by V. M. Burns
David stood for several seconds after Stephanie and Dixie left. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead, he turned and walked out with the standard poodle on the leash.
I took a deep breath, grateful for a few moments of peace. Something had been bothering me ever since the incident with the police, but I couldn’t remember what it was. When I tried to focus and make myself remember, it flitted away, just out of reach. Focusing on something else, like cooking, would allow me to think about other things, and hopefully, the thing I wanted to remember would come out of the shadows and into the light. I picked up a sharp knife and started peeling potatoes. I had barely started when the back door slammed. I yelled, “Did you forget something?”
David stood in the back door with Chyna and Leia and a stricken look on his face.
“What’s happened?”
He took a deep breath. “There are police cars and an ambulance next door. I think something might have happened to Mr. Hurston.”
I wiped my hands on a dishcloth and hurried to the door.
David reached out to stop me. “Stephanie said to wait here until she can have a quick talk with the detective.”
“Detective? I thought you said there was an ambulance? He must have had a stroke or a heart attack or something.”
Something in David’s eyes told me there was more to this than met the eye.
“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
He swallowed. “Mrs. Carpenter was outside. I heard her say he was murdered. He’d been stabbed.”
CHAPTER 9
The idea of eating made me want to gag. However, cooking was different. Cooking provided my hands with something to do. If the item I chose to cook was something I’d made many times before, then my mind could disengage and wander while my hands went on autopilot and did all of the work. Cooking was comforting, and I indulged by making a breakfast casserole. In fact, I sent David to the store to buy more eggs, and I made two of them: one for us and one for Marianne. That was what good neighbors did, right? When your next-door neighbor was stabbed, you made a casserole. I forced myself not to laugh hysterically and fried the sausage for the casseroles.
In addition to breakfast casseroles, I made hash browns. Normally, my least favorite part about making hash browns was squeezing the water out of the potatoes. The key to getting crispy hash brown potatoes was to get as much of the water out of the potatoes as possible. I was always amazed at how much water there was in just a few potatoes. So, after I peeled and shredded the potatoes, I put them in cheesecloth and squeezed, wrung, wrung, and squeezed until I couldn’t squeeze or wring anymore.
I hadn’t realized David was watching me until he walked up behind me and removed the dripping, potato-stained cloth from my hands. I was drenched in water from the potatoes. My hands were dripping wet, but the water that dripped from my face had nothing to do with the hash browns.
Today was my turn for support, and David provided the comfort and love I needed. He wrapped his arms around me and held me. I put my head on his shoulder and cried. I cried for all the loss. I cried for the loss of trust when my husband violated our marriage vows. I cried for the loss of life when someone decided to murder him. I cried for Bradley Hurston, who had dedicated years to serving his community, and for the disease that stole his memories and crippled him, putting him in a wheelchair. Finally, I cried for the life next door that was taken so violently. When I was cried out, I stood back and accepted the paper towel he provided.
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. “It’s not fair.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Bradley Hurston deserved so much better than to die like that.”
I could smell the casseroles and knew they were done. I washed my face, turned off the oven, and then removed the bubbling goodness from the oven. I wrapped one in foil and walked it across the yard.
The police had taped a boundary around the perimeter of the house, and there was what appeared to be an army of policemen walking, photographing, and scanning the ground.
I walked up to a policeman who was standing at the tape boundary. “I’m Lilly Echosby. I live next door. Could I leave this for Marianne?”
His head was tilted down in my direction, but he wore mirrored sunglasses that prevented anyone from seeing his eyes. His face didn’t relax, and nothing resembling a smile penetrated his façade. He had a wire bungee cord coming out of his ear and a radio secured to his shoulder. He pushed a button and spoke into the radio. I heard static and muffled sounds but couldn’t make out words. Apparently the border patrol was better at deciphering garbled messages than me.
“I’m sorry, but no one is allowed to enter. This is an active crime scene.”
“Can you take this and just leave it inside then?” I tried to hand him the casserole.
“No, ma’am.”
I huffed and turned to walk away. I’d just have to put the breakfast casserole in the fridge and bring it over later. I took a few steps and then heard my name.
“Lilly, oh God, Lilly.” Marianne Carpenter ran from the side of the house. She nearly collided with me, which would have meant second- and possibly third-degree burns from the still-hot casserole.
Fortunately, I managed to turn so the casserole wasn’t between us as she put her arms around my neck. Both of my arms were out to one side in an effort to prevent casserole calamity, and Marianne hung from my neck. I felt the casserole slip and was about to adjust my position when Dixie hurried up and relieved me of the dish.
The strain must have been too much, because Marianne’s legs gave out and she would have fallen and taken me down with her, had David not rushed over at that moment. He scooped Marianne up in his arms. Dixie rushed into the house. She reappeared moments later, minus the casserole, and held the back door open. As David got Marianne inside, I saw Stephanie, out of the side of my eye, hurrying to the ambulance in the front of the house, which had yet to leave.
