Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

  “Ever since we were first married, you’ve always been on a mission to save somebody. First, it was Russell and then me and then your various misfit students. Lately, it’s been Estelle, then Katy, and now Cliff.”

  “What can I say? I’m a caring person.”

  “It seems to go beyond that with you. It’s an obsession.” He folded his arms across his desk.

  She jumped from her seat. “Forget about it. I’ll ask Russell to go. He doesn’t try to psychoanalyze me all the time.” She stormed out of his office despite the protests she could hear from behind her.

  As soon as she started up the car, her anger slipped into sorrow and dripped onto her blouse. She knew Gary was just worried about her, so why couldn’t he just say so? It wasn’t as if she were planning on buying herself a motorcycle or anything. She just wanted to see what was up with the Dekker case.

  It would be a long, chilly evening in the Sharpe house.

  Chapter 11

  Deena insisted on driving so she wouldn’t get her nice “funeral dress” dirty in Russell’s truck. She hadn’t worn heels in a while—even to church—and she wondered if her feet had grown a size. She would have to make do for one hour until she could slip back into her comfy Toms.

  She and Gary had made up the night before. They subscribed to the never-go-to-bed-mad philosophy of a healthy marriage. He had even offered to go with her to the memorial service. Still, there was tension between them.

  When she picked up Russell, he looked uncomfortable in his dress slacks and tie. He had cut himself shaving and had a spot of blood on his chin.

  Deena licked her thumb and rubbed it clean.

  “Stop!” Russell jerked his head away and pulled down the visor mirror to look at his wound.

  “Sorry. Maternal instinct.”

  “So what exactly do you hope to get out of this shindig besides seeing a bunch of rich, snobby New Yorkers?”

  Deena shook her head. “You’re rich, and you’re not snobby.”

  “I’m the exception—not the rule.”

  “Well, for one, I want to size up Max Dekker and see if he truly is the grieving widower he should be. Maybe we’ll find out who that other woman is.”

  “What about that guy from Houston? What if he comes in with guns blazing? I don’t want to have to take a bullet for you, but I will.”

  “Thanks, but I’m sure there will be security there. Ian said that they are on the lookout for the guy.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “No. There wasn’t a picture of him in that newspaper article I read. Only his wife. His name is Joseph Ramos.”

  Visitation had already started when they pulled up to Mortimer’s Funeral Home. Deena had not wanted to be among the first to arrive. A black Hummer limo, not a common sight in Maycroft, was parked near the entrance. A handful of other cars dotted the parking lot.

  Standing off to the side of the building under the shade of an oak tree was Detective Guttman. He nodded his head at Deena when she got out of the car.

  “Good. Guttman sees us,” Deena said, nodding her head in his direction.

  “So that’s the new sheriff in town,” Russell said. “I need to talk to him.”

  “No, you don’t. And he’s a detective, not the sheriff.” She took Russell’s arm and steered him toward the entrance.

  This was not the first time Deena had been inside Mortimer’s. It was Maycroft’s best-known funeral home. Jeffrey Mortimer stood inside the door directing visitors to sign the guestbook and passing out programs. She looked past him to see a small gathering down front. A few people were already seated and some were on their cell phones. Must be the New York crowd.

  She signed the book with a larger than normal signature and scanned the short list of names for any she recognized. There was one. Charla Hicks.

  As soon as she and Russell entered the main chapel, Deena spotted the biggest, blondest hair in the Southwest rush toward her.

  Charla grabbed Deena as though they were best friends and gave her a double-cheek air kiss. “Can you believe it? What a tragedy! You know I sold them their house.”

  As Maycroft’s most ambitious realtor, Deena wasn’t at all surprised that Charla had been involved with Maycroft’s only celebrity couple. What she couldn’t believe was how high Charla’s hair was coifed. In fact, she couldn’t help but stare. That hair needed its own zip code.

