Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense)

by Barritt, Christy

  I wanted to jump in with questions, but I held back. I needed to ease into the subject of Jerry’s disappearance.

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Twelve years.”

  I nearly choked on my saliva. “Twelve years? Wow. You really must like it.”

  “The owner’s been really good to me.”

  Was this my opening? I opened my mouth to pose my next question, when the woman squealed.

  “Isn’t this couch just beautiful?” She fell backward onto the ugliest couch I’ve ever laid eyes on. It was coral, all right. Coral and big and lacy. A mix of retro and Victorian, clean lines and ruffles.

  “Wow,” I nodded, trying to find the words. “That is some couch.”

  “I just knew you’d love it. We’re running a special this week. No interest for a year.” Her arm stretched across the back and her eyes sparkled. “So, what do you say?”

  “I’m sorry to hear about the owner’s wife.” Okay, I needed to practice my timing a little. But it was already said and out there. There was no taking it back. I held my breath and waited for her response.

  The woman’s eyes lost their sparkle. “Candace? I know. It’s such a shame.”

  “How’s Jerry doing?”

  The woman’s face suddenly became drawn. “Hard to say— he’s out of town.”

  “The poor man must be in distress, to lose his wife like that. I can’t imagine.” I shook my head. I meant it. I couldn’t imagine what Jerry would feel when he heard the news. Losing a wife because someone killed her? Did a soul ever recover from that?

  I guess it did if you were the one who killed her.

  “Their marriage had been in trouble for years.” She raised her head, as if realizing how insensitive she sounded. “But yes, I’m sure this must be terrible for him.”

  “Has anyone here talked to him? When’s he coming back? The funeral is probably soon, right?” Chill out, Laura. Go easy on the questions. I attempted to relax my shoulders. I was no good at this detective thing.

  “I haven’t heard about the funeral. I would assume it would be soon though.” The woman tapped her fingernails against the back of the couch. “So, about this piece of watermelon delight? Whaddaya say? It can be delivered tomorrow.”

  Babe at least waited until we were in my car before hurling questions my way. “Well, what did she say? Did you find out anything about Jerry?”

  I scowled at Babe. “Maybe you would know if you’d stuck around.”

  “Do I need to explain to you what the aging process does to a woman’s bladder?”

  I closed my eyes. “No, please don’t.”

  “Okay, then, spill it. What did she say?”

  “She said she’ll have the couch delivered to you by the end of the week.”

  Babe narrowed her eyes. “Very funny. If you ordered that couch for me, I wouldn’t be your friend anymore.”

  My chin dipped down as I drew in a deep breath, fighting frustration. “You’re the one who placed me in that position!”

  Babe grinned and I knew she was trying to “get my goat,” as she liked to say. No, the expression wasn’t teen slang. Apparently, it meant she was trying to annoy me. She claims the saying has French origins, so therefore it was still cool to use it.

  “So?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t really find out anything.”

  “Oh, come on. I know you snooped! You had to.”

  “You’re the snooper. Not me.” Silence fell as miles of countryside rolled past our windows. I mulled over theories. Finally, I asked, “What do you know about Yvonne?”

  “She doesn’t live in Boring.”

  “Yeah, she mentioned that. Plus, I’d figured that since I’d never seen her around.” How sad that I’d started to know everyone in town already. Growing up in Cincinnati, I didn’t even know everyone in my high school class.

  “Jerry handpicked her to work at the store.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but something just didn’t sit right with Babe’s statement. “That must have been—an honor? To be handpicked to work at that store.”

  Babe snapped her fingers in a Z pattern. “Fo’sure, chickaroonie.” Babe must have been reading an urban dictionary before going to bed at night. “Why would someone drive all the way down here to work at a couch store for more than a decade?”

  “There are plenty of furniture stores in Indy that probably pay better, and they’re closer to where she lives. It doesn’t make sense. Unless—”

  “She and Jerry are having an affair! My thoughts exactly.”

  My shoulders dropped. “I was going to say, ‘Unless The Couch King has really good benefits.’” We came to the town’s only stoplight and I took the opportunity to stare at Babe, dumbfounded. “How did you connect those dots?”

  “The rumor has been circulating around town for a long time.” Babe shrugged, as nonchalant as ever.

  I held back a sigh. The light turned green and gave my mouth permission to go. “Candace worked at the store. Wouldn’t she have known something was going on? I mean, if you’re going to have an affair, you should be a little secretive about it, right?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like a motive for murder to me.”

  I added two names to my mental list of who could have killed Candace: Jerry and Yvonne. But no one had seen Jerry for days, and I had serious doubts that Yvonne had been the one to stick a note in my mailbox. Unless she was a great actress, she truly seemed to have no idea who I was. Which left me back at square one.

  Chapter 7

  Babe and I decided to stop by the pharmacy for lunch. We parked at a metered space out front and walked into the store, which was located on the corner of our cozy little downtown area. The business was more than one-hundred years old and had black and white tiles checkering the floor. At the front were various items from hair care products to toy John Deere tractors. At the back wall was the pharmacy, and at the L beyond that was a little ice cream counter that also sold sandwiches and chips. The place was quaint, I had to give it that.

