“Hold on,” she muttered. “I've almost got it.”
Good thing too. I didn’t want off this couch for a long while.
She pushed the door ajar and gave me an unpleasant look. She’d found me like this on the couch more often than I cared to admit. And every time she liked to remind me that it could be a whole lot worse—I could have a real job. She’d never get it—writing is a real job.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, not so politely.
“Nice to see you too.”
She kicked her shoes off and sunk into the other side of the couch.
“Sorry,” I said. “It's just been a really rough day. I wasn't exactly expecting company. Especially company that didn’t come baring the gift of Chunky Monkey.”
“Don’t tell me you’re out. That’s half the reason I’m here.”
“I gave my last pint to Miss Jeanie.”
“How’s she doing?” Mom asked.
“Not good,” I said.
Mom sighed. “That's actually why I'm here. Denise and I were talking. And given everything that’s happened at Mossy Oaks, we decided we’d feel more comfortable if Mother spent the night with me. At least for a day or two. I don't even know why she decided to move into that place. I told her I had a room—”
“My room,” I protested.
“And a lot of good it does you—when you’ve got this little house to yourself.”
I smiled. It was a silly thing. But I liked my old room sitting there exactly as I’d left it before college.
“I don't think she's going to like it,” I told Mom. “And you know why Grandmother wants to live there. She wants the freedom of not taking care of a house—even a small one like mine. But more than that, she doesn’t want to impose. She wants an active lifestyle.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mom shushed me. “I’ve heard that argument before. But there’s been a murder. That changes things.”
“It does,” I admitted. “But she still won’t come.”
“She will,” Mom countered. “She’ll listen to you. That’s why you're coming with me as my back up.”
9
Parked at the front of the building, where I’d seen the police cruiser and coroner’s vehicle the other day, were two more police cruisers and Javier’s unmarked car. It had been hours since I’d seen him leave. I wondered why he was still here.
Mom pulled past them. Instead of entering through the main building, the clubhouse, she pulled toward the residents’ gate and entered a code I wasn’t familiar with.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I told Mother I was tired of having to go through that concierge guy, what’s his name?”
“Vic,” I interjected. “His name is Vic. And he’s pretty nice.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know Mother’s neighbor, Bitsie, doesn’t drive. I always take her spot next to the Buick. I don’t know why Mother doesn’t get rid of that thing. She hardly drives it. You know she can’t see at night.”
“I know.” I’d done my fair share of driving Grandmother across town. She wasn’t fond of taking the little bus.
“You promise to be on my side?” Mom asked, just before she knocked on the door.
“I promise to support you,” I said. But under my breath, I mumbled something to the tune of “But I also promise to support her too.”
Mom did another bout of eye rolling. She knew me well enough to know that was as good of a deal as she was going to get. I loved all the ladies in my life fiercely. And I tried my best to stay out of drama—family drama. To them, I was Switzerland.
Grandmother opened the door. She smiled at first. Then she eyed the both of us there. That coupled with the look I gave her, which probably gave something away, turned Grandmother’s smile into a puzzled frown. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Oh, we thought we’d pop in for a visit,” Mom lied. “Isn't that right, Allie?”
“Something like that.” I gave them both a fake smile. I wasn’t a skilled liar either.
“Come on in. Do y'all want something to drink? I just warmed up some coffee from earlier.”
“No, thank you,” Mom said. She scooted past Grandmother and sat down on the sofa before the two of us had a chance to hug. “Sit down. Let's talk.”
We joined her. Mom could tell she’d already lost me. Her attitude wasn’t something I could get behind. She wanted to force Grandmother to go with her, not ask.
Grandmother sat in her easy chair, and I went a cushion away from Mom on the couch. There was an uneasy tension in the room, all of it exuding from my mother. I nervously tucked my hair behind my ear.
“Care for a Nip?” Grandmother reached for the side table.
“Don't mind if I do.” I smiled as Grandmother passed me one.
“No thanks,” Mom said.
For as long as I could remember, Nips were one of my favorite parts of visiting my grandparents. The ones filled with chocolate in the middle of the caramel shell were hands down my favorite.
“If you don’t want a Nip,” Grandmother told Mom, “then there are some muffins in the kitchen. Bitsie made them a few days ago.”
“I’ll pass,” Mom said. “We’re not here to eat. I wanted to know how you’re doing today?”
So, it’s going to be like this. Mom had figured out I wasn’t going to play her game. She was going to have to play mine. She’d have to slowly butter Grandmother up.
“I've seen better days,” Grandmother said. “I took a nap this afternoon. I missed a call from Dot—I need to call her back. But other than that, I’ve had a good day. My arthritis hasn't been acting up. It's been unseasonably warm for February, hasn’t it? And for that, I'm thankful.”
I absentmindedly twisted my hands together in my lap. This was clearly a genetic problem. My mother’s growing knuckles weren’t far off from Grandmother’s gnarled ones.
“That’s good to hear,” Mom said.
