by Lynn Cooper
He leans his sweet, furry cheek into my palm as if to say he’ll think about it. But we all have our little ways of dealing with miserable situations, don’t we?
THANK GOODNESS, THE MEAL is done. My four-year-old niece Brandy and my six-year-old nephew Brad ask together in one sickeningly-sweet voice to be excused. It’s like they’re a couple of sappy Von Trapp kids in The Sound of Music or something.
I push back from the table, already on the verge of tossing what little food I’ve been able to force down. I’ve managed to swallow just enough soggy, flavorless roast and potatoes au rotten that taste like clabbered milk to hopefully not offend Mom.
I needn’t have worried. Like everything else, she never has a clue about what’s really going on around her.
“Oh, I see,” she says, trying to wink at me without Roger or Cynthia seeing her. “You’re watching your portions. Good for you.”
“I take it Daddy’s still out on the road.” He’s a pharmaceutical salesman.
“He called to say he’ll be gone another couple of days,” Mom replies. “Since he’s that far north, his boss wants him to go on up the seaboard and call on a few customers.”
Roger, a dentist and the best one in town if his own opinion carries any weight, carefully folds his napkin and places it beside his plate. “Fine feed, Eileen. Kudos on the broccoli casserole.”
That side dish—I have to imagine this one—tasted like charred cauliflower.
Cynthia puts her hand on his arm and beams at him. “He’s just too sweet, isn’t he, Madeline? I’ll get the coffee. Go ahead, Roger. Tell her your theory. It’s absolutely brilliant.”
“Theory about what?”
Trying unsuccessfully to balance an air of superiority with a touch of modesty, Roger cocks back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other (I never thought that was a good look for a man) and interlocking his fingers around it. At five-nine, he’s thin and has short, brown hair plastered down. He is always, always clean-shaven. His preferred attire is some variation on a golf shirt, pleated navy slacks and spit-shined black wingtips. Mom has told me more than once he pays twenty-five dollars for one pair of socks.
He crinkles his gray eyes and flares his lips so we can all see his overly-whitened smile. He thinks he’s handsome, but his twisty expression reminds me of someone going through the Have-I-had-a-stroke? steps. “About Bluff Burrows being murdered,” he explains.
“Oh? And why do you think he was?”
He tilts his head to the side. “My particular talent is making teeth beautiful so the people of this town can live their best life—not solving crimes. But it’s apparent to me, if you drill it down to the root, Bluff died because of money.”
“Is that right? Well, that’s real insightful, Sherlock—choosing love of money as the motive. Have you always been the King of Obvious, or were you just crowned?”
Of course, I don’t actually say this. But, I think the snarky comeback so loud I’m sure he must have heard it. As the words come barreling toward my lips like a jail break, I have to clench my jaw muscles to keep them in. I know better than to give voice to them.
Early on in their marriage, I made the mistake of calling Roger out on one of the many inane things he spouts in his cocky, superior tone. It’s something he does because, like most people, he wrongly equates wealth with intelligence.
Cynthia didn’t speak to me for weeks.
I love my baby sister, and it kills me when we’re on the outs. So, I’ve learned to curb and bite my tongue when her husband gets in that hoity-toity tone. It’s no skin off my nose and well worth the price of family harmony.
However, it doesn’t keep me from utilizing sarcasm, which nobody in this house except me seems to recognize. Patting my lips, I nod thoughtfully. “Money, huh? Interesting. Can you be a tad more specific?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I shake my head and shrug. “Not to me. I’m just a girl who does crafts.”
“Well, as you may or may not know, ‘Bluff’ was a nickname. His real name was Stafford. ‘Bluff’ comes from his style of poker playing.” His voice settles into that annoying Let-me-teach-you-something tone. “A bluff, Madeline, is when you try to make your opponents believe you have a good hand when, in reality, you don’t.”
“Ahh,” I say. “So, you think—”
“Bluff bluffed someone out of a huge pot. That person got pissed and—” He spreads his hands as if no further explanation is necessary.
