“Snort-Snort-Snort!”
11
I’m not sure how long it took before I finally heard the tapping. A minute. Maybe two. But it’s a miracle I heard it at all with the stuff rumbling around in my head.
I set my Cocoa Puffs down on the coffee table and walked quietly over to the window. At the risk of sounding awful, I simply was in no mood for Ms. Rapple and her directness. My nerves were shot.
I pulled back the curtains, grateful for the fact that I’d chosen to sit in the dark to eat. No light, no shadow. Not that Ms. Rapple didn’t already know I was home. Despite two years of smelling my smells and hearing my noises, Gertrude still acted like I was an escaped convict from death row every time I came up the shared sidewalk between our buildings. I suspected Ms. Rapple got a kick out of it. Or rather, a kick out of the way I jumped out of my skin each time the damn thing barked. (The woman really needed a man, or a job, or an institution—something.)
The old-fashioned street lamp, ten feet away, cast a faint glow across the back of my mystery tapper, illuminating the person’s wiry build and clown-red hair. Carter.
I pulled open the door and poked out my head.
“Your door is that one.” I flashed a grin at my upstairs neighbor as I yanked my head to the right.
“I know which door is mine, Sunshine.”
“Oh.” I pointed at his head. “Let me guess. Annie?”
There was little need for a nod, but he did anyway.
“The kid they cast in the lead has jet-black hair. A challenge, sure, but not one I can’t conquer. Started messing with different shades tonight and got this.” He ran a finger through his hair as if touching a Van Gogh. “Ended up a bit redder than I wanted, but I like it. It’s zippy.”
Note to self: Stay away from zippy.
“You want to come in?” I backed up and motioned inside, surprised at how much I hoped he’d say yes. Five minutes ago the last thing I wanted was to make conversation with another living soul. But Carter was different. He listened better than anyone I’d ever met. And when he spoke (similes and all) he always made me stop and think. And boy, could I use some of that tonight.
“I was hoping I could.” He stepped past me, strode halfway into the living room, and then pointed at the darkened overhead light. “Dodging Ms. Rapple again?”
“Who? Me?”
“That’s what I thought.” Carter unzipped his leather coat and hung it carefully over the back of the couch. He picked up my bowl and looked inside. “Let me guess. Broccoli Soup? Salad? No, wait. It can’t be. You love your greens as much as CEOs love trailer parks.”
I laughed (and snorted).
He ignored me. “Really, Tobi, Cocoa Puffs? Again?”
I pulled my bowl out of his hands. “You’re darn tootin’. Breakfast of champions. Want some?”
“I’ll pass. Besides, it’s ten o’clock at night, if you didn’t notice.” He dropped onto the nearby armchair and crossed his legs, his moccasin dangling from his big toe. “Just tell me this isn’t your dinner, okay?”
I hated statements like that. I mean, he obviously didn’t want to hear that it was indeed dinner, but did he want me to lie? Pretend I hadn’t passed on the pizza I brought to Mary Fran and Sam after work?
I shoveled a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and shrugged. It would have to do. If I tried to talk around my Puffs, I ran the risk of one escaping. And I’d lost one piece of chocolate already that day. I couldn’t stomach the thought of another.
“Tobi, what am I going to do with you?” We both knew it was a rhetorical question because he’d go nuts without me. Who wouldn’t?
I sat down, tucked one leg under me, and replayed the day at a speed that would impress Mario Andretti.
When I was done, Carter simply nodded.
“That’s it? A nod? Where’s your thought-provoking reply? Where’s your simile? Where’s your—” I stopped, leaned my head against the back of the couch, and sighed. How could I really expect him to make sense of this mess any better than I could?
“Seems to me you’ve uncovered some good stuff. A possible affair between Mitzi and the contractor’s cousin, a jealous neighbor with a nasty temper, and a dead husband who not only knew about his wife’s inappropriate behavior but also had come to realize she wasn’t up to his standards. That about sum it up?”
“Uh-huh.”
