by CeCe Osgood
She'd worn flats in case Len Stubbs was shorter than her five-nine and a half. As she entered the store, her left heel caught on the edge of a rug and sent her sprawling.
Stubbs hurried to her side, but instead of helping her up, he gawked at her legs.
Abby yanked down her skirt, pushed up on her knees. When she was upright with the full weight of her body on her feet, she winced.
The tumble had bruised her right foot. "Perfect. Just want I needed," she griped under her breath.
Stubbs led her into his plush office and sat behind a square desk that dwarfed him. She noted how unimpressed he was when she mentioned owning her own small business. "Yeah? For how long?"
"Well, it was my father's business and I gradually took it over because of his health—"
He scoffed. "But it was your daddy who started it and built it up into something worthwhile, wasn't it? Not you."
She didn't see his point. "I've kept the shop going and I've sold baked goods, wedding cakes, all kinds of desserts. Doesn't that count as sales experience?"
Stubbs lowered his chin to his chest. "Furniture is unique. You gotta be forceful and aggressive to sell my stuff. I ain't seeing that in you."
"I-I can be forceful and a-aggressive."
"Can ya? Can ya hook a customer with a snazzy line and when they ask you questions, which they will, can you answer by giving 'em exactly the kind of baloney they wanna hear?"
Abby's skin crawled. She didn't care for this Len Stubbs fellow. Working for him would be torturous. Once again, something sizzled up inside of her. She rose, one hand on the arm of the chair for support.
"I can see, Mr. Stubbs, we're not a good fit. Goodbye." She walked, well, hobbled out wincing when her foot hit the floor. See. I can to be forceful and aggressive.
Returning to the Volvo, she slid into the front seat and considered her options as she rubbed her bruised foot, paying special attention to her toes. Nice and normal toes. Not like that night I imagined floating up to the ceiling.
She'd had too much wine that night. That was why her imagination went tripping into bizzaro land.
A gold Chevy pulled into the space next to her and gleamed in the sunlight, reminding her of the gold lipstick case. It was still in her purse. She'd wrapped it in a napkin to take to Alan's and then she'd forgotten it when she found him dead.
"I guess I might as well..." her voice trailed off. She clicked on her phone, searched for an address and was pleased to discover she was less than a mile away from Fallbrook Lane. Perfect timing for a little trip to satisfy her curiosity.
Chapter Fourteen
The house on Fallbrook Lane looked like the others in the subdivision. Nothing distinguished the brick house from the others on the block. Abby double-checked to be certain it was the address she'd found for Gina Sandretti, wife of Bruno.
The photos on Facebook showed an unsmiling man ten or fifteen years older than the petite brunette.
A black Corolla stood in the driveway. The moment Abby started to get out of her car, Gina, wearing a navy blue running outfit, came jogging from the rear of the house, her boobs bouncing up and down like a dashboard hula doll on a road littered with potholes.
Surprised, Abby scrambled back inside and slouched down behind the wheel to hide.
On the count of ten, she scooted up in the seat to peek over the wheel. Gina was almost to the end of the street.
Abby switched on the engine and eased into the street. A thought seized her. Why am I doing this? If she sees me, she could claim I'm a stalker. Still, there was a question bothering her and, hell's bells, she wanted an answer.
Gina slowed at a stop sign before taking a right to sprint down another tree-lined street.
The Volvo slowly moved forward. A block later, Gina stopped at a park. Shouting, laughing children were at play, mostly challenging each other to climb to the highest rung of the jungle gym.
Through the windshield, Abby watched Gina approach a leafy cottonwood where she pulled an object out of a pocket.
"Aha," said Abby as Gina lit up a cigarette. She didn't intend to exercise. She wanted a smoke. The running suit was a cover.
Flicking a strand of hair out of her face, Abby slipped out of the car having decided it would be better to talk to Gina here in a public place rather than at her house, her private property. She winced. Her foot hurt from the fall at the creepy furniture store.
She limped as she moved closer to Gina. The brunette's head was turned, watching the kids on a nearby swing set. "Gina."