David put Marianne on the sofa. Stephanie returned with one of the emergency medical technicians who checked her pulse and blood pressure, and then diagnosed her as having fainted. I hadn’t studied medicine, but I already knew that much.
Marianne came around a few moments later. “I’m so sorry. I just suddenly felt lightheaded.”
“It’s okay. You’ve had a terrible shock,” I reassured her.
The EMTs took Marianne to the hospital, just to make sure she was okay. As they were leaving, the coroner arrived to remove Bradley Hurston.
After all of the excitement died down, I finished cooking the hash browns. When they were done, my attorney, Christopher Williams, arrived. Christopher was wearing what appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be an extremely expensive, hand-tailored dark brown suit. His shoes were a dark caramel color that looked like truffles.
“You’re just in time for breakfast,” I said as he came in and petted the poodles.
Dogs fed and lying on the floor, we ate almost an entire breakfast casserole. The hash browns were all that hash browns should be: crispy and well-seasoned, with bits of onions and red and green peppers.
“This is delicious.” Christopher washed down the last of his hash browns with coffee.
There was nothing like preparing food for people you cared about and watching them enjoy it. Almost everyone seemed to have enjoyed the breakfast, and I smiled. David had barely touched his food.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
David looked up and it took a few moments for his eyes to focus. It was as though he’d been miles away. However, when he focused, he looked at me with a softness and tenderness that made me weepy.
I patted his hand. “I’m going to be fine. I know you’re worried about me, but I’m okay. I didn’t kill your father, and I believe that, with my excellent attorney here”—I stared at Christopher—“the police, and my friends, we’re going to find the perso
n who did.”
David nodded. “I know you didn’t kill him. But there’s something you need to know.”
I waited expectantly.
David took a deep breath. “I think I know how the gun got in the glove box of the car.”
I gasped. Of all the things I’d expected, that wasn’t in the top two hundred. “How?” I whispered.
He took another deep breath. “The night I got home, I went up to bed. I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering…wondering about her.”
I tilted my head and stared. “Who?”
He swallowed. “Her? That Bambi person. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. How could he do that? How could he just throw away over a quarter of a century of marriage and give up our family for some…some…b—”
“I believe the politically correct term is home-wrecking harlot,” Dixie said.
David smiled. “Yeah, I guess that’s as good as anything.”
“So, what did you do?” I asked.
“Hold on,” Christopher interrupted. “I need to caution you. I’m representing your mother, not you. If what you’re about to say has any bearing on the case, I might be compelled to reveal it in the course of her defense.”
“Perhaps you should step outside,” Stephanie suggested.
Christopher rose, but David waved him back to his seat.
“Don’t bother. I’m going to make a statement to the police later.”
Christopher sat back down, and we all waited patiently.
“I went to see her,” David said.
“Bambi? You went to the apartment?” Stephanie asked.
David shook his head. “No. I went to the Purple Panther.”
“The strip club?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. My son was old enough to frequent such establishments, and I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that at twenty-three, he’d never been to a strip club before, but the Purple Panther was a sleazy dive that made me want to spray the entire house down with Lysol.
He nodded.
“How did you know she’d be there?” Christopher asked.
“Before I came back, I reached out to Chip Nelson. I knew he worked at the dealership with Dad.” He paced in the small kitchen. “Besides, Chip was the sleaziest person I knew. If anyone knew where Bambi worked, it’d be Chip.”
“Seems logical.” Stephanie took a sip of coffee.
“Okay, so you went to the Purple Panther. Did you see her?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I saw her. I saw all of her.”
I smiled.
“Did you talk to her?” Christopher asked.
David hung his head. “Not at first. It’s such a disgusting place. The floor was sticky. The place reeked of smoke and weed and vomit. The women were…well, let’s just say none of them were the type of talent one would find dancing on Broadway or at Radio City Music Hall.”
I smiled. “I doubt the clientele of the Purple Panther actually cares how well the women dance.”
“I just meant it was incredibly sleazy, and the thought of my dad in a place like that made me feel sick.” He paced. “How could he seriously believe that any woman who worked there would be interested in anything other than his money?”
“Did you talk to her?” I asked.
David nodded. “Yeah. I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.”
“So, how’d that go?” I asked as casually as I could.
He shook his head. “Not good. I bought her a drink, and she came to the table. The first words out of her mouth were, ‘Twenty dollars for a lap dance, and the price goes up depending on what else you want.’” He shuddered.
“Did she know who you were?” Christopher asked.
He nodded. “I told her. I thought it would make a difference.”
“Did it?” I asked.
“No. She just said she didn’t do family and friend discounts.”
Dixie spit out her coffee. “Sorry.” She took a napkin and wiped up the mess.
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t get it. I may be dense, but I still don’t see how the gun got in the glove box.” I swallowed and tried hard to steady my voice. “You didn’t take her anywhere in the car, did you?”
David stared at me. “You must be kidding. Of course not.”
Dixie, Stephanie, and I all released breaths at the same time. We looked at each other and laughed.
