Kansas City Secrets

by Julie Miller

  Arlene whirled around on the man with salt-and-pepper hair who must be her husband. “He asked me questions. We were having a conversation.”

  “Uh-huh.” The lanky older man extended his hand over the fence. “I’m Otis Dinkle. We’ve lived next door to Rosemary and her family since she was a little girl. Is everything okay?”

  At least Arlene had the grace to look a little ashamed that she hadn’t asked that. Max lightly clasped the older man’s hand, assuming that his presence meant he wasn’t getting any more facts or nonsense from his wife. “Max Krolikowski, KCPD. I’m not sure, sir. My partner and I are looking into an old case.” Maybe this was as good a time as any to test the veracity of Rosie’s claims about receiving threats. “But I understand there may have been a disturbance here yesterday?”

  “You mean like a break-in?”

  Max nodded. “Or a trespasser on the property?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.” Otis tucked his fingers into the pockets of his Bermuda shorts and shrugged. “She was gone all day yesterday. I didn’t see any activity after she took the dogs out for their morning walk.”

  “Her new attorney dropped her off last night,” Arlene added. “Her dead fiancé’s brother. I knew there was something funny going on. The two of them probably—”

  Otis put up a hand, silencing his wife’s opinion. “She didn’t even let him into the house, Arlene. I don’t think it’s anything serious.”

  Max arched a curious brow. So the gossipy missus wasn’t the only one watching the March house. “You saw her come home last night?”

  Otis nodded. “We keep an eye on each other’s place. Maybe chat in the front yard or across the fence when we’re both out mowing. Other than that, though, Rosemary keeps pretty much to herself. We used to do stuff with her parents, but now that they’re gone, she’s just not that social.”

  “You didn’t see anyone lurking around the house who shouldn’t be?”

  “Her dogs would have raised a ruckus. I didn’t hear anything like that.”

  “They were locked up inside, Otis,” Arlene reminded him.

  “So, no intruders?” Max clarified. “Nothing you saw that seemed...off to you?”

  Otis scratched at his bald spot, considering the question. “No, sir. Other than she didn’t go for her regular swim this morning. It’s been pretty quiet around here since her brother got put in jail. But then, we’re retired. We don’t keep late hours.”

  Yet he spied over the fence often enough to know Rosie’s morning routine and when she came home at night. Curious.

  “Well, if you do see anything suspicious, give us a call, would you?” Max reached into his back pocket and handed the man a business card with his contact information.

  Arlene clutched the ball of twine against her chest. “Are we in any danger?”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am.”

  Otis held the card out at arm’s length and read it. “I’ll be. Cold Case Squad? This isn’t about a break-in. Are you investigating her fiancé’s murder, Detective Krolikowski? You think she did it?”

  If poison wasn’t such a premeditated means of murder, he might have been willing to dismiss his suspicions about Rosie as a justified case of self-defense. “Do you?”

  “If you’d said Stephen, yes—that kid always was the rebellious sort. Good thing he was in rehab that week or you cops would have come down really hard on him. But honestly, I can’t see Rosemary raising a hand to anybody. But what do I know? Like I said, she keeps to herself.” He winked as a grin spread across his face. “It’s those quiet ones you can’t trust, right?”

  With Arlene’s snort of derisive agreement, Max reached down to pet the German shepherd, dismissing the Dinkles. He’d stomached about all he could of polite conversation today. “Remember to give me a call if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  “Will do.”

  Max clapped his hands and played one more game of try-to-catch-me with the dogs while the couple went back to their back porch, arguing about people breaking in next door and whether or not the neighborhood was safe anymore. As he watched the two dogs run a wide circle around the perimeter of the yard, Max shook his head. If the Dinkles were his neighbors, he’d probably avoid socializing, too.

