Glazed Murder

by Jessica Beck

  After more inane conversation, much of which I didn’t participate in, Grace said, “I keep thinking about poor Patrick Blaine.”

  “From what I’ve heard, ‘poor’ is exactly the right word I’d use to describe him,” Gabby said. “I understand he was overextended on several fronts, if you follow me.”

  Grace nodded sagely, and I had to bite my tongue to not ask her how she’d heard anything about him, since twenty-four hours ago she hadn’t even known his name. It had to be the power of the grapevine at work. I was starting to see that Grace’s choice of first stops had been a wise one. Evidently Gabby had done a great deal of our legwork for us.

  Grace took a sip of tea, then she said, “Still, whenever a life leaves us, someone feels the sorrow. I wonder who his significant other might have been.”

  Gabby put her teacup down, and leaned forward, though there was no one in the shop but the three of us. She must have loved the conspiratorial edge to our conversation, because her eyes were absolutely gleaming. “His divorce was completed just last week, according to a friend of mine. I have it on very good authority that his ex-wife, Rita Blaine, wasn’t aware that it had already become final, and the woman tried to collect his life insurance before the body was even cold. Can you imagine how shocked she must have been? She’d been expecting a windfall, and instead, she gets nothing, the poor woman.” It was pretty clear that Gabby didn’t think Rita was a poor woman at all.

  “It’s tragic, isn’t it?” Grace added. “I wonder who does inherit the money?”

  “I haven’t heard that myself, but I’m willing to wager anything that Rita knows. Would you like more tea?”

  Grace put a hand over her cup. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid Suzanne has had a difficult day. I think I should get her home.”

  “I’m fine,” I insisted.

  “Nonsense,” Gabby replied. “With the discovery of the body yesterday, and the trauma you must be feeling from it, it’s amazing you even made it in today.”

  Grace was standing, and I felt her arm tugging at mine. “Let’s get you home, Suzanne.” The pressure of her grip on my arm was getting stronger, so I just nodded. Before we left, though, I turned to Gabby and asked, “How have you managed to learn so much about Patrick Blaine so quickly?”

  “Suzanne, in a county as small as ours, do you honestly think anything stays a secret for long? I understand he was a loyal customer of yours, which must make the shock to your system even worse. You need to go home and get some rest. You look like you could use it.” She hesitated, then added, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you might want to try a little concealer under your eyes. You mustn’t go around town looking like a raccoon, no matter how you feel.”

  “Thanks, I’ll get right on that,” I said as Grace dragged me outside.

  Back on the sidewalk, Grace said, “You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you?”

  I asked, “Aren’t you the least bit curious how she goes about collecting her information? How can any of it be accurate?”

  “I would imagine she has a pretty good set of sources, but even if she’s dead wrong about everything, she’s given us a good place to start. He never mentioned Rita to you, did he?”

  I shook my head. “No, our conversations were always light. That doesn’t mean he didn’t matter to me, though.”

  “I never thought so.”

  I headed for my Jeep, but Grace said, “Suzanne, I think it would be better if we took my car. Too many folks around here know what you drive, and if they see your car parked in front of your shop, they’ll think you’re still here.”

  “I’m not going home,” I said. “I don’t need to rest.”

  “That was just to get us out of there, you nit. If I hadn’t made up some kind of excuse, we’d be sitting there sipping tea till midnight. Come on, let’s go.”

  “I’m guessing we’re going to pay a visit to Rita Blaine so we can find out if what Gabby heard about the life insurance was true,” I said.

  She nodded her head in satisfaction. “That was my thought, unless you can think of something else we should be doing.”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  Grace frowned as we approached her car. “I’m just not sure I know how to get her to talk.”

  “You mean you’re not going to just charm the information out of her?”

  As Grace called information for Rita’s phone number and address, she said, “There’s just so much I can finesse my way through. You don’t have any ideas, do you?”

  My mind raced for some excuse we could use to get Rita to talk. I’d almost given up when I saw a newspaper vending machine on the corner.

  “I’ve got it,” I told Grace as she hung up her phone.

  “Okay, I’m listening. What’s your idea?”

  “We’re going to pretend to be freelancers writing an article for the Charlotte Observer. If Rita thinks she’s going to be in the newspaper, I’m willing to bet that she’ll tell us things she wouldn’t ordinarily admit to a pair of strangers.”

  Grace smiled softly. “That’s a Nancy Drew idea if I’ve ever heard one.”

  I looked at her. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m applauding. That’s brilliant. Now here’s what we’ll do.”

  By the time we got to Rita’s house, we were ready with our act. Grace dug a couple of notebooks out of her trunk, a space that was always a cornucopia of office supplies, since she traveled so much.

  But when we got to Rita Blaine’s address, the front door was standing wide open, and I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that we were too late.

  EASY FRIED APPLE PIES

  These are some of the easiest things in the world to make, and they are absolutely delicious. Even if you’re a seasoned cook, sometimes a shortcut is still a good thing. Try them, they’re worth it!