“I guess we’re all relieved about that, but still…” I looked at David.
“I was there. I was at the Purple Panther. She must have put the gun in the glove box while I was there.”
“You think Bambi put the gun in the glove box?” I asked.
David paced. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. She knew Dad. She wanted his money and thought she could get it if she killed him. So, she shot him and then hid the gun while I was at the Purple Panther.” He paced quickly. “God knows, there must be tons of illegal things going on in that place.” He paused. “When she saw me, she must have either put the gun in the glove box or had someone do it for her.”
I pondered what he said.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I never should have gone there. I just felt like I needed to see her for myself.”
I patted his hand. “It’s okay, dear. Curiosity is normal. If I hadn’t seen her for myself at Stephanie’s office, I might have been tempted to do the same thing.”
David turned to Christopher. “Can’t the police check to see if her fingerprints are on the gun?”
Christopher shook his head. “I’ve already checked the police report. The only fingerprints on the gun were your mother’s, Mrs. Jefferson’s, and Detective Harrison’s. The gun was reported stolen over a year ago by a very prominent member of society, Dr. Andrew Price.”
“It wasn’t dad’s gun?” Stephanie asked.
He shook his head.
“Dr. Price? That name sounds familiar,” I said.
“It should. Dr. Price is a prominent member of the Lighthouse Dunes community. He is a world-renowned psychologist. He’s—”
“Oh my God, not the Dr. Price?” Dixie smacked her hand down on the table, shaking our mugs and spilling coffee on the table. “He’s famous.”
I stared and shook my head.
“You have got to be kidding? How can you not know Dr. Price?” Dixie stared at me as though I was dense. “He’s a genius with helping people with addictions.” She leaned close. “They say all of the big celebrities go to him. He’s been on Oprah and Dr. Phil and all of those talk shows.”
“Oprah?”
She nodded. “When she had her talk show, she had him on whenever she had someone who was suffering from alcohol or drug addiction. Now Dr. Phil uses him all the time. I had no idea he lived here.”
“Me, either,” I said. “Could he be involved in this somehow? I mean, it was his gun.”
Christopher shook his head. “He reported the gun missing, and he’s been in Hollywood …filming.”
Something in the way he added the last word caused us to stare at him.
Dixie bounced in her chair with excitement. “Oh my God. He’s getting his own show, isn’t he? Please tell me he’s getting his own show!”
Christopher took a sip of coffee and nodded. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I did hear it from a very reliable source.”
“He is so handsome. I just knew they’d give him his own show sooner or later!” Dixie stared at me. “He has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and his jaw…it’s like Rock Hudson.”
“Well, that surely warrants getting your own television show.” I took a sip of coffee.
Stephanie smiled. “Unfortunately, he’s not just handsome, he’s smart too.”
“Don’t tell me you watch those types of shows too?” I stared at my daughter.
She chuckled. “I wish I had time to watch, but it’s u
sually playing whenever I go to get a manicure.” She held out her hands. “From what I’ve seen, he’s actually very well-known and extremely sought after. His track record is pretty good too.”
“So, the gun that shot Albert was stolen from this Rock Hudson–looking psychologist and just now shows up in the glove box of our spare car,” I summarized.
“Unfortunately, it could have been in that glove box a long time.” Christopher looked at his watch. “We’d better get down to the precinct.”
Before I could get up, there was a knock at the door.
Stephanie answered the door and came back after a few moments, followed by Detective Olivia Wilson.
“We were just leaving for the precinct,” I said.
She waved me back to my seat. “In light of the murder next door, we’ve decided to expedite things a bit.”
I stared. “Expedite? What do you mean?”
Detective Wilson came around the table and pulled out a set of handcuffs. “I am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Albert Echosby, and for suspicion for the murder of your neighbor, Bradley Hurston.”
CHAPTER 10
The next five hours were a nightmare I wouldn’t want to relive if my life depended on it. I couldn’t believe a few days ago I thought my husband leaving me for an exotic dancer named Bambi was the most humiliating thing that could ever happen in my life. But feeling tossed aside like an old car being exchanged for a newer model was nothing in comparison to being accused of murdering your husband. Being handcuffed in the kitchen of my house in front of my children was awful. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the looks on their faces as they stood by helplessly watching their mother be marched out of the house and put into the back of a police car.
Even though I knew I’d be charged with murder, I wasn’t prepared for the reality of having my fingerprints and a mugshot taken. I was placed in a jail cell, where I was, thankfully, left alone for over an hour. Even though the Lighthouse Dunes police hadn’t moved into their new facilities yet, I was pleasantly surprised to find the cinder-block cell clean, despite the concrete floor and graffiti-covered walls. There was a rusted bed with a threadbare blanket and sheets that might have been white at one time but were closer to beige now. I pondered why establishments like this didn’t switch to some other color for their linens that wouldn’t be quite so obvious when they lost their color. However, after further thought, I realized that white allowed for the use of bleach, which was probably more important, all things considered.