Cynthia returns through the swinging door from the kitchen with coffee cups on a tray and a porcelain carafe. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she gushes, filling the cups and passing them around. “So, Madeline? Will you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Tell your detective friend Roger’s theory. It’s so devilishly clever, it’s bound to lead him right to the killer.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say Detective Worthy and I are friends exactly—”
“Oh, I know, you’re much more than that. I could tell when I saw you two sitting together at the Gandalon trial. His face just lit up every time he glanced in your direction.”
“Oh, I think that’s just his natural blush,” Mom says. “Fair-skinned men pink up at the least little thing.”
Bless her heart, she’s always been my biggest cheerleader.
Cynthia continues to stare at me expectantly, her soft, robin’s-blue eyes pleading for me to enlighten Zeke with Roger’s blanket theory. She really is her husband’s biggest cheerleader, and isn’t that the way it should be? It’s a small thing, really, and I’ve always had a hard time refusing her anything.
I have good reason to, simply on the basis she’s gorgeous. She has an absolute mane of golden-blonde hair. Her teeth were perfect long before Dr. Bridges and Caps ever stuck a dental instrument in her mouth. As if all those physical attributes are not enough, she’s slender where I’m—ahem—zaftig (lovely word for full-figured).
Okay, it’s true she and the whole Poole brood eat more lettuce than a warren of rabbits. Any kind of sweets is strictly forbidden. Roger’s one of those fanatics who gives out dental floss instead of Milky Ways on Halloween. Then, Columbo wonders why the kids toilet paper his house and egg his Lexus.
But Cynthia wasn’t always a health nut. She was still downing Big Mac combos with double-chocolate shakes and super-sizing the fries well past her eighteenth birthday. Then as now, she never gains an ounce.
So, if ever one sister had cause to hate the other on principle alone, it’s me. But that’s just not the case. I adore her. She’s funny and smart, even if her overzealous worship of Roger makes me want to puke sometimes. Cynthia has never once casually mentioned some diet or slipped a workout DVD into my mailbox. Like my relationship with Luisa, ours is a judgement-free zone. Baby Sis and I accept each other just as we are and move on.
While I generally wouldn’t use words like brilliant and devilishly clever anywhere within ten miles of my brother-in-law, for once I tend to agree with Roger. I, too, believe money was the motive for Bluff’s killer.
However, at first blush, I don’t think he was murdered because he ran somebody with a full house out of a poker game with a pair of threes.
My phone rings. Pulling it out of my jeans, I start to brightly say, “The Crafty Little Sew and Sew Store, how may I help you?” My business phone and my personal phone are one and the same. But, my pulse elevates a smidge when I see it’s Zeke Worthy.
“Detective, this is a surprise.” A nice one, but Mr. Condescension’s not going to hear that. “What’s up?”
Giddily—which is the way she does everything—Cynthia grabs my arm. “Tell him, tell him, tell him!”
“Tell me what?” Zeke asks.
“Oh, my, uh, brother-in-law, Roger Poole, has a theory on Bluff’s murder. He believes it had to do with money.”
Zeke snorts. “Tell Sherlock Holmes thanks, but it was a crime of passion. You can also tell him I’ve got our killer in custody—Mrs. Yvonne Ellsworth, manager and head
salesperson at Missy’s Buxom Boutique.”
I’m in the midst of frowning when Cynthia slaps furiously at my arms. “What did he say? What did he say?”
“He says terrific, thanks a lot and he’ll get to work on that angle right away.”
When Cynthia squeals, jumps into Roger’s lap and starts smooching him like they’re a couple of junior high kids, I escape to the dining room down the hall. “So, Detective, you’ve arrested Mrs. Ellsworth?”
“We’re in the process. I took another run at her after you told me she asked why somebody would kill Bluff. It’s the sort of question you’d ask if you knew the deceased or had some personal connection. She told me earlier she didn’t. She lied. I’ll tell you something else I found out—”
“She and Bluff had an affair.”
“How the devil did you know that?”
“Along with asking such an odd question when she saw his body, Yvonne was nervously spinning her wedding rings around. She was evidently feeling guilty about stepping out on her husband.”
