As I followed Paula and Zach across our adjoining yards, I noticed she needed a dye job. The morning sunlight picked out the blond roots of her muddy brown hair…roots just a little darker than her son’s hair, the same color as her lashes and brows when, like now, she wore no makeup. For some strange reason, while most women would kill for naturally blond hair, Paula colored hers a drab, medium brown. A nondescript brown. Add that to her nondescript clothing and reclusive lifestyle, and I deduced that she went out of her way not to be noticed.
Like I said, Paula had secrets.
We went into her house which was the same basic style as mine…two-story, white, front porch, high ceilings, hardwood floors. Hers was smaller and about twenty years newer so it was less “gingerbready,” but the major differences were inside. She had put shiny new deadbolt locks on the front and back doors and kept the windows closed and locked all the time. Her furniture was new and—guess what—nondescript, as if she felt the need to blend into the background even inside her own home.
Paula latched the screen door behind us, then closed and locked the wooden door and put on the chain. I bit my tongue and didn’t comment that it seemed a shame to waste one of the half dozen days out of the year when the weather in the Kansas City area was suitable for humans, neither hot and sultry nor cold and windy.
Paula disappeared into the kitchen while Zach brought me a bright orange truck, jabbered, and made appropriate engine noises. I sat on the floor and we rolled the truck back and forth to each other across the area rug. Zach laughed and chattered, obviously enjoying this activity immensely. I can’t say that I got a lot out of rolling that truck, but watching him have a good time definitely made my heart happy.
I revved the truck on the floor. “Vrroom! Vrroom! Here it comes!”
This time Zach grabbed it up and ran across the room, watching me over his shoulder. This was my cue to chase him. I scrambled to my feet, yelled, “I’m gonna get you!” then caught him just before he dove behind the beige chair.
Paula came back in as I lifted him over my head and blew on his soft tummy.
I sank onto the beige sofa with Zach in my lap and she set her tray on the coffee table. It held, among other things, a plate of fudge cookies left over from yesterday’s inventory at the shop and a Coke. I must have looked as stressed as I felt. Usually Paula chided me about having Coke and chocolate for breakfast. Now she was offering it to me.
The tray also held her coffee, a plate of non-chocolate cookies, and a red sippy cup, the last a gift from me. Zach wants to drink whatever his Aunt Lindsay is drinking. Since that usually means a red can, his Aunt Lindsay found him a red cup. He’s happy and I’m proud that the kid wants to emulate me. Hey, it could be worse. He could be emulating Rick.
I picked up the Coke, popped the top and took a long, satisfying swallow, letting those little bubbles dance over my tongue and down my throat, making my mouth feel clean and awake.
Zach took a long swallow of milk from his red sippy cup then reached for the chocolate cookies.
“These are your cookies,” Paula said, handing Zach one of the non-chocolate variety. “I made some bran muffins and baked part of the recipe as cookies,” she explained to me.
Zach looked at the chocolate cookies then back to his. The boy was not dumb.
“Wow!” I enthused. “Look at all the chocolate chips in yours!” I pointed to the raisins.
He grinned and began to munch on it. I could just see him in a few years, at the movies, bringing his date a package of Raisinets and telling her they‘re chocolate covered chocolate chips.
Feeling a little guilty, I selected a cookie of the chocolate variety. Not so guilty I wouldn’t eat it, of course. I needed sustenance to face the morning…and Rick in my bed.
“He ordered a pepperoni pizza,” I said, as if I had to justify that car in my driveway. “Double pepperoni.”
Paula only nodded and sipped her coffee. Nonjudgmental.
I drank more Coke and shoved more cookie into my mouth. I was feeling much better already. Paula’s house was always immaculately clean and her paranoia about keeping the door locked and the windows closed made it feel isolated from the rest of the world. Sometimes that wasn’t a bad feeling. Today was one of those times.
“I appreciate your not saying anything dumb like, does this mean you’re getting back together?” I said quietly, staring into the hole in my Coke can as though I expected to find some sort of answers in there. Some people look for answers in a bottle; I look for mine in a can. Neither of us is successful, of course.
“No.” Paula’s voice was unexpectedly firm and intense. “I’d never say that. He’s not going to change. He’d hurt you again if you took him back.”
Definitely an abusive husband or lover in her past, somebody she was scared would find her and hurt her again, put another scar on the other side of her face. I wondered how many she had on the rest of her body, how many she was hiding with her long-sleeved shirts, slacks and ankle-length skirts.
I looked at her, trying to see behind that mask she never let down, but I couldn’t. Her spine was straight, her chin tilted upward defiantly.
“I know Rick will never change,” I replied.
“Do you still love him?”
That was a tough one. I’d asked myself that question a lot of times over the past six weeks. I’d been in total shock at first, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. We’d had a lot of good times in the early years, then we’d kind of drifted apart as we became busy making money and getting ahead.
Not so busy he hadn’t been able to find time for Scruffy Buffy, of course.
I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. Paula’s not the only one who can do masks. “I don’t love him the way I love chocolate and Coke.”
We all three laughed. I’m sure Zach didn’t know what he was laughing at, but his mommy and his Aunt Lindsay were laughing, and that made him happy.
