“So what was he doing up here?”
Okay, good question. I was trying to think of a good answer when one of the plastic people interrupted. “Will someone please get this cat out of here?” she called from behind us.
I turned to see Snowflake scurrying across the floor, gleefully unraveling a roll of yellow police tape. I quick hopped down to retrieve her while the plastic people sputtered this and that about contaminating the crime scene.
“She does live here,” I said. They stopped scolding and watched as I picked her up and returned to my seat.
Snowflake had other ideas, however. She switched from my lap to Rye’s and immediately commenced purring.
Rye resumed the interrogation. “Did you invite Mr. Sweetzer up here?”
“Nooo, I did not. I was working. I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when Stanley showed up out of the blue.”
“You always work Saturday nights?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Rye took a deep breath. “You were alone then? Before Sweetzer showed up?”
“Snowflake was here.”
More deep breathing. “Did he say anything, Ms. Hewitt?”
“He looked up when he hit the couch and whispered ‘Candy.’” I shook my head. “It was awful.”
“Could he have mistaken you for Candy?”
I shook my head again. “She’s at least twenty years younger than me, a lot shorter, and has long dark hair.” I pointed to my short blond cut. “No.”
“Well then, maybe he had come from Candy’s.” Rye twirled around and called over to a young black guy—the only person other than himself in a business suit—and introduced me to Lieutenant Russell Densmore.
The Lieutenant shook my hand, but seemed far more interested in the teacups and the cat, who continued to occupy his boss’s lap. His gaze landed back on me while he listened to instructions.
“Go downstairs to 2B and get them up here,” Captain Rye told him. “Someone named Candy Poppe in particular.”
“She’s still at work,” I said, but Lieutenant Densmore left anyway.
I looked at Rye. “I really don’t think Stanley came here from Candy’s,” I insisted. “She’s at work. I saw her there myself.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was in Tate’s this afternoon.”
Rye took another gander at my chest. “That outfit for Sweetzer’s benefit?”
“My outfi—What? No!”
Despite the stupid bra, only a madman would find my typical writing attire even remotely seductive. That evening I was wearing a pair of jeans, cut off above the knee, and a discarded men’s dress shirt from way back when, courtesy of my ex-husband. As usual when I’m at home, I was barefoot. Stick a corncob pipe in my mouth and point me toward the Mississippi, and I might have borne a vague resemblance to Huck Finn—a tall, thin, menopausal Huck Finn.
I folded my arms and glared. “As I keep telling you, Captain, I was not expecting company.”
“Is the door downstairs always unlocked?”
“Umm, yes?”
“You are kidding, right? You live smack in the middle of downtown Clarence and leave your front door unlocked? Anyone and his brother had access to this building tonight. You realize that?”
I gritted my teeth, mustered what was left of my patience, and suggested he talk to my neighbors about it. “For all I know, they’ve been here for years without a lock on that door.”
Rye might have enjoyed lecturing me further, but luckily Lieutenant Densmore came back and distracted him. He reported that, indeed, Candy Poppe was not at home.
“What a shocker,” I mumbled.
One of the plastic people also joined us. “You were right, Captain,” she said. “This definitely looks unnatural.”
“Yet another shocker.” My voice had gained some volume, and all three of them frowned at me. I frowned back. “This whole evening has been extremely unnatural.”
Rye turned and gave directions to the plastic person—something about getting the body to the medical examiner. He told Lieutenant Densmore to go downstairs and wait for Candy. Then he scooted Snowflake onto the floor and stood up to issue orders to the rest of the crowd.
I stood up also. Everyone appeared to have finished with their dusting, and I was happy to see that Stanley had been taken away. But it was a bit disconcerting to watch my couch being hauled off.
“You wouldn’t want it here anyway, would you?” the Captain asked me. We stood together and waited while everyone else gathered their equipment and departed.
Rye was the last go. “I’ll be downstairs if you think of anything else, Ms. Hewitt. Or call me.” He handed me his card and headed toward the door. “I can’t wait to hear what Ms. Poppe has to say for herself.”
“She’ll have nothing to say for herself,” I called after him. “She’s been at work all day.”
He turned at the doorway. “Stay put,” he said. “That’s an order.”
“Shut the door behind you, Captain. That’s an order.”
***
I headed for the fridge, desperately in search of champagne. Given the situation, this may seem odd. But champagne became my drink of choice after my divorce, when I decided every day without my ex is a day worth celebrating. Even days with dead bodies in them. I popped the cork. Make that, especially days with dead bodies.
I opened my door to better hear what was happening below and sank down in an easy chair. Candy got home at 9:30, but Rye and Densmore quickly shuffled her into her condo, and someone closed the door.
“Most unhandy,” I told Snowflake. She jumped onto my lap, and together we stared at the empty spot where my couch had been.