I tapped my foot. I didn’t know this was going to be an all night affair. Then a thought occurred to me. I was going to go back on my word. Instead of support my mother, I was going to feed my curiosity about Melvin’s case.
“Grandmother,” I said, “could you tell me what apartment Melvin’s was?”
I avoided my mother’s glare.
“Let’s see,” Grandmother said slowly. “I always have trouble with these things. Dot is C4. Thelma is B2. And Bitsie is C3.”
“No, Mother, Bitsie is your neighbor.”
“That’s right. Bitsie is D3. And Melvin was C3.”
It took her long enough to run through a laundry list of people to get to his apartment.
“What are you going to do?” Mom asked. “You aren't going to go break any laws, are you?”
“No,” I assured her. “I'm going to go see what my detective friend has been able to learn so far.”
“Your detective friend?” Grandmother asked.
That’s right. She doesn’t know about Melvin’s murder. That was plain to see from the minute we walked inside. Maybe Mom could fill her in.
“Melvin didn’t die in his sleep,” I told her. “He was murdered.”
Grandmother sat back in her recliner, her hand to her gasping mouth.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I told them both. And I left before either could protest, feeling as if I’d probably helped out on both sides of the coin.
I went through the courtyard where numerous senior citizens were out and about, a good number of them huddled around a shuffleboard. I made my way to apartment C3.
It didn’t look like a crime scene. For one, there was no yellow tape, just a lone officer stood outside the door—the open door. I recognized him. He was at Bentley’s Estate the night of George Wilson’s murder. His name tag read K. Clarke.
He gave me an odd look, unsure if I was going to try and barge past him. He blocked the door but not my view of Javier. He was sitting on the couch inside, reading over notes in his notebook. He was deep in thought
. He wore pensive quite well.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Officer Clarke asked.
Javier got up, a twisted grin on his face. “I’ve got this, Clarke,” he said. Then to me, he said, “You can come on in.”
“Thanks,” I told Officer Clarke.
“It’s Kieran,” Officer Clarke said.
“What’s Kieran?” I asked, perplexed.
“My name,” Officer Clarke said. “It’s Kieran.”
“Or is it Romeo?” Javier chided. “Get back to the door, Kieran.”
“Sorry,” Officer Clarke—Kieran—mumbled.
Javier shook his head and led me over to the couch where he’d been working. “Allie,” he said, “are you going to tell me why you’re here? This after I told you not to get involved, what, like four or five hours ago?”
“My mom forced me here,” I protested.
“She forced you here? In Mr. Fleming’s apartment?”
“No.” I sighed. “To my grandmother’s. But I saw your car was still here—”
“And you thought hey why don’t I go interfere with yet another investigation…”
“Not exactly in those terms.” This wasn’t going as I’d planned it would. Then again, I didn’t exactly have a plan.
He smiled, shaking his head. “The last of the crime scene investigators left a few minutes ago. It's legal for you to be here. But please do treat it like a crime scene. Here. Take a seat.” He offered me the spot on the couch beside him. When I took it, the cushions sank in. My leg was forced against his. He didn’t seem to think anything of it.
“What's going on?” I asked.
He rubbed his temples. “Things just aren't adding up. The place is pretty clean. No signs of struggle. No sign of forced entry. But then again, by the time we got up to speed, this case was already cold.”
I tried to be helpful. “The ladies, the ones I told you I talked to with my grandmother, they said he always left it unlocked.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that too. With normal activity, there's sure to be plenty of finger prints all over the door knob.”
Javier wasn’t acting like himself. That is to say he was having an off day. This was the most information he’d ever given me on a case.
“What about security cameras? I know Vic has a little screen up at the concierge desk.” It was the best thing I could think of.
“It’s only for the clubhouse. They don’t have any cameras in the apartment buildings.”
“Oh, that stinks.” I tried to rack my brain. I wanted to help. “What about his medication?” I asked.
“What about his medication?” Javier repeated.
“I mean did you look through it?” I shrugged.
“We did,” Javier said. “Why?”
“I dunno,” I said. “It just seems like something they do on TV.”
Javier decided to humor me. He got up and retrieved one of those weekly pill cases. Then he handed it over to me.
“My grandmother has one of these,” I said. “Well, not exactly like this one.”
The pill container had an obvious mistake. Thursday’s three-letter abbreviation was marked TUR, not THU.
“I think he must’ve bought it online. It probably came from China.”
“I don’t need gloves?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s already been dusted for prints.”
He took his seat again, and again the chair had us both sinking toward the middle. My heart raced—and it wasn’t from getting the chance to help investigate.
I opened each lid carefully, ensuring I didn’t let any of the pills spill out.
“What exactly are you hoping to find?” Javier asked skeptically.
“I'm not really sure,” I admitted.
We both studied the container for a couple of minutes.
Sunday was completely empty. The container was divided into two. Mornings and nights. I scanned to see if all of the other morning containers were the same. Then I stared at the top. I hardly made any progress before I noticed something.
“Do you see what I see?” I asked.