  So what, exactly, would make a healthy woman of means isolate herself the way Rosie March had? Keeping a low profile was generally rule number one for someone who’d committed a crime. Was it the publicity surrounding the lawsuit and sudden fortune she’d won? There were probably friends and family coming out of the woodwork, trying to get a piece of that nine million dollars. He’d hate that kind of spotlight, too. Was she ashamed because her brother had killed a woman, robbing her for a fix? Nobody knew better than him what it felt like to miss the signs of a loved one spiraling out of control. Or was Miss Rosie March just plain ol’ afraid of her own shadow because life had dealt her a raw hand? That could explain the frequent 9-1-1 calls and why she’d unpack her daddy’s Army pistol.

  Max had a feeling there were a whole lot of secrets that woman was keeping. Ferreting them out would require a degree of insight and patience he lacked. KCPD had better send out someone else from the team, like Olivia Watson, so they could talk woman to woman, or cool and unflappable Jim Parker, or even nice guy Trent—without his bad-cop partner tagging along to make a mess of things.

  Max watched the Dinkles settle into patio chairs, shaking his head as Otis plugged in earbuds while Arlene peeled off her gloves and prattled on about too many cops and dogs and reporters for her liking. Max tuned her out, too, and whistled for the dogs to return. “Come here, girls!”

  He finally conceded that this outing hadn’t been a total waste of his time. He’d done some decent police work, confirming that Rosie had a motive for killing Richard Bratcher. Although Arlene had dismissed the violent details that had soured Max’s stomach, a woman who’d been held hostage by her abuser might feel she had no other way out of the relationship than to murder the man who terrorized her.

  He liked the dogs, too. As much as the dogs he’d served with overseas had detected bombs and alerted his unit to insurgents sneaking past the camp perimeter or lying in wait out on a patrol, they’d been the unofficial morale officers. There was little that a game of fetch or a furry body snuggled up in the bunk beside him couldn’t take his mind off of for a few minutes, at least.

  The muscles in his face relaxed with an unfamiliar smile as the shepherd and poodle charged toward him. But the dogs ran right past, abandoning the game. Abandoning him.

  Tension gripped him again, just as quickly as it had ebbed, when he heard the clanking of the gate opening behind him. The mutts were showing their true allegiance to their copper-haired mistress by trotting up to greet her. Rosemary March followed Trent through the gate and latched it behind her, stopping on the opposite edge of the narrow pool. She knelt down in that starchy dress to accept the enthusiastic welcome of her pets, and Max’s cranky, used-up heart did a funny little flip-flop at the unexpected sight of that uptight, upper-crust woman getting licked in the face and not complaining one whit about muddy, grass-stained paws on her white dress.

  Great. That was the last thing he needed today, thinking he had the hots for the most viable suspect in their murder investigation—a good girl, no less, who seemed to push every bad-behavior button in his arsenal, a woman who was all kinds of wrong for him and his crass, worldly ways. She was a suspect, not an opportunity. He needed to get his head back in the game.

  “Miss March was visiting her brother yesterday,” Trent began, giving Max a heads-up nod across the narrow width of the pool, indicating that he’d gotten her to open up to him. Max raised a surrendering hand, promising to watch his mouth and not blow any progress Trent had made in his absence, and started a slow stroll around the pool to join them. “She thinks she spotted a man paying undue attention to her down at
the prison, and that he may have taken a picture of her—”

  “I don’t think.” Rosie glanced up at Trent, then pushed to her feet. “I know. He didn’t have to stare at me. He was watching me on his phone.”

  So, still no news about the Bratcher murder. Max played along. Getting her to talk, period, was the first step in getting her to talk about their investigation. “Did you know this guy?”

  “I’d recognize him if I saw him again, but I’ve never seen him before.” She backed up onto the patio, keeping both men in sight as Max closed the distance between them. “You don’t believe me.” She looked across the yard to her neighbors, probably guessing how he’d spent his time back here. Her chin came up as she glanced over at the tall, plastic cabinet, then trained those accusing gray eyes on him. “You never even read the threat, did you? What did Otis and Arlene say to you? You think I’m making this all up.”

  “I don’t know what I think,” he answered honestly.