A knock on the front door stopped the laughter.
Paula’s eyes went wide, and the blood drained from her face. Total terror. She used to do that regularly at work, freak out every time somebody came into our shop. Fortunately for our profit margin, many people come in every day, and she finally got used to it, but visitors at home were apparently still scary. Of course, she didn’t have visitors at home except for the postman and me.
I was sitting on the sofa and the mail didn’t come on Sunday.
She set her cup on the table, her hand shaking so badly the coffee sloshed onto her fingers.
“I’ll get it.” I bounced up, handed Zach to her and was at the door before she could protest.
Not that I think she was capable of speech at that moment.
Chapter Two
I opened the door to see two cops on the front porch—a Suit and a Uniform.
The Uniform looked like a nice guy…young, pleasant expression, a little apologetic as if he hated to interrupt somebody’s Sunday morning. In contrast, the Suit’s face was a study in sharp angles. He did have nice eyes, though, even if they weren’t blue. His were kind of hazel, like trees in the early spring when they’re ready to explode with leaves, and even though they’re still winter-brown, you can see a green shimmer.
The Suit flashed his badge. “Police,” he said, like I couldn’t recognize the uniforms—both of them.
“Chocolatier,” I said in reply. I couldn’t help myself. Blame it on the Coke and cookies. With all that sugar and caffeine, I was feeling ten feet tall and bullet proof.
The Uniform looked puzzled but one corner of the Suit’s mouth quirked upward like he wanted to smile but knew he shouldn’t.
He looked me over from my messy hair to my bare feet, so I did the same to him, not that I could tell much from the blue suit, sedate tie and white shirt. Well, the tie was knotted a little crooked and the white shirt was kind of rumpled. Add all that to the trees-in-spring eyes, the way he’d almost smiled at my joke, and I was prepared to like him…unless he wanted to write me a speed
ing ticket, that is.
“Are you Paula Walters?” he asked.
“No.” I felt reluctant to volunteer any information, and not just because of my paranoia about traffic tickets. I could sense waves of fear emanating from Paula who remained on the sofa behind me. She was always a very careful driver, so careful I sometimes wanted to lean out the passenger door and push off with one foot to make her go faster. This wasn’t about a speeding ticket.
“Is Paula Walters here?” the Suit asked, exasperation evident in his voice. The angles of his face seemed to become even sharper than before.
“Yes,” I answered.
He waited.
So did I.
“Could we speak to her?” He was practically gritting his teeth. Now I was the one who had to suppress a smile. It’s not often I can frustrate a cop…though I always make an effort.
Reluctantly, I turned back to my friend. She was standing now, holding Zach tightly, her knuckles white. I’d thought her face was pale before, but now she could have been an understudy for Casper. Her eyes were wide, the pupils pinpoints.
I suddenly felt helpless, as though I were turning her over to the executioner. Damn it, I should have found some way to make her tell me those secrets so we could have fixed whatever was wrong.
Yeah, right, like I’d fixed my own life.
She marched bravely toward the door, handing Zach to me as she passed. Zach pointed at the men and smiled. “Pees man!”
“That’s right,” I said. “Policeman. Policemen are our friends.” At that moment I didn’t really believe that any more than I believed it when one of them stopped me on the highway, but was trying to score some brownie points. I had a feeling Paula was going to need a few of those.
Paula moved directly in front of the door and straightened her spine. “I’m Paula Walters.” She was standing tall, but she sounded tiny and weak.
“Can we talk to you for a minute?” the Suit asked.
Paula darted a quick glance behind her, as if she were looking for an escape route, and I remembered her question that first day about whether the house had another exit.
My heart sank. What was going on? Did her fear go beyond worry about an abusive husband? Had Rick been right? Was my friend a fugitive? Was she an ax murderer after all?
I couldn’t imagine quiet, gentle Paula doing anything bad. Of course, bad and illegal are not necessarily synonymous. Take, for instance, an innocent person going a few miles over the artificially-imposed speed limit.
However, Paula did not look innocent as she stood rigidly inside the screen door, her stare fixed on the cops on her front porch. She looked scared…and guilty.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” Her voice was a barely audible croak.
“Lester McKay,” the Suit replied. “Can we come in?”
And I’d thought Paula couldn’t get any paler. For a minute I thought she was going to faint. I’d never seen anyone faint before, but the signs were unmistakable.
She stood motionless for a moment like a soldier guarding the entrance to the fort. I waited for her to say no, to charge onto the porch and chase them away. I considered doing it for her, telling them they couldn’t come inside without a search warrant. I fervently hoped they didn’t have one of those.
The cops didn’t say a word, just stood on the porch, watching and waiting. This didn’t look good.
Suddenly Paula’s shoulders sloped forward in a posture of defeat. She fumbled with the latch, releasing it and opening the door. Her movements robotic and forced, she stepped aside, allowing them to enter.
They moved past her, invading her house.
She stood stiffly, hands behind her back, her expression that of a woman being led to the guillotine…terrified, helpless and resigned to her fate.
The uniform’s gun belt creaked. Paula gasped and jerked backward.
