DEATH OF THE C OUCH P OTATO’S WIFE
Christy Barritt
Published by
Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
DEATH OF THE COUCH POTATO’S WIFE BY CHRISTY BARRITT
Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614
ISBN 978-0-9847655-9-1
Copyright © 2012 by Christy Barritt
Cover design by Bluetail Books & Design:
www.bluetailbooks.com
Book design by Anna O’Brien www.behindthegift.com
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com
For more information on this book and the author visit: www.christybarritt.com
All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Death of the Couch Potato’s Wife by Christy Barritt published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barritt, Christy.
Death of the Couch Potato’s Wife / Christy Barritt 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever lived in suburbia and experienced the joy of a homeowners’ association and nosy neighbors.
A special thank you goes out to: Pat Mathias, Kellie Yates Miller, Stephanie Ludwig, Pamela Trawick, Laura McClellan, Kate Hinck, and Sharon Lavy. Your input was invaluable!
Chapter 1
“This is called breaking and entering.”
Babe, my neighbor, waved her hand in the air in a laid-back way that made me wonder if she’d been a cat burglar in her pre- senior citizen discount days. “We’re not breaking anything.”
My neck muscles clenched tighter. “How about the law?”
“Nonsense, Laura. We’re just being neighborly.” Babe used that word a lot, including when gossiping and borrowing lawn equipment from other people’s sheds—without their permission. My husband and I had been the recipients of her neighborly deeds on many occasions.
Babe and I stood on the porch of Candace Flynn’s house, staring at her front door. Though it was only 3 p.m., the crisp winter sun was already beginning its descent, and a glare of light caught on the glass atop the door, nearly blinding us. All the other neighbors on the cul-de-sac seemed to be occupied at the moment because no one else stirred. Most of them were working or at afternoon tot time at the local gym.
Sure, Candace’s husband had been out of town all week on a golf outing. But was that really an excuse for the mostly dry, yellowing grass in her front yard to be uncut with wisps of some kind of winter weed waving to everyone who passed? Or for the garbage cans to remain curbside for two days? For various flyers, once stuffed behind her door handle, to now litter the stoop?
Even more disturbing than the aesthetic no-nos of her yard was the fact that the storm door, which had been closed just yesterday, now flapped open.
And there was the small fact that no one had seen the woman in two days—and Candace always made herself known. She wasn’t even answering her cell phone, which usually appeared to be glued to her ear.
All of these things left me with three thoughts. First, I considered that maybe Candace had spontaneously taken off on a trip herself. I couldn’t fault her for doing so, because I knew her husband never cut her any slack. If she was going to go, it should be now, while he was out of town. My second thought was that perhaps she’d decided to abandon all responsibilities for the week. I couldn’t blame her for that either, though, if that were the case, I at least wanted to help Candace by sending my husband Kent over to cut the wispy grass. The third possibility, and this was the one I didn’t want to consider: What if she’d run into trouble? A heart attack with no one around to help? A home invasion that had left her tied up inside with the front door flailing open?
Perhaps the correct way to be neighborly was by calling the police.
But Babe insisted I’d lived in Chicago too long. She said this was the way things were done here in small-town America. She said that neighbors checked on each other.
I was no expert on the subject and Babe, by all accounts, was. At seventy years old, she knew nearly three times more about life than I did. And when I moved here nine months ago, I knew nothing—nothing—about small towns. All I knew was that this small town was actually named Boring. To top it off, the sign at the end of the road labeled our neighborhood Dullington Estates.
When my husband first told me, I thought he was joking.
Nope. Boring, Indiana, was as real as they came.
I nodded toward Candace’s door and glanced back at Babe, who was all decked out in a jean jacket, a Rolling Stones T-shirt and Converse tennis shoes. The woman had moxie, I’d give her that. We’d already knocked, but there had been no answer. Babe’s plan now was to try the handle and see if it was unlocked. Yeah, like I sa id—breaking and entering.
“You go inside first, so when the police come, I can attest this was all your idea.” I took a step back and the winter wind assaulted my already frozen skin. I ignored it. “In fact, maybe I’ll just wait out here.”
“Laura, people around here look out for one another. Look at her house. Something is not right.”
I had to agree that her house was even more neglected than usual. If I thought Candace had taken an unexpected trip and her home was empty, then vandals—or dare I say gangs, even?— might also notice and take advantage of the fact. I shivered at the thought of crime moving into the peaceful neighborhood.
Flashbacks of Chicago slammed into my mind. I touched the scar below my collar bone. The mark still throbbed a year later. Survivor’s guilt, maybe? I closed my eyes as sweat sprinkled across my forehead. I could still feel the knife, the—
“Laura?”
