laugh. “And if I close my eyes I can pretend to speak in the dark, remember? Fewer inhibitions. I enjoyed spending time with you, your presence made me forget my cast and my other aches. I would like to get to know you better. As a person. I already know you’re a terrific realtor. When I…. No, not now, sorry Fiat, the lawyers are here and Lois wants me to take my meds before we start the meeting. I'll call you later. Unless you call me first?”

  Mercy. Was he coming on to me? Tristan Dumont? Nah, he probably felt lonely and was medicated and tired. How medicated and tired? Stop it, Monica. Remember, a married man who is possibly, probably, certainly sleeping with Celine. Do you want to end up like Brenda? Wait, Brenda was about to get her man. Monica, stop fantasizing.

  I shut off the voice-mail recording and stopped my internal argument. My hands, my soul, every inch of my body trembled. This wasn’t right. His call was all I had been dreaming and wishing for against my better judgment.

  I parked my car in front of Desert Homes Realty and sat there for a while. The last thing I needed was to let any of this get out. Who knew what Celine would do to my car then? I laughed at the thought. I should delete the message, but I knew I couldn’t. It was the only recording I had of Tristan’s voice, and I was besotted by now. I gathered my things and entered the office.

  Surprise. Scott sat in Kassandra's seat. What? Her car was in the parking lot. Oh, wait. Of course. It had been there since yesterday. “Hi Scott. Where's Kassandra?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Sick. Boyfriend called it in. Hey, you have a shitload of messages. Don’t you have a phone?”

  I hoped he wouldn't talk to clients like that. “I do now. It was dead for a while, you know, the accident?”

  “Whatever. Anything coming in I’ll pass on to your line. Cool?”

  “Cool.”

  I headed for my cubicle. I glanced at the messages that Scott had handed me. None of the names or phone numbers looked familiar. I couldn’t shake the bad vibes I got from Kassandra’s absence. What if Tommy had taken his anger and frustration out on her? None of your business, Monica. You gave Kassandra plenty of warnings. She’s a big girl. Rationalization was no use. She was my friend. Of course it was my business. I reached out for the phone to call her.

  Kay interrupted me with a lightning visit to see if I needed help with anything. Such a nice person. I had to keep my mind on my job. Thinking about Kassandra and trying not to think about Tristan made the perfect combination for a king-sized headache. Time to return phone calls. I sat with a notepad and a pen by the phone, spread out the list, and called the first number.

  It was insane. I was a realtor, not a celebrity. All the callers had read about my accident while returning from showing properties to, what one woman quoted as, a “young millionaire entrepreneur Tristan Dumont.” Seriously? Perfect strangers were willing to entrust me with the sale of their home based on some newspaper article linking my name to Dumont?

  At first I thought it was some sort of joke. Sunny wasn’t at the office and neither was Kassandra, so I went to consult with Kay. She said that, apparently, it wasn’t so unusual, although she warned me that perhaps 60% would end up not going through with their requests. But, as she pointed out, the remaining 40% were a gift from above. Accept them and be thankful.

  All right then. I scheduled two listing presentations for the following week. Kay would go with me for the first one. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Brenda. Things were looking up for both of us.

  Sunny arrived after lunch in a happy mood. She walked around the office, talking, encouraging, and consulting with everyone. When she made it to my cubicle, she bent slightly so that her face was just above my head and whispered, “Wait a bit, then grab some papers and walk to my office. Make it look like you’re there to show me something.”

  She walked away before I had a chance to reply. What now? I did as she said, and once I closed her office door, she got down to business.

  “Sit down, Monica. I just want to share some good news with you, but since it’s not related to real estate, I figured it was better to keep a low profile about it in the office. There is enough gossip circulating this place as it is.”

  Why was she looking at me like that? Kassandra was the office gossip.

  “I’m sure you know about Billy’s estranged wife, widow, whatever, and her wrongful death suit against B&B Catering.”

  I nodded.

  “Cause of death was released this morning and it’s clear that there was negligence, but it was from O’Neill's side. The agency that employed him had a copy of the original work schedule, and it noted that he was assigned to the Allergy Alley table because of his stated allergies on his application form. Had he done his job, nothing would have happened. On top of that, the injected drug didn’t work because he'd let it expire. But it gets better. The fool, yes, he was a fool, a childless fool as far as I know, told the ex he was Celine’s father. Mrs. O’Neill is so eager to get her hands on his insurance, that if we agree in writing to not make any claims against the estate—and by we I mean Celine and myself, she will drop the wrongful death suit immediately, instead of dragging it out for whatever she could get. How about that?” She smiled broadly.

  My mouth reacted before my brain, “But O’Neill wasn’t Celine’s dad.”

  “Of course not.” She laughed. “And neither was Philippe Dumont, I already told you.” She changed the subject, “Monica, the Tucson deal will go through as soon as we know we have a clear title.”

  I nodded, but I had no clue what that entailed. “Are the Dumonts moving down to Tucson?” It was hard, but I managed to ask the question with a normal voice.

  “No, no, of course not. Oh, you don’t know. Silly me. They're going to turn the ranch into a horse sanctuary. You know, old horses, rescued horses. There are three partners, but most of the money comes from the Dumonts. After all, the foundation will be named
in honor of Philippe Dumont, Tristan’s dad.”

  I nodded and said nothing regarding people’s fatherhood. “Looks like this is turning out to be a great week for Aunt Brenda,” I said. I wondered how much Sunny knew.

  “Are you talking about the pending divorce?”

  I nodded. She knew everything. As usual, we named no names.

  Sunny’s expression wasn’t of joy, but skepticism. “I don’t trust anything pertaining to that man.”

  I took a good look at her. Who would have guessed it? We shared the same feelings.

  “Monica, according to the gossip rags, the wife is accusing him of infidelity. But if this had anything to do with Brenda, all those maggots would be crawling out of the woodwork to get her picture or an interview. Has she mentioned anything of the sort to you?”

  I shook my head. “She thinks it’s because he's doing all he can to protect her identity.”

  Sunny looked me in the eyes. “That scumbag? Nah. He only cares about himself.”

  Our conversation was ended by an incoming call.

  When I left the office later that afternoon, I noticed a tow truck hooking up Kassandra’s car. Wow. Where were they taking it? Maybe she was an AAA member and the car was being towed to a repair shop? Poor Kassandra. I had to reach out to her.

  My best intentions were not good enough. The moment I got home, the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. All the stress that had built up over the past weeks, together with the job responsibilities, and what the accident had done to me, had left me a wreck. I barely had the energy to knock on Brenda's back door, only to discover she and Dior were out and about together. Good. Together they couldn't get into any trouble.