Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  My stomach roiled. What happened if he mixed up his cans? I threw up a little in my mouth.

  “Why hello!” a high-pitched voice behind me squeaked. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Cheap perfume smelling like Febreze wafted over me as a massive woman in a striped polyester caftan rounded the couch and pumped my hand. “I’m Darlene Grubb. Nice to meetcha, Ms. Starr.”

  “Please, call me Brooke,” I said faintly, as I stared up into a lined face that resembled a Kabuki doll, with its bright-red lips and white-powdered skin topped off by thick, shoulder-length, stick-straight jet-black hair—obviously a wig.

  Darlene plopped into the recliner next to me, which creaked under her weight. Adjusting the shiny gold-and-brown-striped caftan—now I knew where her daughter had gotten her fashion sense—she leaned toward her husband. “Floyd, did you offer our guest a drink?”

  “Nope.” The male Grubb kept his eyes glued to Judge Judy as he spit more tobacco juice into his empty Budweiser can.

  “You’ll have to excuse my husband, Ms.—I mean, Brooke—a billy goat has more manners than him. The only way he’d commit to learning manners is if Judge Judy sentenced him to being neat and orderly.” She reached down and opened a large plastic picnic cooler on the floor beside her chair. “You want some Coke? Mountain Dew?” She fished through the ice. “I got regular and Diet Coke. I also got me some Red Bull.”

  “Diet Coke would be great. Thanks.”

  Darlene plucked a Diet Coke from the cooler, wiped the can sweat on her caftan, and handed it to me. Then she popped open a Mountain Dew and glugged it down.

  “You hungry, honey?” She nodded to the end table beside me. “Help yourself to some Cheetos or M&M’s—unless you want some Doritos?” She reached for the bag on Floyd’s TV table, almost knocking over his spit can in the process.

  All of a sudden, my mother’s modern sterile home looked awfully appealing. “Thanks. I’m good.” I took a sip of my Diet Coke and set it down on the only available space on the crowded end table, nestled among the Cheetos, a Tupperware bowl full of M&M’s, a jumbo bottle of Tylenol, and a plastic purple pill organizer marked with each day of the week. “I appreciate your invitation to come and talk about Annabelle. I know this is a difficult time.”

  The dead woman’s mother raised a tissue to her eyes—eyes that remained curiously dry. “Yes it is. Thank you.” She scarfed down a handful of M&M’s.

  “Can you tell me about your daughter?” I said gently. “What was she like?”

  Darlene dabbed daintily at her mouth with a tissue before releasing a heavy sigh. “Annabelle was my child and I loved her, but Lord love a duck, that girl didn’t have the sense she was born with.” She snorted. “Take the loser she married. Harley. What a catch. He was stocking shelves at Walmart when she met him and living in his parents’ basement. Now he’s living in our basement and hasn’t worked for the past five years. No wonder she took such a shine to that English author.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. Tread lightly.

  “Was Tavish Bentley the only man Annabelle”—I hesitated—“um, had a crush on?”

  Floyd grunted and began hacking.

  “If you didn’t chew that filthy tobacco, you wouldn’t cough so much,” Darlene said to her husband. “Don’t blame me when you choke to death on that chaw one of these days.” She cackled and sent me an exaggerated wink. “Just make sure your life insurance policy is up to date.”

  Her husband grabbed some brown fast-food napkins from his TV table and spit into them. Then he took a long pull of his Budweiser. “Shut your pie hole, you silly woman.” He faced me. “Annabelle had more crushes than you could shake a stick at—mostly Hollywood actors. Like those bachelor guys on TV.”

  “I keep telling you, those men are not actors,” his wife said. “They’re real people like you and me. That’s why it’s called reality TV.”

  “Well, they seem like actors to me,” he said stubbornly, “staying at that fancy California mansion and kissing all those beautiful women in bikinis and such. I don’t see folks like you and me living like that.”

  Score one for Floyd.

  Darlene sighed.

