The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  “I think they’re the last thing on his mind right now.”

  “Say what?”

  “Never mind.” She watched Aaron set the pool brush down, say something to Kensington, and leave. “Anything else developing?”

  “Moody’s been on the phone since you left. I don’t know who he’s talkin’ to, but he’s scribbling notes so fast he looks like he’s possessed by demons. Maybe he’ll come up for air when you get back.”

  “All right. Good. We’ll shake something loose.” Claudia said goodbye and ended the connection, then went to pry Kensington away from Booey. He was watching her brush her hair out, mesmerized. Claudia didn’t think he’d spoken a word beyond his name since they’d announced their arrival.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” she said as she approached. “Unfortunately, something’s come up and it’s urgent that I get in touch with Mrs. Becker. Do you have any idea when she might be home?”

  Kensington stopped in midstroke. “What do you mean, ‘urgent?’”

  “It’s about Mr. Becker and I really need to talk to her.”

  “Just leave a message with me. I’ll make sure to pass it along.”

  “Sorry. It’s private.”

  “She’ll only tell me anyway.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, come on. What happened?” Kensington looked at Booey and wriggled her eyebrows. Then she turned back to Claudia and giggled outright. “Did old Henry rise from the dead and wander away from the morgue or something?”

  Without Aaron around, Kensington had regained her confidence and, thought Claudia, reverted to form. “Just tell Mrs. Becker I need to see her as soon as possible,” she said. “Let’s go, Booey.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Kensington said, sighing elaborately. “If it’s that important I’ll wake her up.”

  “She’s here?”

  “I never said she wasn’t. You just assumed it.” Kensington tossed her hair, which had nearly dried in the hot sun. “You’ll need to give her some time, though—fifteen minutes, maybe. Old people move slow and she’s closed up in her bedroom with a migraine.”

  Claudia checked her watch. Already nearly two. “All right. We’ll wait here.”

  “Suit yourself.” Kensington turned to go, tugging at the bottom of her bikini in a contrived show of modesty that Claudia knew was for Booey’s benefit. Then she paused and pivoted. “I was planning on going out, but if you want me here too, I’ll be happy to stick around.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Claudia said wryly, “but this is private. If Mrs. Becker chooses to tell you anything later, that’s up to her.”

  Kensington shrugged. “Fine. I’ll tell her where to find you.” She winked at Booey again. “Toodles.” He stuttered a goodbye and murmured that he was pleased to meet her. She laughed and sauntered off.

  “She’s quite . . . an interesting woman,” he said a moment later.

  “That she is,” said Claudia. She plucked the beer bottles from the side of the pool and wedged them into her purse. They just fit. “That she is.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes was fast turning into thirty. Claudia took her jacket off and roasted on a deck chair while Booey—with her permission—ambled through Henry Becker’s garden train display. He had just returned to claim a chair himself when Barbara Becker finally emerged. Both of them stood and waited while she slowly made her way toward them from the house, her cane scraping the terrazzo with every step.

  She looked like royalty, with a wide-brimmed hat that veiled the sides of her face and tied beneath her chin with a silk scarf. She wore dark sunglasses and, in what Claudia assumed was a concession to the heat but not the sun, a gauzy, long-sleeved silk blouse with a thousand small buttons that spanned her neck.

  Claudia thought sunscreen would have been easier. She also knew why it had taken the old woman so long to get dressed. She greeted Barbara Becker and suggested they retreat inside.

  “We’re here now,” Mrs. Becker said icily. She glanced at the pool, then turned to Booey. “Hello, young man. Nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said. “You too. Can I get you a chair?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She looked pointedly at Claudia. “Presumably this won’t take long. Babs said you had something to tell me about Henry?”

  “Mrs. Becker, I’m afraid this might be upsetting news. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit?”

  “I’m quite sure, Detective. Now what is it?”

  There was no nice way to back into this one, so Claudia told her swiftly and without inflection that as it turned out, an autopsy had already taken place and the results showed Henry Becker had been murdered. She stood ready to catch Barbara Becker, but the woman barely moved.