“His nighttime medication,” Javier said. “There’s a pill missing from Monday night. But it's in every other compartment.”
“Right. Do you know what the little blue rectangular pill is?”
“Not yet,” Javier answered.
He went to the kitchen and retrieved a few medicine bottles. The last one he opened was filled with little blue rectangles. Javier attempted to say the name of the medication. He butchered it. But I knew I couldn't do much better.
“It's his sleeping medication,” Javier finally said.
I noticed something on the bottle. But I didn't feel like mentioning it, not with Javier so close. The pharmaceutical company that made the medicine just happened to be the one that Luke worked for. Now was not the time to bring up Luke. But I’d be asking him about this medication the first chance I got.
“Do you think whoever killed Melvin doubled up his medicine?” I asked Javier.
“More than likely,” he said. “It would explain why there were no physical signs of a struggle on Mr. Fleming’s part.”
Javier pulled out his notebook and made few notes.
“I probably should leave you to it.” I put my hands on my knees to get up. At the very same moment, Javier drew his right hand back—he wrote left handed—and his knuckle grazed across mine. My knobby, future arthritic knuckle.
It was like being hit with a wave, unexpected on the beach.
“Thanks for everything,” Javier said. “That’s twice now you’ve been a help. Maybe I can wrangle up one of those junior sheriff badges we hand out at the fair.”
He laughed at his own joke.
King of the dad jokes.
My phone started buzzing in my pocket.
“You gonna get that?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s probably just my mom wondering where I got off to.”
He nodded. “Let me walk you to the door.”
I scooted around Officer Clarke—Kieran—who was still standing sentry. “It was good seeing you, Miss Treadwell,” he said.
How does he know my name?
“By the way, I love your blog,” he called.
“You love her blog?” I heard Javier ask.
“Don’t act like you don’t read it. I saw it open on your phone.”
The detective and the officer continued to jab at one another until I was out of earshot. I smiled at the thought of Javier reading my blog. Then I pulled out my phone. The missed call was from Luke. A pang of guilt radiated from my head to my toes.
TO: Foodie Allison
FROM: Abby Ellis
SUBJECT: I noticed
You’ve done it again. You slandered that boy’s restaurant. How dare you not add The Southern Depot to your list! I ate there, despite your “two forks” review a few months back. And I thought it was lovely. The ambiance more than compensated for the fact they overcooked my steak! In fact, I’ve never been to a cozier spot. Talk about romantic! That’s where I’m taking my beau this Valentine’s Day.
Stubbornly,
Abigale Ellis
10
As it turned out, it wasn’t very hard to convince Grandmother to stay the night with my mom—not after finding out about Melvin’s murder. But getting Grandmother safely tucked away from harm proved a bit more of an ordeal. She insisted on buying dinner for the three of us. Then she invited my Aunt Denise along. By the time I was free, the night had flown by, and Luke was already in bed.
He texted me that he’d done an audible. He’d decided on the fried pork chop instead of the chicken. And he had loved it. Score one touchdown for fine Southern dining.
And speaking of dining, a full day of blogging and baking lay ahead of me. Only I wasn’t sure which to do first. The cursor on my computer blinked at me with its usual contempt. We had a mutual distaste for one another.
I opted for my leather-boun
d notebook and a pencil instead. That shows you! I thought mockingly.
With my tools in hand, I settled into the couch and put on a not-so-distracting movie.
Baking wasn't my forte. But now that we were past the January diet window, baked goods were back in fashion.
In my mind, I was already past Valentine’s Day. Those posts were already posted or scheduled. The next holiday came to mind. It helped that Luke was in Savannah, the undisputed St. Patrick’s Day headquarters of the South.
What pairs with Irish cream?
I wanted chocolate. Okay, I always wanted chocolate. But today I had a reason to indulge. Brownies? I tried out a few different profiles, jotting down notes in the notebook and erasing what didn’t work.
I was pulling out the third experimental batch when a faint knock at the door startled me. The pan crashed to the floor. The ooey gooey brownies were lost. And I was sure these were going to be the winner.
The person outside knocked again. I guessed it wasn’t Mom.
Peeping through the peephole, I found it was none other than Miss Jeanie standing at my door.
“Miss Jeanie,” I said, opening the door. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, shug,” she said. “My heart’s on the mend. But would it be okay if I came in for a little bit? I guess I’m just feeling extra lonely today. It’s a bingo day, you know.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“It just didn’t seem right.”
She looked so sad there. I’d be heartless not to let her in.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’ve got some not-so-good brownies. And some probably good, but ruined, brownies on the floor.”
“I don't need anything to snack on,” she said, patting her soft stomach. “I’ve had too much of your cooking the past few days. If I have any more, I’ll need a new wardrobe.”
“I could make you a cup of coffee or tea,” I offered.
“A coffee would be wonderful.”
This was her first time inside my house—or I thought it was. “You sure have changed the place since the Kings lived here,” she said, admiring the wood floors and my collage wall full of framed photos and an assortment of other wall decor.
Foodie Files Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 24