The Suit pretended not to notice, but I could tell he did. His eyes narrowed speculatively.
“I’m Detective Adam Trent,” he said, “and this is Officer Donald Creighton.” Trent was a big man, looming large in the high-ceilinged room. He was the kind who would have loomed large even if he’d been short. The Uniform wasn’t quite so tall or quite so intimidating. I could see this pair doing the good cop/bad cop routine. The Suit would definitely be the bad cop.
“Like to ask you a few questions,” he said.
Paula gave a jerky nod of permission.
“What do you know about Lester Mackey?”
She swayed slightly. “L-Lester.”
“Yes, ma’am. Lester Mackey.”
She blinked twice and straightened. “Lester Mackey?” Her voice was stronger. Go, Paula!
The cops exchanged glances.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trent said, a little impatiently. “Lester Mackey. What can you tell us about him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anybody by that name.” She almost sounded as if she was on the verge of breaking into laughter, as if she’d just gotten a reprieve from that guillotine.
“We’re only trying to locate Mr. Mackey,” Trent said. “You’re not going to cause him any trouble by telling us what you know.” His words as well as the sharp edge to his voice indicated he thought Paula was lying and not doing a very good job of it.
I believed her. Her relief was too visible to doubt.
“I don’t know anybody named Lester Mackey,” she repeated firmly. She stood with her arms wrapped protectively, defensively across her midriff.
“Take your time and think about it.” Trent regarded her suspiciously.
“I don’t have to think about it. I don’t know anybody by that name.” She was becoming indignant. Good for you, Paula! Stand your ground!
“If you don’t know Lester Mackey, why did he have your name and phone number on a piece of paper in his apartment?”
All her relief disappeared, and I could see her mentally mounting the steps to that guillotine again. I knew she had an unlisted number. She’d been reluctant to give it to me. For this Lester Mackey to have it must mean she knew him.
“My home phone number?” Her voice quavered.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know why he had it or where he got it.”
“It’s unlisted, so you must have given it to him.”
“I don’t know! I swear to you, I’ve never heard of Lester Mackey.”
“Where were you last night between the hours of eight and ten?” Trent demanded, taking advantage of her distress.
Nice eyes or not, I’d had enough of this man badgering my friend. I set Zach on the floor and stepped forward, moving up beside her, closer to Trent than she was.
“Does Ms. Walters need to call an attorney?” I demanded.
He folded his arms and rocked slightly backward, one eyebrow lifted. “That depends. Has Ms. Walters done something illegal?”
How the hell should I know? But I didn’t say that. “If you don’t think she’s done anything illegal, why are you grilling her?”
“I’m just checking out a missing persons report.”
I scowled at him and he scowled at me. “So this Lester Mackey disappeared last night between the hours of eight and ten?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you have to wait forty-eight hours or something before you check on missing people unless there’s suspicion of foul play?” I watch all those cop shows. I know these things.
Creighton looked to Trent as if waiting for him to field the question.
“Usually,” the detective said after a long moment. “Now, is it my turn to ask a question?”
“It’s okay, Lindsay,” Paula said quietly before I could respond to Trent’s sarcasm. “I’ll answer the question. I was at home all night. I left work a little after four, picked up Zach at the baby sitter’s, took him to the park, and I’ve been right here since about six last night.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, of course alone, except for my son.”
�
��Why do you want to know?” I was feeling very defensive on Paula’s behalf and, I admit it, very curious. “Who is this Lester Mackey person and what’s happened to him? Why are you checking out his disappearance so fast?”
Trent scowled at me again. “Who are you?”
“I’m Lindsay Powell. I’m her sister.”
“No, you’re not. She doesn’t have a sister.”
Aha! So he’d checked into her background. This was getting deeper all the time.
“Well, I’m her best friend.”
Trent and I did some more glaring and sizing each other up. I could tell he was thinking about asking me to leave and I was thinking about refusing.
“On that piece of paper in Lester Mackey’s apartment,” Creighton said, breaking the silence, “right beneath Ms. Walters’ phone number was yesterday’s date and a time, eight o’clock. Mr. Mackey left on an appointment and never returned home. His apartment manager was worried and called us.”
“Failing to return home from an appointment equals suspicion of foul play?” I asked. Gee, all those nights I could have had the cops out looking for Rick.
Trent gave Creighton a warning glance. There was more to the story, but they weren’t going to tell us.
Zach, tired of being ignored, chose that moment to charge over, wielding his favorite truck. “Here!” Grinning happily, he clutched Creighton’s pant leg in one sweaty little hand and held the toy up to him with the other.
“Hey, what you got there?” Gun belt creaking, Creighton squatted down to the kid’s level and accepted the truck. “Cool wheels.”
“Zach!” Paula stooped and lifted her son, snatching him away as though she thought the cop would harm him. “Don’t bother the policeman,” Paula said, her face pale again, the panic back in her voice and her eyes. “He’s working. Why don’t you go to your room and play with your purple dinosaur? Mommy won’t be much longer, and then I promise we’ll go to the park.” She set him down. “Go on now.” He raised his arms for a hug. She hugged him then patted his diapered bottom and sent him from the room.
Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 01 - Death by Chocolate Page 2