  “Mrs. Becker?” she said. “Do you understand what I just said?”

  “Of course I understood you. But it’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Obviously, there’s a mistake somewhere.”

  “No. There’s no mistake.”

  Barbara Becker shook her head, furious. “No mistake? My Henry’s burial has been delayed and now you tell me his body has been . . . mutilated!”

  “I regret that, Mrs. Becker, but the larger point is that he didn’t drown on his own.”

  “Oh, come now! They can’t even keep track of which bodies are to be autopsied in this foolish town. You expect me to believe the results of an autopsy? They’ve probably mixed him up with someone else!” She thumped her cane on the terrazzo.

  “Mrs. Becker,” Claudia said carefully, “your husband was murdered. I’m very sorry. If you’d like I’ll see that you get a copy of the autopsy report. But he was murdered. Believe it, because with or without your cooperation we’re going forward with a full-scale investigation.”

  “My condolences,” Booey said quietly.

  Barbara Becker shook her head slightly, then shuffled toward the edge of the pool. She gazed at the water for a long time. Claudia counted a minute, two. Then she joined her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go inside?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. Becker said distractedly.

  She didn’t look fine. Perspiration rolled down her cheek, streaking her makeup and staining the edge of her scarf. Claudia pulled at her own shirt. In Cleveland, it would be in the high seventies. Here, the temperature approached ninety. Already. She felt her face burning.

  “An investigation,” Mrs. Becker said. She turned and faced Claudia fully. “Who would want Henry dead? Do you think that I did? Do you think I held his head under water until he stopped breathing?”

  “I’m just here to get some additional information right now,” she answered. “I’m not pointing fingers at anyone.”

  “Sure you are.” Mrs. Becker sighed. “At Babs too, I suppose.”

  Claudia didn’t answer.

  “Everything that Henry endured . . . for it to come to this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. You’ve said that.” She tilted her head. “Listen . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A mockingbird. Isn’t it beautiful? Henry loved them.”

  Claudia glanced at a gray bird perched high on the screen’s scaffolding. She watched its tail flick smartly. This was one bird she knew. Nice, except when it trilled at six in the morning on a weekend.

  Booey had come up beside them. “It’s the state bird,” he said. “Technically, its name is ‘Minus polyglottos’. A lot of people confuse mockingbirds with the shrike, but—”

  “Later,” Claudia said.

  “You’re a very knowledgeable boy,” Mrs. Becker said. She smiled thinly at Claudia. “Well, Detective, what is it you need from me? If you’ve got questions, please ask them now, and quickly, and then leave.”

  So much for bird watching. Claudia clicked a pen open and flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “Good by me,” she said, a little testy herself. “Let’s start with Barbara Kensington.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes
later, Claudia fed quarters into a vending machine at a gas station and stabbed at the Orange Crush button. A can clunked to the tray and she handed it to Booey. She primed the machine with another handful of coins and got a Pespi, which she rolled against her forehead before popping the top. She leaned against the gas station wall and drank without pause, hoping it would chase away a headache forming at her temples.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of Barbara Becker, who eventually conceded that no, she really didn’t know much about Kensington’s past, but persisted in defending the younger woman, anyway. “Perhaps she is a little too spirited at times,” Mrs. Becker had said, “but I’m a good judge of character and believe me, you’ll never find anyone more thoughtful or loyal than Babs. Whatever you may think, she’s a person of integrity.”

  Claudia hadn’t bothered writing down the woman’s words. In fact, she hadn’t written down much. Mrs. Becker would not be swayed in her assessment of Kensington, nor could she imagine anyone at all who would kill her husband. She freely admitted that with Henry’s passing she would inherit a fortune, but stopped short of offering information about the one-hundred thousand dollars Kensington would get when the will was probated. She loved Henry. Babs loved Henry. Henry loved them both. Just one small happy family.

