“Yes. Going solely on the data available in his cell phone, Chuck Mayfield was married to seven women. You and Stella in Missouri, two in Kansas, one in Iowa, one in Nebraska, and one in Oklahoma. I’ve only checked the numbers on his cell phone, so that may not be the complete list.”
“Not the complete list?” Grace repeated Fred’s words in horror.
Fred’s a brilliant man, but sometimes he doesn’t have a clue.
“Grace, eat a cookie,” I ordered. Chocolate is the universal remedy for shock.
“Not the complete list?” she said again.
I picked up a cookie from the plate and extended it toward her. “Eat. Now.”
She accepted the cookie and bit off a tiny piece then swallowed without chewing. At least she got a little chocolate into her system.
“There may be more of those women out there?” she asked.
The chocolate had given her the power to speak coherently.
“We don’t know that,” I said before Fred could make the situation worse by giving her further information.
“Since the police are involved, I’m sure they’ll find out. Do you want me to check first so you’ll be prepared?” Fred did have some sensitivity after all.
Grace jerked her head from side to side. “No. Rickie’s going to erase those numbers from Chuck’s phone, and the police won’t know about anybody but Stella.”
I’m not averse to a little bit of evidence tampering now and then, but I didn’t think this was one of those times when it would be beneficial. “Grace, you’re a suspect in Chuck’s murder. It would not be a good idea to erase those numbers. You need to give them as many suspects as possible.”
She laid the offending phone on the coffee table and took a drink of wine. A long drink. “One of those women killed my Chuck because he married me and was leaving her.”
I sent Fred a telepathic message, daring him to contradict Grace’s theory.
His expression remained serene, innocent as a murderer on death row. “The authorities will be able to access all Chuck’s cell phone records. Erasing the data on the phone would be ineffective as well as suspicious.”
“Everybody’s going to know about all those women no matter what I do?”
“Yes.” Fred selected the most symmetrical cookie on the plate.
“He loved me,” Grace said. “He told me I was the only woman he ever really loved.”
He’d told Stella the same thing. Probably the other women too.
“We know he loved you,” I assured her, “but when somebody’s murdered, the dirty laundry comes out.”
“I wash all our clothes every week.”
Fred choked.
I refused to look at him. “It’s an expression. It means all the secrets will come out.”
“Do you think Stella killed him? I kind of like her after our fight and all.”
Stella and Grace friends? That was beyond weird.
“What was in that box George Murray took from your house early this morning?” Fred asked.
George had been at Grace’s house again, and he’d left with something. I looked at Grace to see how she was taking Fred’s question.
Guilty.
That was the only word to describe her expression.
“Did George come by to help you unpack?” I asked.
“Yes.” She sat rigidly upright, clutching her half-empty wine glass so tightly it would have broken if it had been crystal instead of plastic.
Definitely guilty.
Fred waited. He was doing that thing the cops do...ask a question and say nothing until the guilty party confesses.
What was Grace feeling so guilty about? She would be guilty of bad taste if she’d begun some kind of relationship with George Murray, but bad taste in men wasn’t a crime. If it was, they’d have hanged me for marrying Rickhead.
I should follow Fred’s lead and be quiet, wait for Grace to confess.
I didn’t.
“Grace, you’ve gone through a terrible trauma, losing your husband like that. It would be normal to, uh, look for companionship.” But not with George Murray! Please say that wasn’t what happened!
Grace’s eyes widened in horror. “What are you saying? I’d never cheat on Chuck!”
“What was in the box George took with him early this morning?” Fred’s repetition of the question was casual and non-threatening, but it felt important and threatening.
Grace looked up, again defiant. “Chuck had a lot of allergies.”
I checked the level of wine in my glass. Over half full. I hadn’t drunk enough that I should have lost track of the conversation, but somehow I had.
“Was the entire box filled with decongestants?” Fred understood the new topic. Apparently I was drunk after all.
Grace said nothing.
I certainly wasn’t going to say anything.
“You’ve got to tell the police,” Fred said.
“No! They’ll think...” Grace’s small features tightened into a fiercely protective expression. “You know what they’ll think.”
“I’m lost,” I said. “You don’t want the police to think Chuck had allergies?”
Fred and Grace looked at me as if I should be sitting in the corner wearing a dunce cap.
“Decongestants can be used to manufacture methamphetamine,” Fred said.
“I know that. I watched Breaking Bad.” I rebooted my brain. “Oh! You mean Chuck...?” Duh. “He knew George’s friend.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Grace said.
“Actually, it probably does.” I was speaking more to myself than to Grace, astonished I’d missed the connection. “George just got out of prison for selling drugs. He hasn’t had time to make new friends, so all those guys at the party were probably druggies too.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Gaylord offered Chuck a joint.”
“A little marijuana. Pretty soon it’ll be legal everywhere. You shouldn’t go around saying things like that. You’ll make it sound like Chuck was a bad person.”