“Or she was nervous about killing Bluff to keep him from blabbing to her husband about her infidelity.”
“Maybe. But do you think she was physically able to kill him, Detective?”
“What are you talking about?”
“On her right wrist, she’s wearing an Ace bandage. I caught a line of stitches peeking out from under it. She’s had some sort of wrist surgery recently. Probably an old tennis injury that caught up with her. You can tell from her tan and those toned legs she stays out in the sun and is athletic. But, it’s doubtful she could lift her own spirits much less heft a man six inches up onto a hook.”
“Doubtful but possible. Bluff wasn’t exactly The Hulk. Five-six, a hundred-forty-two pounds, and that’s if he still had his money clip in his pocket. Don’t forget the shot of adrenaline that comes in moments of dire stress or anxiety. And I’m not ruling out the possibility the lady had an accomplice either.”
“You said the medical examiner had something new for you.”
“He did. But first, Perk wanted me to be sure to say hello to you from him. Hello.”
“Hello. What did he say about the case?”
“He’s revised his theory that is was a cardiac incident. He says Bluff died of asphyxiation.”
Finally, a kernel of common sense from the M.E. “Dare I ask how he thinks it happened?”
“Perk says he strangled when his shirt collar, which was buttoned to the top, caught on the hook.”
“But, it wasn’t buttoned to the top. The button’s missing.”
“Yeah, I know. Perk says it popped off while he was strangling.”
“Did the forensics guy find it?”
“Nope. Anyway,” Zeke continues in a weary voice, “it looks like we’re back to Square One. Get this: the security cameras—”
“Weren’t working. The power outage which occurred right when the mall was supposed to open knocked them out.”
There is a sudden, extended silence on Zeke’s end of the line. “Perhaps, Miss Shore, you should have called me.”
“No time. Too busy sewing.”
He gives a snarky laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. I guess I deserve that. Maybe you’ll let me make it up to you by—” His voice trails off.
“‘Buying you dinner, Miss Shore?’ Why, Detective Worthy, you know good and well the law can’t fraternize with a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”
His deep voice rising, he bites out, “You’re not—” I hear him composing himself. “You’re not a suspect,” he says softly.
His bass voice buckles my knees. It’s graveled and sensual, comforting and arousing all at once. I feel a sudden compulsion to share with him the hunch I corroborated at Krusty-Creamed Doughnuts. To tell him everything I know about the case. To tell him everything that’s ever happened to me since the day I was born.
Calm down, I tell myself. You’ve got him off-guard, so take the opportunity to do a little fishing. “Even so, I’m not sure I ought to have dinner with a man who’s got a tan line where his own wedding band used to be,” I say, literally holding my breath.
Not biting, he replies, “I’d better go ahead and cut Mrs. Ellsworth loose for the time being. You have a good evening, Miss Shore.”
A sigh escapes my lips as I put my phone back in my jeans pocket. In the dining room, Cyn is still sitting in Roger’s lap, her head on his shoulder as they talk quietly about whatever it is married people talk about. I can’t help but think how nice it will be someday when I have that special someone—a man I think is brilliant and devilishly clever to be a cheerleader for.
But I’m in no all-fired hurry to get there. I love my life just the way it is right now.
My mother walks down the hall toward me in the slow, shuffling walk of someone beset by arthritis, which she doesn’t have. She and Cynthia share the slender-frame gene although Mom would be taller than either of us if she held the bony shoulders of her five-seven frame up straight. At forty-five, she continuously colors her brunette hair to keep the gray strands under control. Ever since I can remember, she’s had dark, baggy circles under her beady, hazel eyes (which may have subconsciously inspired my line of raccoon crafts). I’ve always wondered why she’ll color her hair on a regular basis, but she won’t wear a little makeup to mask the bags under her eyes.
An hour later, she sidles up beside me. “Everything okay, baby?”
“Everything’s wonderful. Supper was delicious, Mom.”
She follows my gaze back to Roger and Cyn. “They are just so happy. Did you know she’s pregnant again?”
“Say what?” I whisper hoarsely.
