“I’ve been thinking.”
I opened one eye just enough to read the digital clock. Five-fifteen. In the flippin’ morning. My eye slipped closed. “It’s a little early for thinking, isn’t it?” Becca was not a morning person.
“Haven’t gone to bed yet. Trying to research the key players in our murder investigation.”
“Our murder investigation? Oh, no, no, no.”
Tater nuzzled my hand. I patted his head.
Becca continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Here’s what I can’t figure out. Why did Mrs. Wade have so much money of her own? There’s no employment history for her. You’d think with her millions she’d have been a CEO or something.”
“I don’t know. It never came up in our conversations about the dinner menus.”
“She came from very humble beginnings, raised by a single mother somewhere up by Norfolk.”
“Again, not discussed.”
“And why did she leave her husband of twelve years completely out of her will?”
I rolled onto my side, thinking how wonderful it would be to return to my state of gentle slumber. “Again, I don’t know. They fought a lot, mostly about Dustin. Hey, here’s an idea...leave the investigation to the police.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I need to use your computer.”
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“Spilled wine on it and fried the hard drive.”
I hated when that happened.
“Doing research on my cellphone is too tedious. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Bring coffee.” The call disconnected. I hoped she heard me.
Tater whined.
“Oh, buddy.” I rubbed his silky soft fur. “Can’t you take yourself out to pee?”
Woof.
I took that as a no.
I hadn’t felt comfortable spending the night at the Wade’s house, and I couldn’t very well leave Tater home alone. There wouldn’t be a house for Mr. Wade to come home to. So, after exhausting all other options and against my better judgement, I’d brought him home with me. My tiny 2nd-floor walkup was barely big enough for me. Add a hundred-and-thirty-pounds of exuberant mutt, and it was downright crowded.
I’d shared my dinner with him. He’d slept on my bed with me. Seems we were bonding. That’s exactly what I’d hoped would not happen.
“Okay, get your leash,” I told him, then snuggled deeper under my blanket.
Tater returned a few moments later, his red leash clattering behind him.
Guess I had no choice. I climbed out of bed, pushing through the headache that throbbed at the base of my skull. A stress headache or a hangover, I wasn’t sure. Even more misery added to my morning.
Still wearing the jeans and T-shirt from the previous day, I slipped my feet into flip-flops. Tater dragged me down the stairs and out the door into the chilly fall morning. I wrapped my arms around my middle to preserve some body warmth until we could go back inside.
Despite the early hour, there were lots of dogs and humans on similar missions. That distracted Tater from the business at hand. We made it back to my apartment just as Becca arrived. She was bright eyed, bushy-tailed and fresh out of the shower. For just a moment I hated her. But brandishing two cups of coffee in her hands I let go of the hate. She also had the Sea Haven Sentinel tucked under her arm.
“Got breakfast?” she asked, handing me a large cuppa Joe.
“I’m not cooking, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No Eggs Benedict?” Becca raised a questioning eyebrow. “After all the research I’ve done to find Mrs. Wade’s killer?” She gave Tater a pat on the head. “You know your momma makes the best hollandaise on the planet,” she told the dog.
“I’m not his momma, and flattery will get you nowhere.” I walked toward my tiny but well-equipped kitchen, motioning for Becca to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “I do have some scones I baked the other day, if it’s not too early in the season for you to eat pumpkin.”
“It’s only September,” she grumbled. She was one of those people who honored seasons. No Christmas before Thanksgiving, no Thanksgiving before Halloween, and no pumpkin before October first.
“I wanted to try a new recipe. Second choice is plain Greek yogurt.” Becca hated yogurt, and I knew that. “I might could throw some flaxseed in there.” She hated flaxseed more than yogurt. A healthy eater she was not. “The breakfast offerings only get worse.”
“Scone me, then.” She settled onto the barstool and snapped open the paper, holding it up while she thumbed through the pages. “I’m hoping Mrs. Wade’s obituary is in here. Maybe that will shake out some of the skeletons from her closet.”
