To Fetch a Killer

by Maria Hudgins

  The news was not good. She’d booked a ticket for Mr. Wade, under his explicit instructions, on the two-p.m. flight to Martinique. One-way ticket. He was in his car on the way to the Raleigh airport now.

  That got me to wondering, was he leaving the country to deal privately with his overwhelming grief or to escape a murder rap?

  Prissy would not give me Mr. Wade’s cellphone number. (Maybe my crazy lady had shown a little too much of herself when she had given me the news.) Nor was he listed in the telephone diary.

  Dang. Dang. Dang.

  I did not have a plan B.

  With nothing else to do, I held a little pity-party in my honor, wallowing in my misfortune, as if that would improve the situation. Although it is very hard to feel sorry for oneself when one is sitting on the deck of a multi-million-dollar mansion overlooking the calm and glimmering Atlantic Ocean. But I tried.

  “Guess what?”

  “Good lord, Becca,” I said as I righted myself on my chair. “You scared the snot out of me.”

  She slipped into the chair across from me, a very self-satisfied smile on her face. Have you ever heard the phrase “The cat who got the cream”? That was Becca right now, a cat who’d enjoyed a whole gallon of a full-fat cream.

  “Did you figure out who killed Mrs. Wade?” I wished. Hoped. Prayed. Believed. Would trade my soul for that news.

  “Nope.”

  Of course not. My life never worked that way.

  “But...” she tapped her hands against the table like a drumroll, “...I have a theory that is gonna crack this case wide open. Best shared over wine. On the beach. Isn’t that the best idea ever?” She threw her arms out to her sides in the manner of a gymnast pulling off a perfect vault.

  I had to agree that the idea ranked right up there with all the great ideas to come out of her mouth. A glass of wine sounded perfect. “To improve upon your brilliant idea, why don’t I grab two bottles?” The events of the past eighteen hours warranted at least that.

  Mrs. Wade was known for her well-stocked wine cellar. Although not technically a cellar, because basements and high water tables near the ocean don’t co-exist. Instead, she had a walk-in wine cooler with a sign hanging over the door designating it as the Wine Cellar. Rich people. Geesh.

  I scurried inside and grabbed a nice Cobblestone cabernet. Mrs. Wade certainly wouldn’t mind. She believed wine was to be enjoyed. And Mr. Wade didn’t drink wine. He was more of a liquor-is-quicker kind of guy. (Like father, like son.) To further rationalize, I’d been here all day on my day off. I’d trade wine in lieu of wages. I’d done that a few times before, always quite pleased with the arrangement which gave me an opportunity to taste some labels I would never pay that much money for, not on my income. After adding a corkscrew, two goblets, a wine-themed beach blanket (courtesy of the Wade’s beach supply cabinet), and a quickly thrown together charcuterie board, I loaded up the wide-tired beach buggy. Becca and I headed down the path to the water’s edge.

  “Where’s Tater?” Becca asked.

  “At the groomers getting a full body fluff. He’ll be home in a few hours.”

  “I miss him.”

  “I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.”

  We settled on the blanket and ate, drank, and got very merry. The waves crashed on the shore; the birds searched for dinner; and a family with young children laughed while they built a sand castle and then cried when the toddler stomped through it. I felt at peace. It was almost as if the horrible events of the past twenty-four hours had never happened.

  But they had, as Becca reminded me.

  “So, before I share my theory, let me know where your head’s at on this,” she said.

  “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it all day long.” I paused to take a sip of wine, enjoying the black cherry and pepper nuances. “I focused on the people at the party, because the way I figure it, they’re the only people who had opportunity. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The thought that Becca had sprinkled ground peanuts in Mrs. Wade’s whiskey sour or across her dinner plate had flitted through my mind. A couple of times. Other than me, Becca was the only other person who’d had ample opportunity during the event. She and I were the only ones to handle the dishes. But why? Becca didn’t have a motive—that I knew of. But the subset to that question is why was she so vested in finding the killer? To throw suspicion off of her? I had no answers, but planned to keep an eye on her. You know the old saying, keep your friends close, and your partners-in-crime-solving closer.