“She probably hasn’t told you because she didn’t want to make you feel bad. You know—‘cause you don’t have any children.”
Here’s where their genes differ—Cynthia doesn’t go out of her way to hurt my feelings.
As if on cue, I hear blood-curdling screams coming from outside the living room window. I chuckle when I see my niece and nephew running for their very lives. Bear is bounding after them, his little tongue wagging, his tail and his ears perked high. They are truly terrified, but he’s just having the best time.
“Sure I do,” I tell her. “But my baby didn’t just trample all over your beautiful bed of tulips.”
Seeing the carnage, Mom shuts her eyes as if she’s getting one of her migraines. “Cynthia! Roger! Front yard, now!”
Although they have thrice as far to go, they reach the front door slightly before Mom does. As soon as Cynthia opens it, Bear scurries in past them, bounding and smiling his way to me. Leaning down, Roger opens his mouth to say something to him; but, he sees me and thinks better of it. Smart man.
“Hey, Rog, any brilliantly-clever theories on who might have destroyed Mom’s pride and joy?”
No, I don’t say it out loud. But, as Bear jumps up into my arms and licks my face, I think it would be a whole lot of fun if I could.
Chapter Seven
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THE next morning, someone jerks on the front-door handle of the shop, causing the chimes to jingle loudly. Fuzzy-headed and blinking, Bear and I look at each other, wondering what kind of unthinking cretin would disturb our sleep at such a cruel hour.
Luisa doesn’t usually come for coffee until eight. The stenciled door sign clearly says we don’t open until nine.
I’m a bit worn-out, but in a good way. Yesterday was jam-packed with trips to the mall, the mayor’s office and my mother’s house. After hanging around to enjoy the aftermath of The Great Tulip Fiasco—Brad and Brandy were sentenced to (gasp!) half an hour in the Now You Just Think About What You’ve Done Chair—Bear and I got home about eight thirty. I sewed elephants with gigantic pom-pom tails in-between serving three late-hour customers. It was the perfect end to an emotionally-turbulent day.
In other words, life. I finally got to bed around ten.
I pull on my plush, pink, terry-cloth robe over my pink, polka-dot pajamas, jam my tootsies into my fluffy-p
ink bedroom slippers and head down the stairs with Bear eagerly on my heels. Unlike most people, I never jump to the default assumption unexpected visitors at an ungodly hour means bad news. I’m an optimist. I’d rather believe it’s those Publisher’s Clearing House people holding balloons and my first giant check of seven-thousand dollars a week for life.
Because whoever it is just startled me out of a sweet dream about Zeke Worthy. I hope it’s him at my door. For a split second, I consider running back up the stairs and dolling up. Chuck that. If we ever get married, he’s going to be seeing this particular look a lot. Better he gets used to it now so it won’t be such a shock to his system.
I’m almost to the step where I can bend down and see the front door. Instead of rehearsing a spiel of four-letter words—always my go-to impulse—I put on my most cheerful expression. This is a business, and businesses need customers. Just like Todd’s boss at Krusty-Creamed Doughtnuts said, “The customer is always right.”
Even if they show up at the crack of dawn.
It’s not Zeke, and I don’t see any balloons. I won’t say it’s the last person I expected to see. Maybe second to last.
Hurrying to the door, I turn the regular lock, then the deadbolt. “Mrs. Ellsworth, good morning. Won’t you come in?”
She’s dressed much more informally than she was at Missy’s. The Halston skirt has been replaced by a red turtleneck, black jeans and knee-boots. “Here’s your paper,” she says, holding it out. “It was on the welcome mat. I’m so sorry for waking you this early. I just didn’t know who else to turn to.”
Not at all. Could I interest you in a cup of coffee and an octopus doll with Groucho glasses? “Nonsense. I’m always up at least by sixty-fifty-nine.”
My Mr. Coffee is on a timer and has already brewed a pot. I bring us both a cup, and we sit at my crafting table in pink, padded chairs. Bear takes his place on the oval rug directly under it. I take a sip of my coffee and feel my brain start to unfog. “Now,” I say, “why do you feel you have to turn to anyone?”