The Saucy Lucy Murders

by Cindy Keen Reynders

  Eva made a time out sign with her hands. “TMI, Mom. Too much info.”

  “You asked.”

  “OK, so he doesn’t turn you on. But you’re obviously a hottie. Consider yourself lucky that at your age you’ve still got it.”

  “At my age?” Lexie stared at her daughter.

  Eva shrugged. “I just mean that you should be grateful. If you’d been a real hag or something he wouldn’t have asked you out.”

  “Wow. I’m comforted.” Hiccough, hiccough. Lexie stretched her legs out on the wicker coffee table. She sucked in her breath and held it, then forced burps. OK, so she sounded like a garbage disposal with a paperclip in crosswise, but this was a guaranteed hiccough killer.

  “You know,” Eva popped her gum again. “I heard you have to date a hundred men before you find the right one.”

  Lexie stopped burping. She suddenly did not feel well. “A hundred men? I’d rather have a hundred root canals, thank you.”

  Lexie tossed and turned all night. By morning she was tired and stiff. When 5 a.m. rolled around, sleep was not an option. She decided the garden therapy must have taken its toll and she made mental note not to go at it with such gusto on Sunday. She did, after all, need to take into account her advanced years, as her daughter so kindly reminded her.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” she said to Eva as she shuffled into the kitchen, surprised to see her at the kitchen table hitting the books at this unholy hour of the morning. She headed for the coffee pot that was set on a timer. A rich hazelnut brew called to her, the aroma tickling her nostrils. “You’re up way early.”

  “Morning,” Eva mumbled around a mouthful of fruit loops, then swallowed. “I need to get ten chapters of this history book read by Monday or I’m dead.”

  “We wouldn’t have been procrastinating, would we?”

  “I got busy.” Eva glared at her book.

  Lexie imagined the busy part had something to do with dorm parties and such. “You need anything for your room? Junk food? Sheets? Stuffed animals? Voodoo dolls?”

  “Nope.”

  Ahhh. She hadn’t even caught the joke. “How about your roommate? Is she working out?”

  Eva shrugged, her gaze plastered to the textbook. “OK, I guess.”

  Lexie poured herself a cup of coffee. Leaning back against the counter sipping the hot brew, she began to go over her to-do list for the day. Then it hit her.

  I left my purse at Captain Caveman’s place.

  Crapola, she’d completely forgotten about it. Growling with frustration, she told Eva she’d be right back, ran upstairs and dressed, then drove over to his pumpkin-colored cottage.

  As she approached, she wondered why Tiny wasn’t barking his fat head off. She checked the bushes and spotted the dogless chain on the ground. He must have run off again. She knocked on the ripped screen door. No answer. Ru roh. Whitehead was probably still in bed. He’d think she was nuts for coming over so early. Oh, well, too bad. She really needed her purse.

  The front door was ajar. Stepping inside, Lexie spotted her purse sitting beside the coffee table. All righty then. I’ll just slip in real quiet like, get what I need and beeline outta here.

  Feeling like a thief and sweating like a pig, Lexie tiptoed inside and snatched her purse. But as she turned to go, her eye caught something in the kitchen that froze her legs in place like pretzels in plaster castings. Her heart flip-flopped and started to play the tango.

  In the middle of the floor, Whitehead lay in a pool of blood.

  CHAPTER 2

  LEXIE REELED BACKWARD AND LEANED AGAINST the wall for support. Unwelcome memories of her last date with Hugh Glenwood flashed through her mind. One minute they’d been laughing in the crisp winter woods, his snowmobile slicing through the trails while she rode on the seat behind, clinging to his waist. The next, he’d fallen sideways, tipping them over onto the cold ground.

  She remembered screaming, then blood on snow … crimson soaking into white.

  With a sudden jolt, she was back in the present. A small voice told her to do something, call someone for help. An ambulance?

  Lexie had no medical training, but from the looks of Whitehead, he was no doubt beyond any paramedics’ ability to resuscitate. His hairy skin had a bluish tinge and his lips were set in a silent scream. The front of his shirt was ripped and covered in blood.

