Marietta heaved a sigh. “Mama, don’t be so dramatic. Steve even said that Mr. Brubaker regretted calling the police.”
Heading for the kitchen, Gram glanced back over her shoulder. “Doesn’t change the fact that you broke into a house.”
“Technically, we didn’t break in,” Marietta called after Gram, then turned her focus to the detective doing the slow burn in the overstuffed easy chair to our left. “Did we, hon?”
If my mother was looking for an ally anywhere in the vicinity of the living room, she was wasting her time.
Steve leveled his gaze at her. “Technically, what you did is called criminal trespass.”
“Criminal! That door was unlocked. The seller of that house should thank us for discovering the careless oversight by the last realtor who showed that house.” She flicked a gold-bangled wrist to punctuate her argument. “In fact, that person should be reported. Just think about the damage that could have been done.”
Way to deflect, Mom.
The tic above his jawline beat in time with the seconds of stony silence between us. “The real estate agent has been informed about the oversight and doesn’t want to take the incident any further.”
“Thank God,” Marietta muttered under her breath.
Obviously this was one time that she didn’t want her name to appear in the weekly Port Merritt Gazette.
Focusing on me, Steve folded his arms and leaned back in his seat. “Want to tell me what you were doing tonight on Bay Vista?”
Absolutely not.
“Oh, look at the time!” Standing, my mother inched toward the stairway. “Barry will be here any minute and I haven’t begun to get ready. If you don’t have any other questions for me, kind sir, I wonder if ….”
I had no doubt that Steve could see through her flimsy excuse to make a hasty exit stage right, but we all knew that her portion of tonight’s interrogation had come to a conclusion while mine had just begun.
He waved her away and waited for her bedroom door to click shut before he hit me between the eyes with an angry glare. “Well?”
“I was there on coroner business.”
“With your mother and a pair of binoculars?”
Okay, he had me there.
I shrugged. “It was unofficial.”
“Yeah. Arnold Brubaker told me he called because he thought you two were casing the Lackeys’ house.”
The Lackeys’ house? “Arnold Brubaker probably thinks anyone who gets lost in his neighborhood is up to no good.”
“Since he seems to have me on speed-dial after his house was broken into last year, probably. But it looks like he can recognize a couple of trespassers when he sees them.”
I forced a smile. “I was trying to get my mother out of that house so we could go home.”
“I don’t care.”
He didn’t? Then I wished he’d climb off his cop soapbox and stop acting like he wanted to slap a pair of handcuffs on me, and not in a fun way.
He leaned closer. “My concern is that you’re exceeding the authority that your little deputy coroner badge grants you.”
I didn’t like his tone. “My little badge, as you put it, gives me the authority to interview witnesses, including the Lackeys. And if you’d seen the two of them together earlier, you’d want to know—”
“I’d want to know why the Coroner’s assistant, who’s been on the job for a month, thinks it’s a good idea to harass someone when she doesn’t like something she thinks she sees.”
Now I really didn’t like his tone. “I wasn’t harassing anyone.”
“If Pete Lackey knew that those binoculars had been pointed at him, I doubt he’d agree.”
“I know what I saw.”
“So I’ve heard before, but Frankie didn’t hire you to spy on people.”
“I—”
“And if you’re not careful, not only will you put yourself and possibly your mother at risk, you’ll lose your job.”
That sounded like a threat. “Are you telling me that you’d complain to Frankie about me?”
“Chow Mein, I won’t have to. Someone like Arnold Brubaker will file a complaint about you, then that will get back to Frankie. You know how news travels in this town.”
Yes, I did. That’s why, whenever I needed to dig up dirt on someone, I headed straight to Duke’s to get the scoop from Lucille.
Pushing out of his chair, he patted me on the head. “Be good and leave Pete Lackey alone.”
Given how today went, he was asking for the impossible.
I followed Steve to the front door. “There’s something going on between him and Joyce.”
“There should be. They’re married.”
“No, it’s like they’re hiding something.” Like how Pete killed Russell.
“Uh-huh. More likely, they didn’t like you nosing around, asking a bunch of questions.”
He reached for the doorknob and I wedged my body in front of the door, the brass knob poking me in the small of my back. “Even more likely, Joyce is now trying to convince me that the sedative she took yesterday was what did the talking when she told me that her husband killed Russell.”
Blowing out a breath, Steve shook his head.
“Don’t shake your head at me. Her exact words were, ‘he killed Russell.’ Not ‘I think my husband might have been involved in the death of my boyfriend.’ Don’t you think some questions need to be asked?”
“Shhhhh.” Steve opened the front door, grabbed me by my upper arm and escorted me outside to my grandmother’s porch. “If this turns into a coroner’s case, I’ll be the one asking the questions, not you.”
“Fine.” All the better that the person who was doing the questioning had a gun and a pair of handcuffs to take Pete Lackey into custody.
The front door swung open behind me and Gram handed Steve a casserole dish. “You almost left without your lasagna. You’ll probably want to add a little tomato sauce before reheating it.” She angled a glare my way. “Since I didn’t know when certain people would be home, I probably kept it in the oven longer than I should have.”
