by Maia Chance
“Now tell me what you were about to say about Randy,” I said.
Delilah tossed a blonde curl over her shoulder. “Well, at a poker game last week—”
“A what?”
“There’s a regular Thursday night poker game at Charlie Morel’s house, and I got invited—the only woman, of course, because guys have an easy time talking to me, I guess. Anyway, Randy was there, and he was so incredibly cutthroat about the game. Like, when there was maybe five hundred dollars in the pot, he started getting all competitive and—this is Randy Rice we’re talking about—angry.”
“That’s it?” I said. “Your info for me is that Randy has anger issues? Because I already figured that out.”
“It’s not the anger part that’s so interesting. It’s the gambling part.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think Randy might have a gambling problem.”
“Maybe he’s just competitive.”
“Okay, then how do you explain this?” Delilah dug into her bag and produced a silver plastic card the size and shape of a library or credit card. She passed it to me.
“Lakewinds Casino Players Club?” I said, reading the card.
“Yeppers.”
“You stole this from Randy?”
“Gosh, no!” Delilah pressed a hand to her heart. “He dropped it in my shop the other day when he came in for a cupcake. I just haven’t had a chance to return it.” She took the card from me and tucked it back in her bag. “My point is, with all this money stuff swirling around, I wonder if Randy was hurting so badly for money because of his little gambling problem, he might’ve…”
Delilah didn’t need to finish the thought. I already knew: Randy might’ve killed Mikey for his cash.
What Delilah still didn’t know (I hoped) was that Mikey and Randy had had a meeting set up at the garage the very afternoon Mikey was killed. How Clifford might have factored into all this, I wasn’t sure.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I need to change?” Delilah said.
“Go for it.” I kicked the mound of orange gown off my feet, snatched it up, grabbed my hoodie, and went back around the room divider. Effie took the gown from me and hung it up.
“Bye, Agnes!” Delilah called.
Elaine beamed. “That Delilah is such a sweetheart.”
*
I told Effie about Delilah’s report as we walked down the hallway. “Why haven’t we been more aggressive about investigating Randy? He suddenly seems so suspicious.”
“We’ve been busy.”
“And we need to make sure the police know about Randy’s meeting with Mikey at the garage. And—”
“You really should make your date with your high bidder,” Effie said. “Go on, call Albright.”
“Do I have to?”
“His infatuation with you gives you—gives us—a clear advantage over Delilah. Something tells me Albright is not one to be taken in by the likes of her. He likes dorks.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s a compliment, darling. Now. Go on. If you don’t want Delilah Fortune to head you off at the pass, crack the case, and rescue Otis—subsequently whisking him away for a weekend celebration in, oh, I don’t know, a cabin in the Adirondacks—then call Albright.”
“You’re mean.” I hadn’t told Aunt Effie about how Otis wanted to “talk.” That was something I refused to even think about, let alone discuss.
“I’m realistic. Men can be very confused creatures, Agnes. They can’t help it. And with Delilah’s cupcakes in her arsenal—”
“Okay, fine.”
“I’d say, put on your sultry voice, but I think Albright would prefer it if you spoke in Klingon.” Effie glanced at her wristwatch. “I must go to the locker room and change for aquarobics. Remind me to buy a preemptive tube of athlete’s foot cream. Meet me after.”
*
The Naneda community center is only two blocks behind Main Street, so I decided to walk to the Black Drop and get a coffee while I called Albright.
I dialed his cell number. To my dismay, he picked up right away.
“Agnes,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Hi.” I cleared my throat.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah! Of course. I mean, except for the fact that Clifford Prentiss was, you know, bludgeoned to death last night…” Oh, the things that come out of my mouth. “Listen, I’m calling to ask if you wanted to set up that date you bid on last night.”
“Sure. Want to go bowling next week?”
