“You didn’t let Dylan get into my closet, did you? I don’t want to find another of my favorite shoes with chew marks on the toe.”
Sophia just gave her one of those slanted-eye looks a cat gives her mistress when said mistress is being absurd. Reaching her front paws forward, she stretched into a perfect yoga position. Well, perfect for a cat. Caprice wished she could do that stretch so well. She liked yoga and had faithfully taken a class last year. But her time now was just too limited.
Opening the door, she lowered Dylan to the porch and watched him scamper down the steps to the patio and lawn. After church tomorrow, she needed to clean up the yard and mow the grass. With the schedule she’d been keeping, she might have to find someone to help with mowing and pruning this year. She would still plant her own flowers. The forsythia as well as the double-ruffled daffodils were fading now, and soon the pink and purple tulips would be too. The weather was supposed to turn cloudy and gray tomorrow afternoon, but beginning-of-May showers would add vibrancy and lushness to her yard.
Deciding to give Dylan a bit of freedom to run and let off steam, she opened a can of Sophia’s favorite good-for-cats food. She snacked on a specialty dry food, but she enjoyed canned for her main course. Dylan, on the other hand, often gobbled up some of last night’s leftovers in a healthy mix. Whenever Bella was around to witness their eating habits, she often groused that Caprice cared about what her animals ate as much as Bella cared about what her children ate. That was probably true.
For the next half hour, Caprice’s pets kept her mind off Roz as she fed them and sat at the kitchen table while they ate.
“Nikki did a great job on the medieval-themed food,” she relayed to Dylan and Sophia, quite seriously. “I can always count on her to make an open house a success.”
She hadn’t had a chance to thank Nikki before she’d left. Tearing down was as strenuous as setting up. But she’d call her in a few days. After all, next weekend was their monthly dinner at their parents’ house, as well as Mother’s Day, and they’d have to coordinate what they were bringing. They all cooked except Vince. He usually opted to bring the wine.
After both Dylan and Sophia had finished—it didn’t take long—Caprice picked up their dishes, did a preliminary wash, and tucked them into the dishwasher. She was on her way upstairs to change clothes when her cell phone played the early Beatles’ tune. Taking if from her skirt pocket, she checked the screen and smiled. She must have conjured up her brother.
“How was the open house?” he asked without a preliminary greeting.
Vince liked to give the impression he was a devil-may-care bachelor whose mind, when he wasn’t handling real estate settlements or divorces or writing wills, was on nothing heavier than having a good time. However, underneath that attitude was a guy who cared.
“Did Mom tell you about it?”
“Nope. I saw it in the paper. How was the turnout?”
“Hefty. But we needed people who came for more than the food.”
“That house is a monstrosity.”
“You’ve never been inside!”
“Just from the description in the Kismet Crier I could tell. I’d never want to live that far out of town, either.”
Vince lived in one of the oldest buildings in Kismet, in the center of town. A vintage school had been reconstructed into modern condos. He was a stone’s throw from his law office, a corner deli, and a theater that ran old movies. “If you had a family, you might change your mind.”
“I have a family. They’re enough to handle. How about you? Did you pick up anyone to date at the shindig?”
“I don’t pick up men.” She knew her voice held an edge because Vince was always hinting she was too insecure to ask a guy out. The truth was, she didn’t want to ask a guy out. She wanted him to ask her.
“One of these days, Caprice, you’re going to realize romance is a dream, and reality means you have to settle.”
Settle? She’d never just settle.
Yet when she thought about Roz and how happy she’d been before and right after she’d married Ted, Caprice wondered how a woman did make sure she was choosing the right guy. How did she make sure a man shared the same values and loyalties? Again she remembered Travis and their painful breakup. Painful for her, anyway.
“You’re too quiet. What’s wrong? Usually when I say something like that you’re all over me with protests.”
“Then why do you say it?”
“Just to get you riled up.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I have something on my mind.”