His moccasin finally lost its will to hang on and dropped to the ground. He kicked the other one off and leaned all the way back in his chair. “I wonder where all that money is gonna go.”
I stopped chewing and stored the unswallowed Cocoa Puffs in my left cheek like a hamster. “What?”
“The money. There were no kids, right?”
Somehow, the Puffs found their way down my throat unassisted. What did I tell you? Carter is a genius. An absolute genius.
“Oh my God, you’re right! If there was any kind of a prenup, Mitzi likely would have been out on the street if Preston left her. If he’d truly found out about her and Blake, if he’d simply gotten past the pain of losing his first wife and realized the mistake he’d made with Mitzi . . . Wow. Mitzi may have gotten hosed in a prenup, but maybe not in a will.”
Carter held up his hand in the same way he did when we played Red Light, Green Light that one time (don’t ask—long story). “Slow down, Tobi. It’s a possibility. Something to think about. But sometimes the truth isn’t that easy. It takes a keener mind.”
I ignored the keener mind comment. But, in all fairness, I’d completely overlooked the fact that Preston Hohlbrook was a very wealthy man.
“How long does it take for a will to be read? Any idea?” I asked.
“Probably depends on a lot of different circumstances. But I’d imagine pretty fast in this situation. A lot of people count on Hohlbrook Motors for their paycheck.”
I considered his words, played them out in my mind. It was time to do some more snooping.
“Want to go check out The Car Crash with me on Wednesday night?” I asked.
“Now, Tobi, tell me you can find better entertainment than watching a bunch of beer-bellied men high-fiving each other after someone wrecks a car. Tell me that breaking things off with Nick hasn’t made you resort to that.”
I laughed. “No. The Car Crash. It’s a bar over in Westport.”
The words had no sooner left my mouth when Carter started coughing and smacking himself on the back. (It was really an impressive display of theatrics for a guy who works behind the curtain.) “Me? In a traditional singles’ bar? With people who can’t dance . . . and who sing even worse? That’s like, like, like expecting Ms. Rapple to . . . to be nice.”
If Rudder had been in the room, I’d have let him take it away. But since he wasn’t, I snorted all on my own. Loudly.
Miraculously, Carter didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he’d heard it enough that he accepted it as normal. I suspect the latter.
I pushed off the couch and picked up my empty bowl. “That’s okay. I think I can handle a bar on my own.”
“You finally ready to meet someone, Sunshine?”
It’s a good thing my mom had included a few of those melamine bowls from my childhood in her last care package—she calls it a care package, but it’s really a way to get my crap out of her house—because I dropped my bowl.
“Good Lord, no!” I hissed. “Who are you? Mary Fran?”
Carter jumped to his feet and retrieved my bowl. He held it up and turned it toward the small sliver of light streaming in from the still-open curtain. “Bugs Bunny?”
I grabbed the bowl and headed to the kitchen, my hands still shaking at the thought of going to a bar to find a new guy. I mean, please, as if I needed that headache on top of everything else in my life right now. “Yeah, Bugs Bunny. Got a problem with that?”
Carter shrugged. “No. I’m just more of a Porky Pig fan, myself. Think about it. He was a trailblazer. A pioneer. A trendsetter. I mean, that pig did for stuttering what Superman did for spandex
and Lycra.”
I thought I’d swallowed the last of the Cocoa Puffs, but apparently I hadn’t because when I started to laugh, I began choking. Really choking.
Carter was at my side in a split second. “Arms up, Tobi.”
Oh God. Visions of childhood dinners flashed before my eyes. My mom was (and still is—trust me) a firm believer in the “arms up” de-choking method. Never mind we all felt like idiots at the height of our discomfort when she insisted on it. But it was the only way to stave off death by choking in her book, a book that Carter obviously owned as well.
I did as I was told and shot my arms up, wincing as he thumped the same spot on my back that Deserey had pounded repeatedly just eight hours earlier. Note to self: Find a new way to compensate for my lack of a poker face and refrain from eating when Carter was around.