  Floyd ignored her. “I know for a fact that Annabelle had the hots for the Rock and that guy who played Wolverine.”

  “Hugh Jackman?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  Well, who wouldn’t?

  “She’d go to all his movies the day they opened and bought the DVDs as soon as they released. Had his pictures taped all over her wall too and kept sending him love letters. Until she got a cease-and-desist letter from the cops.”

  As he leaned over to spit again, I averted my eyes.

  “Then she started watching all those fancy English shows and took a cotton to everything British—especially their accents,” Floyd said. “They just primed the pump for her to fall for that English author.”

  A door slammed at the back of the house and a dog yipped.

  “Shut up, you stupid mutt,” yelled a male voice.

  “Here comes Annabelle’s Prince Charming,” Darlene sneered.

  Floyd swiveled his head back to Judge Judy as a balding giant in baggy sweat shorts and a shapeless T-shirt entered the room carrying two six-packs.

  “Where you been?” Darlene asked.

  “Seven-Eleven. We were out of Dr. Pepper.” The sweaty giant shambled to the ice chest and shoved the six-packs inside after first removing one of the plastic bottles.

  “Seven-Eleven?” Darlene screeched. “That’s too expensive! I told you to always buy soda at Walmart.”

  “Walmart’s too far on my bike.” He plopped down on the other end of the sectional and unscrewed the cap of his Dr. Pepper. “Some of us don’t have cars, remember?” He swigged his soda.

  “Well, if someone hadn’t totaled his wife’s Mary Kay Cadillac while driving under the influence, they might still have a car.”

  Annabelle had sold Mary Kay? That accounted for the pink addiction.

  “It wasn’t my fault. That SUV came out of nowhere.” Noticing me for the first time, he sucked in his potbelly. “Who’s this?” he said with a leer.

  “This is the newspaper reporter I told you about.” Darlene shot daggers at her son-in-law. “Come to talk to us about your dead wife.”

  Never complain about your mother again.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, extending my hand to him. “Brooke Starr.”

  He lowered his head in feigned sorrow. “Harley Cooke, Annabelle’s husband.” As he raised his head back up, I noticed his eyes were a faint blue. Almost colorless. Empty of feeling.

  I shivered.

  Harley clasped my hand in his meaty paw and shook it, his fingers lingering on mine.

  I felt a frisson of unease. Casually extricating my hand, I said, “Your father-in-law was just telling us about some of the celebrity crushes your wife had. I understand she was a bit of an Anglophile.”

  “Huh?”

  “Someone who loves England and all things English.”

  “You can say that again.” He grimaced. “Especially that Tavish dude.”

  “Do you know when Annabelle first met Tavish Bentley, and how?”

  “Yep. Couple years ago when he came to town. Jewel, my little sister, loves his books, so she dragged Annabelle along to his book signing in Chicago. And that was that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “My wife was a goner. She became obsessed with the dude.”

  As I scribbled the details in my notebook, I felt a couple more curls spring free from my slicked-back bun. Absent-mindedly I tucked them behind my ears and continued writing. “And how did you feel about that?”

  “What is this? An interrogation?” Something in Harley’s voice made me pause. “You a shrink or something?” His colorless eyes narrowed. “Or maybe a cop?”

  Careful. “Neither. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m just trying to get a clear picture of Annabelle and her relationship with Tavish Bentley.”
r />   “Relationship?” Harley guffawed. “The only relationship my wife had with that dude was the one in her head.”

  “That’s what we heard. And you weren’t jealous?”

  “Nope,” he said matter-of-factly. “Annabelle and I had what you might call an open marriage.”

  Floyd grunted. “In my day they called it an excuse to mess around.”

  “But we’re not in your day anymore, are we, Gramps?” Harley said, turning his cold empty eyes on his father-in-law. “That day is dead and gone.”

  “The only thing dead and gone around here is Annabelle,” Darlene exclaimed, her voice rising. She pointed a shaking finger at her son-in-law. “And you’re the one who killed her!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Make sure you write that in your paper,” Darlene said to me, her face flushing red under her white makeup. “This lowlife murdered our daughter!”