No. “I kind of, um, pulled my back. While emptying the dishwasher, so—”
“I did that once. Even we nerds need to stretch, Agnes. Hey, how about I take you to the movies tomorrow? I’ll be ready for a breather from work by then. Things are pretty crazy here at the station, what with what happened at the Lake Club last night.”
“Do you … have a suspect?”
“I’m just glad you saw the light and broke up with that meathead, Otis Hatch.”
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone knows.”
Bloop bloop went my stomach acid. “Are you saying you suspect Otis of killing Clifford?”
“I can’t discuss the case with you, Agnes. Listen. Headless Horseman III is playing downtown. I’ve been dying to see it. The special effects are supposed to be incredible. Meet you there a little before four tomorrow?”
“Yup,” I said dully.
“Cool beans!”
I punched END CALL.
Chapter 20
It pretty much sums up the weird and quasi-crappy plane on which my life had landed to say that I spent the next forty-five minutes sitting in the poolside bleachers of Naneda community swim center eating a muffin from a white paper bag, washing it down with pumpkin latte, and watching senior citizens flop around in the water.
I don’t want to complain too much. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t healthy, and anyway, things could’ve been worse. It wasn’t like I was milking horses in Mongolia for a living.
Mr. Solomon, wearing prescription goggles and woefully inadequate Euro swim trunks, was right up in the front row. He looked like a hairy species of tree frog. When Effie, a little late to class, slid into the pool in her chic black-and-white swimsuit, she waded over to his side with a toothy smile on her face.
Mr. Solomon looked delighted to see her. He came up to the level of her earlobes.
The class got started, led by a perky young man with a spray tan and a habit of saying “Work it, people!”
Effie whispered stuff to Mr. Solomon, and he whispered back, until the instructor blew a whistle and said, “All right, you two! Are we here to chitchat, or are we here to get fit?”
“A little of both, I suppose,” Effie said.
The class finally ended, and, after what seemed like an eternity, Effie emerged from the women’s locker room looking ready for her close-up.
“Well?” I said. “Was there really a prenup?”
“I’ll tell you in the car. It’s sensitive. You drive.” She tossed me her keys. “I need a post-workout ciggy.”
Once I was steering the Caddy out of the community center parking lot and Effie was puffing a Benson and Hedges, she turned to me, eyes bright, and said, “Clifford did sign a prenup, because he came to his marriage with nothing but credit card debt, whereas Belinda had recently inherited the house as well as a moderate inheritance from her parents. But that isn’t the juicy part. And, by the way, I deserve kudos for this, because I had to kiss Mr. Solomon to get it.”
“Yuck!”
“On the cheek, darling. The cheek. And anyway, he’s really very sweet, and he smells like the most expensive aftershave money can buy. Maybe a little like Bengay, too, but it isn’t overpowering. Now listen. You recall what Clifford was ranting about at the dance last night?”
“Of course. Saying stuff about how everything had changed for him, big time, and all that?”
“Mm. Well, it turns out that was no exaggerati
on. He had just come into an inheritance of his own. Fifty thousand cool ones.”
“What?”
“Yes. From an uncle. About three weeks ago.”
“Omigosh.”
“So, Clifford went to Mr. Solomon for help in managing the legal ramifications. Clifford wanted to make certain Belinda didn’t have any right to his money when he asked for a divorce. Which probably wasn’t going to work because New York is an equitable-distribution state.”
“So he was going to ask for a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“What’s Mr. Solomon’s first name, anyway?”
“Why, I never thought to ask.”
“You were kissing him in the locker room and calling him Mr. Solomon?”
“He seemed to like it.”
“No. Ew. Stop.”
“The police may know more about Clifford’s inheritance money. Did you set up your date with Detective Albright?”
“We’re going to the movies tomorrow afternoon.”
“You couldn’t set up anything sooner?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, well, that’s thirtyish hours of eyebrow regrowth.”
“You said they look fine!”
“They do, darling.” Effie flicked ash out her cracked window.
