She couldn’t believe it. She thought for sure he would give her a hard time. “Wow. This isn’t the reaction I expected.”
“In this line of work, you learn to follow the clues no matter where they come from. Were there any other signs?”
“Well, just one. But it turned out to be a dead end. It came from my dog.”
“Animals are quite intuitive, you know. What was it?”
“A gavel.”
“You mean like the kind an auctioneer uses?”
“Yeah, or the mayor. That’s why I thought Fisk—”
An auctioneer? She hadn’t considered of that. She pictured the auction house: Jeb, Leroy, the tin signs, the old truck out front.
“That’s got to be it!”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s what Wanda was talking about. She said she had a plan, and I think I know who was involved.”
Guttman’s face brightened. “I’m all ears.”
* * *
AS THEY DROVE OVER to the Auction Barn, Deena filled Guttman in on as many details as possible about Fisk and Billy and the black car and Ronnie Clark and the coins and the warning she had received.
He seemed to drive faster with each new detail.
When they pulled up to the building, Deena noticed that the old paneled truck had been moved since she was there on Sunday with Estelle. If her hunch was correct, it was the same truck Christy Ann said a junk dealer had driven down their street the day Deena found the coin in her mailbox.
They found Jeb sitting in his office. The look on his face told the whole story. “I wondered how long it would take you to get here.”
“How did you know we were coming?” Deena asked.
He pointed to an old radio. “I heard it on the police scanner. I figured she ratted me out.”
Guttman coughed and shot her a look. It was a signal to let him take over. “So what’s the story?”
Jeb leaned back in his chair. “I’m a sucker for a pretty woman. Always have been. When Wanda came to me for help, I just couldn’t resist. After all, Ronnie and I have been friends for a long time. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”
Deena resisted the urge to yell at him. How could he call stealing and killing “not a big deal”?
“She told you her plan. Is that right?” Guttman scribbled in his notepad.
“All I was supposed to do was make sure the hammer price was low on the coin collection and that Ronnie would win. She planned for him to sell it so they could catch up on their bills.”
“But something went wrong.”
“Horribly. I didn’t realize she was the one who had stolen it until Ronnie asked me for a ride home after the auction. He said Wanda had left early with a headache. That’s when I put two and two together.”
“You confronted her?”
“Sure. I called her on Sunday and told her I was going to turn her in. I was planning to. I should have. But that’s when she offered me a cut.” He hung his head.
Deena wanted to wring his neck. It’s not like he wasn’t going to make a fortune from the auction already. Greed had raised its ugly head again.
“I didn’t take it,” he said.
Sure you didn’t. She waited for Guttman to jump down his throat.
“But you did do something, right?”
“Yes. I drove to Deena’s house and put that coin in her mailbox.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing else. Why? Did Wanda tell you I did something else? She’s lying. I told her I wouldn’t help her anymore.”
“Did she admit to you that she killed Leonard Dietz?”
“She said it was an accident. She was running to her car and tripped on the curb. She dropped the case and the coins went flying. That Dietz fella got out of the car to help her. She got scared he would be able to identify her and knocked him on the head with the case. Poor guy.”
“Jeb?” A squeaky voice startled them.
It was Patsy. She crossed her arms. “You cheating scoundrel. What did you do this time?”
Guttman pulled a set of handcuffs out of his coat pocket and slapped them on Jeb.
“Jeb Johnson. You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit a crime. You have the right to an attorney...”
As Guttman read Jeb his rights, Patsy continued to yell at him.
Deena shook her head. And they thought Leroy was the black sheep of the family.
Chapter 23
It was Saturday and the clock was ticking. Christy Ann, Estelle, and Penelope would be there any minute and Deena still didn’t even have one batch of edible cookies ready to go.
She got distracted with the first batch and forgot to take them out of the oven on time. The second batch tasted so awful, that Gary, her official taste tester, actually spit the bite out into the sink.
That’s when she pulled out her reading glasses and saw that the recipe called for one teaspoon of baking soda, not one tablespoon. It probably wasn’t supposed to be a heaping tablespoon either.
She peeked through the oven door and stared at the blobs of dough. Gary’s mother had taught her to take the cookies out just before they looked done and give them plenty of time to cool. But time wasn’t on her side. Luckily, she had bought canned icing and sprinkles. Toppings could make up for lots of baking shortcomings. At least that’s what she hoped.
The doorbell rang. “Gary,” she called into the den, “will you please get that?” She wasn’t about to leave the kitchen and ruin her last batch.
Estelle and Russell came in. They each had a platter covered in foil.
“Set those on the table,” Deena said. “Then you can come in here and help me.”
Russell headed off to the den for an afternoon of college football and some guy time.
Estelle looked around. “Where are your finished cookies?”
“In the trash. These are my last, best hope.”
“Oh my. Well, let me take a look.”
“Why? It’s not like you bake either. Didn’t you have Abby make those cookies for you?”
