by Dana Dratch
Helen and her women’s brigade were still milling around on the sidewalk. For their sake, I hoped they’d be gone when Baba returned. Baba’s reaction to that coven would make me look like a member of the neighborhood welcome committee.
“How come you didn’t tell them about Helen drugging you? Or the nausea?” I asked Marty.
“Can’t prove it,” he said simply. “And without proof, I just sound like a raving old coot. And that’s a point for the nice, respectable widow. You know, ‘help the crazy man home and look after him.’ I’m not taking any chances.”
I could see his point.
“How did her husband die?” I asked.
“Mark’s not dead. Although for a while there, I think he wished he was. Walked out a couple of years after the wedding. Remarried and lives in L.A. now. Nice guy. I still get cards from him now and then.”
“So why does she claim to be a widow?”
“Helen didn’t want the divorce. Doesn’t believe in it.”
“She must have really loved him,” I said.
“I don’t think she ever loved him Not the way you mean. She felt that marrying him meant she owned him. And Helen doesn’t believe in returns. Like one of those old-timey shops with a handwritten sign by the register: ALL SALES FINAL.”
We both contemplated that for a moment.
“So why would she want you . . . out of the way?” I finally said.
“Don’t know. Makes no sense. That’s another reason I couldn’t tell the cops. There’s no motive.”
“What about inheritance?” I said, starting with the obvious.
“Nah, she doesn’t get a penny. I got a will. I’m leaving everything to ten different charities. Three of ’em for dogs. Helen’ll love that. She hates dogs.”
“Could she think she’s in line to get anything?”
“Don’t see why. I’ve never promised her anything. Or even implied anything. I’ve always told her I was leaving everything to charity.”
“What about your house?” Shopping for a home two years ago had been an ugly reality check. I’d quickly learned that, in the right neighborhoods, even a modest house could be worth a fortune.
“Mortgaged to the hilt,” Marty confessed. “Two loans. Took out the second one four years ago when I did some home renovations. Hell, my estate will be lucky to break even. If the executor is smart, he’ll just give it back to the banks and let them fight over it.
“Besides, she’s got her own money,” he added. “The kid’s a whiz with investments. Took the little bit her dad left her and made a pile.”
“Did she ever invest anything for you?” I asked.
“Nah, I spend it as soon as I make it. Plus I don’t like to mix money and family. That’s a cocktail even I won’t touch.”
OK, blame it on my natural cynicism. Or maybe it’s because my own 401(k) is barely breaking even. But when someone claims they made their money from “investments,” that’s a red flag. It may work for Warren Buffett, but most of us don’t play in his league. Call it force of habit, but when I hear the phrase “investment wealth,” I think “unexplained money.”
“OK, you said she hinted you were losing it,” I said. “What happens if you’re, uh, incapacitated?”
“I got that all set up, too. Money coming in covers the bills for a while. Not long, but long enough to settle up. And I got an insurance policy for long-term care. But I have a guy who will oversee all of that. For a cut. A pro. It doesn’t involve Helen. I may not have realized she had a dark side, but I did know that, without kids or a wife, I had to look out for myself. And, between you and me, that one’s been a bitter lemon from the get-go. Even looks sullen in her baby pictures.”
Something he said struck a chord. A memory.
“Could she have an insurance policy on you? Life insurance, I mean.”
“No reason she should,” he said. “I’ve got my bases covered. And if I have my way, I’ll drop dead at my desk at a hundred and two. My retirement account may be crap, but I love my job.”
“What does she do for a living?” Other than her being a living saint, according to her girl squad, I knew next to nothing about Helen.
“Thanks to the investments, she doesn’t have to work,” Marty said. “In her early days, she was an office manager. Very organized, really good at her job. Even then, she did a lot of volunteer work in her spare time. Shut-ins and the elderly, mostly. She’d run them meals or meds. Look in on them. Read to ’em, or watch TV and talk. Still does it, too. That’s why I didn’t feel half bad about asking to stay with her for a week. I mean, even with the bum knee, I’m totally mobile.”