I yanked my eyes open and saw Babe snapping her fingers mere inches in front of my face. I’m not in Chicago anymore. I’m in suburbia. Boring. Sweet—but safe—suburbia. Things like what had happened to me in Chicago didn’t happen here.
Did they?
I could put my fears at ease simply by checking on my neighbor.
Babe’s voice took on a sweet tone. “Come on, Laura. If you were out of town and your storm door was banging on its hinges, wouldn’t you want me to check things out? Wouldn’
t you want me, or someone, to close it for you before the real bad guys realized you were out of town and stole all your valuables?”
The bad guys would be sorely disappointed if they tried to steal my valuables. The most they’d get was my DVD collection of The Real Housewives . My husband believed in living on a budget. A tight budget. A really tight budget. In my less-than- stellar moments, I might have even called him a penny pincher a time or two.
Babe tapped her foot. “Well?”
I considered what I’d want done if I were in Candace’s shoes. Maybe we could just check out things inside her home and then lock the door behind us as we left. I had a lot to learn about this “being neighborly” thing. In Chicago, being neighborly just meant saying hello as you passed each other in the hallway of the apartment building. I might even go as far to say that in the big city, we practiced “mind your own business” as a way of showing we cared.
“Okay, but we check it out and then go. The last thing I need is the gossip girls telling everyone that I’m a criminal who moved to Boring to escape the law.”
Babe smiled as if the idea amused her. She knew better than anyone how people in this town were prone to speculation. But her smile disappeared as she twisted the handle and the front door opened freely. “Anyone home? Candace? Jerry?”
We looked at each other. An unlocked front door wasn’t good. Not good at all.
“Candace?” Babe called again.
Silence.
“They’re not home.” I jerked my thumb behind me. “Let’s just go. I’ll clean up the yard myself. Roll the trash cans back up the drive.”
“Nonsense. We need to make sure everyone is okay.”
She stepped inside and circled her hand in a “follow me” motion. I closed my eyes and imagined elderly Babe being clobbered by an intruder while I stood outside and waited for her. I sighed. “I’m coming.”
I stepped onto the tiled foyer. Balls of dust danced across the floor as the wind swept into the room. I wasn’t the world’s best housekeeper, by any means, but smelling the inside of Candace’s house made me vow to do better. It was a mixture of dirty socks, rotting trash, and something else I couldn’t identify. Decaying meat, maybe?
“We’ll just do a quick walk-through. Then we’ll leave. I promise.” She held up three fingers in what I assumed to be an attempt at Scout’s honor.
That’s when I heard someone in the distance. My heart stuttered, and I grabbed Babe’s arm, pulled her back. “Do you hear that?” My own voice rose with each syllable and broke with a pubescent-sounding squeak. “Voices.”
She nodded, a twinkle in her eyes. “We should be careful.”
“How about ‘we should leave’?”
She took another step forward and grinned, her eyes dancing. “I don’t think she will hurt us.”
I paused and listened to the tinny sound coming from near the steps. The TV. Of course. I could hear Oprah talking about how a new brand of jeans could flatter every woman’s figure. That’s what I needed: flatter, not fatter jeans. And I needed to mind my own business.
Tension knotted at my neck regardless. Storm door unlatched. Garbage cans on the street. Lawn ragged. Candace had time to watch TV but not to take care of her home? None of it sounded like the Candace I knew.
I crept forward, Babe in the lead. We passed the formal living room, which was loaded with boxes full of papers, videos, and magazines. I paused at the stairway and glanced up steps cluttered with shoes, clothes, magazines, and sheets of coupons. Coupons, for goodness sake? That’s like newly found gold. I cocked my head and listened. The sound of the TV definitely came from the den. If the house turned out to be empty, we would click off the TV, lock the door, and leave. Our good deed of the day. I’d appreciate it if someone did the same for me.
“Just take a peek, Laura.” Babe nodded toward the den. “In case.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m elderly.”
Convenient. I shook my head and started down the short hallway, past the coat closet and into the den. I stopped abruptly, and she nearly trampled me.
Candace lay on the couch, eyes closed, mouth open. Her slender arms were neatly folded across her chest.
I looked at Babe. “Sleeping?”
My partner stepped back, one hand on her throat. “You check.”
My eyes widened. “Babe! You’re the one who insisted we do this.”
She recovered somewhat and peered past me at the couch and Candace. “You first.”
I chewed on my lip. I just wanted to put this whole experience behind me. I would apologize to Candace for interrupting her nap and then leave before any more damage could be done.