  Leaning back, feet stretched out in the sand, my goblet resting on my thigh, I went through my list of possible suspects. “Mr. Wade, of course. Although being cut out of the will weakens his motive. I imagine he would have made out better in a divorce.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Dustin Wade certainly had motive—he and Mrs. Wade fought like two rabid dogs going after the same bone—but we haven’t seen him for three weeks. He’s chasing signorinas in Italy, last I heard.”

  “Good point.”

  “As far as guests at the party, there was that dust-up between Mrs. Wade and Freya Norris when she presented that bottle of inferior wine.” I hadn’t witnessed it, but Becca had reported it epic. “And Haley Grant was greatly irritated after having been pushed into the koi pond.” Becca had confirmed Mrs. Wade had done the pushing. “She hadn’t been too happy about changing from sexy sundress into an unflattering kimono for the rest of the evening. But the problem there is those would have been spur-of-the-moment killings. Unless they carried peanut products in their purses and quickly figured out a way to slip it into Mrs. Wade’s food, I don’t see them as the culprits.” Another sip of wine went down smoothly.

  “I agree.”

  “That’s all I’ve got. Kind of weak. I’m not a detective, nor do I play one on TV.”

  Becca laughed. “No worries. I’ve got us covered. I watch plenty of PI shows.”

  I glanced at my best friend. Her eyes sparkled, and not from too much wine. Although her glass was almost empty, again. A little worrisome, considering I’d been generous with the pours.

  “Here’s my theory,” she said while twirling the stem of her goblet between her fingers. “My money’s on one of the Wade men as the killer. One of them laced peanut product into something in the pantry, and then waited for you to use it in a meal. Kind of like Russian Roulette. They didn’t know when it would be served or when Mrs. Wade would die. Hence, alibi not necessary.”

  I sat up straighter, spilling cabernet on my white shirt. I didn’t care if the top was ruined or if Becca would call me out for alcohol abuse. “Becca, you know what? That is absolutely brilliant.”

  I held my glass out so we could clink cheers.

  Sometimes it’s comforting to have a best friend who can think like a killer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There ought to be a law granting total amnesty to women who have consumed a goodly amount of Mrs. Wade’s best cabernet when they chat with a police officer—even an off-duty one—regarding a murder investigation in which they may or may not be suspects.

  Such a law might have prevented Becca and me from divulging so much information to Officer Todd Simmons. He’d come by the house to pick up his glasses and found us giggling like two drunk school girls as we stumbled up the path from the beach.

  I made coffee. The instant kind. I didn’t have the presence of mind to conquer the Technovian Mochamaster at the moment.

  Becca rattled off her brilliant deductions while I did so.

  I carried three mugs of coffee, along with a bag of Ruffles and container of French onion dip (how precipitous Mr. Wade’s comfort-food list this morning provided the perfect thing to sop up extra alcohol coursing through my system). I joined Becca and Todd in mid conversation at the two-seated high-top table. Todd slid off of his barstool and offered me his seat.

  “So, explain again how your Russian Roulette theory works,” Todd said as h
e accepted his coffee.

  Becca explained. In great detail and with a so much drama you’d have thought she was performing on Broadway. Again ending with the ta-da hands.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. I mean, her performance was absolutely brilliant. Her deductions absolutely brilliant. My best friend was absolutely brilliant. Too much wine made everything absolutely brilliant. I couldn’t stop a goofy smile from spreading across my face.

  Oh, geez. I was drunk. It’s one thing to be soused, a totally other thing to know it. And even worse to be around someone who was stone-cold sober.

  Help waited in the mug of coffee. I took a sip, burning my mouth. That might need to cool a few more minutes. I reached for a handful of chips, dipping and munching while Becca kept talking. Until she ran out of steam. Then all was quiet. Except for my crunching.

  Todd waited a few moments before responding. “Interesting theory. What evidence leads you to accuse John and Dustin Wade, though?”

