“But why not Tilbert?” Sam asked.
“Because Tilbert pulled the trigger,” Eunice explained. “And he had that record … and—
“And?”
“And because he got consecutive life sentences.”
Dang!
Sam now knew how Eunice felt because that little detail had gotten past her. She’d been so focused on what went on in the past that it never occurred to do an update on the two bandits.
So he was rotting away in prison, eh?
Sam filed that away too.
“Then you don’t know why Swayzie’s back?”
“Unfinished business is my guess,” Eunice responded. “Only thing it could be.”
“But Drossider is in his seventies.”
“I’m not necessarily implying it’s with Drossider. Could be the police or …”
“Alfred Langford … the guard?” Sam responded.
“No, he passed away a few years ago, but it doesn’t eliminate his family, does it?”
The housewife’s brows lifted as she posed the question, but it didn’t make any sense. If Swayzie had been the type not to get into trouble, would he really take revenge on the guard’s family? It would only land him back in the hole.
Unlikely, but possible.
The conclusion meant another task went on her “To Do” list.
“Was Swayzie seeing anyone … I mean, at the time of the burglary?”
“A girlfriend? Hmmmm …” The query provoked thought. Eunice became lost in the past, but only for a moment. “No. I don’t remember any talk about him being involved. Plus, no one supported him during the trial. Tilbert had a girlfriend that showed up every day, but not Swayzie.”
“What was her name?”
“Tilbert’s friend? Think it was Rya Kramer. She lives about a mile from Corona Pete. By the way, have you spoken to him recently?”
She knew?
No, it couldn’t be. The news couldn’t have traveled that fast. It was paranoia getting to the coffee shop owner, and she had to squelch it or she’d be found out.
“No, I haven’t,” she lied as she relaxed back and inhaled. The fragrance had almost rid her of the smell of Warbler still lodged in her nostrils. “Your garden is lovely, Eunice. You are blessed.”
The remark took the gossipmonger off guard.
“Why, thank you, Samantha. I am that. I thank God every single day for my good fortune.”
She eyed the woman dressed in yellow and purple warily.
Maybe.
“I’m not like certain members of the community that make a mockery of their marriage by breaking vows.”
Where had that come from?
Sam sipped more tea, her brain triggered.
“You’re so right, Eunice. Some of the things I’ve heard have surprised me too. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Doris—
“And Rudy Connors? It was shameful! Shameful! I could go on and on—”
“Really?” Sam replied, leaning forward and putting her chin in her palm. “Please do, because I’m all ears.”
CHAPTER 19
“Not bad … not bad at all.”
The day’s tally was decent. Not enough to cover the totality of losses, but the few hundred dollars taken in was better than a big fat goose egg and dropping further in the red.
“How’s school coming?” Sam asked the tall African-American refilling napkin holders.
“It’s coming,” Matt Johnson, the second-shifter, answered. “You sure you don’t mind if I study in between customers?” he asked, not slowing down and moving to replenishing artificial sweetener packets.
“Like I said in the interview, as long as you don’t neglect customers, it’s more than okay. Just be discreet,” she replied.
One of Johnson’s frequent smiles broke through.
“Always,” he quipped as he picked up a cloth and wrung it out in the double sink.
She’d stopped in to touch base before heading home. It was already getting dark, but her stomach was filled with the good food that accompanied Eunice giving chapter-and-verse on the affair between Doris and Rudy.
TMI.
She’d never regard her landlord in the same way again.
Copious amounts of intimate information were way worse than picturing someone naked, but the point was that the town snoop had come through. It sometimes paid to know a gossip, and if Sam were a cop that relied on tips, she’d put that housewife on the payroll.
And speaking of cops.
“Ms. Powell.”
The cheesy greeting made her shudder. Doctor Death was so fake—as was his smile. But the teeth … real. Couldn’t she get through one day without him hounding her?
“De-tec-tive Jen-nings,” she answered in sporadic clipped tones that were gritty enough to slice bread. Satisfied enough disgust was imbued into her reply, she neared, but didn’t venture near enough to catch whatever he had.
“What brings you here?” she continued.
“Coffee and … you.”
“Me?” she responded, touching her hand to her chest and laughing. “Does that mean I’m still a suspect?”
“As I said before, you are not a suspect, Ms. Powell. I don’t know where you got that idea, but your persisting in—”
“Then this isn’t an official visit and I can interrupt you and be rude and—” she asked as she put her hands on her hips.
“It’s official,” he interjected.
“I see. Then I’m not a suspect, but you’re here on official business at six o’clock at night. This is beginning to make no sense.”
The smile was gone, but why was he staring?
“I’d just love to stand here and not say anything to you, but I have a cat to feed,” she remarked.
“Figures.”
Was it possible for him to say that with more disdain?
“So on top of everything else, you hate cats?”
“I never said I hated them.”
“Ye-ah, ya did,” she responded, putting the emphasis on the second syllable in “yeah.”
“No, I said it figured that you’d own one.”
“In the first place, humans don’t own cats; they own us. In the second place, I don’t appreciate someone being condescending where Mr. Cuddles is concerned.”