  Kent spotted us from his position in the back, but only had time for a smile and a wave as we walked in. Since a majority of the population in Boring was in their golden years, and this was the only pharmacy in town, Kent kept busy. He had one employee who helped him, a dark-haired girl named Jasmine.

  I watched Kent for a moment as he talked to a white-haired woman. I could tell he loved it here. He positively beamed behind that counter.

  The store where he’d worked in Chicago had been large; though the benefits were good, the pressure had been overwhelming. At 28 years old, he should have been energetic and enjoying his job. But his skin always looked pale, and he dreaded going to work every morning. Then the “incident” at my work had taken place, followed up by a second “incident” where someone had pulled a knife on me and stolen my purse.

  After that, Kent had sat down with me and told me about this wild dream he had to move to a small town and run his own pharmacy. He wanted a slower pace of life, especially if we were going to have kids one day. He’d grown up in a small town and loved it.

  I’d looked at him like he was crazy.

  But I loved him, so I agreed to explore the options.

  That’s when he found a pharmacy for sale in Boring, Indiana. He went alone to visit one day—I had to work—and when he came back home, he couldn’t stop talking about the place. He thought the town would be the ideal location for a family. The city was no place to have kids, he said. I just had to visit.

  So I did.

  That night when we got home, after Kent was asleep, I’d cried. And cried. Boring was the last place I wanted to be. But I knew this was where we’d end up because I loved my husband more than I loved the city.

  “How’d you meet your husband, Babe?” I asked before taking a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich. Her husband had passed away years ago, but I knew Babe didn’t mind talking about him. He’d owned a chain of banks up in Indy. Babe moved down here af
ter he passed away. Apparently, he’d left her very comfortable.

  “I worked at one of his banks. I was the beautiful young teller, and he was my rich, handsome boss. It was quite the scandal when we started dating.”

  “Scandal?” This I wanted to hear.

  “He was fifteen years old than me.”

  Someone had robbed the cradle. Who would have thought? “Was it love at first sight?”

  Her eyes got a faraway look that made me envy her. “You might say that. We played games with each other, teasing and flirting. It was such fun.”

  For some pessimistic reason, I wanted to pop that dreamy look out of her eyes. “And let me guess—you got married and that all went away?”

  “Of course not! It got even better.”

  My heart sunk. “Oh. That’s great.” And it was. For her. Not me.

  “Not many marriages were like ours. We had something special.” Babe took a sideways glance at me. “You and Kent do too, honey. Of course.”

  “I’m not so sure lately.”

  I glanced over at him and saw him laughing with Jasmine. We used to laugh together.

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Seven years next week.”

  She patted my shoulder. “Every marriage has rough patches. The good news is they’re just patches. There’s a whole bunch of smooth road beyond that.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Babe.”

  As much as Babe drove me crazy, I wanted to tell her about the note. I needed to share the information with someone. Surely I could trust Babe, who might be a hardhead but still trustworthy. I pushed my plate away. “Babe—”

  Two women from church rounded the corner and sat at the counter next to us.

  Babe looked at me, waiting for me to continue. “Yes?”

  I glanced at the ladies from church and shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  Babe and I left a few minutes later. We decided to take a stroll down Main Street to walk off the extra calories we’d consumed. I walked along the storefronts, past the Pronto Café. Just ahead was what town folk’s affectionately called “Grandpa’s.” The real name of the antique store had outgrown the marquee. The owner called it the Jacob, Emily, Martin, Ann, James and Marlyn Shop. Every time a new grandchild was born, he added to the marquee.

  Then there was the courthouse and an old cemetery. At the corner stood a grand bank, complete with real marble fixtures and a second story balcony. I paused outside the massive wooden doors.

  “I need to take some cash out. Do you mind?” I grasped the thick handle.

  Babe swung her head back and forth while pursing her lips. “You won’t catch me in that bank.”

  I raised an eyebrow, counted to three, and finally asked, “Why not? Boring National is the only bank in town.”

  “That Paul Willis drives me crazy! I’m not going to give his business one single cent.”

  Paul Willis owned the bank. We went to church together and he always seemed like a nice enough man. I paused, feeling somewhat like a therapist. “What do you have against Mr. Willis?”

  “He thinks he’s smooth, talking about how he used to hang around with all of the cool cats back in the day.” She swung her hand through the air, snapping her fingers in her signature motion. “Or maybe I should say, ‘He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.’” Dramatically, she crossed her arms and scowled. “He’s a faker, that’s what he is.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to comprehend. I finally settled on, “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Babe scowled harder. “I’m waiting out here.”

  “Fine.” I gripped my purse, ready to go inside.

  “In the cold.”

  I shrugged, pushing away my guilt. “It’s your choice.”

  Her lips parted—in surprise, I assumed. “You’d leave an old woman in the cold?”

  My shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Babe! You’re an adult. You’re making your own choices.” I had to get a grip on this pushover thing before it became my standard. Today, I’d take my stand.

