Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  Abby stopped me. “You must stay here until the police release you, Lissa. You too, Mrs. Glover.”

  The anxiety came through in her voice as Mrs. G cried, “But we know noth—”

  “Here’s the detective,” Abby interrupted. She held out a hand. “Brian, remember me? From high school? Abby Newlin?”

  “Good to see you, Abby,” Baker said, showing us his ID and badge—yep, detective sergeant—then introduced himself to Mrs. G. He barely glanced at me, but his lack of acknowledgement told me he most likely remembered who I was. “Ladies, I need to ask you some questions. Can we all go into the house?”

  “Oh, yes. Right this way.” Mrs. G fluttered.

  Baker signaled for a uniformed officer to come with us, and everyone formed an impromptu parade. Everyone except me. I spoke up, “My boys are home alone. Can I go see—?”

  “My understanding is that you found the body,” Baker interrupted, turning back to face me.

  I nodded.

  He squinted my way then asked, “Do you live close by?”

  When I pointed out our two-story light-green Victorian, three greener yards down the block, he pivoted and said to a uniformed officer, “Harrison, escort Mrs. Glover and Ms. Newlin inside and get their contact information and statements. I’ll be at Ms.—”

  “Eller. Melissa Eller,” I said. Mental fingers crossed, I drew on my Pollyanna gene and hoped his not knowing my name meant I’d worried for nothing.

  “Ms. Eller’s house to interview her. I’ll take care of the rest of the interviews here after I finish up.” He looked at Abby and Mrs. G. “Ladies, please don’t talk about anything but what the officer asks you until I get back. Officer Harrison, you can separate them if it’s necessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said. He tried to get his two charges moving toward the house, but Mrs. G’s hand was still in mine and she tightened her grip.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her, again sandwiching her hand in both of mine. “Just answer the officer’s questions. Abby will stay with you. She won’t leave.”

  “You’ll be okay?” Mrs. G’s thin brows drew together.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Ladies,” the officer tried again.

  “Go on,” I urged. And hoped things truly would be fine.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  WHEN WE GOT TO MY WHITE-trimmed front porch, I pointed to a couple of white rattan chairs and the cedar glider, all sporting back and seat pillows I’d made from sturdy fabric covered in bright jonquils. I asked, “Can we do this out here? I’d like to keep my boys from eavesdropping. They’re always curious.”

  Brian frowned, but nodded. He took one of the chairs sitting with its back to the front wall.

  I opened the door and leaned in, shoving Honey inside at the same time. She wiggled too much for me to get her leash unclipped. “Stay, Honey,” I said, which meant she instead broke free and headed up the stairs, trailing her leash behind her.

  “Kids,” I called. “Keep cleaning, but I’m out front if you need anything. The dog is on her way up there. Let her in the room with you and unclip her leash.”

  Both of my sons appeared and joined the Lab on the top step. Instead of coming from their room in the back of the house, however, they’d arrived via the direction of the front bedroom. Mark said, “We heard sirens.”

  “There was a...an accident,” I stuttered. “Stay in your room and keep working. I’ll be up in a few minutes to check your room, and we’ll talk then. No more time extensions on cleaning. Don’t disappoint me or you won’t like the consequences.”

  “Okay-y-y.” They shambled back to their bedroom.

  All I hoped was for the boys’ bedroom floor to be clear enough to not look like an obstacle course. But the windows in their room faced the backyard and the garage side of the house, whereas the front guest bedroom I suspected they’d come from had a perfect view of Mrs. Glover’s garage and yard. I wanted to keep their over-interested eyes and ears away from the voyeur side of the house. They’d probably seen more than they should have already.

  I turned back and found while I’d been giving orders, Baker had moved to the wooden glider, and he now had a better view of the street and the activity around Mrs. G’s house. My legs were shaky, and I dropped a little more heavily than normal into the chair, the rattan protesting under me. A second later, I realized I was wringing my hands and stopped, sliding my fingers under my thighs to keep them separated.

  Brian had been watching me and frowned a little. He tossed one of the smaller, matching floral pillows to the side and asked, “You have kids? More than one, right?”

  Well, duh! I’d already told him that, but it had been in Mrs. G’s yard with the murder victim close by. I gave him a break and said, “Yeah, two boys.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from adding anything sarcastic, but it was a tough go. Just being around the guy made my brain keep trying to revert to high school snark. Instead, I occupied myself by straightening the flowery seat pillow on the other chair. When he got up and moved to the glider, the seat pillow had shifted, revealing the “practice” repair job on the rattan that I reminded myself to rework sometime soon. I needed to either fix my bad weave or connect the pillow permanently to the chair.

  “Heard you went off and joined the circus or something,” he said, again poking my inner child as he pulled out a notepad and pen. “When did you come back?”

  Well, that answered my question about whether he remembered me from school days.

  “Still charming as ever, Brian Baker.” Who would have thought Weeble-Wobble Boy, the guy in sophomore biology who believed he was clever for making his “frog dance,” would grow up to be a detective? And yes, years ago he’d taken exception to me comparing him to the little kids’ toys that “wobbled but didn’t fall down.” It was the short legs thing. I laughed to prove I didn’t take his remark personally and said, “I got married and traveled to Europe with my husband. Moved to Rogerston again soon after our youngest son was born.”

