Crazy, Stupid, Dead

by Wendy Delaney

  My dog immediately sat and gave me a doggy grin.

  “Yeah, you’re never that good for me.” I pointed at him. “Don’t forget who feeds you around here.”

  “You just need to show him who’s boss,” Steve said, patting the sofa cushion next to him while staring at the flickering images of the baseball game.

  I stepped in front of the TV. “Did you just tell me to sit and be good?”

  Looking up at me, Steve grinned. “Not in so many words.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I went into the kitchen to get him a beer. “At the end of the inning, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “It’s not more about the Easley house, is it?” he asked, twisting off the cap while focused on the tube.

  “No. It’s about a case where you were one of the arresting officers.”

  “You know I can’t give you any specifics that aren’t in the public record.”

  “I don’t want any.” But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t give him some. “There’s something that’s come to my attention that may affect a case coming to trial.”

  Setting down the beer, Steve slanted his gaze to me. “What are you talking about?”

  He muted the TV and I took the next two minutes to fill him in on everything Mike Pollard had told me.

  “While Ben doesn’t appear to be overly concerned about his witness’s safety, the big brother sure was,” I said, angling for a better view of Steve’s face when he turned back to the game.

  He grumbled an obscenity in reaction to the crack of the bat. “It’s not like we have the manpower to assign a security detail, Chow Mein.”

  “I’m not asking for one. I just think it might be worth someone’s time to talk to Mike Pollard so that we can get the name of the punks he was clearly worried about.”

  Steve’s head turned on a swivel, his gaze packing as much punch as the star pitcher’s fast ball. “We don’t need any names. Because we aren’t going to play junior investigator.”

  “Then maybe you would like to talk to Mike and take his statement. Because there might be some other people that you should arrest.”

  “I already did,” Steve said, turning up the volume on the TV.

  “That was probably months ago. In the meantime, he and his brother are being threatened.”

  “He didn’t have much to say then. Since he’s concerned about repercussions at the job, I’m sure nothing’s changed.”

  “But—”

  “If no one’s willing to name names … Sorry, but there’s not a lot I can do.”

  Sick of hearing that answer, I folded my arms tight across my chest and glared at the former Seattle Mariner outfielder coming up to bat.

  Steve settled back next to me. “Watch this guy strike out.”

  Having just struck out myself, I didn’t find that prospect the least bit entertaining and reached for my phone.

  That’s when I noticed that I had a voice message from Gram. “Weird.” I hadn’t heard the phone ring.

  “What?”

  “I missed a call. Probably because it came in around the same time that you got here.”

  “I can be very distracting,” he said, his breath warm on my ear.

  I elbowed him in the ribs. “Now needs to not be one of those times.” Because I was trying to listen to my grandmother’s message.

  “I just got off the phone with your mother. She’s looking forward to your call. Tonight. Bye, sweetie,” Gram said with a devious lilt in her voice.

  I stared at my phone with disbelief. “Seriously?”

  “Something wrong?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah.” I had just been set up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “EARLY LUNCH?” Patsy asked as I approached, casting a critical eye at the glass-domed anniversary clock next to her computer monitor. “Or are you off to pick up extra copies of the paper now that you’re famous.”

  Patsy was the fourth person to mention the feature article in this morning’s Gazette that I had been avoiding, and the last person I wanted to discuss it with.

  I waved the certified letter in my hand like a hall pass. “Odette needs this mailed.” Which gave me a good excuse to take a long lunch because I wanted to talk to Robin about that nine-one-one call before meeting my mother at her house at noon.

  “I’ll have some correspondence that you can take with you if you want to wait a few minutes.”

  Hang out with Patsy to give her an opportunity to dish out some snark about the car that Mommy bought me? No thanks. “This needs to go out right away.” And so did I.

  I spent my time waiting in line at the post office racking my brain for a plausible reason why Robin Kranick would be willing to talk to me about an incident that occurred over two years ago.

  Fortunately, I had opted for a fairly professional image by wearing my black wool pantsuit. As a bonus I didn’t have any stains on my blouse today, so when the curtains fluttered in response to the doorbell I’d rung twice, I was confident Robin would recognize that I wasn’t there to sell her anything.

  That didn’t mean that she’d be any happier to see me, which became immediately apparent the second she cracked open the door.

  “You’re back,” Robin stated with the same degree of warmth as in the hug Duke gives Marietta at Christmas.

  “I am. Because of an official matter this time.” I mentally kicked myself for my choice of words because I would surely lose my badge if this ever got back to Frankie.

  The door opened wider, revealing Robin’s autumn leaf-appliqué sweatshirt and a round face without a speck of makeup. “What official matter?”

  “I wonder if we could talk inside,” I said with a smile.

  After a moment of hesitation she stepped back from the door. “Sure.”

  Sure? I wasn’t expecting anything nearly so accommodating. But she knew me a little, so maybe I could get away with not making this too official of a matter.