  We aired the Wade family laundry, Becca and I, sharing intimate details of the Wade family dynamics in a back-and-forth I-can-top-that offense that culminated with my story of the most recent wine-glass-smashing event. That had occurred about a month ago, when Dustin had stopped by to borrow more money from his father and made the mistake of asking/demanding it in Mrs. Wade’s presence. Some horrible accusations had been made, which I hadn’t taken seriously at the time. They took turns screaming they were going to kill one another while lobbing crystal goblets in the offender’s direction. Through the prism of recent events, that fight took on a sinister and prophetic meaning.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Todd asked.

  I shrugged. “There was glass everywhere. Mrs. Wade suffered a cut on her hand. Dustin and Mr. Wade emerged unscathed. They both had pretty quick reflexes and ducked when necessary. Mrs. Wade, not so much.”

  Becca didn’t have anything to top that, so I won the contest. For what that was worth. I was gonna feel all kinds of disloyal when I sobered up. Dang wine.

  Todd shifted in his chair. “I like your theory, but what proof do you have that one of the Wade men planted the peanut product in something in the pantry?”

  Becca and I looked at each other, exchanging isn’t-it-obvious expressions.

  “If you think about it, Molly here,” he nodded in my direction, “had ample opportunity to do that, too.”

  Had he just insinuated that I could have murdered Mrs. Wade? I didn’t like where this was going. Not at all.

  Becca piped up in her cheerful, I’m-gonna-help-you-out-of-this-mess voice. “Even though Molly gets a half-million dollars per Mrs. Wade’s will, she didn’t kill the woman. I can personally vouch for her integrity.”

  Todd sat up straighter in his chair. “What will?”

  Like I said, never good to chat with a police officer while under the influence of cabernet.

  Becca and I exchanged looks again, guilty ones this time. She blew out a puff of air, and then pulled the neck of her T-shirt away from her body. She took a good long look down the front of her shirt, and then reached down and fished Mrs. Wade’s will from its hiding place. She handed it to Todd. “We found it this morning on Mr. Wade’s desk. And yes, our fingerprints are all over it because yes, we read it.”

  Todd took the papers and thumbed through the pages, squinting at the small font. “Didn’t you say you found my glasses?”

  “Oh, um.” I licked my lips. “Technically I said Tater found them. He did. And kind of chewed them to pieces. You’ll be needing a new pair.”

  Todd laid the papers on the table, lifted his coffee to his lips, and then wrapped his hands around the mug as if using osmosis to draw strength from the instant brew. “Let’s back up a few steps and talk about opportunity. Who else knew the access code to the back door?”

  “Good question. I like the way you think, Todd.” I ticked the people on my fingers as I spoke. “The wine delivery guy. The Amazon delivery guy. The UPS delivery guy. Well, all the delivery people, for that matter. The bug guy. The cleaning ladies, and there’s four of them.” I sighed. “Even Becca has the code. She helps me out a lot.” Oops. I shouldn’t have just thrown my best friend under the bus like that. But like I always said, in vino veritas. In wine, there is truth.

  Once again, a flitting thought passed through my mind...could my best friend in the whole world have killed Mrs. Wade? I pushed it out of my head. “It’s a long list. Just about everyone who needed to get into the house for whatever reason over the years. Mrs. Wade didn’t like to wait around for people, so she gave out the code rather freely.” Hope sprung eternal in my heart. Plenty of people had access. Any of them could have laced a pantry item with ground-up peanuts. “Everyone knew about Mrs. Wade’s peanut allergies, so they could do the Russian Roulette thing, if so inclined.” I ran through the list of people in my head. None struck me as the murderous type, but then my forty-plus years on earth have taught me that you never really know a person until, well, they kill someone.

  “Plus,” Becca piped in. “Anyone with half a brain could figure it out if they tried. The code is the street address. It’s like using password as your password.”

  Todd’s cheeks puffed out as he blew out a long, slow breath. “Tell me again why you are so sure it’s murder.”