The Korbel bottle was nearly half empty by the time Candy’s door opened again. I hopped up to eavesdrop at my own doorway and heard Rye say something about calling him if she thought of anything else. Lieutenant Densmore asked if she had any family close by.
“My parents,” she answered. “But I think I’ll go see Jessie now, okay?”
I didn’t catch Rye’s reply, but the cops finally left, and within seconds Candy was at my doorstep.
“Oh, Jessie,” she cried as I pulled her inside. She stopped short. “Umm, what happened to your sofa?”
“We need to talk,” I told her. I guided her toward my bed and had her lie down.
The poor woman cried for a solid ten minutes. I held her hand and waited, and eventually she asked for some champagne. Like I told Rye—Candy and I are good friends.
I went to fetch a tray, and she was sitting up when I returned to the bedroom.
“Do you feel like talking, Sweetie?” I asked as I handed her a glass.
She took a sip, and then pulled a tissue from the box on my nightstand and made a sloppy attempt to wipe the mascara from under her eyes. “Those policemen told me what happened, but I could barely listen.”
“They wanted to know why Stanley was here tonight. Do you know?”
She shook her head. “They kept asking me where I was. I was at work, right?”
“At least you have a solid alibi.” I frowned. “Which makes one of us.”
“Captain Rye was real interested in you, Jessie. I think he likes you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Would you get a grip, Candy? Rye’s real interested because he thinks I killed your boyfriend.”
Her face dropped and she blinked her big brown eyes. “Did someone kill Stanley?”
Okay, so Candy Poppe isn’t exactly the fizziest champagne in the fridge. Even on days without dead bodies.
“It looks like Stanley was murdered,” I said quietly and handed her another tissue. “Did he have any enemies?”
“That’s what Captain Rye kept asking me,” she whined. “But everyone loved Stanley, didn’t they?”
I had my doubts but thought it best to agree. I asked about his family, and over the remains of the Korbel, we discussed his parents. Apparently Margaret and Roger Sweetzer did not approve of Candy.
&
nbsp; “They think I was after his money,” she said. She put down her empty glass. “They don’t like my job either. I swear to God, his mother comes into the store twice a week to embarrass me in front of the customers. And every time Mr. Sweetzer sees me, he asks how business is and stares at my chest.”
While Candy blew her nose, I stared at her chest. The woman is my friend and all, but I could see how people might get the wrong impression. On this particular occasion she was wearing her red mini dress—and I do mean mini—and had accessorized with a truckload of red baubles and beads that would have fit better on a Christmas tree than on Candy’s petite frame. An unlikely pair of red patent leather stilettos completed the ensemble.
I stifled a frown. Hopefully, Captain Rye understood she had not known her fiancé was about to die when she wiggled her curvaceous little body into that outfit.
I mumbled something about trying to get some rest. If I still had my couch, I would have slept on it and let Candy drift off on the bed. I lamented such as she got up to leave, but she assured me she would be fine and teetered out the door in those ridiculous red shoes.
About the Author
Cindy Blackburn has a confession to make–she does not play pool. It’s that whole eye-hand coordination thing. What Cindy does do well is school. So when she’s not writing silly stories she’s teaching serious history. European history is her favorite subject, and the ancient stuff is best of all. The deader the better! A native Vermonter who hates cold weather, Cindy divides her time between the south and the north. During the school year you’ll find her in South Carolina, but come summer she’ll be on the porch of her lakeside shack in Vermont. Cindy has a fat cat named Betty and a cute husband named John. Betty the muse meows constantly while Cindy tries to type. John provides the technical support. Both are extremely lovable.
When Cindy isn’t writing, grading papers, or feeding the cat, she likes to take long walks or paddle her kayak around the lake. Her favorite travel destinations are all in Europe, her favorite TV show is NCIS, her favorite movie is Moonstruck, her favorite color is orange, and her favorite authors (if she must choose) are Joan Hess and Spencer Quinn. Cindy dislikes vacuuming, traffic, and lima beans.
www.cueballmysteries.com
www.cueballmysteries.com/blog
@cbmysteries
Acknowledgements
I could not have written Three Odd Balls without gobs of help from gobs of people. Thanks to everyone who offered me their support, encouragement, and time. I am bound to forget someone, but here goes: Jean Everett, Anne Saunders, Sharon Politi, Jane Bishop, Joanna Innes, Bob Spearman, Kathy Powell, Megan Beardsley, Betsy Blackburn, Martha Twombly, Karen Phillips, Shari Stauch, Teddy Stockwell, Sean Scapellatto, Carol Peters and my friends at the LRWA. Special super-duper mega thanks to my husband John Blackburn, my technical guru extraordinaire and my hero.
Table of Contents
Three Odd Balls
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Please Keep Reading
Book One: Playing With Poison
Book Two: Double Shot
Playing With Poison
Chapter 1
About the Author
Acknowledgements
03 - Three Odd Balls Page 24