Sure enough, it worked. Always did.
“Yet another reason why you need a little variety in your diet, Sunshine.” Carter kissed my forehead, picked up his coat, and headed for the living room, me in tow.
“That had absolutely nothing to do with my choice in food. It had everything to do with your similes and analogies. Do you think you could do something about those?” It was odd, but I was genuinely disappointed to see him slip into his coat. Life was so much more fun with Carter in it. Without him, I had too much time to think and no one around to set me straight.
He stepped into his moccasins, turned, and looked me straight in the eye. “If I did something with those, as you say, you would lose one of the things you love most about me. My essence. My sparkle. My shine.”
I didn’t argue. He was right.
Carter pulled open the door. “Wednesday night, you say?”
Yay! I had a victim—I mean, an accomplice. I grinned. A big goofy grin that I could feel spread across my face from one end to the other. “Yeah, Wednesday night.”
He mumbled something under his breath about checking his schedule and needing to buy earplugs to block out the singing, but I knew I had him. Carter was a sucker when it came to anything me-related.
“Oh, and Carter?”
“What is it, Sunshine?”
“It’ll be okay. Really. After all, you know what they say, right?”
Carter turned, his brows furrowed, obviously clueless to what I’d been waiting to say all night.
I couldn’t resist, I launched into the song “Tomorrow” from Annie. And once I started, I broke out into full song and couldn’t stop. I kept on singing despite his pleas for me to stop. I kept on singing despite the fact that lights were turning on in homes all over the block. And I kept on singing loudly despite the fact that I knew darn well my voice would rival one of Carter’s Gertrude-waking sneezes.
It was official. I’d lost it. I knew better than to poke a stick in Ms. Rapple’s cage. Yet I didn’t care. In fact, in a strange and twisted way, I think I even welcomed it.
When he was finally gone, backing his way into his door with his hands tented in prayer to the Patron Saint of Mutes, I would have traded just about anything to have that fun back. Because when I shut the door I was alone with visions of a dead man, a growing list of motives, and the very real image of a heartsick bird named Baboo. Not a fun place to be. Trust me.
I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. The bar would be a great place to try and pump Deserey for any thoughts she might have on Preston Hohlbrook’s will. Carter, when clued in, would come in handy for getting some information out of the Johnsons’ housekeeper, Glenda. He could make a rock talk. It was a gift.
But that was two nights away. Plenty of time to do a little snooping at Zander Closet Company first.
I opened my eyes (not much different considering the lights were still off) and pushed away from the door. What did I know about Blake Zander?
Not much.
He was Andy’s cousin. The labor side of the business. Or was until Gary got the call from Preston Hohlbrook demanding Blake be removed from the job site. Gary wanted him out right away, even volunteering to take on the task of completing the closet himself, despite the fact that the Showcase was days away at the time. Andy had wanted Blake to have a chance to defend himself, but Gary had shot that down.
Did they verbally reprimand him after that call? Did they dock his pay? Did they fire him?
I didn’t have a clue. The subject hadn’t come up since the phone call. And I hadn’t thought to ask. Until now.
Making a mental note to pay a little visit to my newest (and only) client, I picked up the phone and punched in my office line. Friday had been so crazy, with the television interview and JoAnna leaving early for her trip, that I had only listened to voice messages that had been tagged as urgent—a prearranged indicator JoAnna and I had worked out to ensure I was on top of things at all times.
I’d intended, of course, to listen to the rest over the weekend, but hadn’t. For obvious reasons, like a little thing called murder. And then today I’d gotten a little sidetracked by a floral arrangement, a gift from a guy who made me feel kind of funny inside, a snoop-fest at the scene of the crime, an animal rescue by way of a Miata, a horribly delayed car return, a pizza delivery, and an honest-to-goodness choke-a-thon (punishment, no doubt, for faking the first one).
I mean, really, who had the time to listen to voice messages with all that going on?
The first message was from my mother. She left it Friday morning at ten. As soon as I heard the words Sunday dinner and Uncle Fred, I cringed and skipped ahead.