  Locking the door behind me, she set off down a narrow hallway. “Let me just turn off the stove.”

  I followed Robin and my nose into a huge kitchen tiled with mint green vinyl squares, where a saucepan was steaming on an ancient white stove surrounded by buttermilk Shaker cabinets. “Something smells good.”

  “I was making soup.”

  “I’ll probably be having soup later myself,” I said so that she wouldn’t feel obligated to offer me any. “Now that it’s getting colder outside, it’s the perfect time of year for it.”

  Robin cracked an awkward smile as if she weren’t accustomed to making small talk. “Let’s go where it’s more comfortable.” She led me back through the entryway to a cozy living room with rose-patterned paper on two walls separated by painted bookshelves full of knickknacks.

  Taking a seat next to the paperback romance on the blush velvet sofa, Robin picked up a remote to switch off the soap opera that had been blaring from the flat screen at the center of the bay window.

  She flipped back the length of graying chestnut hair that had been encroaching on one of the leaves of her sweatshirt. “Okay, what’s this matter that you need to speak with me about?”

  I sat on the opposite end of the cushy sofa so that I could have a good view of her face. “As you and your brother have experienced over the last few weeks, there’s always so much to do when someone passes away.”

  Knitting her brow, Robin gave me a confused look.

  Since I was having trouble coming up with a non-official way of asking her about her mother’s fall, I couldn’t say that I blamed her. “That’s also true for those of us in county government who have to process the paperwork.”

  “Why’s the government involved in my mother’s death?”

  “All deaths produce paperwork. It’s typically very routine. Cross the Ts, dot the Is. But sometimes we can’t do our jobs without a little help from those who were closest to the deceased.” I nodded as if my half-baked plea for her ass
istance made perfect sense. “And I can only imagine how close you were to your mom.”

  Robin’s gaze tightened, her jaw muscles rigid with suspicion. “Uh-huh.”

  I pulled a notebook from my tote. “So would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

  “I guess.”

  That had hardly been a ringing endorsement, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Great.”

  “Would you say that your mom was accident-prone?”

  Robin looked down at the round area rug that covered the majority of the dark hardwood between the coffee table and the TV. “Not especially.”

  “I understood that she took a pretty bad fall here a couple of years back.”

  Sucking in her lower lip, Robin nodded.

  “Could you describe what happened?” I asked, watching the woman press her clasped hands tight to her chest as if she were praying.

  “She tripped down the stairs and broke her clavicle.”

  “Where were you when this happened?”

  “In my room.”

  The way she responded made it sound like she was guessing about what I’d be willing to believe—the tentative type of response that always sets off my “lie-dar.”

  “It was almost bedtime,” she added, as if that might make the lie more credible.

  “So you didn’t see your mother fall?”

  Her gaze fixed on that rug, Robin shook her head.

  “What had been going on prior to her fall?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like during dinner. I assume you had dinner together.”

  She nodded.

  “Did it seem like your mom was in a fairly good mood?”

  Robin didn’t answer. Instead, it appeared as if a mental tug of war were playing out at the corners of her mouth.

  “Okay, did anything happen around then that was out of the ordinary?”

  “Maybe.”

  In other words, yes. “What was different about that evening?”

  “Not a lot. We were just talking.”

  “About what?”

  “You know, bills and stuff.”

  I had a feeling there was something pretty big packed into that stuff. “And how long after that would you say that your mom took that fall?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”

  “Did she drink any wine that night?”

  “Maybe.” Robin shot me an icy glance. “I don’t remember.”

  Yeah, you do. “I ask because it might have made her a little unsteady on her feet.”

  “She wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m not trying to suggest anything.” Okay, I was if alcohol was as much of a contributing factor to Naomi’s fall as it was to her death. “I’m just asking.”

  “Why? What’s it got to do with her death?”

  “If her judgment were impaired—”

  “My mother was not a drunk!” Robin declared, bolting to her feet.

  That felt like the most honest thing she said since I arrived. “I’m very sorry, but the way her body was found—”

  “I don’t care for your insinuation, and I’d like you to leave.”

  Robin marched past me with more speed than I would have credited the big woman. With no choice but to follow, I met her at the front door.

  But I couldn’t walk out without matching her honesty with some of my own. “It would be really helpful in the determination of the cause of death if we could piece together everything that led to your mother getting into that tub.”

  Robin swung the door open, tears glistening in her eyes. “Well, I wasn’t there, so there’s not much I can tell you.”

  Dang, I believed her.

  But while she might not bear any responsibility for her mother’s drowning, it sure felt like Robin had everything to do with her mom moving into that condo in the first place.

  After I stepped off the front porch and started down the walkway, it also felt like I was being watched. And for good reason, I realized when I spotted someone in an aqua blue jacket hiding behind the trunk of a pine tree in the next-door neighbor’s yard.

  I recognized the bird’s nest of silver braids coiled on the top of Vivian Walker’s head and gave her a friendly wave. “You know I can see you,” I said under my breath.