Since Vince was a lawyer and knew how to listen, he waited in case she wanted to talk about it. But she couldn’t talk about it. She had to figure out the right thing to do on her own.
“I did have a reason for calling,” he said after a long silence.
She’d guessed as much. Whereas she and Nikki and Bella called each other just to hear the sound of a sister’s voice, Vince—like many men she’d come in contact with—was goal-oriented. The old “hunter” versus “gatherer” mentality. Vince was definitely a “hunter.” Now she waited.
“So what are you giving Mom for her birthday? She always says she likes my flowers, but I ought to step up for a change and make some kind of effort.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate whatever you give her. Bella and I found a Fostoria bowl to go with the set Nana handed down to Mom. I asked Isaac to keep a lookout for other pieces in the set. Mom could probably use a few of the plates. If he finds more, are you interested?”
“Sure. But if he doesn’t find anything—”
“You don’t want to go back to flowers. I get it. I’ve also been considering throwing a surprise party. I don’t think she’s ever had one. But that’s a lot of work. We’ll all have to pitch in. Can you commit?”
“You think I can’t commit?”
“Can you?”
“You bet I can. If you need me to help, I’ll make the time.”
“Not if but when.”
“When you need me to help, I’ll make the time.”
“You’ll have to pinkie-swear the next time I see you.”
“Caprice—” His exasperation was evident.
“This will mean a lot to Mom.”
“I know.”
Caprice was well aware she had a trust issue. She expected men not to keep their word. Ever since Craig had left Kismet without looking back, after just an e-mail from California informing her they were through, she’d doubted any man’s sensitivity, let alone his ability to commit. Ever since she and Travis had become engaged and then he’d decided to reunite with his ex-wife, ever since Vince had forgotten her birthday year after year, been late for Bella and Joe’s wedding, and even missed Megan’s christening, Caprice simply didn’t depend on men.
The only exception was her dad.
“We can have a meeting to figure out exactly what we want to do,” she suggested.
“Sounds good. Finding a convenient time to meet will be the challenge. Caprice, did I ever tell you you’re a great little sister?”
“Once or twice,” she admitted with a laugh. “What kind of wine are you bringing to dinner next Sunday? Something special for Mother’s Day?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But it will be good.”
She knew it would be.
After she clicked off her phone, she realized Vince had taken her mind off Roz and Ted. For a few minutes.
Making a decision, Caprice knew she and Roz needed to talk face to face.
That talk was postponed a few days. After the open house, Ted had decided to take Roz with him to New York City. He had a meeting, but he’d bought tickets for a show she’d wanted to see. So it was Wednesday evening when Caprice drove to Roz’s, still unsure what she was going to say. What if Ted had been charming and loving on the trip? Would Roz believe her?
Gray clouds hung low in the sky as Caprice arrived, around five P.M. She was really hoping Ted would not be home. She couldn’t very
well ask Roz if Ted would be around because her friend would ask questions. Caprice was prepared to answer them face to face—but not over the phone. Of course, the house was big enough that she and Roz could find a private spot and then Caprice could fade away if Roz wanted to have a confrontation with her husband.
Parking to the side of the garage since she might be there for a while, Caprice made her way across the driveway to the circular drive and front door. However, when she rang the doorbell and the melodious bongs reverberated through the house, no one answered.
After waiting at least two minutes, she pushed the button again. More bongs. No one came.
So she tried the knob and the door opened. She might have imagined it, but it felt as if cold air rushed out. Shivering, she wondered if the late-day dampness had caused the eerie sensation.
“Caprice!”
Hearing her name and recognizing Roz’s voice, she turned toward the extended driveway and saw her friend jogging up the brick-patterned asphalt. She’d always admired Roz’s dedication to running. It surely kept her in shape. But just the thought of sweat and sore legs, knees, and feet made Caprice cringe. She hated to sweat. If anything, she liked to swim the best. But that was in summer. She supposed she could join the Kismet health club, Shape Up, because they had a pool. But she was always too busy to check it out and decide if she wanted to belong.