  INGREDIENTS

  Precooked apples, 8 oz., from the can

  1 tablespoon sugar

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1 ready-made pie crust

  DIRECTIONS

  Warm the apples on the stovetop over low heat, adding the sugar and cinnamon and mixing it well, then take the pan off the heat to cool a little. Unroll the pie crust onto the countertop. Flour the rim of a bowl or glass and cut circles out of the dough by pressing down and twisting. I usually make four fried pies out of one crust. Place a small amount of apple in the center of each circle, then wet the edges of the dough all the way around. Fold the dough over in half, and pinch the edges together, sealing in the apple. The shape will look something like a curved half-moon.

  Drop the pies into 375 degree oil, and give them three to four minutes on each side before turning them with skewers. The crusts will puff out a little along the edges, and they will get golden, with maybe a little brown as well. These usually take about eight minutes to cook, but the time can vary. Don’t be afraid to leave them in a little longer than you would normally fry something. Pull them from the oil, dust them with powdered sugar, and they’re ready to eat.

  Makes 4 pies.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Should we just go on in?” I asked. “Or should we call the police?”

  “Why on earth would we do that?” Grace asked.

  “I’ve got a feeling that something’s wrong.”

  “Nonsense,” Grace said as she brushed past me and went inside. “Hello? Is anyone here? Hello?”

  I followed her, albeit reluctantly. What would Chief Martin say if I found another body, so soon after the last one? Was that a conversation I really wanted to have, or an experience I needed to endure? The image of Patrick Blaine’s body on the asphalt in front of my shop was still so vivid in my mind that if I closed my eyes, I knew I would see it.

  “Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked, coming from the bedroom.

  “We’re with the Observer,” Grace said.

  An older woman wearing a stained blue blouse and Capri pants came out. Her hair, its original color long forgotten,
was frosted platinum blonde, and from the state of her makeup and the unsteady way she walked, it was clear she’d been drinking heavily. Okay, two empty bottles of vodka on the coffee table helped me reach that conclusion, as well.

  “Don’t need a paper,” she said. “I’ve already got one. What I need is a drink.”

  She stared at the empties with an accusatory glare. “Did you kill that bottle while I was in the bedroom?”

  “We just got here,” Grace said.

  I pointed to a tumbler half full on the fireplace mantel. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  She spotted the glass, held it to her lips, and drank the entire contents in three straight swallows. “That’s what I needed, something to take the edge off.”

  Rita noticed us again after she removed her rapt attention from the alcohol. “Like I said, I already subscribe.”

  “We’re not here to drum up business,” I said. “We’re writers working for the paper, and our editor thinks your story is one worth telling.”

  She frowned, as if the focus cost her something. “What story?”

  Grace jumped in. “How you lost your husband so soon after the divorce was finalized.”

  “He rammed it through, the horse’s hind end,” she said. “It wasn’t supposed to be done until next week. That money’s rightfully mine.”

  “What money is that?” I asked softly.

  “The insuranche, insurance,” she said, the vodka starting to take hold.

  “Was it a lot?”

  “That depends. Do you call a million bucks a lot?” She looked around her shabby living room. “I do. And now that cupcake gets it. She gets all the icing. It’s just not fair. He cheated me on my alimony, and then he did it again with his insurance. All because of that woman.” I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying, but Rita had an emotional jag that lasted nearly a minute before she collected herself.

  “She should be exposed,” Grace said. “What’s her name?”

  Rita pointed her empty glass at us. “Deb. Deb Jenkins. The tramp. She lives in Union Square.”

  I asked, “How long had your ex-husband been seeing her?”

  Rita snapped, “Let me put it this way. He wasn’t my ex when she took up with him. Now she’s got my money, and all I’ve got is this.” She looked around the room, then the glass tumbled from her grip onto the carpet.

  “I need a drink,” she said.

  Rita started digging through the cabinets, and I put a hand on Grace’s arm. “Let’s go,” I said softly.

  After hearing a string of curse words, directed at bottles that somehow had managed to empty themselves, Grace nodded her agreement.

  I closed the door behind us, setting the lock as we went. At least Rita would be left alone with her bender, unless she chose to open the door again herself.

  Once we were in Grace’s car, I said, “I feel sorry for her.”

  “She brought it on herself,” Grace said. Her father had been an alcoholic, and I knew there were still wounded spots in Grace’s heart from it.

  It was no time to get into a philosophical debate about the perils and causes of alcohol abuse. “At least we’ve got a new lead. Let’s go find Deb Jenkins and find out her side of the story.”

  Grace got a new address, and as we drove there, I said, “You know, we’ve got to add Rita Blaine to our list of suspects.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “By her own admission, she didn’t know the divorce was final when he died. She might have been trying to get her hands on that insurance while she still thought she was entitled to it. I wonder if Chief Martin has spoken to her yet.”

  “Let’s call in an anonymous tip,” Grace said. “I’d love to hear him interview her.”