  Babe harrumphed as I pulled the heavy door open. No little bells jingled as I stepped inside the bank. In fact, it seemed awfully quiet, quiet enough that I took a step back to check the hours posted out front. Closed. The bank should be closed.

  That was one thing I’d discovered about small town life. Businesses were open at odd hours and never, ever on holidays, even on President’s Day or Memorial Day. It seemed like whenever my parents came to visit, everything was always closed. Even the post office kept strange hours, and I could never remember when it was open and when it wasn’t.

  But if the bank was closed for a lunch break right now, why was the door unlocked?

  I stuck my head inside. No tellers stood behind their wood- framed windows. No management greeted me. No customers milled about.

  Okay, so there were only three people who worked at the bank, but still, someone should have been out front, or the doors should have been locked.

  “Hello?” My voice echoed off the high ceilings.

  Even no music whispered from the overhead speakers, I realized. Mr. Willis usually put in a jazz CD for customers to enjoy. Back in the day, he’d played saxophone at a club up in Chicago. We’d talked about it at church before.

  I stepped further inside and said hello again.

  No answer. The teller windows were to my left, and directly in front of me stood the vault. I glanced at it quickly, relieved to see the door closed. Had the place been robbed and all the tellers locked in the vault? That would explain why no one was around. Or was my imagination working on overtime since Candace died? That was the most likely scenario.

  I decided to step closer to the vault, just to make sure there wasn’t anyone inside screaming for help. I couldn’t call the police every time I had a crazy hunch. Most of the time, I was wrong. I tiptoed across the floor until I reached the massive steel door. Carefully, I propelled my ear until it touched the cool metal.

  Silence.

  A hallway stretched beyond the vault. I stepped in that direction, and heard a TV blaring. My stomach clenched. Flashbacks of finding Candace assaulted my memory.

  “Mr. Willis?”

  Still no one appeared. Perhaps he’d stepped out for a bit. But why would he leave his bank unlocked? People in Boring weren’t that trusting. And Mr. Willis wasn’t that stupid.

  I followed the sound of the TV until I reached a room marked “Employees Only.” I knocked. I could hear the TV on the other side. Taking a deep breath, I cracked the door open. “Mr. Willis?”

  The TV sat on a table against the far wall. The back of a couch faced me. No one in here.

  As I was about to close the door, I froze and closed my eyes.

  That wasn’t what I thought.

  It wasn’t.

  Couldn’t be.

  I forced my eyes open and stepped forward, squinting.

  Yes, that did appear to be a leather shoe resting on the arm of the couch. The position of the shoe made it clear that the footwear was attached to a leg.

  Lord, be with me. I paused and looked at the ceiling. Then at whomever that foot belonged to.

  I took another step and peered over the back of the couch. That’s when I saw Mr. Willis—lying on the couch like a corpse.

  Chapter 8

  I screamed.

  All of a sudden, Mr. Willis rose from the dead.

  He darted from the couch, looking as if I’d scared him to death—or scared him to life, however you wanted to look at it.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted, clutching his chest. “What’s going on? How’d you get in here?”

  “You’re alive!”

  “Of course I’m alive, girl. I’m old, not dead.”

  Babe burst through the door. Her eyes were wide and her pink lipstick freshly applied. “What happened? Are you okay? What did I miss?”

  I pressed a hand over my heart, which pounded erratically in my ears. Finally, I laughed a shaky laug
h and pointed at Mr. Willis. “I thought you were dead.”

  I could see the headlines now: Attack of the Killer Couches.

  “Dead? Not yet. Keep sneaking up on me like that and I might be soon.” Mr. Willis grabbed a fedora from the hat rack and slipped it over his balding head. His gaze flickered behind me to Babe. “And how are you doing today, Ms. Pritchard?”

  She stuck her nose in the air. “Just fine, no thanks to you.”

  “To me? What did I do? I was just back here taking a nap. It was the two of you who barged in!” His gaze swung back and forth between us.

  Babe harrumphed. “I came in only because I heard my friend scream. I had no intention of entering your establishment.”

  He stepped closer. “Afraid you might find something you like?”

  Babe crossed her arms and leaned forward, an unusual firmness in her inflection. “Not a chance.”

  The tension in the room was tight enough to make me snap. “I’m glad you’re okay, Mr. Willis. I was only concerned for your well-being. Babe, I’ll come back another time—when you’re not with me. I can see this was a bad idea.”

  The two still faced off. I watched them to see who would blink first. Instead, they stared, Babe with fire in her eyes and Mr. Willis with a twinkle.

  “There are plenty of other banks around,” Babe said.

  “But this one is the best.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.” Mr. Willis looked rather smug.

  I grabbed Babe’s arm before war broke out. “Come on, let’s go.” I pulled her away. “I’m glad you’re okay, Mr. Willis! You should really make sure those front doors are locked when you’re closed.”

  “Sorry about that scare, and I will talk to the manager about those doors being left unlocked. It’s unacceptable. Plain unacceptable!”

  As soon as we were out of earshot, I whispered, “What was that about?”

  “He rubs me the wrong way.”

  I looked at Babe. “Because he thinks he’s a ‘cool cat’?”

  She shrugged like an adolescent. “Maybe.”