“Mr. Cuddles …” he repeated with a smirk.
She crossed her arms.
He had no idea what line he’d crossed. Her Braveheart side emerged, her skin painted in blue with sword in hand. He was so going to get broad-sworded.
“Mr. Cuddles is his nickname. His real name is Taz and owning a dog is so superior?”
“I don’t own a dog and neither do you, apparently. And I never—” he started.
“You implied it,” she interrupted, cutting him off. “Don’t know where you get to set the rules that other people have to follow. And for your edification, I’ve had dogs … lots of dogs … some that I fostered, and I love them too. But there is that attitude distinction between the two. Why is it my mind can accept that both are fantastic little creatures while yours can’t? Let’s see …” she said, tapping her finger against her chin and looking up. “Could it be because you’re as close-minded about them as you are about homicide investigations? Must be great being so judgmental about everything. Puts you in the position of always thinking yourself right when you are oh, so wrong!”
A muffled laugh emitted from the side made her pivot in time to see her evening barista stifling the guffaw by clasping his hand over his mouth.
An evil glowed in Detective Death’s eyes. She was tempted to retreat but held her ground. He was the one in the wrong, not her.
“You’re the same egotistical child you were in high school. Always giving lectures and putting others down.”
Wait! What?
“Wait! What?” she exclaimed, letting loose the inner dialogue.
“I said, always giving lectures—”
“Not that part—the part about school—do I know you? Is
that why you look familiar?”
“Ms. Powell, this discussion is getting off track. I’m here to remind you about what I said about sticking your nose into my investigation. You’ve been at it again.”
Her arms came down, flopping at her sides. She grabbed her hands to keep them from shaking.
“H-how do you know that?”
“I have my ways. It’s not smart to discuss things in public, Ms. Powell.”
“In public?”
“This morning. You discussed Lee Swayzie with Bliss Harper.”
“You are spying on me!”
“Police don’t spy; spies spy.”
“Don’t play the semantics game! You had no right to—”
“I had every right to come in and order coffee. You, on the other hand, had no right to go to the library and dig up old history. You’re going to get yourself in trouble. More trouble than your friend allowing Elliot Harper to paw her all evening.”
Paw?
Then Lyddie had been manhandled; it wasn’t an exaggeration.
“Going into Warbles was not bright,” he continued, walking down the list of wrongs she’d committed. It meant he knew about Corona too.
But the question of how he knew stuck in her craw.
“I’ll end things there with another warning not to involve yourself in police business.”
“But don’t you care that Swayzie’s back? He robbed the place next door!”
“We care about everything, Ms. Powell. Even attractive women that think way too much of themselves. That’s why they get viral messages posted on Facebook.”
The incident! He knew!
“You do know me! How?”
“I’d tell you, but I know you have that cat to tend to and don’t want to make you late. Good evening, Ms. Powell.”
He strolled up to the front of the cafe. Matt rushed and beat him to the counter.
“A large expresso, please,” he ordered. Turning, he shot her a superior look over a broad shoulder.
As she fumed, her mind raced as Matt ignored the drama sizzling between the two and obliged. He hustled to fulfill the order as Sam stared at the arrogant detective who was too big for his britches.
She only wished she had a hammer.
CHAPTER 20
“He knows me!” the cafe owner seethed, pressing Mr. Cuddles to her chest. He was all purrs after finishing his supper.
“Why do I always have to come over here? That’s the thing I’d like to know! Bailey was going to stop by. It’s why I was in the middle of giving myself a pedicure, but I had to put my life on hold to help you out—AGAIN!”
As if Lyddie needed to explain about the condition of her feet. The wads of toilet paper wedged in between her toes would have been a hint something had been going on. Then there were the flip-flops. The thonged wonders did nothing for anyone’s feet but make them look ridiculous.
“Not a good look, Lyddie,” she replied as she continued to rub Mr. Cuddles’ full belly. Unlike most felines, Taz loved his stomach touched.
“It’s so like you to criticize the one person willing to drop everything and risk ridicule to answer another SOS! You know I don’t go out like this. I only do it for you! YOU! And yet you sit in judgment and mock me. Well, go ahead, because … because … what is that smell?”
Lyddie’s keen nose was raised and sniffing the deliciousness of the aroma filling Samantha’s small bungalow. Sam had gotten the residence for a song courtesy of Bliss Harper. There were definite perks of getting into real estate, and snagging a house for yourself at a way below market value was one.
Bliss could dicker like nobody’s business.
“Brownies,” she replied. “After the day I put in, I craved comfort food. They’re cooling in case you’re interested.”
A braceleted arm swatted Sam to the side. Lyddie was on the move and reacquainting herself with the pale gray kitchen with the classic fifties stove painted in a subdued mint green. Her thong-toed friend took down two plates from the cabinet and cut into the scrumptious chocolate cooling in a metal baking pan. Two generous squares were placed in the center of each dish.
One for her and one for the baketress.
“Yumsters!” the blonde bombshell exclaimed as her salivary glands kicked in and swamped her mouth in appreciative juices.