  “Not even I’m that cruel,” I said. “Why don’t we leave her alone, at least for now? I have to admit, I’m dying to hear Deb Jenkins’s take on things.”

  Grace parked in front of a condo, then asked me, “Are we still newspaper reporters?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s worked okay so far.”

  Grace frowned. “We didn’t even need a cover for Rita Blaine.”

  “No, but I’ve got a feeling we’re not going to be so lucky with Deb Jenkins.”

  “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

  Grace got out of the car, and I followed her lead. Hopefully, Patrick Blaine’s girlfriend might be able to shed light, where the ex wife had failed.

  Before we had the chance to walk up the steps to Deb Jenkins’s house, my cell phone rang.

  “Don’t answer that,” Grace said. “We’re doing something important here.”

  “How do you know this isn’t?” I flipped the phone up and saw that the caller was restricted. Who on earth could be calling me from a blocked phone?

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you home?”

  “Hi, Momma. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had to check in with you after work. When did you start blocking your caller ID?”

  I shrugged as I looked at Grace, who tapped her watch.

  “Don’t get an attitude with me, young lady. You know I’m concerned about your welfare.”

  “My welfare’s just fine,” I said. “Is that all you wanted? I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

  “What are you doing, Suzanne? Are you taking unnecessary chances with your life?”

  “How would I know if it is necessary or not? I’m with Grace. Would you like to speak with her to be sure I’m all right?”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to do.”

  I handed the phone to my friend. After she put her hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece, she asked, “What? Why are you giving it to me?”

  “She wants to talk to you,” I said.

  As Grace said hello, walking a few paces away, I saw a curtain flutter at the house. Someone was watching our comedy routine from the second floor. What must Deb Jenkins be thinking? Maybe it was a good thing Momma had called. It might give our next interviewee a chance to think about why we were there, and if that kept her off balance, it might be just as effective as alcohol had been for Rita Blaine.

  After a full minute, Grace handed the phone back to me. I was surprised to find that my mother was no longer on the line.

  “What did she want with you?” I asked.

  “I had to promise to keep you out of trouble,” Grace admitted reluctantly.

  I laughed, in spite of the humiliation of what she’d promised. “Good luck with that. Let me know how you do.”

  “I didn’t know what else to say. Your mother is a force of nature sometimes, isn’t she?”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I said as I put my phone back in my purse.

  I looked back at the house, but the curtain had returned to its closed position. “Someone’s been watching us from inside.”

  Of course Grace looked at the house. “I don’t see anyone there.”

  “That’s because you spooked her. Let’s go have a chat with Ms. Jenkins and see what she has to say.”

  Deb Jenkins opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. She wasn’t anything like I’d expected the “other woman” to look like. Deb had mousy brown hair and wore no makeup that I could detect. I couldn’t really see her body, since it was hidden by a bulky sweater, but I had to admit, I was beginning to wonder what Patrick Blaine had seen in her that he liked enough to leave his wife. Maybe she was a sweetheart, or had a bubbly personality that belied her appearance.

  “What do you two want?” she snapped.

  So much for that theory.

  “We’re from the Observer,” I said, “and we’d like to include you in an upcoming article we’re working on.”

  “Is it about my moth collection? I wrote your editors several times, but I’ve been amazed by their lack of interest.”

  “Absolutely,” Grace said. “That’s why we’re here. Could we possibly see it?”

  “Come in,” she said, the chang
e in her personality striking. “Where’s the photographer? I told them in my letters that the article won’t be anything without photographic evidence. My collection would be rather difficult to describe in print.”

  “He’s coming,” I said, “but he was held up at a wreck.”

  “So that’s who you were talking to out on the walk.”

  I said, “We’re sorry for the delay, but perhaps you could show us your work while we wait. That way we can finish the interview before he arrives.”

  “That would be fine,” she said. We followed her through an ordinary enough home, filled with frilly pillows and framed needlepoint works hanging from the walls.

  “It’s in here,” she said, as she led us into what had to be a spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  Grace and I followed her in, and I immediately started wishing we had an exit strategy, despite why we’d come. In place of needlepoint, the walls were covered with framed display boxes featuring the wildest array of dead moths I’d ever seen in my life. Each specimen was carefully labeled, and there were tables filled with displays, as well. I’ve never been that big a fan of moths in the past, but my heart went out to them when I saw this torture chamber dedicated to their demise.

  “It’s really something,” I said, searching for anything that would hide my disgust.

  Grace seemed fascinated by the displays. “What drew you to moths? There has to be a flame somewhere in your life.”

  The reference zipped right over her head. “I began my collection when I was nine, and it just seemed to grow and grow. Moths are lovely, and they need to be protected from man’s devastation and development. Their lives are too fragile.”

  Especially with her on the loose. The main thing they needed to be protected from appeared to be Deb Jenkins.

  “I’m curious,” Grace said. “Does your husband share your love of moths with you?”

  “I’m not married,” she said curtly.

  “Your boyfriend, then,” Grace pushed.

  “What does my love life have to do with your article? It should be about my moths, not my life.”