We returned to the Stagecoach Inn to find Chester, Hank, and the Bermans dressed all in black and eager to head to Blanshard’s Funeral Home. Dorothea was in her room doing some work for her motor coach business on the computer. Effie and I went to our rooms to change into black, too.
“This is great,” Myron said to Lo as we all piled into the Dustbuster. “We can do a little comparison shopping on caskets.”
Lo gave a muffled shriek and elbowed him.
Ten minutes later, we were squeezing into the back row of the chapel at Blanshard’s. The lighting was low and soothing. The chairs were comfy. The casket was closed. The place was packed.
Not packed, I calculated, because Mikey had been popular, but because murder was in the air and people wanted to gawk. I saw the darting eyes as the minister droned the eulogy up at his podium. Everyone was looking for the killer in the chapel, because everyone with a subscription to basic cable knows killers like to go to their victims’ funerals.
What had become of my sweet hometown? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to live there forever, but I sure as heck wanted it to stay safe, gentle, and picturesque forever. Naneda wasn’t supposed to be like this! People didn’t even lock their doors. At least, they didn’t used to.
In the front row, Karen Brown sat between her son Scootch and her husband, Mark. I had a pretty good view of the family, since the chairs were arranged in a crescent. The three of them were red-eyed. Karen stared ahead, expressionless, her hair lank and her black dress rumpled. Mark kept dabbing his nose with a balled-up Kleenex. His hair was tightly combed and his suit pressed. Scootch slouched low in his chair, oversized sneakers thrust forward, head slung low.
Man, what I wouldn’t have given to ask that kid about his Uncle Mikey’s meeting with Randy at the garage. Would it really be so awful to interrogate a grief-stricken teen? Even one who might’ve smashed pumpkins on my back porch?
Well, yeah. It would.
Anyway, Alexa and Randy Rice were there, too. And Randy was now my numero uno suspect. I just needed to figure out how to ask him about that meeting without him, say, karate-chopping my shins.
Alexa looked stricken and pale, with black eyeliner smudged under her eyes, her blonde ponytail looking greasy, and her dark roots showing. Beside her, Randy leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Every so often he’d shake his head as though angered by something the minister had said. Except the minister uttered only the blandest Biblical soothers.
No Belinda at the funeral.
No Otis. No Delilah.
Other faces I recognized from around town. Cordelia, Dad’s housekeeper. Dirk Vargo, the manager of the Green Apple Supermarket. The Banerjees who owned Bengal Palace. Professor Morel, Dad’s neighbor and an English lit professor at Naneda University— The Dude.
My pulse ticked up.
The Dude I’d seen at the Harvest Festival Kick-Off sat on the other side of the chapel, but I recognized him, all right. The black Adidas tracksuit. The stringy neck. The potbelly. The oily, thinning, back-combed hair. He sat back, manspreading his legs, arms crossed high and tight on his chest. Just like the previous times I’d seen him, he was obviously looking for someone in the crowd.
What the what?
The service ended, and everyone got up and migrated to the reception room, where a long table was laid with cookies, electric percolators, napkins, and paper cups. The air smelled of lilies and weak coffee.
Lo and Myron were the first to hit the cookies, and they piled their plates so high, I realized we were in it for the long haul.
I got a cup of coffee and then slowly inched myself closer to where Randy stood talking with the funeral director. The reception room was packed, so it was easy to loiter behind them unseen as they made small talk. The second the funeral director excused himself, I wedged myself in front of Randy.
“Hi!” I said.
Randy looked at me with unmasked disgust. “Hi.” He was wearing cords and a streaky purple-and-brown Cosby sweater. His acne-scarred face was flushed, and his bushy hair needed to be combed. He wasn’t much taller than me, and I was in my ballet flats.
“Agnes Blythe,” I said, proffering my hand.
Randy didn’t take it. “I know who you are. You’re the nut who’s been bugging everyone about Mikey’s death.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said. “I understand that you and Mikey knew each other since you were babies. You must feel … awful.”