“You don’t think being married to half the women in the Midwest makes him sound like a bad person?”
She burst into tears.
Way to go, Lindsay! “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it that way.” What other way could I possibly have meant it?
Fred produced a tissue and Grace wiped her eyes. “It’s all so awful. Not bad enough my husband’s dead, but he had those other wives, and the police think I killed him, and now you accuse him of cooking meth. He was a good man!”
Reminded me of Cathy Murray’s assertions that her grandson, George, was a good man. Optimism? Self-delusion?
I turned to Fred. “How big was the box of decongestants George took away?”
“Average size moving box.”
“How full was that box, Grace?”
She focused on her glass of wine.
“Even if it was only half full, that’s a lot of decongestants.”
“Chuck had awful—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “He had a lot of allergies. Wrong answer.” I leaned toward her. “Grace, you’re under suspicion for murder. If Chuck was involved with drug dealers, the police need to know. That’s a dangerous occupation. One of those people could have killed him. That guy who grabbed Chuck when you two were leaving was the same one who offered him a joint. What did he want? He didn’t seem friendly. I thought they were going to get into a fight.”
“The goofy looking guy?”
“Yes,” I said. “George introduced him as Gaylord Dumford.”
“He’s just somebody Chuck works with. I reckon even men who smoke pot have jobs.”
“What did he want?” I asked again.
“Something about a tractor that didn’t get delivered on time.”
“Did you hear that from him or did Chuck tell you?”
“Chuck sent me home while he talked to the guy. But Chuck said that was what happened, and he would never lie to me.” Grace hesitate
d and gulped. “I mean...” She ducked her head and took a long drink of wine.
“In other words, we have no way of knowing what Gaylord and Chuck talked about.” I applauded myself for being so tactful, not pointing out the number of things we already knew Chuck had lied to her about. “If Gaylord was alone with Chuck while you went on to the house, he could have given him something with cyanide in it.”
Grace’s head lifted. “Why would he do that?”
“You mentioned Chuck had lots of cash,” Fred said. “Where did he keep his cash?”
“It’s safe. The cops didn’t find it.”
“The cops didn’t find it?” I repeated. “You mean it’s in your house?”
Grace said nothing.
I looked at Fred. He didn’t appear surprised.
But he never does.
“If someone killed your husband over drug money,” Fred said, “and that drug money is in your house, you could be in danger. That could be what George was looking for.”
“He wasn’t looking for anything. He was just trying to help.”
“By taking away all Chuck’s decongestants?” I asked. “How did he know about them?”
“He found them while he was helping me unpack. He said it wouldn’t look good if the cops found them so he took them away for me.”
I bit my tongue and told myself to be nice. But nobody tells me what to do, not even me. “Grace, stop that. You’re being deliberately obtuse. You know exactly what all those decongestants meant, where all that cash came from, and why George was so eager to help you. You could be in danger. You’ve got to tell the cops.”
Grace’s chin tilted upward and her lips firmed.
I recognized that look. I’d seen it in the mirror. No way was she going to tell the cops anything.
“If you don’t tell them, I will,” I said.
“If you do, you’re no friend of mine.”
Yesterday I hadn’t been a friend of hers anyway, but her comment made me feel guilty. “You can’t put yourself in danger and risk going to prison to save Chuck’s reputation.”
“I reckon I can if I want to. This is my secret, and you better not tell.”
I squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t keep secrets well.”
“Promise me you won’t tell the cops,” she insisted. “Not Trent, not any of them.”
I looked at Fred for help. He offered none.
“Promise,” she demanded.
“All right, all right!” I said.
Grace smiled. “Thank you. You’re a true friend.”
There’s an old saying: Two people can keep a secret if neither of them is Lindsay.
Chapter Seven
Grace left with Chuck’s cell phone.
I closed the door behind her and returned to my chair. “She’s going to have Rickie erase all the data on her cell phone anyway.”
Fred nodded. “She’s in deep denial.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Perhaps I’ll have some of that wine after all,” he said.
Grace must be in big trouble if Fred was so stressed he was willing to drink my wine.
I brought him a half-full glass. “Drink that and you can have some more.”
He eyed the pink liquid askance. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
Fred’s such a kidder.
I resumed my seat.
He took a drink of wine, made a face, and took another. “Grace is her own worst enemy.”
“Maybe, but it’s because she’s trying to salvage something of her marriage.”
Fred grimaced, not from the wine this time. “He had at least seven wives, and evidence suggests he was involved in the production of meth to support those wives. What’s left to salvage from that scenario?”
“You don’t understand.”
He straightened his glasses which were not askew to begin with. “No, I don’t. Explain it to me.”
“Grace hasn’t had a lot of luck with love.”
He waited.
“Chuck was good to her. She loved him. She needs to believe that he loved her.”
“He was already married to at least six women when he promised to love, honor, and cherish her, forsaking all others.”
“She needs to believe he meant those words, that he’d found his true love in her, that the other women were part of his past, that he was going to forsake them.”