  Claudia nicked a limp dollar bill from Booey and finagled it into the machine. She punched out another Pepsi. He was still working on his Orange Crush, and had begun to chatter into her headache.

  “She could have been on a stage or in the movies,” Booey said admiringly. “Mrs. Becker, that is. She’s so . . . regal, so . . . centered. Like Katharine Hepburn. Or, uh . . . Olympia Dukakis.”

  “You know their work?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m a big movie buff.”

  Of course.

  “Old movies, new movies, comedy, drama . . . .” Booey scratched his left ankle with his right foot. “You wouldn’t believe my video collection—and now I’m adding some DVD, too. If you ever want to borrow an old favorite, I probably have it.” He drained his soda. “Mrs. Becker could’ve been big. I mean, look how well she held up while you were grilling her. She had to feel your heat, but she didn’t let on. That takes a certain kind of talent.”

  “I wasn’t ‘grilling’ her, Booey.” Claudia felt a flicker of annoyance. “If I ever do you’ll see the difference.”

  “I didn’t mean ‘grilling’ in a bad way,” he said quickly. “You weren’t nasty or anything. Just . . . straightforward. Bang, bang, bang—question after question.”

  Yeah. Question after question. And she knew little more than she had before. “So what did you think of Kensington?” she asked, killing time now, not wanting to get back into the hot car.

  Booey blushed. “She’s good, too. Now her, she reminds me a little of Jamie Lee Curtis, only with longer hair. You ever see her in A Fish Named Wanda? Excellent movie! She—”

  “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. Forget about who she reminds you of. Just tell me your own impression.”

  “Oh. Well . . . I was, actually.”

  Claudia sighed and polished off the second Pepsi.

  “No, really. See, I think they’re both like actresses, Ms. Kensington and Mrs. Becker. I think they’re both faking something.”

  Claudia looked at him, surprised.

  “Don’t you?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, Booey. I do.” Then she grinned. “Come on. Let’s get back to the station and try to sort things out.” She moved to toss her empty can into a trash bin beside the vending machine.

  “Wait. I’ll take that,” said Booey. “I’m into recycling.” She handed it over and he plucked her first can from the trash as well. He eyed a few other cans buried deeper in the bin.

  “Forget it, Booey. You can always come back for them later,” she deadpanned.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea.” He trailed her to the car, clutching their three cans. A moment later they drove off, the AC in the Cavalier gasping warm air while Booey talked earnestly about the earth’s ozone layer. He sounded like Robin, but without the edge. Claudia smiled. What a piece of work he was . . . .

  Chapter 17

  Sweat cascaded down the chief’s face. It had already stained the rim of his collar. Now it was popping up in patches on his shirt and slicking back the hairs on his arms. Claudia and Booey were sweating, too, but they’d been standing beneath a full sun for more than hour and then navigating through traffic in a hot car. Suggs was at his desk in air-conditioning. He looked up when he heard them outside his door, his face ashen.

  “Hey, Uncle Mac, you don’t look very good,” Booey said, a half-step ahead of Claudia through the doorway. “Are you—”

  Before Suggs could respond she yanked on the back of Booey’s shirt and spun him around, giving him a graceless shove back into the multipurpose room. “I’ll take it from here,” she said. “Go write up some notes from our visit to the Becker place.”

  “Yeah, but he—”

  “I know. Go. I’ll take care of it.” She launched herself into Suggs’s office and slammed the door.

  “Hey!” Suggs began to struggle to his feet.

  “ Forget ‘hey’,” she snapped. “Look at you! You’re sick! You need to get his fixed already!”

  “Don’t you go tellin’ me what I need to do, Hershey. Don’t you—”

  “I need you tomorrow, so here’s the deal. Either you go with me now to the ER and get this . . . thing checked, or I’m calling 911.” She batted his bottle of Maalox from the desktop. It fell into the trash can with a thunk. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”

  “Hershey, you are sooo fired!”

  “Good. That makes this even easier.”

  “I mean it, by—”

  “Me too.”