Was he ever. Marty had set a land-speed record lurching toward that bathroom.
“Plus, I offered to chip in while I was there,” he said. “You know, spring for some takeout. Pitch in on the bills. Whatever.”
I had an inkling of an idea. But this one was going to take a little more research. Bottom line: Marty was safe here. And as far as I was concerned, he could stay for the duration.
Chapter 35
After Baba, Lucy, and Alistair returned, I phoned Nick. Good advice or no, I was worried about leaving him at Mom’s mercy for the last several hours. And more than a little curious why she hadn’t shown up here.
No answer. Straight to voice mail.
I hoped that meant he was busy in the kitchen.
With a house full of people, I thought maybe inviting Mom out to dinner—just the two of us—might be a nice move. But with all of the Alistair-related supplies and extra food bills to fortify the army camped out at my house, I was precariously low on funds.
And, for whatever reason, the direct deposits from the Sentinel for my new gig were long overdue.
Somehow, I couldn’t see my mother, clad in her best Chanel, tucking into a Big Mac at Mickey D’s. Or the meat loaf special at Simon’s.
So maybe a home-cooked meal with the family would have to do.
After a few more calls to Nick went to voice mail, I started to worry. So when Marty’s physical therapist showed up—complete with a massage table—I felt it might be a good time to hit the B&B. Just to make sure Nick was OK.
“Hullo!” Ian said with a warm smile as I breezed through the door. “Everything all right on the home front?”
“The little guy had a nice long walk with Baba and Lucy. Now all three of them are napping,” I reported, editing out the part about the police visit and accusations of elder abuse.
“Fantastic!” he said. “I would like to stop by to visit in a little bit if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t even have to ask,” I said. “Marty’s going through a physical therapy session right now. But he ought to be done in about an hour.”
“Perfect. I have to do a little bookkeeping. Then I’ll pop over. I can’t tell you how much your help—your family’s help—means.” His face softened. The look in those blue eyes had my heart doing that fluttery thing again. And seeing him with Alistair? When those two were together, they were positively joyful.
What would happen when we found Alistair’s mom? Would she and Ian pick up where they’d left off? Would she move into the B&B? Or if she didn’t want to be Mrs. Innkeeper, would they sell the place and go back to London?
Stop it! I scolded myself. It’s a good thing. Be happy for the man.
So why did I feel that tiny splinter of jealousy?
“I hate to even ask, but has my mother been behaving herself?”
“She’s been absolutely delightful,” Ian said. “A thoroughly charming woman. It turns out we actually have a couple of the same haunts when we’re in London.”
“Wow, that’s a coincidence.”
“Completely,” he said with a little smile. “Oh, and you’ll be very happy to know that she’s taking full advantage of our activities.”
“Activities?” I asked. I couldn’t picture Mom playing Miss Marple at a murder mystery weekend.
“Since the place is temporarily shorthanded, I’ve be
en arranging excursions for the guests. Day trips to see the sights. Through a local tour company. Mercedes minivan, champagne, and snacks. A bit of fun. Today’s jaunt was to the Smithsonian. She joined the group. They should be back around seven.”
My mother went to that particular museum at least a dozen times a year. Usually dragging a few of her grown children with her. My read on this sudden recent field trip: she was sulking.
“Is Nick around?”
“In the kitchen,” Ian said with a grin. “When last I noticed, I believe he was muttering something about galettes.”
I walked into the kitchen. It was deserted.
Nick’s galettes (I’d have called them tartlets) were cooling on the counter, filling the room with the scent of cherries, cinnamon, and browned butter. It was all I could do not to filch one.
But where was Nick?
I wandered back to the front desk. Ian was gone. And the door to his study was shut tight. I could hear music playing. Mozart. Maybe it helped with the bookkeeping.