  Becca raised her hand to answer. When Todd nodded her way, she put her hand down, sat up straight in her chair. “Because the epi-pen was not in her purse.”

  Todd looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

  I nodded, earnestly, because it was so obvious. Was he being intentionally dense?

  Becca tore into the potato chips. Her crunching filled the silence while Todd processed the information we’d given him. “Explain, please,” he said.

  With Becca’s mouth stuffed with junk food, the explaining fell to me. I relaxed back in my chair, reaching out and fiddling with the handle on the salt grinder while I spoke. Was that a nervous tell? I stopped the movement and laid my hands flat on the table. “Mrs. Wade carried her epi-pen with her wherever she went. In the side-pocket of her purse. A zippered pocket. At the start of every gathering that involved food, she made sure everyone knew where it was, in case it was needed. I saw her confirm its location yesterday before she left for an early afternoon meeting. She checked every time she left the house. But it wasn’t there last night. Becca looked.”

  Todd looked at Becca.

  Becca brushed the salt from her fingers, swallowed the mouthful, and took a sip of coffee before answering. “I turned that purse inside out. There was no epi-pen. No way to save Mrs. Wade.” No ta-da hands this time, only hands folded solemnly in her lap.

  That nasty accusatory voice sounded off in my head once again. Becca could have found the epi-pen and slipped it into her pocket, ensuring Mrs. Wade wouldn’t be revived.

  I told my nasty accusatory voice to go away and turned to Todd to address his question. “There was a spare pen in the kitchen drawer. Nobody but family members and myself know about it. But Mr. Wade had left the party, and I was down on the beach, de-stressing after the meal. Had I stayed in the kitchen, I could have saved her.” The last words were difficult to say around the lump in my throat. I hadn’t shed a single tear over Mrs. Wade’s death, but now was not the time.

  “Can you show me where the spare epi-pen is kept?”

  “Sure.” I slid off my chair and headed across the room to the drawer by the pantry. I pulled the knob. The door stuck, as if hung up on something, which was unusual because all the drawers in Mrs. Wade’s kitchen were well organized and slipped open easily. I tugged harder. It came open, but the items inside were a mess. Unusual. I pawed through the detritus of seldom-used items, slowly at first, and then with more zeal, looking for the prescription box that contained the back-up epi-pen. But there really wasn’t much reason to, was there? Because there was no epi-pen to be found.

  If the killer had made certain there was no way Mrs. Wade could be revived by taking this pen, too, then that meant Mrs. Wade’s murder
must have been premeditated.

  The list of people with knowledge of the spare life-saving injection’s existence really shortened the suspect list to Dustin Wade, Mr. Wade, and myself.

  Todd’s voice was very serious when he asked the next question. “Please tell me who all had knowledge of the back-up epi-pen?”

  I gave him the list, pausing dramatically before I whispered my name.

  “Can you confirm the last time you saw the pen in the drawer?”

  I thought about it. Last week, when I’d needed toothpicks to secure lasagna rolls. “Last Tuesday. Could have been Wednesday. I’d have to check my menus for the week to confirm.”

  “Where is Dustin right now?” Todd asked.

  My shoulders slumped a little bit. “He’s in Italy. Left three weeks ago. That’s why Tater is living here.”

  “And Mr. Wade?”

  My shoulders slumped even further. “According to his admin, Mr. Wade took the two o’clock flight to Martinique.”

  Todd cleared his throat. “I’m not going to read you your Miranda rights, Ms. Perkins, but I suggest you not leave town until we get this matter cleared up.”

  My shoulders were almost even with my waist by this point. Thanks, Todd. Your message couldn’t be any clearer. My name had been added to the suspect’s list. That thought sobered me up faster than any amount of greasy, wine-absorbing food could.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wet, slobbery kisses on my face. The unmistakable aroma of dog breath wafting under my nose. The incessant buzzing of my phone before the sun was even up. The trifecta of a miserable way to start the day.

  I pushed the big dog off me, reached to my nightstand and found my cell. Becca. Now what? I swiped the screen to answer the call. “Now what?”