by CeCe Osgood
The petite brunette leaped up from her chair behind the receptionist desk. "What do you want?"
"I need to see Alan."
"He's not here, not for you." Gina bustled to the frosted glass door leading to the patient rooms and Alan's private domain and threw her arms out to block the door as if she were keeping out a horde of barbarians.
Abby surged toward her. "I have to see him."
"You need to leave!"
Gina's high-pitched voice alerted the waiting patients who held up their phones and started recording. Abby glowered at Gina. "Look, I need to speak to Alan—"
"He's Doctor Durant to you."
What an annoying pest! "I need to speak to Doctor Durant. There. Satisfied? C'mon, Gina, this is not romantic. This is business."
"Abby?" a voice called out. It was Fran Flores, Alan's assistant, returning from lunch.
Flustered by Fran's appearance, Gina whined, "She doesn't have an appointment."
"Gina, sit." The two words from Fran were enough to make Gina wither and hurry back to her chair.
Fran snapped at the clients. "No cameras allowed in here. Please turn them off right now."
"What's going on?" Alan said as he pushed through the frosted glass door. He stopped short when he saw Abby. "Honey, let me explain—"
"I'm not here about that, Alan. There was a fire at Burt's last night."
Alan's jaw dropped. “What?"
"Are you okay?" Fran said.
Abby's head bobbed. "Yes. But the shop is gone. Totally destroyed."
Her eyes hardened. "And the insurance policy was cancelled because the company never received the quarterly payment that you were supposed to mail for me, Alan."
His face pinched in and a faint "I forgot" came whispering out of him.
Abby stared at him, her head shaking back and forth like a mad woman. "You idiot! I could just kill you, Alan!"
Chapter Three
The next day Abby sat at the kitchen table, back on the phone explaining to the insurance agent Alan had screwed up. "But it was his fault. He didn't mail my check to you. And, besides that, I never received the notice of cancellation."
"I can't help that, Ms. Little. We sent it. And, just to let you know, if this policy was in effect, we'd have a significant issue with the cause of the fire. The early assessment from the fire department has not ruled out arson."
Arson? Abby was too shocked to even speak.
The agent added with a note of contempt, "Arson is a serious crime, Ms. Little.”
"What?" Was he actually saying he suspected her of arson?
The agent pressed on. "Tell me, Ms. Little, do you have any ... enemies?"
"Enemies? No. Don't be ridiculous."
"In my experience, Ms. Little, everyone has made an enemy or two in their lives."
Well, I bet you have, buddy. "No, not me. I don't have any enemies, and I'm absolutely one hundred percent certain that the investigators will find out it wasn't arson."
"Like I said, it doesn't matter anyway as your policy was cancelled." The phone went dead.
She had to restrain herself from throwing the cellphone across the room. "This is so wrong," she groaned. "How can this week get any worse?"
The sound of flip flops slapping against the wood stairs warned her Jill was approaching. Calm down. Don't scare her because you're scared.
Abby took a calming deep breath. Surely, she could fight this somehow. She took another steadying breath and said as evenly as possible, "You need to put out the garbage, Jill."
Jill groaned.
"And make sure you wash your hands when you come back inside."
Jill, not a morning person, rubbed her eyes and grumbled, "What am I? Five? I always wash my hands."
She grumbled a little more but did as she was asked and lifted the black plastic bag out of the trash can to take it outside.
Abby drummed her fingernails on the table, mulling over what she might cut to save more money. She'd already cancelled Netflix and stopped getting the pedicures she loved. Maybe Jill's lessons with Rita? They had been paid for in advance, and there was another month to go, but after that, she wasn't sure. It was good for her studious little bookworm to be outdoors and, hopefully, socializing with her peers.
Jill ambled back inside and tossed a puffy manila envelope on the coffee table. "This was taped to the front door."
Abby ripped it open. It was a note from Alan. The coward wouldn't even knock on the door and give it to me face-to-face.
Jill looked over her mom's shoulder. "What's it say?"