Estelle faked annoyance. “I am not that bad around the kitchen. I used to hang out with the cook while Mother would go off to her social circles.”
“My apologies, Rachael Ray.”
“And by the way, Abby quit. Apparently, hanging out with Billy at the hospital made her want to study nursing. She will be starting a program at the community college in January and is getting the first ever ‘Carolyn Fitzhugh Memorial Nursing Scholarship.’”
“Aww. That’s super. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Well, Russell was a little disappointed, but she promised to give me the recipe for her pork ribs. Let’s take a look at these cookies. What are you making?”
“They are Polish sugar cookies. That’s what the recipe called them anyway.”
Estelle pulled open the oven door and peered in. “Are they supposed to look like that?”
“I don’t know. It’s my mother-in-law’s recipe.”
“Let me see what temperature you have the oven set on.” She reached for the knob. “No wonder! You have the broiler on.”
“What?” Deena put on an oven mitt and pulled the pan out. “Oh, good gravy! I must have done that when I turned off the oven after the last disaster.”
The tops of the cookies were scorched while the bottoms were still gooey.
Deena threw the cookies in the garbage can, pan and all. “Now what?”
“Oh, pish posh. You can take one of my platters.” Estelle pulled the pan out of the bin and put it in the sink.
“No way. That would be like stealing. But, I’ve got an idea.” Deena pulled two of the boxes of cookies out of the pantry. They were the ones Gary had bought from Christy Ann. “Grab a knife and help me ice these.”
Estelle rolled her eyes. “Speaking of stealing, did you hear about Wyatt Garrison?”
“No. What happened?”
“They dropped all the charges against him.”
�
�I figured they would after they caught the real thief. It probably helped that you said you didn’t want to press charges for him going through your stuff.”
“It did. And what about Jeb Johnson? Do you think they’ll actually charge him?”
“He’s going to testify against Wanda,” Deena said, scraping off a mound of sprinkles she had accidently dumped onto one of the cookies. “Knowing the Maycroft Police Department and the district attorney, they’ll probably just sentence him to do a bunch of community service.”
Christy Ann appeared in the kitchen. “I thought I’d never get away. The kids were throwing a fit and Parker was in a foul mood.” She set a platter of perfectly decorated cookies onto the counter.
Deena tried to hide her annoyance. “We can take those for you if you’d rather stay home. I’m sure you can find something to craft or refinish or bake.”
“No thanks. I need to go. Actually, I have to go.”
“Why is that?”
She crossed her arms and pouted her lips. “I got assigned to perform community service for my little incident with Sarah Garrett.”
So, she wasn’t volunteering out of the goodness of her heart, Deena thought. Classic Christy Ann.
Penelope Burrows came up from behind and threw her arm across Christy Ann’s shoulder. “Join the club.”
“You got assigned community service too?” Deena asked.
“Yep. Apparently, you are not supposed to drink in a car even if you’re not the driver. Such a dumb law.”
“I guess I’m the only one here without a record,” Deena said.
“You just jinxed yourself, my dear,” Penelope said.
Deena pulled out a box of plastic wrap to cover the plate of cookies.
“Did you make those yourself?” Christy Ann asked, leaning in close to inspect the baked goods. “They look familiar.”
“Don’t ask,” Estelle said. “She’s had a busy week. Crime fighting isn’t as easy as you think.”
For a change, Christy Ann bit her tongue.
“We better get going,” Penelope said. “George will be waiting for me. If I play my cards right, I might get a little action, if you know what I mean.” She gave them a flirty wink.
Deena picked up her plate. “George who? And by the way, where are we going?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Penelope asked. “The Thanksgiving service project is at the VFW.”
THE END
SHARPE NOTE
Copyright © 2018 Lisa B. Thomas
COZY STUFF AND SUCH, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
It never occurred to Deena Sharpe that she would be attending two funerals in one month or that she’d be changing jobs again so soon. In fact, what weighed heaviest on her mind that fateful day in early February was whether she should wear flats or heels.
Gary stared in the dresser mirror adjusting the knot on his fancy designer necktie. “I’m sorry we have to spend our anniversary this way.” Deena had given him that tie last year for their anniversary, and it was his favorite. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Deena stroked mascara onto her eyelashes. “No worries. It’s not like you knew in advance we’d be attending a funeral today. Tragedy has its own calendar.”
“Ah, very wise indeed. Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”
“No, it’s just one of the many brilliant things that pop into your wife’s head. You should expect that after being married thirty...” Deena stopped to do the mental math needed to determine which anniversary they were celebrating.
“It’s thirty-six,” Gary said quickly.
“Oh, that’s right.” She put on some lip gloss and closed her makeup drawer. “According to Hallmark, it’s the year you’re supposed to give antiques.”
“That’s appropriate since you’re an antique dealer.” Gary pointed down the hall toward the guest room. “I’ll just go in there and grab one of those ‘treasures’ that still hasn’t made it out to your booth at the antiques mall and wrap it up for you.”