  Unable to stomach the sight any longer, she turned away, fumbling for her cell phone in a jacket pocket. She dialed 911 with trembling fingers. Struggling with a bout of hiccoughs, she told the operator how she had found Whitehead and gave her the address.

  “I don’t … I don’t think he’s alive,” she told the operator in a thin, trembling voice, her hiccoughs escalating.

  The operator promised to dispatch an ambulance from Westonville Medical Center and told Lexie to stay at the scene.

  Lexie did not want to look at him again, so she stumbled into the front room and sat stiffly on his black vinyl couch. She wrapped her arms around herself to try and quell her shaking, then her nose began to twitch. Lord, it smelled in here. Henry had an even stranger odor than before. But of course, that was to be expected. He had an excuse to smell now.

  How crude. Lexie mentally kicked herself for having such wicked thoughts of the recently departed.

  Lexie managed to dial one more number on her cell phone. Moose Creek Junction’s sheriff, Otis Parnell. He was pretty incompetent, but he was Lucy’s husband, and he wore the badge. Also, he was the only law around for miles.

  “Hello?” Lucy answered groggily.

  Lexie hiccoughed. “Lucy?”

  “Well, it’s sure not the Avon lady at …” She must have glanced at the clock. “Six a.m.? Gracious, we’re still in bed!”

  “Something t-terrible has happened.” Lexie hiccoughed.

  “Lexie? What’s wrong? You sound like a chipmunk on steroids.”

  “Otis needs to come over to Henry Whitehead’s place immediately. I think … I think somebody murdered him.”

  “Lord have mercy.” Silence thrummed on the cell for a second and Lexie heard her sister say something to her husband, then she heard Otis’s corresponding grunt and a string of gruff expletives. “He’ll be right over,” Lucy told her.

  Lexie flipped the cell phone closed and slipped it back into her pocket, numbness seeping into her limbs. Even her toes had gone numb and her mind reeled with disbelief.

  Who killed Henry Whitehead? And why?

  The man might have been a creep, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Lexie’s hiccoughing got worse and she held her breath. It seemed inappropriate to do the burping backward thing with a corpse in the next room, so she held off.

  As Eva would say, this whole thing was so not good. Lexie was probably the last person who had seen Whitehead alive, besides his murderer, and Otis would rip her apart. Just thinking about it made hiccoughs ricochet through her diaphragm with a vengeance.

  Suddenly, there was noise on the front porch and Lexie nearly jumped through the roof.

  “Get your lazy butt up and answer the door, Henry,” a female voice called through the open screen. “I thought you was gonna pick up the kids this morning!”

  Whitehead’s ex-wife, Violet, Lexie thought. Maybe she’d off’d him last night after Lexie left. She seemed resentful enough toward him, so she had the motive. But why would she show up on his doorstep this morning after she’d murdered him last night? Maybe to throw off suspicion? And what would she do if she found Lexie here?

  Stop being paranoid, Lexie told herself, remembering Lucy always complained she had a wild imagination. What did she know? She was no Sherlock Holmes.

  She walked toward the screen door, immediately recognizing Violet standing on the porch in a gray sweat suit and running shoes. The heavyset brunette gave her a she-devil look, just like the one at the picnic. She was indeed creepy, as Whitehead had said.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on? Where’s Henry?” Violet scowled. “Oh, I recognize you. You�
�re one of Henry’s new floozies, ain’t ya?”

  Lexie’s face flushed with embarrassment. “This isn’t what it seems.”

  “Geez, I knew Henry was a sleaze ball, but couldn’t he at least lay off the broads long enough to pick up his kids like he promised? Crud. He was supposed to be over to my place a half hour ago.” Violet heaved herself inside.

  “I don’t think you should be here,” Lexie said. “There’s been an … incident.”

  “Sure, and I’m the queen of Sheba.” Violet shoved her hands on her hips. “Hey, Henry Horatio Whitehead,” she hollered. “Get your butt-skee out here.” She smirked at Lexie. “He hates when I call him that.”