  Slowly and quietly, I slipped my hand into my purse and fumbled for the can of pepper spray.

  “Why would I kill my wife?” Harley tipped his bald head at Darlene.

  “For a couple reasons: to be with that skinny chippy you have on the side, and for the insurance money. Annabelle told me a while back that you convinced her to get the two of you matching insurance policies.”

  “It’s called being fiscally prudent,” Harley said, sounding like a commercial for life insurance while conveniently ignoring the “chippy” accusation his mother-in-law had lobbed at him. He laced his fingers behind his head and splayed out his pasty tree-trunk calves before him. “Insurance is protection for those you leave behind. That way the remaining spouse or family member isn’t on the hook to pay funeral and burial expenses during their time of grief.” He added in a mock-innocent tone, “I’m sure you and Floyd have insurance policies, right?”

  Darlene flushed. “Never you mind about Floyd and me. That’s our business.” She turned to face me. “Ms. Starr, as a reporter, have you ever heard of funeral expenses costing a hundred grand?”

  Floyd released another grunt. “That’d have to be a gold-plated casket.”

  Sounds like the perfect motive for murder, I thought.

  Annabelle’s mother inclined her head to me expectantly.

  “No,” I said, “but then I haven’t had much experience with funerals.” Just deaths. By strangulation.

  I scratched the back of my neck, where drops of perspiration had formed at my hairline, causing more curls to spring loose from my tight, unfamiliar hairstyle.

  “Starr,” Harley said with a speculative gleam as he pinned me with his colorless eyes. “That’s funny. You have the same name as Brenda Starr, the redheaded reporter in my comic books.”

  I knew I should have come up with a more original alias.

  “I know,” I said weakly. “I get that a lot. But as you can see, I’m not a redhead, nor is my name Brenda.”

  “That’s right,” Darlene said. “Her name’s Brooke. Now stop changing the subject, Harley Cooke, and confess. You know you killed Annabelle.”

  “Did not.” He scowled at her. “You’re as crazy as your daughter.” He chugged down the rest of his Dr. Pepper and belched.

  “And you’re a freeloader and a loser.” Darlene whipped out her cell phone from the pocket of her caftan. “And a murderer! I’m calling the cops right now.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Harley rose in a smooth, fluid motion for such a big man and advanced menacingly toward his mother-in-law.

  I jumped up, can of pepper spray in hand. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot.” I pointed the can at him, my trembling finger poised on the nozzle.

  “Yeah, right.” He took a step toward me. I pressed the nozzle.

  Harley howled and clutched at his face, eyes streaming. Then he dropped to his knees. As he did, Floyd heaved himself to his feet and trapped Harley between his walker and the couch.

  “Way to go, Brooke!” Darlene held out something to me. My glasses. “These fell on the floor when you jumped between me and that good-for-nothing son-in-law of mine.”

  “Thanks.” I blew my sticky bangs off my face and unconsciously shoved my curls behind my ear. That’s when I discovered my rebellious curly hair had at last completely escaped its confining bun. Oops.

  Darlene considered me. “You know … with your hair down and no glasses, you seem kind of familiar.”

  I shrugged and placed the plastic oversized glasses back on. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

  “No.” A frown creased her forehead. “You remind me of someone. I just can’t think of who.”

  “Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?” I sucked in my cheeks and struck a pose. “Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby?”

  Darlene shook her head. Then she scrunched her eyebrows together and leaned in closer. Her brown eyes grew wide. “Oh my gosh!” Digging excitedly in the pocket of her voluminous caftan, she yanked out a paperback and held up the back cover next to my face. “You’re Theodora St. John!” she squealed.

  Busted.

  Sirens wailed out front.

  Great. That’s all I needed—getting arrested for impersonating a reporter. Then I remembered Harley. My gaze slid from the still-writhing widower to the phone in Darlene’s hand. “I thought you didn’t have a chance to call the cops.”

  “She didn’t,” Floyd said, wheezing. “But I did.”