“Very funny. You know it has only been a few weeks since Sandra came back to the thrift store after her maternity leave. I’ll have more time now that I’m not covering for her.”
“I’m surprised there’s anything left at the thrift store to sell. Don’t think I didn’t notice all those bags you’ve been bringing home.”
Deena leaned over and pecked his cheek. “Let’s get back to your feeling guilty about dragging me to a memorial service for a man I barely knew. And on our anniversary, no less.”
Gary let out a sigh. “Drew Granger. I know he was a client, but I also considered him a friend. It’s so hard to believe he killed himself. It seemed like he had everything going for him. A successful business, a great house, a loving wife.”
Deena put on her coat and tried to stay upright in her funeral shoes—black heels that seemed harder to walk in every time she wore them. She made a mental note to shop for a more comfortable pair the next time she was out.
As they got in Gary’s red sports car—a midlife-crisis purchase from a few years back—Deena thought about the list her husband had just rattled off. “I noticed you mention a ‘successful business’ before a ‘loving wife.’ Is that how you prioritize your life?”
Gary rolled his eyes. “Of course not. My list starts with this car.”
Deena gave him a playful punch on the arm. “By the way, how do you know that his wife was loving? Maybe they had a bad marriage and that led to his depression.”
“I guess it’s because he always seemed to make a point of mentioning Allison when we talked about his finances. He included her name in all the paperwork involving the vineyard, even though the business was only his.”
As they drove to the funeral home, Deena thought about the man they would soon be memorializing. It had been in all the major newspapers, even dominated the newscasts for a good two days, but as the restless public hungered for their next meal, the story of Andrew Granger’s suicide was soon discarded like old trash.
Except in Maycroft.
The Grangers were a well-to-do family originally from Lubbock. The family patriarch, Edward Granger, Sr., had made his fortune in West Texas oil. Not quite the Beverly Hillbillies, the family moved east to Dallas where Edward, Jr., parlayed his family’s fortune into millions. They’d rubbed elbows with politicians and the wealthy Southern elite.
However, bad investments in the nineties saw the family fortune fritter away as they tried to keep up appearances. Edward’s wife reportedly died of a weak heart, although some suspected suicide. The grieving widower found God then and invested his remaining money into a struggling vineyard just outside Maycroft in East Texas. His business motto became “Granger’s Grapes: God’s Fruit.”
As the vines matured, so did his two children, Edwina and Andrew, who both joined the family business and were around when their signature wine won its first major award.
Last week when Andrew Granger’s death was determined to be a suicide, the whispers began again as folks wondered if he’d inherited his mama’s “weak heart.”
The chapel of Mortimer’s Funeral Home was sparsely filled as happens when the people who come to mourn the deceased don’t really know each other. Gary and Deena sat near the middle on the opposite side of Drew’s widow. She was decked out in a black dress with small white polka dots. Deena couldn’t help thinking they reminded her of champagne bubbles.
Not surprisingly, several of the sprays of flowers on the front table contained violets and other seasonal purple flowers. The ornate bronze urn sat on a table decorated with baskets
of ivy and lush blue and purple grapes. It was a fitting tribute for a man who owned a vineyard.
After settling into their spot, Deena looked around for people she might know. A few faces seemed familiar, but none of Deena’s friends were there. Drew and his wife were younger than Deena and Gary. Allison was a teller at the bank, but Deena had never really talked to her much.
The service followed the usual format: organ music, favorite hymns, a semi-generic sermon by the pastor, and lots of prayers.
The part Deena dreaded was up next as the pastor called for friends and family to pay tribute to the man whose picture stared back at them. This is where some people had the need to share stories about inside jokes they had with the deceased and others fell into a puddle of tears. Both were uncomfortable to witness.
A hush fell over the crowd as those in attendance waited to see who would get up first. A few people seemed as though they were tempted to stand but thought better of it and sat back. Others shook their heads awkwardly as husbands or wives prodded them to get up and say something. Finally, one man stood and made his way to the front as an audible sigh of relief rose from the pews.
Deena whispered to Gary, “Who is that? He looks familiar.”
“Lonnie Fisher,” Gary said, offering no other information.
The man shook hands with the pastor and cleared his throat before bending toward the microphone on the podium. He was a small man, sharply dressed in a gray suit with a lavender shirt and violet tie. His receding hairline was offset by a well-manicured beard. He kept his eyes low as he spoke.
“As many of you know, Drew and I were best friends. In fact, we were more like family than friends. I’ve been with Drew at the vineyard for almost ten years, and in those ten years, I grew to love the man.” He glanced at the widow. “I know we’ll all miss Drew for his kind heart and gentle spirit. Hopefully, he’s in a better place now. May he rest in peace.”
“Amen,” the pastor said as Lonnie walked back to his seat. “Who would like to be next?” He looked around and then back to the row where Allison sat with several family members.
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