I took a step forward. “Candace?” No snoring. I stepped closer. The remote rested in one hand and a bag of pork rinds in the other. This wasn’t like the Candace I knew. She hated that hulking flat screen hanging over the mantle. Her husband gave that TV more attention than he did his own wife.
Leaning down, I nudged her shoulder. Candace Flynn emitted a raspy hissing, like the exhalation of a tire going flat—or a corpse expelling gasses. That’s when I recognized the source of the terrible stench.
Candace Flynn.
Chapter 2
“So let me get this straight. That is the exact way you found her?” Chief Romeo—who looked anything but the name— stared at me like I’d positioned Candace on the couch as a joke. His caterpillar-like brows hung suspended on his forehead. His belly bounced up and down in cadence with his uncertain nod, and his pudgy fingers sprawled on his hips. We’d been at this for nearly an hour.
“That was the exact way we found her.” I rubbed my arms against the winter breeze, not really minding the cold since it beat being inside my neighbor’s house with a dead body any day. I glanced across the street and spotted two other neighbors, Donna and Tiara, staring at me like I was going to be crowned the new Gossip Queen soon.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She came over last Thursday after the monthly Homeowners’ Association meeting.” Candace had been going on and on about how evil Homeowners’ Associations were. The negativity made me wonder why she bothered to act as treasurer of the organization.
I have to admit, after a few minutes, I’d tuned her out. Rachael Ray was coming on TV, and I didn’t want to miss that episode of 30-Minute Meals . Rachael had become an unofficial hero of mine. I’d never been the domestic type. Everyone knew me as a bona fide career woman, someone voted Most Likely to Succeed in high school. But since I currently didn’t have a job, I was determined to learn how to cook. I never missed an episode of Rachael Ray.
I should have listened better to my friend that day. Who knew that would be one of the last times I’d talk to Candace?
An officer had led Babe to his squad car for questioning at the same time Chief Romeo pulled me aside, probably to see if our stories matched up. I glanced over at the vehicle and saw Babe’s hands flying in the air. I’m sure Babe’s version of the story sounded more interesting than mine. That was Babe for you. Spunky and animated. Me? I was the reliable, detailed one. But even with my level-headedness, my heart still squeezed in grief and tears threatened to spill over.
“Do you know where Mrs. Flynn’s husband is?”
Jerry. Poor, poor Jerry. Even though he was a royal jerk most of the time, someone needed to call and tell him the news. I didn’t wish the death of a loved one on anyone, however much of an insensitive clod he might be. “South Carolina. Golfing. He should be home in a couple of days.”
Chief Romeo shifted and, I couldn’t be certain, but the ground may have jolted with the motion. He jotted something else in his little notepad before glancing back at me. “Have you noticed any strange behavior on either of their parts?”
“Strange behavior?” I searched my mind. I’d only lived in Boring for nine months, and I was still trying to figure out what was strange and what was normal. “They were Trekkies.”
“Trekkies?”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, you know. They liked Star Trek. Went to conventions. Had costumes even.” I’d classify that as strange.
Romeo sighed, pulled his lips back and exposed his teeth in what may have been a pensive, rankled expression. Instead of tuning into his possible exasperation, I tuned into his teeth. It appeared the town’s dear officer of the law had been eating at the Pronto Café before being called out to the crime scene. How did I know? The restaurant’s specialty was green eggs and ham. A big blob of green lay plastered next to his left incisor. I had to look away.
If Romeo was the face of the Boring Police Department, I didn’t feel inspired to confidence. Luckily, the biggest crime here was the city folks’ littering. At least, that’s what the town troublemaker, Emma Jean, would say.
Until today. I swallowed. My stomach churned as Candace’s pasty face flashed in my mind.
“Anything aside from the usual strange behavior?” Romeo asked.
I ran a hand through my bobbed hair, trying to review the past week. Trying to make my head come back down to earth. “No, not that I can think of.”
“Any enemies?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve been here less than a year, and I know her, but not like most people around town would.”
The lights from the patrol car flashed in the street, the fading sunlight brightening them. Other neighbors peered from their windows. Not Candace, though.
Candace would never snoop again.
I pinched myself, hoping to wake up and discover this was just a nightmare. God, please let me hear my alarm clock … and soon.
“Ma’am?” Romeo was staring at me.
“Yes?”
“Anything suspicious going on in the neighborhood?”
Last week I saw my neighbor Tiara, known by Babe as Miss Priss, buying motor oil at the General Store as though she was going to pop open the hood and work on her car herself. As if that was allowed by the Homeowners’ Association. That was the epitome of suspicious behavior in Dullington Estates as of late. I mentally yawned.
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) Page 1