"It's Alan's apology for not mailing the insurance payment." She found the envelope with her check inside. "He says he found it under the seat in his car."
She slipped a nail under the seal to open the envelope, noticing it felt kind of odd, then pulled out the check and ripped it in two. "Thanks for nothing, Alan."
A bulge in the manila envelope puzzled her. She reached inside, pulled out a gold lipstick case then glanced at Alan's note again. Here's your lipstick.
"This isn't mine."
"I'll take it," Jill said, plucking the lipstick out of her mother's hand. She uncapped it, made a face. "Nah. That's way too dark for me." The lipstick was a blackish purple. "Here, you can have it back."
"I don't want it. Toss it," Abby said before changing her mind. "No, wait. Give it to me."
Alan's mid-century styled house had captivated Abby the first time she was there. He'd revamped it in order to highlight its late '50s exterior while modernizing the interior.
Her car pulled into the narrow driveway and rolled to a stop just before the pavement widened to accommodate a double-car garage. At this angle, she could see the retro art deco chandelier in the kitchen. The amber glow told her Alan was home. He was a stickler for turning off lights when not in use.
Snatching the puffy manila envelope from the passenger seat, she trotted up the front steps. She'd scribbled a note on the manila envelope advising him to go to hell and take the lipstick, which wasn't hers, with him.
Her finger jabbed the doorbell. There was no sound inside. Alan still hadn't fixed the chimes. "Jerk," she muttered. "He owns a gorgeous house and doesn't take the time to have his doorbell repaired. Guess he was too busy with his receptionist."
Why didn't I listen to my intuition? On their very first date she'd known they weren't a good fit, and yet she'd continued to go out with him.
"Alan, I know you're home." She knocked hard, then harder. When there was still no answer, she decided to leave the manila envelope. She'd already put tape on it in case he wasn't home. Her finger pressed the tape to the door, but it wouldn't stick, and when she pressed harder, the door clicked open. Her nose scrunched up. That wasn't like Alan. He always locked up. "Alan?"
Her eyes swept the foyer as she stepped inside, a tickle of trepidation crawling up the back of her neck. He must be in the kitchen since the lights were on back there. "It's me. Abby."
Her sandals slapped the honey-colored floor as she made her way down the dim hallway. "Alan?"
The circle of light from the overhead chandelier illuminated the expensive rectangular Xavier kitchen table.
He was seated at the far end, his arms splayed out in front of him and his head resting on the table at an odd angle.
"Alan." Alarm stung her insides as she hurried to him and touched his neck. He was warm to the touch, but she knew without a doubt Alan would soon be very, very cold.
Chapter Four
The wailing siren of the EMS vehicle brought out a throng of neighbors. Abby could hear their voices outside as she sat huddled on the couch, trying to grasp what had happened. A heart attack, she guessed.
Her ears tuned into an EMS tech chattering on his phone as he emerged from the hallway. She couldn't hear his words, only his urgent tone.
Minutes later, another blaze of lights flashed outside, and then two uniformed police officers rushed inside.
One officer stared at her. She pointed her finger—the
same one that had touched Alan's neck—down the hall. He quickly headed that way, leaving the other officer to stay with Abby.
Out on the street, more neighbors clustered near the EMS vehicle.
By the front curb, a clot of teenagers snickered and joked, deluded by their youth into believing they were invincible.
More time ticked by before a heavy-set, gray-haired African American man in a rumpled brown suit arrived.
His eyes landed on Abby who sat crumpled on the ochre leather sofa. He nodded to the uniform officer, and the officer quietly walked off to deal with the onlookers outside.
Abby gazed up at the big man with dark, friendly eyes. "I'm Detective Daryl Guthrie. Are you Abby Little?"
She frowned. A detective? "Yes, I'm Abby Little." Her frown deepened. The detective looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him.
"I have a question or two for you, Ms. Little," he said, lowering his bulky frame into the matching leather chair across from her.