  Apparently, that wasn’t a good enough answer. With a frustrated huff that might be her interpretation of a curse, she walked past him and opened the cabinet doors. She backed away, picking up the poodle and hugging the dog to her chest, averting her eyes from the shelves inside. “Look for yourself. This is why I called the police.”

  Max muttered a real expletive when he saw the message and noose hanging inside. He glanced back and scratched around the ears of the little dog who bore an unmistakable resemblance to the toy on display. “Looks a lot like you, killer.”

  Miss Rosie’s eyes widened along with his when his fingertips accidentally brushed against her arm. A split second later she jerked away, pulling herself and the dog beyond his outstretched fingers. “Her name is Trixie. Is someone going to hurt my dogs? Is someone going to hurt me?”

  “You don’t know who sent this?”

  She shook her head and backed another step away.

  Right. Not his dog. Not his anything. Do your job already. Max busied his hands by snapping a couple of pictures with his phone before pulling out his pocketknife. Trent had come up beside him to inspect the cryptic message. Max asked, “You got a bag in that notebook?”

  Trent pulled out a small plastic evidence bag and held it open while Max cut down the threat. The sisal looped around the toy’s neck reminded him of the spool of twine Mrs. Dinkle had been using in her garden. He peeked around the cabinet door and caught Arlene watching from her back porch. Otis remained oblivious as she quickly glanced away. Could it be that simple? “Any reason why your neighbors might want to scare you?”

  “Because Arlene hates dogs as much as she loves the sound of her own voice?” Max almost grinned at the spunky dig of sarcasm. But Rosie clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very polite.” She was reining her emotions in again, a skill Max envied, especially today. “The Dinkles aren’t responsible for this. And they certainly weren’t in Jefferson City snapping pictures of me yesterday. I’m guessing the money from the settlement is the reward that creep is talking about. Believe me, it doesn’t feel like any kind of compensation with all the hassle that has come with it. I’d rather have Mom and Dad and my old teaching job over millions of dollars any day.”

  I know what you did.

  So, who was close enough to Rosemary March, besides her brother locked away in prison, to know or even suspect that she’d murdered Richard Bratcher? Who else cared that she might be guilty?

  He plucked the sealed bag from Trent’s grasp and dangled it like a pendulum in front of her face. “Can you prove you didn’t put this note out here yourself, Rosie?”

  Her face went utterly pale. “What?”

  “What are you doing, Max?” Trent cautioned.

  “Testing a theory.” He closed the cabinet doors and moved a step closer. “Have you gotten other threats, Rosie?”

  “Yes. Wait. Rosie?” Instead of recoiling from him, she planted her feet, her hand fisting in the dog’s curly hair. “We are not friends, Mr. Krolikowski, so you have no right to be so familiar. Or condescending. Especially when it sounds as though you’re calling me a liar.”

  “Are you lying, Rosie?”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “It’s a pretty good diversion to make us think someone’s after you.”

  “Diversion from what?” Her chest puffed out, and a blush crept up her neck as understanding dawned. “I’m such an idiot. This is about Richard, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a reasonable question, considering your history. You’re kind of like the lady who cries wolf with all your phone calls to 9-1-1.”

  “My history?” Her cheeks were as rosy as his new nickname for her now. “We’re finally getting to the point, aren’t we? Is KCPD accusing me of killing him again? Are you accusing Stephen? And here I thought the police had shown up because...” She stared at the evidence bag in his hand for a moment, her chin trembling against the tight clench of her mouth. Then her lips buzzed with an escaping breath and she walked to the gate. “Duchess, heel. Sit.” The German shepherd settled onto her haunches beside her mistress, staying put as Rosie opened the gate. Rosie shifted the poodle to one arm and pointed down the driveway with the other. “I’d like you two to leave my home. Now. And please don’t gun your engine on your way out of the neighborhood. There’s already enough gossip about me without hearing complaints about loud cars leaving my house.”

  “There’s not a damn thing wrong with the way I drive, lady. You and your brother had more motive than anybody to kill Richard Bratcher. I think you’d be less worried about my car and more worried about talking to us and trying to prove your innocence.”