Her head swiveled, fright filled her face as she stared at the approaching figure. "Get away from me, you murderer."
Abby halted. "I didn't kill Alan." No way was she going to allow this woman to hurl accusations at her. "Did you?"
Gina squawked back. "No, I did not."
They stared at each other in a maddening silence until Abby finally said, "So if it's not you and it's not me, who did it?"
"I don't know." Gina poked the lit cigarette at Abby. "You could be lying."
"Well, same to you."
The standoff lasted another endless moment as their eyes locked in battle. Then a chubby youngster in plaid shorts and a green shirt came running to the swing set, distracting both women.
Abby took advantage of the distraction and reached into her pocket. "I have something I want you to see, Gina."
She cocked her head, indicating she wanted to move away from the swings now that the child was so close. "Let's walk over there."
Gina drifted away to the left, glancing behind to see if Abby was trailing her. She was.
Gina stopped at a wooden bench. Abby did too, but neither one sat down. Abby really wanted to as her foot was throbbing, but she couldn't sit if Gina kept standing. It would put her at a disadvantage. No. She needed to use her height to intimidate Gina since being nice didn't look like it would work.
Abby held up the gold lipstick case. "Is this yours?" She uncapped it and waved the dark purple lipstick.
Make-up was certainly not her area of expertise, but she'd studied art at one time and she knew the almost black, dark purple color of the lipstick would look terrible with the sallow yellow undertone of Gina's skin.
"No. I wouldn't wear that."
Abby narrowed her eyes. Gina's comment fit with the conclusion she had drawn earlier when she observed the bland, featureless house on Fallbrook Lane.
Nothing stood out. Not a potted plant, or window box, or anything at all. It looked exactly like the house next to it, across the street from it and down the block.
From that observation, Abby concluded Gina's color choices were traditional, probably ranged from crimson to coral, never anything as rebellious or flagrant as this purple almost black lipstick.
But, on the other hand, Gina was sneaky, like pretending to go out for a run while her true intention was to smoke, which showed she was devious enough to like sneaking around and cheating on her husband.
A shiver caught her off guard. What if it were Gina's husband, Bruno, who killed Alan? Jealousy. Revenge. Sex. Age-old motives for murder.
Gina dropped the cigarette, toed it out. Abby grimaced. She hated finding cigarette butts on a playground.
"Stay away from me," Gina warned, trotting off toward the street in a hurry to get home.
Abby stopped her with one sentence. "I won't say a word to Bruno if you answer my questions."
Gina spun around. "Is that a threat?"
"Consider it a witness statement. Remember I saw you two groping outside of Larry Tom's."
Gina's hands balled into fists.
Abby plowed ahead. "When did you last see Alan?"
"At work the day you bawled him out for the insurance goof up."
Goof up? That's a crap way to refer to him forgetting to mail the payment and ruining my business. "So, he did fire you that day?"
Gina paused, pulled the pack and lighter out of her pocket to light up another cigarette. "Sort of. That's the day I left, but he'd already told me I had to quit r
ight after you saw us at Larry Tom's. I protested, but he offered me a decent severance, so I told him I wanted to wait until the end of the month. I figured my husband might suspect something if I just up and quit out of the blue."
Gina flicked an ash. "But after you screamed at him at the clinic, Fran got in his face and demanded he fire me that afternoon. Guess she sniffed out what was going on between us."
An expression of disdain spread across her face. "He always pampered Fran. I think they had a thing once."
Abby's stomach tensed. She'd considered the same notion but had dismissed it.
Gina waved away the curling smoke from the ciggie. "Me and him always had to act like we barely knew each other in the office because he wanted me to stay off Fran's radar."
Gina's left shoulder hiked up a notch. "I bet they did do the tango, if you know what I mean."
Her eyes cut to the trio of kids racing toward the jungle gym with their mother yelling at them that it was time to leave because it looked like it might rain.
Then her gaze darted back to Abby. "I'm no fool. I made him give me two months' severance, or I'd tell Fran his little secret."