That’s when I noticed the basement door was ajar.
Cold fear gripped my heart. Nick.
I stepped quickly to the basement door and opened it wide. The stairway was a dark pit.
“Nick,” I called softly. “Are you down there? Nick!”
I pulled out my cell and dialed again. Voice mail.
I felt dread in my stomach. My limbs were like lead.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and flipped on the light. Gripping the bannister tightly, I inched down the stairs. If I was moving, I didn’t have to think about where I was going. Or what I might find. Just. Keep. Moving.
When I got to the bottom, it was still there. That damned freezer. I hated the thing.
I mumbled a prayer, crossed myself, and ripped the lid upward.
A bulky man. Dark hair. Not Nick.
Not Nick!
I dropped the lid and sagged. Was it awful that I was so relieved?
When the phone rang, I jumped.
I pulled it out of my pocket. Nick!
“Where are you?” I whispered.
“Giant,” he said. “I’m trying something different with the galettes, but I needed a few more exotic ingredients. And Ian’s supplier doesn’t come again ’til Tuesday.”
Even I couldn’t believe what I said next. “Why is your car still in the driveway?”
“I borrowed Mom’s. Don’t tell her.”
“Don’t worry. We might have bigger problems.”
“Baba and Mom getting into it?”
“Not exactly,” I said, backing away from the freezer and letting my shaky knees drop me on the bottom step of the stairs.
“Just out of curiosity, when’s the last time you saw Simmons?” I asked him.
“Jeez, who cares? It’s been at least a week. A glorious, stress-free, Simmons-free week. Come to think of it, he was supposed to touch base Friday. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, the longer I go without hearing that whiny voice, the better.”
“Well, I think I found out where he’s been hiding.”
“Where?”
“Ian’s freezer.”
“No! Are you sure?”
“Sure it’s him or sure he’s dead? ’Cause that’s yes and yes.”
“So how long has he been . . . uh . . . you know . . . dead?”
“Well, let me see, based on lividity and liver temp, I’d say . . . how the hell would I know? I majored in journalism, not medicine.”
“Baba would probably know.”
“Yeah, she probably would,” I admitted. “But since right now you and I and the killer are the only ones who know he’s gone, I’d kind of like to keep her out of this.”
“Yeah, that sounds fair,” Nick said. “I feel kind of bad about what I said about him now. Any idea how he, uh . . . ?”
“There’s a kitchen tool sticking out of his chest. Some kind of thermometer. I’m guessing that had something to do with it.”
“Where are you?”
“The basement.”
“Get out of there! Now!”
“I’d like to. But my legs have other ideas.”
“You’re going into shock. I’m on my way home. Right now. I’ll stay on the phone with you until you’re home safe. C’mon, take a deep breath and stand up. Now we’re gonna go up those stairs. One at a time. Left foot, right foot . . .”
I hauled myself up the stairs, with Nick’s voice in my left ear, my right hand clutching the bannister.
When I got to the lobby, it was empty. But the music was still going in Ian’s office.
I knocked on the door. “Ian, Ian, it’s Alex!”
“Don’t even bother with him,” Nick yelled in my ear. “Just get out of there. Run! Go home!”
I could hear him laying on the horn. “Oh, come on, lady! Thirty miles an hour in the left-hand lane? With the blinker on? Move over!”
“Nick, I’m fine! Nick! Relax! I’m OK. Slow down!”
I banged on the door to Ian’s study. Nothing.
Whatever else our friendly, neighborhood innkeeper was up to, he definitely wasn’t doing the books.
Chapter 36
When Nick pulled up to the curb in Mom’s compact navy-blue Mercedes, I was sitting on the porch steps, limp as a dish rag.
He jumped out and came running up the walkway. “Are you OK?”
I nodded.
“What the heck were you doing in that basement? We had a deal!”
I buried my head in my knees and started to cry. I blubbered until I couldn’t catch my breath. Nick sat down next to me on the steps. And waited.