  Charla got the message. “Oh, my hair.” She reached up to pat the top. “I know. Of all times for Melissa to go on vacation. I had to get it done by someone else. Is it sticking up too high?”

  “Um, no. It looks fine,” Deena lied. “You say Melissa is on vacation?”

  “That’s right. Took off without telling a soul.”

  Deena hated stating the obvious, but she couldn’t resist. “Is she the one who—”

  “Last saw Alexis Dekker alive? You bet your booty.” Charla turned to Russell. “Hi, I’m Charla Hicks. You must be Deena’s brother I’ve heard so much about. I don’t believe we’ve met.” She batted her eyes and held out her hand as though Russell were supposed to kiss it.

  He reached up and shook it awkwardly. “Russell Sinclair.”

  In a flash, Charla handed Russell her business card. “Call me if you’re interested in buying another mansion. Maybe something in the city on the lake.” With that, she turned and headed off to greet the next potential customer.

  Russell dropped the card in a waste can and followed Deena down the aisle toward Max Dekker.

  A beautiful blue cloisonné urn sat in the middle of a long table surrounded by more pots of flowers than she had ever seen in one place. Purple hydrangeas, white lilies, and yellow roses were overpowering in looks and scent.

  As they approached, Max spotted her through an opening in the crowd and walked to where she stood waiting. “Mrs. Sharpe. Here to finish off the job?” he asked when he got near enough to speak.

  Deena held out her hand. “Now you know better than that, Mr. Dekker. I’m here to offer my condolences, just like I planned to do the other day when there was that...unfortunate incident at your house.”

  “Unfortunate incident.” He paused. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “This is my brother, Russell Sinclair.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Russell said, just like Deena had coached him.

  “Ah. You are the friend of my wife’s suspected killer.”

  Russell opened his mouth to speak, but Deena held up her hand to stop him.

  “Now Mr. Dekker, you know good and well that neither I nor our friend had anything to do with your wife’s death. Besides, this is no place for a conversation like that.”

  She looked into his deep, blue eyes and saw a mixture of what was surely grief and fatigue. These were not the eyes of a killer.

  “About that, you are right.” He sighed so deeply that Deena worried he would deflate like an old balloon.

  “Max, the funeral director needs to speak to you.” The woman’s voice was connected to another familiar face. It was the same woman Deena had seen just a few days earlier in the bay window of Max Dekker’s house.

  She smiled at Deena and Russell. “I’m Barbara Conroy. Thank you both so much for coming.”

  Deena smiled back. She knew the name immediately from the Wikipedia article about Max. Barbara Conroy was his second wife. The one he divorced after two years in order to re-marry Alexis.

  “Duty calls,” Max said and walked toward the back of the room with Barbara.

  “I can’t believe that,” Deena whispered to Russell when the couple was out of earshot. “That’s his ex-wife. The woman I saw him kissing.”

  “Well, that makes sense. She came to visit. He greets her with a kiss.”

  “It wasn’t a ‘Hi, how are you?’ kind of kiss. Trust me.”

  The organist began playing a hymn, a cue for everyone to be seated. Deena led Russell toward the back. She wanted a bird’s eye view in case any
thing interesting went down. With luck, there might be some drama.

  THE SERVICE WAS SHORT and simple. Nothing unusual happened, and Deena was slightly disappointed. During most of the service, she couldn’t take her eyes off Barbara Conroy.

  Barbara was the “Rhoda” to Alexis’s “Mary.” Whereas the pictures of Alexis showed a stylish, tall, thin, elegant woman with heels that could double as circus stilts, Barbara appeared more genteel and plain-Jane. Deena wouldn’t be surprised if Barbara was actually from the South. Barbara could never pull off the designer look of the clothes Deena saw at the thrift shop. She would look like a pig dressed up like a poodle. Instead, she looked comfortable in her department store dress and sensible black pumps. You can tell a lot about a woman by her shoes, you know.

  Barbara sat behind Max on the second row. The first row seemed filled with brothers, sisters, or cousins. Most of the folks looked to be in their sixties, about the same age as Max. Barbara stood and sat on cue with the pastor, bowing her head appropriately.