  Lexie noticed Violet’s chipped front tooth and her dirty fingernails. As unpleasant as Violet was, and as much as she seemed to dislike her ex, Lexie still figured she would not want to see him laid out on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. She was the mother of his children, after all.

  “He can’t,” Lexie said.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Come out here. Like I said, there’s been an incident.”

  “Oh, I got it.” Violet tossed her dark head. “You two had a hot and heavy night so he’s sacked out cold in bed. Far be it from me to disturb his lordship. So do me a favor, toots, and go get the jerk for me.”

  The wail of a siren sliced through the air and Lexie decided there was no point in trying to spare Violet Whitehead any longer. She pointed into the kitchen. “Go get him yourself. He’s in there.”

  Swearing like a sailor, Violet stomped into the kitchen, complaining about the filthy stench. Suddenly she fell silent, then stumbled back into the front room, her face drained of all color. “I knew he was a son of a bitch, but why’d you go and kill him?”

  Lexie hugged herself and shivered. “I didn’t. I found him like that.”

  “God damn.” Violet shook her shaggy dark head. “I always told the butthead he’d better watch out where he poked his pecker or some pissed-off husband was going to fix his bucket.” She blinked several times, made a gagging sound, and ran outside.

  Lexie heard her dousing the bushes with her breakfast.

  After what seemed like a million years, the ambulance from Westonville arrived and the paramedics hustled over to have a look at Whitehead. As they hovered above him with their medical equipment, Lexie slipped outside. The sunlight was a welcome relief and she breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.

  She sidestepped past poor Violet, who was sitting on the edge of a brick planter chewing her nails and crying, and went out to sit in her truck. Swallowing over and over, she finally banished her hiccoughs. Then she glanced around, noticing that several of the neighbors were up and staring out their windows or standing on their front porches rubbernecking.

  Lexie recognized Axel and Janie Dimspoon, who must have been at least in their eighties, exit the house next door. Dressed in thick terry bathrobes and slippers, they came up Whitehead’s drive and approached Lexie with questioning glances.

  “What happened?” Axel queried.

  “An incident,” Lexie said. “You’ll read all about it in the paper.” When they continued to look at her with prying glances, she added, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you.” She watched as they shuffled back into their homes, shaking their heads and whispering to themselves.

  The community had one small newspaper called the Moose Creek Junction Chronicle. Lexie figured it wouldn’t be long before one of their reporters caught wind of trouble and came around snooping. And what a story this would be—murder in Moose Creek Junction. The second one in just a little over a year.

  Otis’ sheriff’s car finally appeared, lights flashing and siren screaming, slamming over the curb and coming to a halt on Whitehead’s lawn.

  Lexie rolled her eyes. That man just had to make a dramatic entrance. He was so ridiculously proud of his position as town sheriff, Lexie wondered if he wore his tin star in bed. Probably rolled over on it and cut himself all the time. Maybe that’s why he was so crabby.

  Otis heaved himself from the car and slapped his hat on his head. His pig-like jowels working furiously as he barked at his skinny deputy, Cleve Harris, to call for back up from Westonville. Westonville was about fifty miles away, but it was much larger than Moose Creek Junction and had a decent sized police force that was a bit more accustomed to the occasional murder.

  Otis scowled at Whitehead’s house, then over at Lexie and pointed accusingly at her. “You,” he ordered. “Don’t go anywhere.” He disappeared inside Whitehead’s house with Harris trotting obediently after him.

  The police backup from Westonville arrived a short while after that and hurried into Whitehead’s house as well. Lexie tried not to think of what was going on. It was unreal. Like a television program or a movie.

  Lucy pulled up in her blue Ford sedan and got out. She shuffled quickly toward Lexie in her sensible brown loafers, her print housedress flapping. “Are you all right, baby sister?”

  “Of course. I find bodies all the time in my line of work.”

  “Don’t joke. This is not funny,” Lucy scolded.

  “I don’t think it’s one bit funny, either. But this is making me crazy. Do you realize Whitehead is the second man you’ve introduced me to who has wound up dead?

  “Oh, my.” Lucy’s face flushed and she began to fan herself madly. “Hot flash, you know. Happens when I’m upset.”