  “So, how long is that?” Baker asked.

  “Four years. Our oldest was about to start all-day school. When living the nomad life with two small children, one finds steady class attendance presents far too many challenges,” I explained.

  “Makes sense. Came home to the best place to raise a family,” he said, wearing the smug look I’d never liked in high school.

  I bristled. “We exposed our kids to wonderful culture, history, and language opportunities.”

  “But no stability. Your returning to your roots was the right idea.”

  I looked away, so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes, now thankful he didn’t work in a pair like detectives on television, so one would’ve always been watching me. Local cutbacks, I assumed. Or Baker assuming he could do everything himself. I switched gears and smiled at him, reminding myself that staying on a cop’s good side was a better idea than reverting to our adolescent personalities. “Are you married, Brian? Have kids?”

  His face pinked. “Right now my career is my wife and family.” He cleared his throat and asked, “Your husband work around here?”

  I shook my head and replied, “He’s a photojournalist and due back in the states next week.” I crossed my fingers and added a silent, I hope. “Hey, it’s getting kind of warm. Would you like a lemonade or Coke?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s get back to the subject. Tell me why you crawled under that garage door and found the victim.”

  Wow, nothing like starting on the deep end. He probably thought I was feeling the heat from being interviewed, too. So much for being nice.

  To answer, I explained Mrs. G’s phone call and my struggle to find a way in the garage to investigate. How our dog beat me inside and what I found when I squeezed under the door. “It was kind of rough going, just using my phone for a flashlight. I had to be careful and...” My words stumbled. The shakiness I’d originally just felt in my legs now threatened to overwhelm all the nerv
es in my body. I shuddered as I tried to take a deep breath. “Sorry, I...”

  “Take your time,” Baker said. His expression remained stoic, and while his words softened, the tone of his voice didn’t change much. “This kind of thing affects people in different ways.”

  “But he was a stranger to me.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replied brusquely. “Adrenalin will shoot through you anyway.”

  Honey appeared at the living room window and barked. Which meant my nosy sons were standing at the side of the window frame trying to listen to us through the glass. I stood up. “Excuse me for a minute.” I flung open the front door. “Boys!”

  The sound of running steps moved from the living room and toward the kitchen. “We’re getting a drink of water,” Jamey called. I heard Mac start, “But—” and his big brother shushed him.

  “Both of you. Upstairs this instant. And I’d better not see either of you again until that room is clean—or the penalties will be dire. I promise.”

  Two short brown-haired tornados blew past me and flew up the stairs, with Honey loping along behind. When their bedroom door slammed, I closed the front door and returned to my chair. “Sorry about that. Curious boys.” I shrugged.

  “The best kind of kids. Curiosity is a good thing,” Baker said and gave me a broad grin. “But tell me, what kind of trouble would they garner if they don’t meet the deadline?”

  After laughing a moment, I shielded my mouth with a hand and spoke barely above a whisper. “To be honest, I don’t have a clue. They still fear the unknown punishments at this age. Don’t know what I’ll do when they aren’t cowed anymore by mysterious unspoken threats.”

  “I’ll have to remember that one,” he said, joining me in quiet laughter. He positioned his notepad on one knee and said, “But the mom-thing seemed to help you settle down again. Nothing like the familiar, right?”

  I realized he was right. The stress was diminished, leaving me better centered again. However, his remark meant he’d noticed my nerves, which I had to imagine was a fairly normal response when someone not used to finding a dead body got interviewed by a detective, but it concerned me just the same. I took a deep breath to relax and gathered my thoughts.

  “Let’s get back to the current situation,” Brian said. “You said you didn’t know him, but was the victim someone you’d seen in this neighborhood? His wallet held an out of state license, but his Missouri address is right on the border. So only about a two-hour drive from Rogerston.”

  Interesting. I wondered if that was a fact I was supposed to be privy to. Did Brian slip up? I heard Abby’s voice warning, Keep your answers brief. Yeah, no time to start trusting Weeble-Wobble Boy.

  I shrugged. “I just met Mr. Carlisle last night.”

  When I wasn’t more forthcoming, Baker looked up from his pad and asked, “Did he come by here?”

  “No, Abby and I went to karaoke night at the place by the airport,” I said, shaking my head.

  Baker raised his eyebrows and questioned, “And? Anything about his conversation lead you to believe he was in any danger?”

  Ooh wow! Now I had to be careful. “He approached me after we finished our karaoke set. He didn’t come up and say, ‘please rescue me.’”

  “He spoke to you and Abby?”

  “Abby had already gone on to our table. He stopped me as I moved that way.”

  “So, he came to the karaoke bar to speak to you personally?”

  “It seemed to be a coincidence. A lot of people were calling out songs they wanted me to sing, and I assumed all of that is what made him realize who I was. I also assumed he was staying at the hotel.”

  He took a minute to write notes, before he asked, “So, why was he interested in talking to you?”

  “What he said led me to believe he was looking for property to purchase.”

  “Are you a realtor?”