The next message came in about an hour later. It was from Gary. He’d just finished his interview with Corrine Martin from Channel 2 and wanted to share every last detail. I could picture him puffing up his chest and flexing his arms as he spoke, his ego bursting through every word.
The third message was my mother again. Something about chicken parmesan (she was pulling out the big guns by mentioning my favorite dinner). I pressed skip again but not before my stomach gurgled.
The fourth message was a voice I was unfamiliar with.
“Ms. Tobias? My name is Charlotte West. I work with Preston Hohlbrook at Hohlbrook Motors.” I pulled the phone closer against my ear as the woman continued. “Mr. Hohlbrook would like to set up an appointment to talk with you one day next week. My number is 555-CARS. That’s 555-CARS. We look forward to hearing from you.”
The phone slipped inside my grasp, a casualty of my sweaty palms no doubt.
The woman continued. “By the way, we’re all very impressed by your creativeness around here.”
I didn’t hear the next eleven messages. Instead, I listened to Charlotte West’s again and again. The words never changed. The tone never changed. I learned nothing new no matter how many times I pressed replay. But, for whatever reason, I kept on doing it anyway.
When my finger got tired of pressing repeat, I put the phone down and glanced at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. The morning loomed ahead of me with places to go and questions to ask. I needed sleep. Desperately.
Still, I grabbed the phone and pressed the first number on my speed dial. It was never too late to call my Grandpa Stu.
12
I’d been up for hours. Not a hard thing to say when you never went to sleep in the first place. But my late-night talk with Grandpa Stu left me thinking. And plotting. And staring at the ceiling above my bed.
I suspect he didn’t sleep either. You see, my grandfather hated being left out of things. It drove him nuts, batty, cuckoo. And the thought of me knee-deep in a Hardy Boys novel without him had to be absolute torture for a man who owned every mystery party game out there. He’d gotten so proficient at naming the killer within the first three pages of the script that his cohorts from the Sexy Seniors Single Group had sworn off his parties. Permanently.
Fortunately for me and unfortunately for him, Grandpa Stu lived in Kansas City, a four-hour drive away. Doable? Sure, under normal circumstances. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t gotten his driver’s license back after the last speeding ticket.
&n
bsp; I leaned closer to the mirror and applied a little concealer under my eyes to offset the effects of my murder-induced insomnia. Sometime during the night I’d left a voice mail for JoAnna telling her I’d be out of the office most of the day. Gathering data.
On Blake Zander.
How I was going to get the answers I needed without tipping my hand to Andy was beyond me. He’d been fairly adamant I not get involved with Preston’s death, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Besides, when you think about it, why should he care? As long as I met my campaign obligations, what difference should it make if I were to sneak around in the hopes of catching a killer?
I pulled the tan cinch-waist jacket off the hanger and slipped it on over my dusty rose cami and jeans. My hair always looked good in two French braids, and today was no exception. With any luck, if Blake wasn’t into answering routine questions I could use my feminine charms on him.
I bypassed the kitchen on my way to the front closet. I was a little Cocoa-Puffed-out at the moment, and my stomach was a little too squirrelly for anything else. Maybe I’d try to grab a bagel or something at St. Louis Bread Company later. Or maybe I’d just make this a one-meal day. Certainly wouldn’t be a first.
As I pulled my ankle boots from the closet, I peeked out the window. Ms. Rapple was already heading inside after the first of Gertrude’s two morning pees, so I was safe. Leaving the house an hour before normal had its definite advantages.
I grabbed my backpack and a bus schedule and yanked open the door. Glancing to the left to ensure a clean getaway, I stepped onto the front stoop, the heel of my boot pushing down on something crinkly. An envelope with pastel lettering had been left on my door mat, a rock placed on top to keep it from blowing away. I bent down to grab it and recognized the handwriting in all its flowery glory. Carter.
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of lavender note paper.
Good morning, Sunshine!
Death in Advertising Page 11