As Lyddie ran for a glass and hemp milk to fill it, Sam relinquished Mr. Cuddles to his own personal highchair. The expensive purchase embellished with his name in calligraphy was made so he could beg more effectively. If he were way down by her feet, she couldn’t see the mournful pleas emanating from those eyes quite as easily, and it would be a shame to let the piteous looks go to waste.
“No, Tazzy,” Sam admonished in a loving tone. “No brownies, but you can have these.” Filling his treat dish with a handful of his favorite snack, she placed it in front of him, letting him have at it. It would keep him occupied and leave her time to wolf down dessert.
“You sp … oil th-at cat, S-am,”
Lyddie’s mouth was too full to enunciate properly so she mumbled.
“It has nothing to do with pampering; he doesn’t like being left out … do you, Mr. Cuddles?” she asked, switching to a childlike vocalization.
The calico was too busy scarfing down the fish-flavored triangles to respond. Lyddie loudly cleared her throat and refocused her attention. There was that insult to account for.
“Well?” she said, prompting Sam to explain.
“Well, trashing your footwear was not why I called you over,” the coffee shop owner remarked,.
“Then why did you?” her ebff asked before swigging more non-dairy. She was used to the health nut’s bizarre choices.
Sam made her way into the living room and returned with a book in hand. It was plunked to the side of her ex-friend’s half-devoured brownie.
“Our high school yearbook?”
Sam nodded in response.
Lyddie wiped her hands off with a napkin pulled from the holder in the center of the oblong table. The printed design centered on—cats.
Who would have guessed?
Lyddie picked her way through the pages. She stopped, her eyes filling up with mist.
“I remember this pair of jeans. Dear God, they fit my butt perfectly! I’ve never been able to find another pair like them, even though I’ve tried on every brand—even the boutique ones that go out of business every five seconds, but they don’t flatter my—”
“Lyddie! This is not about jeans!” Sam chastised. “This is about finding out who Detective Death is. He knows me, Lyddie. He knows me and I don’t know him.”
“So you saw him again?”
“I did. He’s spying on me … never stopped. And he didn’t even deny it. Oh, sure, he objected to the term ‘spying,’ but that only confirms this … this … obsession!”
“Obsession? That’s a pretty strong word.”
“Maybe … but it’s the only one that applies. He was listening into my conversation this morning.”
“With who?”
“Bliss Harper. She’s helping me out … letting me cater open houses. I crunched some numbers and it’ll cover operating expenses.”
“Wait a minute! Does this have anything to do with why you called to scream in my ear this morning? Is she the one that told you about—”
“Lee Swayzie? Yes. And Detective Death overheard the conversation. And he followed me to the library. Lyddie! He knew I searched the archives … and knew about me talking to Corona!”
What remained of Lyddie’s brownie fell to the plate, but good baking won out. It held together.
“You talked to Corona? What? Why? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND! No, how could you be,” Lyddie continued, having a conversation with herself. “You would have actually had to possess one in order to lose it and you never did.”
The girl who had changed into unintentionally chic form-fitting loungewear bit into the brownie in frustration.
“I had to see him. I’m not like you and can’t stand
when people puke at the sight of me. In other words, I had no choice, but … but … man, these are good!” she segued as she continued to munch the mouthful. “Might have poured me a glass of milk, but what can I expect from a false friend?” she added in a mumble.
“No, you didn’t have to see him! It was stupid, Sam,” Lyddie remarked, hopping to her feet and doing the bidding of the girl in the crop-top paired with hipster shorts featuring a drawstring closure. “At the least, you should have asked me along.”
“I didn’t think you’d go.”
“I wouldn’t. But I would have tied you up and put you in the closet until that insane idea passed so you wouldn’t have either,” Lyddie retorted.
The crunching of Mr. Cuddles digging into another treat sounded in the pause that followed. The newly poured glass of hemp milk slammed down in front of Sam as her friend made her way to her vacated seat.
“Comforting thought …”
“It wasn’t meant to be. And as long as you opened up this subject, what did ole Corona have to say for himself? Or was he too wasted to talk?” her luscious ebff asked as she again began skimming through the pages that featured good times of yesteryear.
“Unfortunately, he wasn’t. He had just gotten up, so I guess he hadn’t had time to become incoherent. And the conversation … if you can call it that … was bad. Just bad … all the way around.”
“He hit on you?” Lyddie asked as she cut two more pieces.
Sam nodded before dunking a corner of the decadent goodness and tearing it off.
“He was beyond gross,” she admitted. “He wears his cowboy boots to bed … ew! I mean … just EW!” she shivered.
“Awww …”
“What? What’s ‘awww’ supposed to mean?” Sam asked, twisting her head to see what her ebff was looking at. Lyddie helped by angling the yearbook.
“It’s Corona. Hard to believe this guy turned out the way he did.”
The pic of him with the cross-country trophy in his hand belied reality. His face bright, his smile infectiously loopy, there was a joy that exuded from his younger self. A promise that foretold a future of—
Hammered Page 15
