by Emmy Grace
“I won’t follow you if you’ll stop stealing my livestock.”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m glad for the dark, even if it isn’t as concealing as I’d like because of this blasted underwear. Hopefully he can’t see my face turn all kinds of red. It is, though. I can feel it, like I’m standing in front of a fireplace. Or a firing squad.
“Mmmm hmmm,” he mumbles, not believing me for a single second. “When he gets too big for your house, just give me a call and I’ll take him back.”
“Never!” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I mean, if I’d stolen your livestock, which I absolutely did not, I would never, ever return him to the slaughterhouse.”
“I don’t run a slaughterhouse. I have some cattle, but they’re milk cows. And the pigs happen to be ones I saved from a farm in Shreveport that I had a run-in with when I was working a case. Bacon was a toy pig or something. That’s why he was kept separate.”
“O-oh.” I fight the urge to fidget uncomfortably. “Well, that’s good. Not that it matters to me, since I didn’t do anything wrong. But still, it’s good to know.” He says nothing. Under his intense scrutiny, I feel the sudden and compelling urge to defend myself. Maybe it’s an FBI mind trick. “I’m not, like, a crazy person, you know.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. What would ever give me that impression?”
“Are you always this sarcastic?”
“Pretty much.”
“Great.” I grumble as I bend to feel for my broken flashlight. “Well, I’m done here. Stay if you want, but I need to get home for my—” I catch myself before mentioning the newest member of my household. “Sleep. I need to get some sleep.”
I start toward the door. He’s close on my heels when I push it open. “Oh? Were you out late last night or something?”
I don’t respond. I can almost feel his smirk searing into the back of my head. He’s going to do his best to trip me up, but what this arrogant guy doesn’t know is that this isn’t my first rodeo. I might be blonde and I might be clumsy, but I’m good at what I do. Professionally and in my hobby of sleuthing. I feel like turning around and daring him to underestimate me, but I keep my mouth shut and just smile instead.
Let him try.
See how far that gets him.
12
The next morning, I’m awakened not by the raucous noises of my pet jungle, but by pounding at my door. I crack an eye and glance at the clock. Six forty-one.
I ease out from under the covers, trying not to disturb the sleeping pig on the other side of the mattress, or the snoring dog at the foot of the bed. I grumble all the way to the door.
All I can say is this had better not be Liam Dunning, and it had better be important, whoever it is.
I peek through the curtain and see Mrs. Stephanopoulos standing on the stoop.
“Good morning, Mrs. S. Everything okay?” I ask when I open the door.
“Were you still in bed?” I nod. “It’s good for the blood to be up before the sun,” she says, nudging her way inside.
I take a deep breath and follow her into the living room. Guess I won’t be going right back to sleep.
“I’ll keep that in mind. What can I do for you this fine morning?”
“Were you expecting company last night?”
“No,” I answer, but then reconsider. “Well, Regina had dinner with me.” Sorta. “But other than that, no. Why?”
“I saw someone poking around outside your back window last night.”
“Really? What time?”
“Around three. I was awake. Finishing a crossword puzzle and having some warm milk.”
“Sleep problems?”
“Occasionally.”
“This person, what did he look like?”
“Well, for starters, it wasn’t a he.”
That surprises me. I assumed it was probably Liam Dunning, already violating our agreement. But a woman?
“A woman? What did she look like?”
“Older. Maybe fifties. Blonde. She crept off down the street. Got into a black Mercedes. Watched her drive down the road and turn right onto Sunset.”
“Who in the world…?”
“Would you like to know who it was?”
I grit my teeth. Of course, I want to know who it was, woman!
But I don’t say that. I kindly reply, “Well, if you know, then yes.”
“You should’ve assumed I’d know. I know everyone in this town,” she says, eyebrows slashing down in disapproval.
I wait quietly, somewhat impatiently for her to tell me who was nosing around my house in the dead of night. When she doesn’t, I prompt kindly, “Uh, so you know who it was?”
“Looked to me like Leslie Vickerman. She’s the head of the DAR committee. Daughters of the American Revolution. That’s one of those hoity-toity clubs for women with too much time on their hands. Never had much use for those people, especially after they tried to get me to declare my house a historic property and tell me what trees I could and couldn’t cut.”
“Vickerman?”
Mrs. S. nods.
This is an interesting development.
Maybe my landlady really does know what goes on in this town. She is awfully snoopy. That’s bound to come in handy for someone her age.
There’s a short pause, during which my mind is racing from one possibility to the next. Obviously, something else entirely is going through Mrs. Stephanopoulos’ head.
“Time for my morning bowel movement,” my landlord proclaims as she levers herself up off the sofa and heads for the door. “My prunes are working.”
I have more questions, but after an announcement such as that, there is no way in Hades I’m stopping her.
“Okay, well, enjoy that,” I say from the doorway as she walks off mumbling. “Thanks Mrs. Snuf—Stephanopoulos,” I call out. She doesn’t bother turning around, just raises one hand and keeps trucking.
Seems like I need to pay a visit to Mrs. Vickerman.