  She shook her head, probably biting down on some unladylike crack about being innocent until proven guilty. But all he got was a succinct dismissal. “If you won’t help me, I’m not helping you. If you gentlemen have any further questions about Richard’s murder, you may call my attorney.”

  Man, that woman was the definition of control. No blowing her stack or shedding a tear or slapping his face. No answers. No freaking reason he should be so perplexed or fascinated by her. He walked up to her, letting his six feet two inches lean in close enough to steal a breath of her summery scent. “Gentlemen? Honey, I’m as far from being—”

  “Max, shut up.” His partner pushed him on out the gate.

  “You, too?” Max patted his chest pocket, but there was no cigar there. Damn it. The stress, the suspicion, the guilt—too many emotions were hitting him way too fast to deal with them properly. He shook his head and strode toward the Chevelle. “I should have called in sick. I don’t need this kind of convoluted drama. Not today.” He spun and pointed a finger at the redhead whose cool eyes had locked onto him. “You really need the cops someday, lady, you come and find me. But you’d better be willing to talk and you’d better make sense.” He turned and resumed his march toward the car. “I need a drink before I screw anything else up today.”

  “Excuse us, Miss March. Thank you for your time.” Trent hurried to catch up and fall into step beside him. “You know we’re not going to get anything out of her now, right?”

  “I know.”

  “You really think she’s making up these threats to make her read like a victim instead of a suspect?”

  “She’s smart enough to do it. Ah, I don’t know what I think.”

  “Hey, Max.” A strong hand on his arm stopped him. “I’m on your side, remember?” The tone of Trent’s voice was as full of reprimand as it was concern. “It’s a little early for the Shamrock, isn’t it?”

  “Not today, it isn’t.” He shrugged out of Trent’s grip and circled around the car. It was probably best for everybody here—that frightened, pissed-off woman; his best friend; this case; this job; Jimmy’s memory; him—if he just walked away.

  But something drew his gaze over the roof of the car back to Rosemary March. She’d fo
llowed them along the driveway toward the porch, catching the end of their conversation. But she froze as soon as his eyes locked on to hers, one arm hooked around the poodle, the other clinging to the shepherd’s collar. From this distance she looked smaller, fragile and as painfully alone as he’d ever been. She’d needed someone to make her feel safe, and he’d chosen to play his bad-cop role to the hilt. He deserved the truckload of regret that dumped on top of the guilt already weighing him down.

  Max swung open the car door and climbed inside to start the engine. “Not today.”

  Chapter Four

  Rosemary squeezed her fists around the long straps of her shoulder bag, staring at the steel doors of the elevator while Howard Bratcher rattled on about the trust fund and investment portfolio he and his accountant had put together for her on Stephen’s behalf. She’d understood the benefits and restrictions and attorney fees clearly the first time they’d discussed splitting up and managing the settlement money, but it was easier to let him repeat himself than to explain the troubling turn of her thoughts.

  Two detectives had come to her home this morning. As if her encounter with that grizzled, grabby, surly Detective Krolikowski and his bigger, quieter partner wasn’t upsetting enough, it was dismaying to learn that KCPD had reopened the investigation into her fiancé’s murder and considered her and Stephen suspects again. Even six years after she’d found his dead body in his condo, blue faced and frozen midconvulsion, it seemed Richard still had the power to destroy any sense of security and self-worth she’d ever had.

  The disturbing phone messages and threat in her own backyard left her as on edge and unsure of the world around her as those last few months with Richard had been. Her morning visit from Detectives Dixon and Krolikowski had only intensified her feelings of losing control over her own life.

  Trent Dixon might have looked like a Mack truck, but he’d been businesslike, pseudofriendly. He’d kept his words polite and had respected her personal space. But Max Krolikowski made no bones about their reason for being there. And despite the military haircut that reminded her so of her father, he’d been coarse, forthright, unapologetically male—not a kindly paternal figure in any way, shape or form.