  She reached across his desk and snatched at the phone. He was quick, though. He grabbed at her wrist and shook the phone free, his face no longer white but glowing with fury. Claudia swore and fumbled in her purse, then held up her cell phone like an Olympic torch.

  “Me or an ambulance?”

  He fixed her with a look, part pain, part anger. “Hershey . . .”

  “There’s a lot less commotion involved if you go with me. Which way do you want the town to play the story?”

  “No wonder you’re so lousy with men,” he muttered. “That’s how the town’s playin’ your story.”

  It stung a little, but only a little. The context was all wrong, and she didn’t respond. She watched him put his hat on, then moved aside when he brushed past her through the door. He glared at her briefly, but the fight was all gone when he reminded her that she was still fired.

  She nodded, and they left.

  * * *

  For the second time in one day, Claudia stood at a vending machine, this time grubbing for peanut butter crackers and bad coffee. She knew lots of hospitals that filled their machines with apples, turkey sandwiches and yogurt. The Indian Run Community Hospital wasn’t one of them. She yawned and wrestled a cracker from its cellophane wrapping. Seven-thirty. In another half hour the hospital would try to give her the boot—give all of them the boot. Moody, Carella and Booey were slumped over files in the waiting room. Sally had come and gone. Jeannie, the chief’s wife, had left as well, her parting words to Claudia reinforcing what she long suspected—Suggs didn’t stray out of character, whether he was home or on the job :

  “He’s a pig-headed mule and how you got him to come over here, I’ll never know and he sure won’t ever tell me. I don’t suppose you will, either, even though it has to be a story worth handing down through the generations. But I’m grateful and when he starts to feel better, he’ll be grateful, too. Eventually.”

  She was a diminutive woman with vivid blue eyes and thick mocha hair pulled back with a barrette. Claudia had met her on a few occasions and liked her instantly. She imagined that if the chief weren’t her boss, the two might be friends.

  “Meanwhile,” Jeannie had continued, “if he gives you any guff, jus
t tell him you know where his mole is and that if he doesn’t ease up, you’ll announce it to the world.” She laughed, a husky laugh that defied her small stature. “I guarantee that’ll shut him up fast.”

  Claudia had no desire to learn about the chief’s mole and quickly changed the subject, but thinking about the conversation now brought a smile to her face. She ate the last of the crackers and returned to the waiting room just as a nurse called her name. The nurse scowled at her, as if she were responsible for the ulcer that tests had revealed.

  “You can go in now,” she said in a tone that made it clear what she thought of the idea. “Chief Suggs said you first, then the others. But don’t plan on staying long. And don’t upset him. The whole point of keeping him overnight is for him to get some R&R, which obviously he doesn’t get at work.” She glared once more, then stalked off.

  The head of Suggs’s hospital bed was cranked as high up as it would go. His arms were crossed over his chest. Claudia supposed he wanted to let her know he was still pissed, and she tried to show a properly subdued expression when she entered. It was tough, though, what with his bare feet sticking out from the bottom of the sheet. He had skinny ankles for a big man.

  “You’re unfired,” he said without preamble. “Embarrass me like this again and you won’t be. Might do you well to remember that.”

  Claudia nodded. “How’re you feeling?” she asked.

  Suggs grunted. “I been poked and prodded and had somethin’ wicked stuck in me all the way to my stomach. I’m surprised it didn’t come out my ear.” He gazed at the window for a second, then back at her. “Gonna have to change my diet, too,” he said glumly. “But the good news is it ain’t stomach cancer. Just an ordinary ulcer that the doc says I let go too long.”

  “That’s what you thought? That you had cancer?”

  “Crossed my mind.”

  “That must’ve—”

  “The guys are all out there?”

  “I . . . yes.”

  “Good. Bring ’em in. I want to know what’s happening with the Becker case. And Hershey?”

  “Yes?”

  “I coulda made it longer, but the wife is happy that I didn’t. So thanks for that, but don’t go pushin’ any ‘favors’ on me in the future. Got that?”