I shut the door and lean against it. I’m still standing there, lost in thought, when a knock to the other side of it nearly scares the pants off me. When I turn around and peek out the tiny window at the top of the door, I’m reminded that it nearly scared the glow-in-the-dark pants off me.
I fling open the door to a smiling Regina. “My project was glow-in-the-dark underwear?”
She grins. “What? I thought that would be a lot of fun.”
“Why? Why in the world would someone ever need glow-in-the-dark underwear?”
She shrugs and I step out of the way so she can enter. She goes straight for the kitchen and to the coffee percolator, which is empty as yet. Without pausing, she takes it to the sink and fills it with water. “I don’t know. Who knows why half the stuff we test is ever made? There must be someone in the market for it somewhere.”
“I’d love to meet this person.” I cross my arms over my chest. “On second thought, no. I don’t think I would. The whole thing…it’s just weird.”
Regina looks over her shoulder at me. “Boy, you’re in a mood.”
It’s the first time I take note of the tension I’m holding in my face. I probably look like I’m in need of some of Mrs. Snuffleupagus’ prunes. I purposely relax all those muscles.
“Sorry. Late night. Weird night.”
“Because of the underwear?”
“Believe it or not, that was only part of it.”
Regina scoops out coffee for the percolator and then leans up against the stove, facing me. “Okay, spill. What did you get yourself into now?”
I rehash all the details for my best friend, who listens quietly. The only way I know she’s really paying attention is by her ever-shifting expression. Regina has always had the most animated face of anyone I’ve ever met. She can’t lie to save her life, which isn’t a bad thing, but she’s also terrible at trying to keep a secret if she gets pinned down. I learned back in the sixth grade that persistence is the key. If I ask enough yes or no question
s, I can narrow down what she’s trying to hide. Like the time she kissed Lincoln Robicheaux and was too embarrassed to tell me because she bit his lip and made it bleed. Took me like ninety seconds to get it out of her. I knew something was wrong. I just had to whittle it down to the facts.
“I don’t suppose I need to ask what your plans are for the day, do I?”
She knows as well as I do that a pack of wild dogs couldn’t keep me from going to see Martin Vickerman’s wife today.
“I’ll do the reports when I get back. I promise.”
“I’ll agree to that if you’ll do one more test for me tonight. You can give me all the reports day after tomorrow. How’s that?”
“As long as it’s not underwear. Or anything that has to do with the dark. Or nighttime. At the rate I’m going, I’m gonna need to lock myself in the house after sunset like a werewolf.”
“You can do this one any time.”
“What is it?”
“Tooth whitening toothpaste.”
“Oh!” My brows shoot up. “Now that’s something I can get on board with.”
Maybe a brighter smile will make me feel better about the underwear incident. I doubt it, but anything’s possible.
I’m feeling optimistic after Regina leaves. I have a very promising lead in the Vickerman case, and I get to have my teeth whitened for free. Not a bad morning at all, and it’s not even eight AM.
I grab the tube of toothpaste from the countertop and leave the papers in the kitchen. It’s toothpaste. How complicated can it be?
I squirt some onto my toothbrush and scrub away, rinsing and spitting before checking my teeth in the mirror. No noticeable results yet, but it probably takes time.
After showering, I carefully select clothes that are somber and respectful. Navy skirt and pinstriped blouse to match. Although this woman is a suspect and might have reason to kill her husband, that doesn’t mean she actually did. And if she didn’t, that means she’ll be mourning the loss of her soul mate. I try to dress for the occasion.
I get the Vickermans’ address from the all-knowing Google, tuck the paper into my pocket, and take off. It’s not a very long drive, but it’s a nice one. The warm, fresh morning air seems to revive me, so I’m able to appreciate the beauty of the subdivision where the Vickermans live.
Long, tree-lined streets weave their way between expansive yards and gigantic brick estates. The whole place looks like old money. Lots of ivy and white columns, and, I imagine, women with stiffly coiffed hair and men with bowties and tee times.
I pull into the circular drive of the Vickerman home and park near the door. I mount the wide, curving front steps and ring the doorbell. It’s a low, bonging sound, and I fully expect the door to be opened by Lurch.
I’m wrong.
A tall, thin woman with tightly pinched lips and judgmental eyes opens it. Her blonde hair is short and pushed away from her high forehead. She looks like she just stepped out of a wind tunnel.
“May I help you?”
Such disdain. I feel like Sister Margaret from Her Holy Grace Catholic Church found me hiding in between the pews that time I went to Mass with a boy I met in school. It’s hard to pack that much disapproval into a single look or a short sentence. Just a talent some people have, I suppose.
I swallow. “Uh, yes, my name is Annabelle Boucher. I… Would you mind if I came in?”
“It’s early. Most people don’t receive visitors until after nine.” Her icy eyes rake me from head to toe, her upper lip curling the tiniest bit. “Polite society knows better than to show up before then.”
Ouch.
I smile. “I know it’s early, but it’s important. Do you mind?”
She eyes me for a few more seconds before stepping back and gesturing for me to come in. This might be more like pulling teeth than a dental visit.