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later after the police had questioned all of us—and placed a call to Brady to confirm my story—they released us. All except Harley, who had a record for DUI and assault in his background, as well as an outstanding warrant for unpaid parking tickets. The cops placed Harley in a holding cell while they investigated him for his wife’s murder.

  The Grubbs wanted to take me out to an early dinner at Outback to celebrate, but I begged off, eager to get home and back to Gracie, whom my neighbor, Joanne LaPoint, was dog-sitting. Before I left, however, Darlene had me sign Death by Danish, The Macaroon Murders, and Pineapple Upside-Down Death. She also made me promise to send her an autographed copy of A Dash of Death as soon as it was released.

  “My friends will be so jealous when they find out I’m friends with Theodora St. John,” she said, proudly examining the personal notes I’d written in her books. “We just love your Kate and Kallie mysteries. That dog is so smart, the way she always figures out the mystery and saves the day.”

  Too bad Gracie can’t do the same. “Kallie’s a clever girl,” I agreed, inching toward the front door. “Well, I’d better get going.”

  “You come back and see us again,” Darlene said. Her face lit up. “Or … I could always visit you in Lake Potawatomi.”

  “I’m not sittin’ in a car for no two hours,” groused Floyd.

  Thank God. The last thing I need is my own stalker-fan.

  Darlene walked me to the door. “I’ll just leave Floyd behind when I come to see you,” she whispered. “There’s a lady from the county who comes in and helps out a few days a week. I’ll get her to watch him.”

  I gave Darlene a weak smile and a wave good-bye, hoping she didn’t hear my stomach growling.

  Leaving the Grubbs’ neighborhood, I grabbed a granola bar from the emergency stash I keep in my glove box and inhaled it. Then I patted myself on the back for getting Annabelle’s murderer off the street and clearing Tavish.

  Aren’t you forgetting something? my inner nag asked.

  Like what?

  Your scarf around Annabelle’s neck? How did Harley know to strangle his wife using the same murder weapon—albeit a different color—as the one that killed Kristi?

  He must have read about it online. I dismissed my pragmatic second-guessing. Several online news venues have run stories about Kristi’s murder.

  True, but didn’t you notice that they left out the details of who the owner of the scarf is? Brady’s been keeping that information quiet.

  Well then, Annabelle must have told her husband details about Kristi’s murder and he replic
ated it, I argued with myself.

  That’s possible. But you know what that means then, don’t you?

  Ew. Harley Cooke has been inside my house.

  I shuddered at the thought. If Harley had broken in and stolen my scarf, that meant … he was also the one who’d poisoned Gracie! I nearly flipped a U-ey to drive back to the police station and deck the creep who had hurt my dog, but I doubted the cops would let me near him. Plus, I didn’t want to get arrested for assault and battery. Instead, I pulled into the nearest drive-through and ordered a burger, fries, and an industrial-sized iced tea for sustenance. Checking my phone as I waited for my order, I discovered eleven text messages, seven missed calls, and four voice mails. Yikes. I’d told my neighbor and occasional dog-sitter Joanne I had a business appointment out of town and would be gone for five or six hours, but I hadn’t told her where I was going or what the business was. My friends and family I had purposely left in the dark.

  I skimmed the texts.

  Char: Guess what? I found someone who has it in for Tavish. Call me.

  Sharon: Had an interesting talk with Melanie. Much to tell. Talked to Josh and Jessica too. They’re both loving their summer jobs (although I still wish they’d come home and work with their dad and I at the Lake House again, but that’s just me). They said to say hi to Aunt Teddie.

  Joanne LaPoint: Kelly’s having the baby! Gotta go. Left Gracie with your mom. Sorry

  Mom: Joanne brought Gracie home. She left another present in the back yard for you.

  Tavish: You’re right. Best carrot cake ever. I’d like to thank you in person. Are you free for dinner?

  Mom: Where are you? I left you three messages! I have to leave soon for Bunco.

  Char: Did you get my voicemail?