  Deena wondered what she was actually thinking. Was she delighted to be rid of her archrival? Would she be moving in shortly with her ex-husband? Everyone kept secrets; no one knew that better than Deena. What deep, dark secrets was Barbara Conroy keeping and would they somehow explain the mystery of the murder of Alexis Dekker?

  When the service ended, Deena and Russell hurried out. They didn’t want to hang around for chitchat. Russell headed straight out to Detective Guttman who was still holding up the old oak tree. Deena tried to catch up with him, but her Sunday heels made it impossible.

  “Detective Guttman, I’m Russell Sinclair. I’m a friend of Cliff Abel’s. I’m his best friend, that is.”

  Guttman twirled the toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth and gave Russell a sideways stare. He looked at Deena. “Is this guy with you?”

  “Yes,” Deena said. “He’s my brother.”

  “I see. So, what can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “You can leave my friend alone. He didn’t kill anybody. He’s not that kind of person.”

  The detective chuckled and threw the toothpick on the ground. “And I guess I’m just supposed to take your word for that, huh?”

  Russell jammed his hands deep in his pockets. “No, but you should take character witnesses into account. That should mean something.”

  “Look, Mr. Sinclair. I’m a detective. We deal in facts and evidence. When I get all the facts of this case together, I’ll know if your buddy Cliff is guilty or not.”

  “What about Melissa?” Deena asked. “She’s Mrs. Dekker’s hairstylist.”

  “We talked to her. We don’t consider her a suspect.”

  “Did you know she’s missing?”

  “Missing? What do you mean?” Guttman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Apparently, she took off without telling anyone she was leaving.” Deena stared down the detective.

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence. Or maybe she’s dealing with personal issues. After all, she was the last person to see Alexis Dekker alive.”

  “Exactly!” Deena folded her arms.

  “Look here, Mrs. Sharpe. If I were you, I’d quit trying to play amateur sleuth and worry about your own alibi.”

  “Is that a threat?” Russell leaned in, his fists balled in his pockets.

  “Not at all,” Guttman said. “It’s just that Mrs. Sharpe here still has some explaining to do.”

  “Me?” Deena didn’t disguise the surprise in her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your alibi for going to Max Dekker’s house on Wednesday didn’t pan out.”

  “You mean Betty Donaldson and Lydia Ivey? Did you talk to them?”

  “I didn’t need to talk to Ms. Ivey. Mrs. Donaldson made it clear that she didn’t go with you to the Dekker house. I was planning on calling you back for another interview as soon as I chase down some other information.”

  Deena’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe that Betty had lied about that day. Her surprise quickly turned to anger. She measured her words carefully. “So how did you know I—I mean we—had been at the house?”

  “Max Dekker reported seeing you and recognized you from the writing class.”

  Deena fumed. “I can assure you, Detective, that Mrs. Donaldson was indeed there that day. I can also assure you that you will be hearing from her shortly.”

  Deena pulled on Russell’s arm and turned toward the parking lot.

  “Mrs. Sharpe,” Guttman called after her. “A coerced confession is a false confession. It’ll never stand up in court.”

  She wanted to scream. She needed to take action. After dropping Russell off, she would drive straight to Betty’s house and confront that little snippet. Before this day was over, her name would be cleared if it was the last thing she did.

  Russell broke her tunnel vision. “Slow down!”

  Deena slammed on her brakes.

  A man crossing the street jumped to avoid getting hit. He glared at her then trotted off down the street that ran beside the funeral home.

  Deena took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves. “I’m sorry. That was close.”

  “Just be careful,” Russell said. “We don’t need any more casualties.”

  Deena looked both ways twice before proceeding down the road. “Did you recognize that guy?”

  Russell clenched the handle above the door. “No, but he looked familiar. Must live around here.”