He smiled like the good Boy Scout he used to be. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Eleanor.”
When the door shut behind her, I lifted the lid and surveyed the overcooked landscape that looked more like desiccated liver than lasagna. “Oy. Like two hours too long.”
Steve frowned. “What are the orange globs?”
“Fat-free American cheese. She was out of mozzarella.” I replaced the lid. “If you like your pasta really well-done and your cheese not so cheesy, it might be okay.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” His dark eyes looked like pools of molten chocolate as they held my gaze. “Now take off your food critic hat and do something for me.”
Since I felt crampy and bloated, I hoped my sex buddy wasn’t going to suggest anything that required an application of ice cream. “What?”
“Promise me that you’ll stop skulking around Pete Lackey.”
I raised my right hand. “I promise. If you’ll tell me about the Lackey house on Bay Vista.”
“Contrary to what you might think there’s not much to tell. The guy’s mother died last spring and he’s fixing up the house. Probably getting it ready to sell.”
“Oh.” A man who couldn’t finish a remodeling project on his own house was the one in charge of fixing up his mother’s? It didn’t seem like the best plan, but what did I know? Maybe it was the cheapest plan.
“Yep, that spy act of yours was on a guy remodeling his mother’s bathroom.” Steve gave me a thumbs up as he stepped off the porch. “Nice work, rookie.”
* * *
Eight hours later, Duke glanced at the clock mounted above a vintage red and white Coca Cola sign when his kitchen door banged shut behind me. “Don’t you sleep anymore?”
Since my menstrual cramps had my lower back tied up in a knot, the probability that I could get four hours of uninterrupted z’s was as likely as me giving up my mocha lattes. “I’m j
ust getting an early start to my day.”
My great-aunt Alice scowled at me on her way to the oven, where the heavenly aroma of pie crust was venting. “That’s not what the dark circles under your eyes are saying.”
Okay, so the concealer Marietta swore by in her info-commercials wasn’t quite the miracle worker she’d cracked it up to be.
“As long as I was up early,” I said, not bothering to deny the obvious, “I thought I’d pick up some doughnuts.”
Standing by the stainless steel fryer sizzling with doughy confections bobbing in their oil bath, Duke arched an eyebrow. “Sweetening the pot, huh? You must want something.”
I did want something—a conversation with Andy Falco, the one man Russell might have confided in if he were having problems with someone in town.
“Yep, and I’m going to treat him to the best sugar-laden breakfast in town.”
Duke smirked as he transferred a dozen old fashioneds to a cooling rack. “You’ll treat him?”
“Yes, it’s my treat.” I waved a few dollar bills at him before I slipped them into the cash register. “Happy?” I asked as I walked back with a cup of coffee.
“You gonna pay for that coffee, too?”
“You can put it on my tab.”
He blew out a breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Setting down my cup, I donned a pair of plastic gloves and dipped a couple of cooled bars into a pan of maple glaze. “Let me ask you something.”
Duke joined me at the glazing table next to a stack of six racks full of cooling pastry. “Shoot.”
“You said yesterday that Russell Falco ate here a couple times a week.”
He twisted an apple fritter into sugary glaze. “Yeah?”
“Why do you want to know where Russell ate?” Alice asked as she crossed the kitchen to join us. She sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t think he was poisoned ….”
“No! Nothing like that. I was just wondering if you ever saw him with anyone.”
Duke shook his head. “Seems like he always came in alone and sat at the counter.”
“Ever known him to have angry words with anyone?”
He looked at his wife, who shook her head. “Not that we ever saw.”
“Any rumors of trouble with anyone in town?” I aimed my question at Alice since she typically had her ear to the ground here at Gossip Central.
“We heard about Pete Lackey going ballistic Friday night, but other than that, no.”
Ten minutes later, I boxed up a dozen assorted doughnuts and drove to the marina to ask Andy Falco the same question.
He handed the white pastry box to his younger brother. “Pass this around and offer the guys a cup of coffee. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Wordlessly, Nate glared down at me from the charter boat railing, making it crystal clear that he resented me arriving at the same time as the three men who had booked this morning’s charter. Too bad. If an official investigation was going to be launched into their brother’s death, I needed some answers and I needed to get them before the surviving Falco brothers disappeared for the next five hours.
“I appreciate you making the time to see me.” I said, following Andy to the end of the pier, the brisk morning breeze whipping my hair into my face and ruffling the pages of my notebook.
He tugged at his red Falco Charters cap, lowering the bill over his furrowed brow. “Let’s make this quick. I have customers waiting.”
“No problem.” If he wanted quick and to the point, he’d get it. “I understand two of Russell’s tires were slashed Monday night.”
Andy’s thin lips flattened, his body rigid like he was bracing himself for something stronger than the gusts at his back. “Yeah.”
“Any thoughts on who did it? Was he having trouble with anyone?”
A wry smile tugged at Andy’s mouth. “When wasn’t he experiencing some sort of trouble?”
With what I knew about their family history, I figured he was entitled to some sarcasm. As long as he showed me honest emotion as I tried to peel back the covers of his brother’s final days, I was okay with the delivery. “Over the last week or two did he mention anything specific?”