“What makes you think there are skeletons?”
“Everyone, and I mean everyone on this planet, is harboring a few skeletons.”
Becca kept chattering, but I froze. I mean stone-cold, unable-to-move-a muscle frozen. Even my lungs stopped, until I thumped myself on my chest as a way of reminding them to get back to work.
The cause of my extreme distress? The life-sized picture of Mrs. Wade on the front page of the paper. It totally freaked me out.
I stared at the photo, taken at a recent city council meeting. I remembered that day. She’d been invited to express her concerns regarding an oceanfront high-rise project proposed by a deep-pocketed developer on undeveloped land just north of the Wade’s neighborhood. The photo did justice to her steely determination whenever she fought for a cause she believed in.
I missed her.
I didn’t expect to, but deep down I really missed the woman. She fought fiercely for the underdogs in this world. To include improving the life of African hedgehogs.
My gaze slipped up to the headline. Woman Dead. Husband Fled. Chef Instead?
Oh. My. Gawd.
Breathe.
I thumped my chest again. It took a few blows before the air started flowing.
That sorry excuse for a paper...
A few cuss words escaped my mouth as I snatched the paper out of Becca’s hands.
“Hey,” she said.
I ignored her, focusing all my attention on the article accompanying the photo. Not much more than a rehash of yesterday’s report. They had included the latest update regarding Mr. Wade’s whereabouts. “Currently relaxing on the sandy beaches of Martinique.” The paper had not resorted to inserting emojis into their articles, but an eye-rolling emoji was implied.
The last paragraph, although brief, packed a punch that sent my stomach churning. “The official comment from police spokesman Ron North said no determination had been made regarding cause of death. No more information was forthcoming due the ongoing investigation. However, a person close to the case who spoke on condition of anonymity told us the department is treating this as a murder. The Wade’s personal chef Mollynda Perkins has been identified a person of interest.”
What? I read it again. And again. One more time. While Officer Todd had merely tossed the theory into the air for only Becca and me to hear, it now appeared in print for all of Sea Haven to see.
“Becca.” I looked my best friend right in her eyes. “Help me.” I showed her the paper.
She smiled an encouraging albeit devilish smile. “No worries. I’ve got a plan.”
The thought of another of Becca’s convoluted plans scared me beyond words. But, really, what choice did I have?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
You missed your calling as a private detective,” I told Becca as I steered my Miata up the Wade’s driveway thirty minutes later. The dawn cast a soft glow, as if promising a pleasant day in store for all.
My headlights washed over the Wade’s lavish coastal “cottage.” I think five-thousand square feet exceeds the definition of a cottage by at least four-thousand, but that’s what they called it. It looked exactly as how we’d left it late yesterday afternoon. I’m not sure what I expected, but it was a relief, nonetheless.
“We’re here. Now what?” I pulled into my customar
y spot by the side door. Becca was out of the car before I had come to a complete stop. She was that excited to start her “investigation.” Tater wasn’t far behind, barking merrily as he scampered off in pursuit of a squirrel.
Step one of Becca’s plan seemed simple. Almost too simple. I quashed my uneasy feeling and went into the house to complete my assigned task—feeding Tater. While he’d seemed to enjoy last night’s biscuits and sausage gravy, his system hadn’t been too thrilled.
The plan, as Becca had explained, was to swing by the Wade’s house to pick up Tater’s dog food and other items that would make him more comfortable at my apartment—a temporary situation, I assured myself.
While I did that, Becca would shoot a video inventory of the pantry before the police arrived and wrapped the pantry in crime-scene tape and sent the food products off to a lab. Becca emphasized our need for documentation of what items were open and could have had a peanut product added to them. I’d tried to recreate the list from memory, but it wasn’t happening. Forty-something brain is nothing like twenty-something brain.
In and out in fifteen minutes, she said.
Becca hadn’t shared step two with me yet. Said I was on a “need to know basis.” Said I didn’t need to know yet. That’s the part that worried me. A lot.