She nodded absently as her hand rubbed the leather couch. Alan liked earth tones: ochre, sienna, umber. He'd worn a sienna suit on their first real date.
"I understand you were visiting Mr. Durant."
Her head shook from side to side. "Um, no. I wasn't visiting."
"You weren't?"
"I dropped by because he left me a note with a lipstick saying he'd found it in his car. But it wasn't my lipstick. That's why I was here. I brought it back. I was going to leave it outside, but then I found the door open and I walked in."
Guthrie's voice had a mellow, soothing quality that she liked. "So, you're saying the door was wide open like it is now?"
She shook her head again, still dazed. "No. It wasn't wide open. It was closed. I mean, it looked closed. When I was taping the note to the door, I pressed hard to get the tape to stick, and the door popped open."
Guthrie's eyes flickered. "You didn't know the door was unlocked?"
"That's right."
The detective nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. "And you walked inside and went straight to the kitchen?"
Abby's stomach churned. Did she detect a slight hint of suspicion in Guthrie's voice?
"The lights were on back there. Alan doesn't leave lights on when he's not home."
"So, you knew he was home?"
Abby nodded, gulped, then licked her dry lips. "I was pretty sure he was home, yes. I didn't see his car, but he often parks in the garage. So, I walked back to the kitchen, and that's when I saw ... you know." Another gulp. "And then I called 911."
"You immediately called 911?"
"Well, not immediately. I mean, I saw him at the table and..." Her throat closed up.
It took a moment for her to continue. "I touched his neck, and I knew he was gone. That's when I called 911."
Guthrie tipped his head, watching her closely. He exhaled, paused, then said, "Ms. Little, I'll need you to stay right where you are for now. Okay?" His tone was back to mellow.
She nodded, clasped her hands together and stared at the floor as the detective pushed out of the chair and strode toward the kitchen.
Minutes later, another man in a rumpled suit arrived. This guy was short, wiry and not nearly as polite as Detective Guthrie. He flew bat-like right at her, and his nasally voice was as sharp as his features. "You the one who found the body?"
She bobbed her head, feeling weirdly guilty under his menacing gaze.
"I'm Detective Ross," he said then fired off the same questions she had just answered.
Abby's forehead creased into a frown. "I already told all this to Detective Guthrie."
Ross's upper lip twitched. "And now you can tell it to me, lady."
She stared at him. Jerk.
From the kitchen came Guthrie's deep voice, not so mellow this time. "Ross, get in here."
Ross scowled at Abby before darting down the hallway yapping, "Who's our dead guy?"
The front door creaked open. Abby entered, filled with concern as to how to tell her daughter about Alan. "Jill?" she called out.
"You caught me. I'm eating the last of the ice cream." The teen came strolling out of the kitchen licking an ice cream cone, saw her mother's crumpled face. "You look terrible. What's wrong?"
"I have some bad news," Abby said wearily as she closed the door, feeling the strength she had conjured up to drive home now fleeing from her body. She tried not to sound too grim. "Let's sit down, sweetie."
Once they were seated next to each other on the sofa, she put her arm around her daughter and explained in vague terms what had happened, making it sound like Alan had died of a heart attack, although now she had the troublesome taste of suspicion on her tongue.
Her curiosity—the trait her father had called tenaciously remarkable even though it drove him crazy—was buzzing with questions.
Why had the EMS people called the police? Why had detectives shown up? Why did they question her like they did? For a heart attack?
Guthrie had let her go home but implied he would he would need to speak to her again. What else did he want to know?
Sometime later, Abby drifted upstairs to her bedroom and stared at the stacks of books she had been keeping on the left side of the king-sized bed she'd once shared with Charles.
After their divorce, she'd populated that side of the massive bed with lots of books. The entire Harry Potter series, cookbooks by James Beard, and all the Stephanie Plum novels. They were supposedly for late night reading, but in truth, they were a way to make the bed feel a little less lonely.
After she met Alan, she'd removed the books from the left side, but when she saw him with Gina at Larry Tom's, she'd piled them back on.