“No.”
“Did you see your brother argue with anyone?”
Andy scanned the length of the pier like he was considering his options.
“Anything you can tell me could help us in our investigation.” Yes, I was laying it on a little thick since my job was simply to provide a preliminary report, but I’d practically promised him that there would be an investigation into his brother’s death and I didn’t want it getting back to his mother that I wasn’t trying to deliver.
“I’m not aware that he got into it with anyone else,” he said, his gaze cast toward his scuffed rubber boots.
Anyone else?
“What were the two of you discussing?”
Andy fingered a greenish-yellow bruise on his right knuckle. “I came home Tuesday night and my new truck was missing. Turned out Russ took it. When he pulled into the driveway three hours later, he said he’d had someplace he needed to be, and with two flat tires he seemed to think he could just grab my keys …. No, let me rephrase that. He didn’t think. Just like all the other times he didn’t think something through, and … let’s just say that after months of him not doing a damned thing to help out around here, I’d had enough of his shit.”
Understandable given the brothers’ history. “Did he say where he needed to be?”
“Nope.”
“Did you ask?”
“Didn’t have to. I knew where he’d been spending his time last week.”
So he knew about Beverly Carver. “Russell told you?”
Andy’s chin jutted out, his lower lip tight with something that, in my experience, looked a lot like contempt. “I saw him a couple of times, hanging around at Kelsey’s shop.”
Not what I’d expected to hear, but clearly he didn’t like his older brother spending time with Kelsey. Based on the long looks Andy had given her the few times I’d seen them at Duke’s, Andy’s reaction made perfect sense. It just didn’t seem justified based on how Kelsey spoke of her current relationship with Russell.
I captured Andy’s exact words in my notebook, underlining hanging around—two words probably subject to interpretation depending upon one’s frame of mind. “I know he was doing some work there to get ready for the art show Saturday.”
“I didn’t see much work goin’ on,” Andy muttered, his amber eyes dark in the shadow cutting his face in two under the bill of his cap.
“I assume you mentioned that when Russell came back home with your truck.” I pointed at his bruised knuckle. “Maybe did more than just talk about it?”
He shrugged. “Russ wasn’t in a listening mood and … I guess I was done talking.”
“So you gave him the black eye?”
Blowing out a deep breath, Andy nodded.
Holy crap! I’d expected that Russell’s brother could provide some insight about the events of early last week, but it never occurred to me that he’d be the one who had landed that punch. That explained why he had given me such evasive answers in the park Monday. He didn’t want any fingers pointing at him.
I had no trouble accepting Russell’s black eye as a result of an isolated incident between brothers, but it didn’t help me get any closer to solving the mystery of who slashed his tires.
I circled back to the primary reason I’d come to talk to Andy. “Was it you or Russell who first saw that someone had slashed two of his tires?”
“Me. I noticed it Tuesday morning when I was leaving for work. Since my Mustang and truck were parked next to his beater Chevy, I checked all three vehicles for damage.”
“And?”
“Looked like they only hit his truck, so I went back in and rousted Russ out of bed so that he could see the situation for himself.”
“What’d he say?”
“Other than ‘what the hell’ and a few words I w
ouldn’t want to repeat in mixed company, not much.”
“He didn’t give you the impression that he knew who might have done it?”
Andy shook his head. “He just seemed generally pissed about it.”
“Any weird phone calls or emails a couple days before or after?”
“Nothing that I knew anything about.”
Nate whistled from the stern of their charter boat and Andy glanced down at his watch. “I need to get going.”
“One last thing. Actually, could Nate join us for a minute?”
“He doesn’t live at the house and won’t know anything to help you.”
I didn’t doubt the truth in what he was telling me, but I needed to find out for myself. “It will just take a moment.”
Andy muttered an obscenity and waved his younger brother over.
“What now?” Nate asked seconds later, lighting a cigarette as he closed the distance between us.
“A quick question for the two of you.” I smiled with the hope that it would deflect some of the defiance radiating from him. Since he made no effort to stand where the wind wouldn’t blow his cigarette smoke into my face, I stepped to the side and dropped the smile. “Last week, did Russell say or do anything to indicate who slashed his tires, anything about any trouble he was having with someone around here?”
Nate took a drag on his cigarette. “Not to me. I didn’t see him all week. Not until … you know … Saturday.”
True. I turned to Andy. “How about you? Anything else you can tell me?”
“After the shit Russ pulled, I kicked him out of the house and didn’t see him again until Saturday at Tolliver’s.”
The two brothers turned and headed back toward their boat, leaving me no closer to solving the mystery of who killed Russell than when I arrived.
Chapter Thirteen
After walking three blocks to Hot Shots Espresso, I sat at the picnic table facing the Feathered Nest and sipped a mocha latte while I waited for Kelsey to open up shop.
Since the sun had yet to rise above the eastern shore of Merritt Bay, I had plenty of time to review my notes and come to the same conclusion that I’d come to yesterday and the day before that. Nothing anyone had told me trumped Joyce Lackey’s statement that her husband had killed Russell Falco.
Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 02 - Sex, Lies, and Snickerdoodles Page 13