  “I feel like I’ve seen him before.” As she drove toward Estelle’s house, she tried to remember where she had seen that face. By his silence, she supposed Russell was trying to figure it out, too.

  DEENA AND BETTY WEREN’T exactly what you’d call bosom buddies. In fact, Deena had never been to Betty’s house.

  When the snarky librarian opened the door, Deena was surprised to see her in her bathrobe. After all, it was Saturday afternoon. She wondered if Betty had not changed clothes from the morning or if she had already changed for the evening.

  “Deena?”

  “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.” Deena didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed her way into the foyer. She could see past the entry into the den where Betty’s husband, Phil, was reading in an easy chair. Deena had known for a while now that Betty suspected him of cheating on her. The rumor had made its way through the small town. She could see why. Phil could have been a stand-in for Cary Grant. He waved to her and went back to his magazine.

  Betty led Deena into the study or library or office. Everybody has their own name for the room with sparse seating but ample books. “Wait here,” Betty said, and left to go down the hall toward the bedrooms.

  Deena was too impatient to sit. She walked over to the tidy shelves and scanned the book titles. An impressive array of fiction and non-fiction stared back at her. It didn’t take her long to realize that the books were arranged by author name. Once a librarian, always a librarian. Deena spotted the section with Max Dekker’s books. It looked like Betty must have one of every novel he’d ever written. Except, that is, for his first book, Crimson Waters. She had two copies of that one.

  It was the book she had asked him to sign on Monday in class. Deena slid the book out of its spot and opened it to the title page. Instead of being autographed to Betty, the inscription was addressed to someone named Lizzie Bogmire. Max had signed it and dated it December 1, 1977.

  She reached for the second copy when Betty returned wearing one of her signature pantsuits. The fabric was crumpled and had probably come straight out of the laundry hamper.

  “You didn’t need to dress up for me,” Deena stated flatly. “I don’t plan on being here that long.” She held up the book. “By the way, who is Lizzie Bogmire?”

  Betty’s mouth tightened, but her eyes remained fixed on Deena. “My sister.” She paused and then added, “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Deena pushed the book back into its rightful place.

  “Why did you go to the memorial, and why a
re you here, dear?” Betty’s eyes danced back and forth between Deena and the bookshelf.

  “How do you know I went to the memorial?”

  “Seems obvious. Most people don’t wear a black dress and heels in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.”

  “What did you tell Detective Guttman about our visit to Max Dekker’s house? Or better yet, what didn’t you tell him?” Deena stood rigidly, wanting a straight answer.

  Betty glided past her to the shelf. “I simply answered his questions. I told the truth.” She adjusted the book Deena had handled, making sure it lined up exactly with the others on the shelf. She pulled and pushed a few more times until she was satisfied with its position.

  Deena sat on the small sofa. “So what did he ask, and what did you say?”

  Betty stood with her back to the shelf. “He asked me if I had driven out to Max Dekker’s house on Wednesday, and I told him the truth.”

  Deena shook her head. “Then why did he say you didn’t verify my story that we went there to take food and offer condolences?”

  “Beats me. I guess you’d have to ask him that question.” Betty sat down in the Queen Anne style chair, her back ramrod straight. It made her pointy features look sharp enough to slice meat.

  “Did you tell him about seeing Max kiss that other woman?”

  Betty hesitated. “No.”

  “Which part, no?”

  She blew out her breath and looked a mile past Deena at the far wall. “All of it.”

  “I don’t understand. You said he asked you if you went to Max Dekker’s house and you said yes.”

  Betty stood and wrung her hands. “That’s not what I said.” She stared at her hands as if the words were written on them. “He asked if I drove to Max Dekker’s house on Wednesday, and I said no. That was the truth. You drove, not me.”

  Deena leaped off the sofa. “What? Now you’re parsing words? Do you realize how that makes me look?”

  Betty walked to the window and stared out through the curtains. “I suppose. It’s just that I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know that you never talk to the police. They aren’t looking for the truth—they just want a conviction.”