Abby cocked her head, baffled. "What secret?"
"Alan had another woman. Not you. Not me. Someone else."
"You're lying."
"I am not. You're such a goodie-two-shoes." A touch of malice in her laugh. "You really don't know squat about men. Our boy Alan was addicted to the conquest. He shuffled women like cards."
Abby blinked. "He was cheating on you and me?"
Gina rolled her eyes. "Read my lips. Alan liked having a harem. He joked about it with me. Guess he didn't with you 'cause you were the respectable one, the one he could take home to mother."
The thought of being anywhere near Alan's cold-hearted mother made Abby shiver.
Gina said, "I should've ditched him, but I liked our afternoon flings and how he'd sneak a feel when we'd pass each other in the hallway at the clinic."
Abby, grossed out, finally managed to get a question out. She held up the gold lipstick case. "The other woman. You think this belongs to her?"
Gina shrugged.
"Do you know who she is?"
"I might." Gina mimed zippering her lips shut.
Abby bristled. If she wants money, forget it.
Gina said. "You answer my question, I'll answer yours."
"Deal. Ask."
"Did Alan take you somewhere for a weekend trip in August?"
Abby frowned at the unexpected question. "Um, yes. We went to a resort on Lake Malbar."
"The second weekend in August?"
Abby paused, thinking. "No. It was the first weekend. The second weekend I had a wedding and Alan went to see his cousin."
Gina's eyes narrowed. "What cousin?"
"An older man who had a stroke. He lives in Dayton. Why are you asking about that weekend?"
"My husband always goes hunting the second weekend in August. I told Alan that, and I asked him if we could go somewhere nice together. I was sick of the low-rent motel we always went to, and I wanted to go to a ritzy place and maybe go dancing. But he said no because you had already asked him to go with you to your class reunion."
"My reunion?" Abby frowned. "That was years ago."
Gina screwed up her face. "That's my point, genius. Our boy Alan didn't go see any sick cousin or traipse off with you to a reunion. He lied to you, and to me. I'll bet you dollars to donuts he was banging the other chick that weekend."
Abby's fingers curled around the lipstick case. "You believe he was with her? Purple Lips?"
Gina kicked at a weed growing near her sneaker. "Two and two makes four."
"Do you know who she is?"
Gina dropped the cigarette and stomped it out. Abby felt like picking up the butt and tossing it into the nearest trash can. Yeah, just like a goodie-two-shoes.
Gina snorted, "She's beautiful, I'll give her that. I can see how he'd be tempted, and, believe me, that's what she was doing. Tempting him. I could tell by the way she strutted around in those flimsy dresses and glittery sunglasses."
Sunglasses? Glittery sunglasses. Abby stiffened. Gina was talking about the blonde on the staircase at the clinic. The same blonde she'd seen dining at Emile's with Silas Wabash.
Abby said, "What's her name?"
Chapter Fifteen
Abby sat on the bench in the playground, watching Gina trot back down the street. She reached down to rub her throbbing foot.
Should I try to find Wabash and ask him about the blonde? Maybe Alan put her in his will too, like he did with Fran? That could be her motive to kill him.
Maybe that was why the lawyer was having dinner with her? To explain how much she would inherit. She inhaled sharply. Or maybe Wabash was in on it?
Her mind was reeling with questions, she wondered how to find the answers. A drop of rain splashed on the tip of her nose as she pushed off the bench and winced when her foot touched the ground before hobbling back to the car.
Abby zipped by the sedan parked out in front of Twila's house and wheeled into her own driveway. Twila was standing by the curb near a white sedan and chatting with a heavy-set woman who then slipped into the driver's seat of the sedan.
As the car drove off, Twila strolled next door. "That was my landlady, Abby. The one I drove to the clinic. She sends you her condolences. She said Alan's treatments helped neck at lot."
Abby responded with a nod, and walked around the car, limping.
Twila made a face. "You okay?"
"Abigail the klutz strikes again." She winced. Twila offered her arm and Abby took it.