  “Heck no.” I laughed. “I blog about ways for families to save money each month.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and withdrew one of the business cards I’d squeezed between the phone and the protective cover.

  He read aloud the blog’s business name and tagline from the card. “The Frugal Lissa. Subscribe to my newsletter and put the jingle back in your pocket.” He looked up and made the card wave for a second with his index finger and thumb. “Cute. You make a living with this?”

  It would have been a stretch to say I made a living with the blog, but I made money. Not a lot, but profit just the same. And I resented the implication in the way he used the word cute. I helped a lot of people stretch the dollars in their household budgets and felt defensive at this belittling attitude of the detective. So, I had to work to keep the edge out of my voice when I answered, “It’s just part-time. My boys are my full-time job, but I do this late nights, early mornings, and when they’re in school. I’m getting new sponsors and advertisers every day, too, so I have high hopes for future growth of the business.”

  He grinned. “But you don’t actually make any money with it yet? Am I right?”

  I raised my left eyebrow—the sign my boys recognized meant to stop doing whatever they were doing. Baker didn’t have that kind of inside knowledge. I spoke each word slowly and clearly. “My business is growing. I make more profit each month, and I help people shop better.”

  He did the little whistling laugh through his nose I remembered from study hall, when we were supposed to be doing homework, but everyone was trading notes and goofing off. I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing reply, but the invisible voice-in-my-head Abby spoke up again and warned, Be the adult, Lissa. Be better than him. He may be annoying, but he was never stupid. My mouth snapped shut. Luckily, he’d been writing the whole time and missed seeing my conflicted expressions. Keep your mouth shut, Lissa. Okay, it was settled—move on. Aloud I said, “But you didn’t come here to talk about my blog.”

  Baker raised his gaze from the pad and asked. “No, let’s get back to the victim. If you’re not a realtor, and if the deceased was looking for property to purchase, what did you and he talk about last night? Do you have property for sale?”

  I mulled over how much I should reveal. No way I wanted Baker to tell the town what Carlisle had stated the previous evening, especially with this suspicious detective’s cavalier attitude about the financial viability of my blog and business. The last thing I’d said to Carlisle was now haunting me. How many people overheard me at the bar? Billy was a good possibility. Who else? I needed to weigh my words. “We have no property other than our house, and it isn’t for sale.”

  Baker leaned closer. “Tell me how you ended up discovering the victim.”

  “Mrs. G called me on my cell when she was startled by a loud noise.” I explained. “She asked if I was in her garage.”

  “Why would she guess you were inside?”

  “I’d promised to clean out her garage.”

  “That’s another of your part-time jobs?”

  I bristled. “No, it’s my way of being a nice neighbor to someone who can’t do the work herself.”

  “Are you getting paid to clear out the junk?”

  “I’ll likely receive homemade bread and cobblers for life, Brian, but I wasn’t doing it for money.”

  “You were just being neighborly?”

  “Exactly.”

  He looked down as he spoke, and I couldn’t see his expression. But I got the vibe he didn’t believe me when he asked, “Why did you not call the police to investigate the noise? If you thought someone was in the garage, wouldn’t that have been a more prudent move than going in alone?”

  “We thought it was the neighbor’s cat, and when my dog slipped under the door, I wanted to make sure no animal got hurt.”

  He grinned at me. “I always put my money on the cat.”

  “That’s always been my policy.” I laughed. “You can see why I wanted to rescue my dog.”

  Things turned serious again. He said, “But you saw the guy was dead. Did you recognize him?”


  I nodded, afraid to open my mouth again, terrified I’d blurt out why I got so frightened when I saw who was dead in the garage. Tears welled in my eyes, but I had no idea if they were for the victim or for myself. Likely for both.

  “So, you figure maybe he was appraising your neighbor’s home, and someone followed him and killed him?”

  I used one sleeve of my shirt to wipe away the tears and cleared my throat before saying, “I don’t know. I didn’t think about what the guy’s job entailed and didn’t expect to see him again after we left the hotel bar. But they always say on crime shows it’s best for the police to get all of this info right away, so you can eliminate suspects and zero in on the real killer. I’m just providing what information I can to help.”

  “You think you’re a suspect?”

  “No, I—”

  “Watch crime shows, do you? Know all about procedures homicide detectives employ and probable ways to hide evidence?”

  “Wait just a minute—”

  “Who knew about the contents of your neighbor’s garage besides you?”

  “Look...I...” I dropped my gaze to my hands clinched in my lap. Don’t offer more than you’re asked, Lissa, Abby’s voice in my brain admonished. “Everyone on this street has an idea of what Mrs. G keeps in there, I suppose. Not the garage contents exactly, but a gist of what the family had stored inside through the years. Mrs. Glover and her husband were part of the group of original owners for this neighborhood.”

  “Had the victim approached anyone else by using the same real estate buyout topic to open the conversation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Baker switched tactics. “Do you always let your dog loose in a murder scene?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t expect to find a body, Wee—uh, Brian.” Whew! I almost slipped and said his nickname. “I thought we would find the Lofton’s cat in there, remember? Especially with the way Honey zoomed under the door.”