“You . . . didn’t . . . answer . . . your . . . phone,” I said between sobs. “The basement door . . . was . . . open . . . I was afraid!” The last part came out in one long wail.
I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain control. Nick patted my arm.
“It’s OK,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that you’re usually the sensible one.”
“I don’t feel very sensible,” I said, swallowing a hiccup. “Every time I open that freezer, there’s a body in it. And it’s always a different body.”
“Worst magic trick ever,” Nick said, nudging me.
I hiccuped and leaned against his shoulder. “I’m just so relieved,” I said. “So relieved I don’t even care about Simmons and the rest of it. Is that awful?”
“Nope. Sounds about right to me. Besides, the cops will handle it.”
“What?”
“Once you pull yourself together, we’ll call the cops. Let them deal with it.”
“Nick,” I said, taking another deep breath and sitting bolt upright, “what were you doing the last time you saw Simmons? The last time he was in this neighborhood?”
“Watching Ian politely evict him from the inn.”
“Yeah, and the day before that?”
“Um, well . . .”
“You were chasing him down the street threatening to boil him in oil and serve him on toast. And trust me, that’s the story all the neighbors will remember. And repeat.”
“You’re saying it looks bad?”
“As someone who’s been there, I’m saying you look like Suspect Number One.”
“Come on, the guy’s a health inspector. He’s got enemies.”
“I’d be willing to bet none of them were as public about it. Or as vocal. And it’s not just that. If he was killed in Ian’s kitchen, that thermometer thing could have your fingerprints on it, too.”
“What did it look like?” he asked somberly.
“The face of it was about this big,” I said, using my hands to form a circle the size of a small jar lid. “The dial was black, with white notches and numbers—like a speedometer. And the speedometer stick was bright red.”
“It’s a meat thermometer,” Nick said. “I’ve been using it for bread.”
“You’ve touched it?”
“Lots of times,” he said, nodding. “But then it disappeared. I wond
ered where it’d gone. I was going to ask Ian, but—” Nick shrugged. “The guy’s already loaning me a kitchen. Didn’t seem right to hassle him over where he keeps his own cooking tools.”
I tried to square what I’d seen in the freezer with the image of the happy, new father. Or the welcoming innkeeper.
Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my shoulders. Warm weather or no, I was cold.
“You don’t think he did it?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t want to believe it. But how many people have access to that kitchen?” I responded. “Or the freezer? And we know you didn’t do it.”
Nick smiled. “You really thought I was in there?”
I wiped my eyes with my arm and nodded. “Originally, I just wanted to show up and give you some extra backup with Mom.”
“She went to the Smithsonian,” he said. “After I told her I was sticking with the bakery.”
“How’d she take it?”
“About as well as you’d expect. But after splitting a galette, she had to admit I have some talent. Of course, she used that as ammunition to push for business school.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t give up. She’s almost as relentless as Lydia Stewart,” I said.
“And that’s another story.”
“What?”
“Lydia,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’s the one who tipped off Simmons to me in the first place.”
“Why?”
“Her friend Janie Parker runs Lady Jane’s Tea Room. And until I came along, Janie was the front-runner to supply Ian’s inn.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Ian.”
“Janie and Lydia are tight,” I said. “Plus it would be one more way for Lydia to bring Ian into her orbit.”
Nick grinned. “Yup. And put some distance between Ian and you.”
“I’m not the one she has to worry about. Wonder what she’s going to say when she hears about Alistair. And Alistair’s mom. Hey, if Lydia reported you to Simmons, that means she might eventually notice that he’s missing.”
Nick shrugged. “Rumor is Simmons was on the take. I’ve been talking with other people who run food-based businesses. And at least a couple of them suspect their competitors paid Simmons to hassle them. But once he got his hooks in, he didn’t let go. He just kept showing up. And he knew things. Insider information. Stuff that had nothing to do with their food work.”