When I entered the kitchen, I expected to find Becca in the pantry doing her videography thing. Hmmm. No Becca. She’d probably run to the bathroom. Not surprising, considering the amount of coffee she said she’d downed during her all-night research session.
After feeding Tater, I wrestled the huge bin of dog food into my car. I then collected leashes, blankets, bowls, toys, and a few bottles of Mrs. Wade’s wine. (Payment for dog-sitting, I rationalized.) After all that was loaded into my car, there was still no sign of Becca. Not anywhere on the first floor, at least, as my preliminary recognizance revealed. I’d walked, calling her name. No answer. No sign of her.
Well, that was odd. I stood in the foyer, hands on hips, looking for signs of my friend.
She must have gone upstairs for some reason. But why?
I didn’t have a good feeling about this. Something bad must be happening. That was the only explanation. There was no reason for her to have gone upstairs. No reason at all.
Unless there was a reason...maybe she’d heard footsteps and had gone to investigate?
Tiptoeing up the steps one at a time, I paused on each one and listened for signs of trouble. Had she tripped and fallen and bashed her head and now lay bleeding to death? Had she interrupted a burglar when she’d rushed in and he’d bashed her on the head and dragged her somewhere to die? Or worse, had she startled the killer who’d come to remove evidence? Had he taken Becca hostage? Was he holding her at gunpoint, using her to lure me upstairs where he could kill us both with one bullet?
Please, no. Don’t let it be that.
These were the kind of what’s-the-worst-that-can-happen scenarios zipping through my mind with each step, intensifying the fear pulsing in my solar plexus. I was going to be sick.
No time for that. I needed to find my best friend.
No, I needed to call for help. Something was wrong. I felt it in my bones.
I’m being silly.
Find friend.
Call for help.
Being silly.
I held the debate in my head, wasting precious moments which could prove to be life-or-death. Find friend won out.
Pushing through my fear, I reduced my shouts to whispers as I crept down the hallway. “Becca.” I peeked in the first bedroom. “Becca.” My heart beat in my chest so loudly I knew a heart attack was imminent. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, with my friend.
I repeated the process for the other four bedrooms and massive in-home theater room. Peeking. Calling. Peeking. Calling. But no sign of Becca, alive or dead.
I shook that awful thought off.
One more room to check. Mr. Wade’s office. The door was shut. She had to be in there. But was anyone with her?
I tiptoed along the hall, stopping at the threshold, leaning in and pressing my ear to the door. Someone was in there, that’s for sure. I heard a file drawer open. Silence. Another drawer. Was it the killer?
“Get out!” Becca shouted.
Get out? Hmm. She says that a lot when she doesn’t believe something happened. But given the circumstances, could she be yelling at someone else who is in the room with her? Someone dangerous? Or could she be warning me to leave the house? She could have yelled Threat-con Delta, and I would have been down the stairs and out the door in a red-hot minute. Going for help, of course. Not running away.
I wasn’t exactly sure what “Get out” meant. At least I knew she was alive, was in the room, and maybe possibly needed my help.
“Becca,” I whispered loudly through the door, now convinced a bad guy had locked her up and was now on the hunt for me. I glanced around the hallway. Nobody sneaking up on me.
Things were spinning out of control very quickly. I didn’t like that feeling. Not one bit.
I grabbed the doorknob and turned, but it was locked. “Becca,” I called again, adding a few loud knocks on the door. “What are you doing?”
“Um, nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
“Perfectly fine.”
Hmm. Becca locked in Mr. Wade’s office. File drawers opened. Dang her! I pounded on the door. “You’re going through his personal files, aren’t you?” The fear I’d felt earlier turned to anger. “I did not bring you to this house so that you could violate the Wade’s privacy. Now unlock this door. We’re leaving. Right now.”
“Not ’til I find the answer to one more question. I’m about to bust this case wide open!”