As she watched Roz run up the driveway, her slim legs in shorts all curvy and muscled, her T-shirt molding to her breasts like every woman might want a T-shirt to cling, Caprice knew she should give serious consideration to joining that club.
“Sorry, I’m late. My timing isn’t as good as it usually is. I got distracted and went a little farther than usual, trying to work off those meals we enjoyed in New York. We had such a good time. It was almost like . . . when we were first married.”
Just what Caprice had feared. Ted had romanced his wife on this trip. Instead of responding to Roz’s restored outlook on her marriage, Caprice said, “You’re not late. I’m a bit early.” And she was. She wanted to get this over with. She hadn’t slept well since the open house, thinking about the exact words she was going to use.
Roz went to the door. “You should have gone in.”
“I rang the bell, but Ted didn’t answer. Is he home?” She held her breath, hoping Roz would say “no.”
To Caprice’s dismay, Roz responded, “He should be. We’re going to the Murphys’ for cocktails. Sean Murphy is an important business contact. His financial firm holds PA Pharm’s retirement accounts.”
After Roz pushed open the heavy door, Caprice stepped inside.
“Ted,” Roz called, her voice seeming to ricochet off the walls.
There was no answer.
“Maybe he’s in his office or upstairs. I’ll try the intercom.”
Caprice’s sweater coat swayed along her calves, and her lime-green bell-bottoms swished around her ankles as she walked with Roz, readying herself for the conversation she was about to have. The right words were still eluding her. Not “right” words, but less destructive words.
Roz turned to the left, leading Caprice down the hall. “I want to check his office first.”
They stopped in the doorway of a very masculine room, all leather, with stubby carpet and a hardwood hutch with geode bookends holding what looked to be volumes of pharmaceutical guides. Caprice hadn’t done much to this room since it was sparsely furnished to start with. She’d added a plaid throw over the back of the burgundy leather love seat, a ficus plant in one corner, and two needlepoint proverbs above a credenza.
Crossing to the intercom on the wall, Roz spoke into it. “Ted, if you’re in the house, Caprice is here. Can you let me know where you are?”
Silence met Roz’s suggestion.
With a shake of her head, she left her husband’s office and continued down the hall that led to a sunroom. The door to both the sunroom and the door leading outside were standing open.
“I don’t know why he left it open. I guess he went for a walk around the lake. If he doesn’t return soon, he’s going to get wet,” Roz said with a smile. “But he needs the exercise to work off some of his stress. Come on. Let’s get a glass of wine. Denise called while we were away and said there are two couples who seemed most interested in the house.”
Anxiety knotting her stomach, Caprice resolved that once they were seated in the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, she would broach the subject of Valerie Swanson.
Returning to the foyer, Roz stopped. “I had two messages on the house phone about Nikki’s food. I gave the women her number.”
“She’ll appreciate the business.”
“Is she still cooking out of her condo?”
“She sure is. Although she’s doing well, she doesn’t want to add on more overhead at this stage. I can’t blame her.”
As Caprice and Roz headed for the kitchen, they had to pass the sword room. Caprice didn’t give it much notice . . . just kept walking. But Roz suddenly stopped.
Caprice turned around.
Roz stood in the doorway, looking puzzled.
“Is something wrong?”
“The curio case is open and—”
Roz took a step inside and . . . screamed. It was a blood-curdling scream that shook Caprice to her core.
Hurrying to her friend, she stepped into the room and saw—
She couldn’t believe what she saw. Ted Winslow lay on the floor, one of his prized daggers protruding from his back.
Chapter Four
Caprice’s knees shook in her bell-bottom slacks as red, blue, and white streams from light bars atop patrol cars flashed across the Winslows’ yard. She stood near one of those patrol cars almost at the entrance to the driveway, aware of the yards and yards of yellow crime-scene tape. She couldn’t shake the vision of Ted, blood staining the back of his white oxford shirt, the tall dagger from the wrought-iron stand next to the desk plunged deeply into his body.