“Thank you. I just…I have some questions.”
She leads me to a surprisingly cozy room just off the foyer. “Have a seat.”
I flop down on a floral Queen Anne chaise by the unlit fireplace, and she perches on the edge of an armchair, like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Or maybe she’s afraid of wrinkling her perfectly pressed pants. She might not sit down at all, just pace the floors with Lurch all day long.
“I hate to be indelicate, but I saw… I was there when your husband’s body was found. I was—”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes. And I know who you are.”
That surprises me. “Oh. Well, then you won’t mind if I ask—”
“You’ve got gall coming here, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“You think I don’t know about you and my husband? You think I couldn’t put two and two together?”
“What do you mean, me and your husband?”
“I know about the affair. I didn’t know your name, but I’d seen you with him. He never knew, of course. Men…they’re so pathetic. But in a town like this, it isn’t hard to get information. To find out the name of the new pretty blonde in town. Don’t bother denying it. I just don’t know why on earth you’d come here. Was it not enough that you stole my husband?”
“Mrs. Vickerman, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I’d never met your husband. Not until that night. Well, not that we met, per se. More like I’d never seen him. And I didn’t really see see him that night. I just—”
“Did you come here to feed me lies? To what end? What purpose does it serve to hide this from me now? Whatever you two were up to, I’m sorry to say, it’s over now. He’s gone.” She pauses, a chilling smile curving her lips. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not sorry to tell you that. I’m glad. In fact, I’m so glad I might celebrate. Do you drink champagne?”
“At eight-thirty in the morning?”
“How poetic would it be to toast that miserable cheater’s death with the very tramp he was scheming against me with?”
She laughs. At least I think it’s a laugh. It’s tight and strained, like she’s pushing out a ten pound baby, but there’s a lightness around her eyes that makes me think it’s a sound of joy.
“Mrs. Vickerman, I was not having an affair with your husband. Maybe the woman looked like me, but it wasn’t me.”
“Keep telling yourself that. And anyone dumb enough to believe you. You’re messing with the wrong woman, though. I know where you live. I could send someone after you, you know.”
A threat? Really?
But a curious one.
“Is that what you did to your husband? Sent someone after him?”
“I am a lady, a decent woman. I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing,” she blusters indignantly.
“You’re the one who said it.”
“I think I’ve had enough for the day. In fact,” she stands and sweeps an arm gracefully toward the door, “I’d like you to leave and I don’t ever expect to see you darken my doorway again. You’ve taken enough from me. I won’t give you one more second of my time.”
She stands there, stoic as a statue, with her long index finger pointing toward the door. All the questions I’d planned to ask have left my mind completely. Of all the things I might’ve expected to find here, this was nowhere on the list.
She thinks I was sleeping with her husband.
You could knock me over with a feather right now.
I stand, too. “I…I’m sorry to have bothered you. You have my condolences.”
“Keep them. I don’t need them.”
I get up and walk toward the front door. I sneak one last peek back at the widow, and my heart melts a tiny bit toward her. Even from this distance, I can see the tears gathering in her eyes.
She’s upset, yes. But she’s also a woman scorned. And that might be the most dangerous kind.
13
On the ride home, my mind flutters and swirls like the pollen I can see floating in the air. Maybe this really was about me. Indirectly, at least. If Mrs. Vickerman was behind it, she thinks I’m a
part of this, even though I’m not.
Say she did plan this whole thing. Say she is behind it. If she was the one behind her husband’s gruesome death, that would be one thing, but if she planned for his body to be dropped at that exact time in hopes of killing me as well, she’d have to be privy to a lot of information. First of all, she’d have to have looked into me to know what I do. Then she’d have to have found out what I’m working on, when the plane flew out, where my dropsite was. All that. And the timing… It would have to have been perfect. Crazy perfect. It sounds impossible.
But I know it’s not.
My schedule isn’t exactly protected information. I mean, why would it need to be? Who would even care what I’m up to? Especially here, in this town, where I’m fairly new.
But someone might have.
And that someone might’ve been an angry wife with money, influence, and connections. There is probably little that Leslie Vickerman couldn’t accomplish with that holy trinity of power.
By the time I get home, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. And when I see the familiar lines of an enormous real truck, I groan.
I get out to find Liam sitting on the front stoop. He eyes me as I approach.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
Duh!
“What do you want?”
“Oooo!” he exclaims as he stands. “Testy this morning.”
“I’m allowed. You don’t have the monopoly on rude and grouchy.”
“I’m not rude and grouchy.” I give him the most withering look I can muster. I think I see one of the petunias in my windowsill actually wilt a little. “Fine. I’m not exactly a chipper guy. But this isn’t like you.”
“You don’t even know me. How would you know?”
“I know people. I’m an expert at sizing them up within thirty seconds of meeting them.”
I slide my key into the front door lock. “Ah, that’s right. Ex-FBI agent.”
“It’s a valuable skill,” he says as he follows me inside.
I turn and stare at him for a few seconds, hopefully just long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Would you like to come in?”