Once inside, she sat back on the nutmeg brown sectional with her foot resting on the coffee table. The eggplant bruise ran from her the big toe to the heel.
Twila started out the door. "I've got a potion, I mean an ointment, I can whip up to help with the pain. Be back in a second."
Five minutes later, she returned and handed a small jar to Abby who took a glob and rubbed it on her foot. "Tingles." She sniffed the jar. "Lavender?"
"And other herbs and essential oils. It's a homemade remedy which I then zap with healing energy." Twila raised her hand, her palm toward Abby. "If you wish, I can give you some directly."
"Um, sure," Abby said, humoring her kooky neighbor.
Rubbing the ointment on her bruised foot, Abby enjoyed the warm sensation, glanced up at Twila and her breath caught in her throat.
Twila's light hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing her ears which were enormous and pointy, like a fox.
Abby gawked, her expression locked in stunned amazement. How had she not noticed that before?
Twila's right hand reached out to touch the big toe, and, instinctively, Abby pulled it away from her touch.
"I guess you're right. It needs a little more time," Twila said.
Abby gulped, stared at Twila's ears, now small and delicate. What in the world...
Twila caught her staring, frowned and said, "If you need more of this"—she took the jar off the coffee table—"let me know."
Another tingling sensation caused Abby to lift her foot. "It feels better." She moved it in a circle. "A lot better."
"I thought it would. For thousands of years, herbs and plants have been used for healing."
A frown marred her pretty face. "But for malice too. Some herbs and plants are toxic, even deadly, like hemlock, tiger lily, oleander. You wouldn't believe how many times I've had to warn dog owners not to get Sago palms. One seed can be deadly for—"
Her cell phone sang out a melodious tune. "Ah, that's my mother. See you later, Abby." Twila pulled a jewel-like cellphone from her pocket and left the house murmuring on the phone.
Abby turned her head to watch her neighbor on the sidewalk, a nub of curiosity rising inside of her.
Twila was savvy about herbs. She knew the healing ones from the harmful ones, the deadly ones. And Alan was poisoned.
Like Gina had said earlier at the park. Two and two ma
kes four.
A noise upstairs derailed her thoughts. "Jill? Kiddo? Are you home?"
"Yes."
"You didn't hear me down here with Twila?"
"I was reading."
Like that was enough of an explanation. Actually, it was. Jill did go into a trance-like state when she was tripping inside the world of a novel.
Jill yelled, "I'm hungry."
"Fend for yourself, daughter dear," Abby yelled back. She twisted her foot in a circle. "Wow." Then she stood up and tested her full weight on it. Not even a twinge of pain. "Twila needs to bottle that stuff. Go on Shark Tank with it."
In the kitchen, she made a peanut butter sandwich for Jill and spicy bean dip on crackers for herself, along with a little wine. She'd been parsing out what was left of the almost empty bottle because she'd promised not to buy anymore for a while.
Even though she still had most of the cash from pawning her rings, she'd vowed no more foolish spending. Forget alcohol or potato chips or chocolate ice cream—her favorites when she was stressed.
She lowered her rump into a dining room chair and, as she waited for the laptop to come alive, she tugged on a lock of her hair. A scowl burnished her face. Cinnamon red. How can that be? I dyed it last week.
Usually the henna lasted at least four weeks before she had to dye it again. Her eyes returned to the laptop; she typed in the name Gina had given her, waiting in anticipation, which was suddenly interrupted by Jill thudding down the stairs. "I'm babysitting again tomorrow."
"Good," she said, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Bring home lots of money."
"As the seagulls said in Finding Nemo, 'mine, mine, mine,' " Jill said as she breezed by her mother. She stopped and scowled at the spicy bean dip on crackers. "Beans, blah. Anything good to eat?"
Abby didn't look up from the laptop. "Peanut butter sandwich on the counter. Leave me alone. I'm busy."
Jill called from the kitchen. "Are you going grocery shopping soon?"
When Abby didn't answer, Jill, nibbling her sandwich, slid across the floor in her white crew socks to where her mother was busily tapping away. "Abby Little."
"What?"