To my surprise, tears welled up in Randy’s eyes. He pinched them away with forefinger and thumb. “I can’t say that I liked the jerk, but he was a fixture.” Randy’s eyebrows jutted down. “But you know what? Mikey finally got what was coming to him. He was a taker. And for the first half of his life, everything was just handed to him on a silver platter. His mom thought he was God’s gift to humanity. Our moms were best friends—they were both young single moms—so Mikey and his brother Mark and me were forced to play together all the time, although playing usually consisted of Mikey giving me noogies and wedgies and locking me in the basement, and then if I told on him, my mom would laugh and his mom would act like I was making it up. Mikey never got in trouble. It was ridiculous. And it was always just take, take, take. He stole my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy when we were six. He always stole my Halloween candy by force. And you know what happened in high school?”
“No,” I said. “What happened?”
“I caught him kissing my girlfriend! Not because he liked her—no, just to take something else from me. I could’ve killed him!”
Two women in black dresses looked over at Randy, askance. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, the joke’s on Mikey,” Randy said, “because obviously someone got sick of all his taking, and now he’s dead.”
“I heard a rumor about him having a bunch of cash suddenly, which disappeared when he d—”
“What’s your problem, anyway, asking me this stuff?” Randy snarled. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Problem? No problem.” I took a sip of coffee and burned my tongue. “If it seems like I’m asking about Mikey’s death, well, that’s just a coincidence. Because what I’m really trying to do is just be really, um, active in the Chamber of Commerce.”
Randy’s Adam’s apple joggled up and down.
Interesting.
“I want to be one of the gang, you know?” I said.
“No.”
“For instance, I heard there’s a regular Thursday night poker game that some of the Chamber people go to? I’d love to join in. I play a mean hand.” A lie. “Is the game happening tonight?”
“You’re not invited.”
“Oh. Darn. Is it high stakes?”
“Get a life, okay?” Randy elbowed away, leaving me alone with my coffee.
Only about a minute later, I overheard an exchange between Karen Brown and Bitsy Horton. Bitsy and her sister, Lily, run Naneda Realty with an iron fist, so don’t let the JCPenney pantsuits and blue eye shadow fool you.
Karen (passing something tiny to Bitsy): Here you go. Mark had a spare.
Bitsy: Wonderful! And the … the police are finished in there?
Karen: They gave us the go-ahead.
Bitsy: Do you think there is anything of value for an estate sa— Karen: (Snorts loudly.) Are you kidding me? Maybe his video game setup could be eBayed, but you can send every last thing in that house to the dump. Bulldoze it for all I care.
Bitsy: Then I don’t suppose you want to read this literature on local estate sale services? (Holds out a folder.) Karen: Puh-leez.
Bitsy: (Purses lips.) Okeydokey, then.
Omigosh. Where was Aunt Effie? I had to tell her about this.
Ah. There she was, laughing uproariously between two silver foxes in suits.
I went over and pulled her away. “We need to talk,” I whispered.
“Good-bye, boys,” Effie said to the men over her shoulder. “You’re both hilarious!” She turned to me. “What is it, Agnes?”
I dropped my voice to a whisper only Effie would be able to hear. “Karen Brown has a possible financial motive for killing Mikey.”
“Which is?”
“His house. It looks like she and her husband inherited Mikey’s house—”
“Makes sense.”
“—and now they’re having Bitsy Horton sell it off. Karen just gave her the key.”
“But surely that dump couldn’t be worth enough to warrant murder, Agnes.”
“That would depend on how desperate Karen is. You saw the spreadsheets in her office. You said she was in the red.”
“Mm. True. But what happened to being totally sure Randy is our man?”
“Well, I don’t know! But opportunity knocks, right?”
“Mrs. Winters,” someone said.
Effie and I turned to see none other than Bitsy Horton, still holding her folder and, pinched under her thumb against the folder, the key to Mikey’s house.