Oh, I got it. Becca’s “simple” plan made sense now. All along she’d intended to snoop in the Wades’s files. I felt deceived by my friend. I felt I had betrayed the Wades. I feared the legal complications if we got caught. It’s not like we were trespassing. I’d entered with a valid reason for being here. But now that I know we’d entered for nefarious purposes, I’d have a difficult time pretending innocence. I’m a horrible actress. Only person in my high school class to fail Drama 101.
Giving one last loud bang on the door to let Becca know I was not happy, I retreated down the hall. While walking and fuming, I offered up a fervent prayer she would be quick with her search and wouldn’t tamper with any evidence. And that nobody would show up to catch us in the act. Maybe nobody would ever know what we’d been up to.
I bided my time by straightening the kitchen. Our little coffee klatch with Officer Todd had left a bit of a mess in my usually pristine kitchen. Again, I blamed the wine for my negligence. Counters needed wiping; the dishwasher needed starting. I did all this while fighting the sense of fear that had settled in my stomach.
Still no Becca.
I grabbed my phone and made a video of the pantry as step one of the simple plan required. It did make sense to me that information might come in handy. Not that I was playing detective. I was not. Just being helpful.
A box on the floor tucked in the right corner caught my eye. That hadn’t been there Saturday afternoon before the party. I know, because I’m very particular about my pantry.
I pulled it out and poked through the detritus of Rose’s flower arranging equipment. The green Styrofoam-like chunks were called oasis or something, used to hold flowers in place and provide water to the stems. A few rolls of floral tape. Scissors. Ribbons. Her deep-pocketed smock was balled up and felt damp to my touch. I pulled it out so I could spread it out in hopes it would dry before getting musty. My hand brushed two bulky items in the pockets and I fished around to remove them so the smock could dry flat.
What I now held in my hand had me feeling like I’d just ridden the Kamikaze at the fair. Five times in a row.
“BEEEEECCCCCAAAAA!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MOOOLLLLLLYYYY” Becca screamed my name the whole time she ran down the front steps.
I sc
reamed her name the whole time I ran down the hallway.
We met in the living room.
“Rose Campbell killed Mrs. Wade,” we shouted in unison.
“What?” Again, in unison.
“You first,” Becca said.
I took her by the upper arm and dragged her to the kitchen. My hand shook as I pointed to the items in Rose’s florist’s box. My stomach churned as I thought about the ramifications of what I had found. Proof that a member of our business circle was a murderer. I had literally rubbed elbows with a stone-cold killer. That thought shattered everything I’d ever believed in, and then some.
Becca looked down, pausing as if processing the sight of two epi-pens sitting at the bottom of box. One cigar-shaped epinephrine injector, out of its box, ready for any anaphylactic emergency. The one Mrs. Wade carried in the zippered pocket of her purse. The very same one she checked for every time she left the house, including a few hours before she died. The second was still in its prescription box with Penelope Wade’s name printed on the label. The spare epi-pen kept in the drawer by the refrigerator.
“Oh. My. Gawd.” Becca took a step backward, her gaze never wavering from the box.
After a brief lull, I felt Becca owed me some equally knock-your-socks-off revelation. “You said you knew Rose murdered Mrs. Wade. What did you find?”
She handed a stack of papers, stapled in the upper left corner, to me.
A printed email exchange. Newest to oldest. I flipped to the back page so that I could read the e-conversation in chronological order. The first one, dated over a month ago, was from Rose to Penelope Wade.
Wow.
Rose was blackmailing Mrs. Wade, threatening to reveal Mr. Wade’s affair with his admin Prissy. Hmm, M for mistress in the telephone diary. That made sense now. Since Mrs. Wade was running on a family values platform, that information could derail her mayoral campaign before it even got off the ground.
In the next email, Mrs. Wade refused to pay.
The next few exchanges involved a lot of name calling. It wasn’t pretty.
I kept reading. This email dated ten days ago from Mrs. Wade to Rose. I gasped. “Mrs. Wade is counter-blackmailing Rose?”
To Fetch a Killer Page 20