Fred considered the idea for a moment. “That’s possible but unlikely.”
“I know that, and Grace probably knows it on some level, but she’s going through a tough time. We are going to let her believe he might have divorced those other women and lived happily ever after with her.”
Deep lines creased Fred’s forehead.
“You keep frowning like that, you’ll get wrinkles,” I warned.
“Why do you care what Grace needs to believe? You don’t like her.”
I repositioned myself in my chair. Maybe I squirmed a little. “I don’t dislike her.”
Fred arched a skeptical eyebrow.
“Anymore,” I added.
“What’s changed?”
“Damn, Fred, her husband was murdered right in front of her! Don’t you have any compassion?”
“Yes, of course, but she’s putting herself in danger by refusing to accept reality. She’s getting involved with George Murray, a known felon who may have had a part in her husband’s murder, and she’s hiding cash which is almost certainly drug money and which the other drug dealers are probably aware of.”
“I know! And on top of all that, the cops think she killed Chuck. We have to help her.”
“All right. Convince her to leave the data on Chuck’s cell phone alone and tell the police everything, including the information about the decongestants and Chuck’s cash business.”
“Getting a divorce from Rickhead was easy compared to convincing Grace to sell out the love of her life. I have an idea. Why don’t you tell the cops? She didn’t make you promise not to.”
“I already told them all I know, that Grace and Chuck came to your party, dropped off Rickie, and left.”
“Did you tell them about Gaylord offering Chuck a joint? That would clue them in to the drug thing.”
“It would also clue them in that people had illegal drugs on your property. Under the circumstances, I thought it prudent to follow your logic that it’s not always necessary to tell everything we know, and neglecting to mention something is not the same as lying.”
Fred applied my teachings. It didn’t help Grace, but it was extremely flattering. “Can I get you some brownies?”
“Yes, please, in a to-go bag. I need to leave. You’ll want to contact Trent and find out about the events of the day. It might be an opportunity to tell him Grace’s secrets.”
I flinched. “You know I can’t do that. She made me promise not to tell Trent.”
Fred left me with a dilemma. Tell Trent the information Grace was withholding in an effort to protect her or be a loyal neighbor/friend and keep her secrets even though that could put her in danger?
I set my phone on the lamp table next to my chair and left it there while I melted cheese over corn chips, added jalapenos, and called it dinner. My stomach was too knotted for real food. Besides, neither Fred nor Paula had invited me to dinner so the option of real food was off the table.
I poured the rest of my glass of wine down the sink. I blab enough when I’m sober.
Darkness settled outside my windows. I didn’t turn on any lights. It’s easier to keep a secret when it’s dark.
I made that up, but I was ready to try anything.
Henry came home. I gave him food and catnip. As if he could sense my troubled thoughts, he settled on my lap and purred.
Maybe his compassionate gesture was due more to the catnip than feline sympathy. Whatever. I’d take it.
The evening wore on and Trent didn’t call. Maybe he wasn’t going to call. We talk almost every night, but almost every isn’t the same thing as every. H
e was busy with the murder across the street. He had things to do, people to arrest. I could only hope those people didn’t include Grace.
I sat in my recliner in my dark living room, watching my dark phone and hoping my boyfriend wouldn’t call.
Even I realized how weird it was to hope Trent wouldn’t call.
Henry would have realized it too if he hadn’t been stoned.
My phone lit up and vibrated.
Text message.
Notification that my wireless bill was due.
Never thought I’d be glad to see one of those irritating messages.
It was time for me to go to bed. I had to get up early. Millions of people count on me to produce their breakfast chocolate so they can keep the world running.
Maybe it’s closer to forty or fifty people instead of millions, but they all matter.
I continued to sit.
Light and music exploded from my phone.
I jumped.
Henry leapt off my lap and fled upstairs.
Left me alone to face the music, Out of a Blue Clear Sky, Trent’s ring tone.
I answered. “Hey.”
“Hey, you. How was your day?”
“Good. Henry didn’t bring home a mouse, I gave him catnip, Fred came over, I had nachos for dinner.” I was babbling, trying to talk about anything except Grace. “What did you have for dinner?” Oh, good grief! Could I come up with anything more insipid? “It’s been humid today. My hair’s really frizzy.” Yes! I’d done it! Spoken words more insipid than I realized possible.
I decided to shut up for a while.
“I had tacos for dinner, and I like your hair when it’s frizzy. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Grace didn’t kill her husband.” At least I hadn’t blurted out any secrets.
“You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”
“That’s good! I mean, I know. That’s okay. I understand.”
“You do?” He sounded surprised.
“Of course I do. So, what do you think about the chances of the Chiefs going to the Superbowl?” I know how to divert a man’s attention. Talk about football.
Trent was silent for a long moment.
Had I gotten it wrong again? Did the baseball team go to the Superbowl?
“It’s not football season,” he said.
“I meant the Royals.”
Guns, Wives and Chocolate Page 6