  “I thought it was just menopause.”

  Lucy pulled out a hankie and mopped her perspiration-dotted brow. “I am not going through menopause. I have got years before that happens. Many, many years.”

  “Right,” Lexie said.

  “What happened? Did you and Henry have a fight? Did he make advances toward you?”

  “He tried.”

  “Well for Pete’s sake! You didn’t have to off him.”

  “Lucy, I did not kill Whitehead. I forgot my purse last night after I left him at his house. This morning I came by to pick up the darn thing and I found Whitehead dead.”

  “This is not good, baby sister.”

  “No kidding it’s not good. Do you think Otis is capable of handling another murder investigation?”

  “I don’t know. He got pretty upset when Hugh was shot.”

  “Well, if he botches this investigation, you might be visiting me at the women’s correctional center down in Chamber City. Do you think you’ll still be able to fix me up on dates then?”

  A clanking noise drew their attention and Lexie saw the paramedics rolling Whitehead’s sheeted body over to the ambulance. They hefted him up, shut the double doors and drove away.

  As other uniformed officers looped yellow crime scene tape around Whitehead’s house, Otis and another man Lexie didn’t recognize walked toward her truck.

  Otis introduced his wife and sister-in-law to Detective Gabriel Stevenson. He’d recently moved to Westonville and had just started work with their police department.

  A solidly built male, Stevenson wore jeans, a worn black leather jacket, and a black Stetson. He had a neatly trimmed brown mustache and beard sprinkled with gray and a healthy tan complexion. The badge attached to his belt had a frightening legal glint to it.

  Lexie and Lucy told Stevenson, “Hello,” at the same time.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies,” Stevenson responded in a deep, rumbling voice as he shook their hands. He removed his hat and ran his hair through wavy brown hair shot with gray.

  “How well did you know Henry Whitehead?” Stevenson asked Lexie, his hazel eyes piercing.

  “I only met him yesterday. We went to the carnival with some friends of his last night.” Lexie couldn’t help but check Stevenson out a little closer, noting that he was pleasant to the eye. There weren’t many men as good looking as him in Moose Creek Junction. His looks made him a tad intriguing, although still frightening. He was the law, after all.

  Stevenson scribbled in a notebook, then sized Lexie up again, his gaze questioning.
“What time did you return?”

  “I dropped him off here at about 9 p.m. Then I went home.”

  “Can anyone vouch for your story?”

  Lexie nodded. “My daughter, Eva.”

  He jotted down something else, and Lexie noticed Otis had produced a notebook and took notes every time Stevenson did. Monkey see, monkey do.

  “Do you know of any enemies Whitehead might have had?” Stevenson leaned against Lexie’s truck and crossed his long legs. “Someone who would be capable of murder?”

  “Again, I barely knew the man. He did say his ex-wife, Violet, that’s her over there sitting on the planter, was creepy. And then something weird happened on my way home from his house.”

  “Yes?”

  “This car rear-ended me at the stop light, then took off.”

  “Why didn’t you call me and report that?” Otis wet the tip of his pencil and kept it poised above his note pad. His jowls worked up and down as he chewed on what Lexie knew was most likely tobacco.

  “I didn’t have a license plate or a vehicle description. It was too dark.”

  Stevenson cleared his throat. “Ms. Lightfoot, I understand you’re divorced. You and your ex-husband having any trouble?”

  “Dan lives in California. I haven’t heard from him in six months, and neither has my daughter.”

  “Is he a violent man?” Stevenson’s brows raised. “Does he have a temper?”

  Lexie went cold. “What are you implying?”

  The detective shrugged. “Could be he’s the jealous type. I have to ask.”

  “He’s remarried …” Lexie trailed off, as if that answered Stevenson’s question. There was a dark part of her life with Dan she chose to keep dead and buried. She didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with the inquisitive and handsome detective from Westonville.

  Stevenson wrote more notes and so did Otis.

  “Stay around town, Ms. Lightfoot,” Stevenson warned. “I don’t really consider you a serious suspect. But I may need to question you again.”

  “Oh, I’ll cancel my flight to London right away,” Lexie returned.