Roz had crumpled to the floor beside her husband as Caprice had dialed 911.
Emergency vans and other law enforcement vehicles had zoomed onto the property at intervals. An officer from the Kismet P.D. had guided them outside and down the driveway, needing to clear the crime scene. He’d also separated Caprice from Roz and fingerprinted her. After the paramedics left—they’d pronounced Ted dead—a detective had questioned Caprice while another questioned Roz. Now Roz was leaning against the forensic team’s van as if it was holding her up in the May night, which was turning cooler, damper, and drearier.
Spotting the Kismet P.D.’s chief of police, Mack Powalski, Caprice felt somewhat reassured. Her dad had gone to school with him. He had even attended their family gatherings now and then and was often around when she was growing up. She’d seen him briefly after he’d arrived.
Maybe she should call her brother. Did she and Roz need a lawyer?
No. She’d watched too many crime shows . . . read too many suspense-filled novels.
Yet this was real life. She was standing outside a house where a murder had been committed. A man she’d known was dead.
Checking her watch, she noticed Roz’s questioning had gone on for more than an hour. She was standing too far away to overhear. The chief had suggested she could sit in the patrol car—warrants were being obtained to search her and Roz’s cars—but she’d decided to stay as close to Roz as she could.
What were the chief and the detective talking to Roz about? It didn’t take that long to describe what had happened.
Finally, the detective put his small notebook into his pocket and the chief walked with Roz toward Caprice. Her friend looked as if she was going to collapse.
Caprice wrapped her arm around Roz’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Roz shook her head, and Caprice knew she’d asked a stupid question. Of course Roz wasn’t okay. She was shivering. Her lips even appeared a little blue, and her face was as pale as the white marble in the Winslow foyer.
“Mrs. Winslow isn’t feeling wel
l,” the chief explained. “She says she’s light-headed. We’ll continue this discussion later. I can call the paramedics and have them come back, or you could take her to the ER at the hospital—”
“I . . . can’t . . .” Her friend’s gaze slid up the drive to the house.
“You can’t what?” Caprice asked gently.
“I can’t leave. Ted’s—” Roz just pointed to the front of the house, and Caprice felt so sorry for her.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Roz’s eyes were huge. “He’s—”
Caprice suspected Roz was in shock. She couldn’t even string a sentence together. Is that why her interview had taken so long?
Roz’s shivering grew worse, and Caprice saw, as the chief had, that she needed medical attention. “I’ll take her to the urgent care center. We shouldn’t have to wait as long as at the hospital. However . . . I can’t drive my car,” she murmured.
“No, you can’t,” he agreed.
“I can call Nikki to pick us up.” Caprice was already pulling her phone from her pocket. Hitting speed dial, she called her sister. She would be here in ten minutes . . . if she was home.
Nikki’s small, cobalt-blue sedan had racked up 80,000 miles in fewer than five years but was still reliable.
“Heat,” Caprice ordered as she tucked Roz into the passenger side and climbed in the back, out of the fine drizzle that had just started.
Nikki didn’t say a word as she carefully made a K-turn in front of the crime scene. The police had blocked off an area in front of the Winslow property so reporters and news vans would keep their distance. She mumbled, “I can’t believe this.”
“Neither can we,” Caprice assured her, watching Roz closely.
After a quarter of a mile, Caprice noticed a vehicle following them. A reporter? She moved forward on her seat. With the heater fan blowing and windshield wipers swiping the glass, she whispered to Nikki, “Lose the car on your tail.”
After glancing in the rearview mirror, Nikki nodded.
On the road leading away from Reservoir Heights, obviously mindful of a winding side road, Nikki made a sharp turn onto it, sped up, and swiftly made another turn onto a hard-to-see gravel access road that led to the rear of one of the properties. She shut off her lights.
Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) Page 4