Picking up a stack, she quickly removed the books to make room for Jill who didn't want to sleep by herself tonight.
Rubbing her teary eyes, Jill came into the bedroom holding her favorite pillow, took more books off the bed and crawled under the cool percale sheets. Neither one felt like reading. Abby turned off the lamp and stared out the window at the swaying treetops.
What a terrible week. I break up with Alan, the shop goes up in flames, the insurance people deny my claim, and then Alan dies. He never mentioned any health problems, but then heart attacks do happen even to people who appear healthy. People who exercise and eat right. Well, Alan did like sweets, especially Dad's wonderful Cloud Ten dessert.
Abby woke up to the aroma of coffee and burned toast. Jill was usually a late sleeper, but the smell indicated she'd gotten up early. That was how she liked her toast, slightly burned with the crust cut off.
Minutes later, Abby stumbled into the kitchen and eased into a chair at the kitchen.
Jill brought her a mug. "Good morning, ma'am. Here's your non-fat caramel frappuccino with whipped cream and a dash of chocolate sauce."
Abby stared down at the mug. It was her regular black coffee. She knew Jill was trying to keep things light. "Thank you, barista. Here's a big tip. Buy low, sell high."
"Lame-o brain-o," Jill quipped, then dropped the act with a sigh. "Momma, want eggs and toast?"
Abby picked up the mug, nodded.
She had almost finished the meal when the doorbell rang, not just one time, but three quick insistent rings. Jill motioned for her to stay put. "I'll get it."
As the door opened, Jill yelped when a surly man holding a microphone shoved it into her face. "Where's your mother?"
Behind him stood a cluster of cameras and reporters who suddenly all started shouting questions.
Abby rushed to the door and pulled Jill away to shield her from the barrage. One question cut through the others. "Did you murder Alan Durant?"
Her head jerked toward the voice. "What?"
The reporters lobbed more questions at her, creating a cacophony of noise, but all Abby could hear was the voice in her head. Alan was murdered. Alan was murdered.
She slammed the front door.
Jill, her face ashen, could barely get the words out. "Y-you said you thought it was a h-heart attack
."
"I know. I wasn't sure though. I guess that's why the cops were there. I really did think it was a heart attack."
The crowd noises outside buzzed even louder, and a moment later the doorbell rang again.
Abby yelled through the door. "You're trespassing. Go away!"
Someone yelled back. "Open the door, Ms. Little."
Abby cringed, recognizing the nasally voice of Detective Ross. "Go upstairs, Jill."
"Why?"
"Just go upstairs," Abby said, raising her voice.
"But why?"
"We'll talk later. Go," she said, her voice louder this time. No way am I going to expose you to this jerk of a detective and let him upset you like he does me.
Jill clomped up the stairs, letting the staccato sound be her proxy for defiance.
The doorbell rang again.
Abby cracked open the door, peeked out to see the detectives. Ross in front, Guthrie behind him. She slowly swung the door open and let the two men inside.
Detective Ross started in on her. "There's a video online of you threatening to kill Dr. Durant."
Abby's eyes blazed. "That's ridiculous."
Then she remembered the patients at Alan's office. Even though Fran had told them to put their phones away, one of them must've continued recording and caught her confrontation with Alan.
She realized the detectives might be judging her silence and hastily said, "It was an empty threat. That's all. I was mad at Alan. I didn't kill him."
Her eyes darted from Ross to Guthrie; she noticed sweat beading on the bulky detective's forehead and was about ask him if he needed a glass of water when he said, "Ms. Little, is there something else you didn't tell us?"
Abby rocked back and forth on her heels, sensing the note of suspicion in his question. What did he mean? What something else?
"Um, no," she said, finally finding her voice. "No. Nothing. Except for the fight, I mean the quarrel, at his office."
Ross with a surly "gotcha" expression reached into a side pocket and withdrew a 4x6 photograph. "Did you bring this to Alan Durant's house last night?"