  I’d been acquainted with the seventy-something Duke’s pie happy hour regular for a couple of decades, so I didn’t hesitate when Mrs. Walker motioned me over.

  But I did find it curious when she scurried across her lawn like an aging ninja to meet me in front of her open garage.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Walker?” And what the heck are you up to?

  She snuck a peek at the Easley house as if to make sure Robin couldn’t see us. “Any new developments?”

  Huh? “What do you mean?”

  Mrs. Walker squinted at me through oversized pink-framed glasses. “Well, since you’re here, I assume the county has become involved.”

  Craparoonie. I didn’t need any additional witnesses to the unauthorized death investigation I had been conducting.

  My mouth went dry. “I—”

  “That’s what I read in this morning’s paper, right? That you work for the assessor’s office or something?”

  Close enough. “Yes, but—”

  “So the rumor’s true.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “They’re behind in their taxes.” A scowl accentuated the puckers surrounding Mrs. Walker’s fuchsia-painted lips. “Of course, I knew Naomi was having money problems, especially after she decided to not sell the house.”

  “Was that something she talked to you about?”

  The tiny woman cocked her head as she looked up at me. “Of course. I was probably her best friend.”

  Really. “Let’s get out of this wind.” It wasn’t that brisk of a breeze whipping wisps of hair in front of my face. But the swirling undercurrents of potentially juicy gossip demanded more privacy, so I stepped into Mrs. Walker’s garage with the hope that she’d follow.

  “Good idea,” she said, clearly no more eager to be observed by Robin than I was.

  “What you said about Mrs. Easley deciding to keep the house—when was this?”

  Vivian Walker folded her arms as she leaned against her faded red sedan. “A little over two years ago, right after the accident.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know how Naomi managed for as long as she did.”

  I’d seen how her bank balance was shrinking and didn’t get it either.

  “The scuttlebutt at Duke’s,” I said, lowering my voice as if this were fresh dirt from Gossip Central, “was that it had something to do with an arrangement that she made with Robin.”

  “Naomi let that girl get away with murder.”

  Maybe not literally.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I realize that what happened to Robin wasn’t her fault. She was downright brutalized by that man.”

  I assumed Mrs. Walker was referring to Hailey’s father.

  “Why, the things Naomi would tell me … just horrible. So it didn’t surprise me in the least when she and Earl took the girls in. It was only right. But twenty years later, when it was just the two of them in the house … If you ask me, Robin had her mother wrapped around her little finger.” Mrs. Walker held her arms tight as if she needed the warmth. “So yes, I guess you could say an arrangement was reached. Although that’s not the word I would have used.”

  “Because Mrs. Easley didn’t want to stress her daughter with a move?”

  Vivian Walker hooted as if I’d told her a groaner of a joke. “Because she didn’t want to get thrown down the stairs again.”

  Holy cannoli. “That’s how that accident happened?”

  “They had ‘words.’ That’s all Naomi would tell me. But I can put two and two together.”

  Which fit with what little Robin had revealed to me about that night.<
br />
  Mrs. Walker’s pink lips curled into a calculating smile as she locked on my gaze. “And since the county is now getting involved, I can only assume that this ‘arrangement’ might finally be coming to an end.”

  “That’s not for me to say.” Truly.

  “Well, something needs to happen pretty soon. Just look at that yard. It’s become a real eyesore.”

  “If Robin decides to sell, she’ll have to do something about all those weeds.”

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Walker said with a twinkle in her eye. “You never know who might be interested in buying the place.”

  I didn’t let on that I already knew about the offers that she and her neighbors had recently received from the Cascara development company.

  She shrugged. “Of course, it’s not just her decision, but I have a feeling that Gordon will be agreeable to the right offer.”

  And I had a feeling that Mrs. Walker’s conversation with Gordon Easley had already happened.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “YOU’RE LATE,” my mother announced as I stepped onto a gorgeous Persian rug that I couldn’t remember having seen before.

  “Sorry. I had to drop something off at the post office for work.” It wasn’t to my advantage to mention the other stops I made along the way.

  I pointed at the rug spanning the hardwood between the door and the curved staircase like an indoor flower garden. “Is this new?”

  Heaving a weary sigh, Marietta glided past me in bare feet. “I had it in Santa Monica.”

  “Okay.” I had spent most of my summers there as a child. I didn’t remember any Persian rugs. It didn’t matter. I hadn’t come here to talk about her new or old furnishings.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked while I trailed in her musky jasmine wake.

  My mother didn’t know how to make a decent cup of coffee. “No thanks.”

  She pulled up the cover of an appliance garage and plucked out a coffee pod from a three-tier storage rack. “I have your favorite. Italian roast—what you served Barry and me when we got back from our honeymoon, right?”

  Shocked that she remembered, I nodded.

  Satisfaction tugged at the edges of her Cupid’s bow mouth as she loaded the pod into her coffeemaker. “Yes, my darling. I’ve been paying attention.”