Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  “The Manor.” She smiled. “Are you thinking of joining our committee?”

  “Uh.” Crap! I should have thought of an excuse before I asked. “Well…”

  “Wait a minute.” Winnie scrunched up her face, obviously replaying the conversation she’d had with Zizi, then gave me a sharp look. “Are you hoping to run into Dr. Underwood? Everyone in town thinks you two should be together. Do you still have feelings for him?”

  “No!” I shook my head so vehemently I felt my eyes cross. “But a friend of mine wants to talk to him, so when I overheard you mention his name…”

  “I see.” Winnie’s expression softened. “I always thought it was a shame that things didn’t work out between you two.”

  “We were too young.” I repeated the same words I’d been saying for the last thirteen years.

  I loved living in a small town, but Shadow Bend had better data storage than the Internet. The memory in the collective brain of its residents was both an amazing and a cruel phenomenon. There were wonderful memories of victorious high school sports teams, lovely summer festivals, and other good times. But there were also pitiless memories of poor choices, appalling judgment, and pure bad luck. Unfortunately, once such events were etched in the town’s memory there was no erasing them. The DELETE key didn’t exist, and fresh starts were hard to come by. Shadow Benders never forgot.

  Winnie must have seen through my bland expression because she said, “You know, everyone in town is thrilled you bought the dime store since we all love it. And nothing that your parents did, and nothing that that awful Mr. Stramp did, was your fault.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Sometimes we have to accept that we can do all the right things and there’s still a terrible outcome.”

  “I understand that.” I smiled at her, then shook my head. “I just wish fate wasn’t such a bitch.”

  The Manor was located on a man-made lake midway between Shadow Bend and Sparkville. It attracted diners from as far away as Kansas City, catering to the affluent for both a fine-dining experience and elaborate parties. I had attended a wedding reception there many years ago, but I’d never eaten in the restaurant. My vague memory of the place warned that it was both elegant and intimidating, so I had dressed accordingly in camel wool slacks and a sea green sweater set.

  As Jake turned his pickup into the long driveway, a fox ran out of the trees and paused at the edge of the pavement. He eyed the truck warily, sniffed the air, turned, and with a twitch of his tail scampered away. His fur gleamed russet red in the afternoon sun, and I twisted my neck so I could watch him out of the pickup’s rear window. I straightened in my seat only after he disappeared into the woods.

  Jake handed his keys over to a valet; then we climbed one of the twin marble staircases and went through the imposing brick entrance. Stepping into the stunning lobby, I admired the Thomas Moser chairs and a sideboard displaying a collection of Murano glass. From the dining room came the sound of a harpsichord playing a Bach prelude, and it took me a moment to realize the music was live.

  As Jake approached the hostess podium, I studied a pair of large gilt-framed paintings on the side wall. They may not have been original works of art, but they could have fooled me. Which said a lot, considering that as part of my previous occupation I had been required to possess a working knowledge of the value and authenticity of artwork, antiques, and the other trappings of wealth. It was an odd job qualification to insist on, but Mr. Stramp had wanted his employees to be able to judge a client’s bank account by his or her possessions.

  The hostess told us that the shelter committee was meeting in the King Charles salon, located on the other side of the dining room. While we made our way past the generously spaced tables filled with well-dressed diners having serious discussions, I put on my game face and braced myself for what was sure to be a painful encounter.

  The group was already seated and the server was placing plates in front of them when we walked into the private room. I had wondered why people whose task it was to raise money for a homeless shelter were meeting at such a posh restaurant, but I understood when I saw all the Tahari dresses, Di Modolo jewelry, and Manolo Blahnik shoes worn by the majority of the members. Those folks were willing to work for charity as long as they didn’t have to experience any discomfort while doing so.

  Zizi and Winnie’s off-the-rack, casual attire made them stand out in this bunch like partridges among peacocks. However, neither appeared uncomfortable in the crowd, and both waved to me. Winnie shot me an interested grin and lifted one eyebrow.

  Heads ping-ponged as Jake and I approached Noah. I had tried to persuade Jake that since we had no authority—he wasn’t there as an official law enforcement agent—we should be more discreet and perhaps wait to grab Noah until the meeting was over. But Jake had insisted that suspects were more likely to cooperate and tell the truth if they were interrupted during the course of something public like a meeting. And since he was the professional, I had reluctantly acquiesced.

  Now, noticing several of Nadine’s cronies whip out their phones and start to text, I was sorry I had agreed. While it was nice to see that the older generation was keeping up with technology, I would have preferred not to be the one on whom they were practicing their skills.

  Far worse than being electronically gossiped about was facing my former boyfriend. Noah took me in from the tips of my brown high-heeled boots to the top of my less than perfect ponytail. He offered a tentative smile, but when my expression remained blank, his gaze slid away from me and he tightened his jaw. Poking viciously at his endive and arugula salad, he appeared oblivious to the blonde on his left, who leaned over and murmured in his ear.

  The young lady looked at me, then at Noah, then back at me. Her face a picture of confusion, she turned to the woman on her other side and whispered a question.

  Wow! There was actually one person in the tri-county area who hadn’t heard the story of my father’s arrest and Noah’s consequent dumping of me in high school.

  Needless to say, this was not the Shadow Bend set I hung around with. Although I recognized most of them, and had seen several of the women a couple of days ago at the CDM fund-raiser, my only real interactions were customer/vendor-related. At one time or another, I’d created erotic baskets for nearly all of them. Often they were for the same man—although, at least until Joelle’s order, never for Noah. I wondered how many of these ladies had set their caps for him, now that he was free again and ripe for the picking.

  An impeccably groomed brunette in her late thirties sprang from her chair and said, “May I help you? This is a private meeting.”

  She laid her hand on Noah’s shoulder, but he subtly twitched it off and moved out of her reach. I caught Jake’s eye and gestured unobtrusively with my chin.

  He nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging that he also had observed their behavior, and whispered to me without moving his lips, “That’s Gwen.”

  “Oh.” I had seen her around, but never knew her name.

  “We’re sorry to interrupt, but it’s important that we have a word with Dr. Underwood.” Jake’s tone was neutral.

  “That’s not possible,” Gwen said. “Dr. Underwood is a very busy man, and we’re extremely lucky he was able to give us this afternoon. As the chairwoman of this committee, I have to insist that you speak to him another time.” She glanced down at Noah, giving him a possessive smile.

  “Thank you for your concern, Gwen.” Noah rose to his feet. “But I’m sure you can spare me for a few minutes.” Turning his back on the woman, he stuck out his hand to Jake. “I’m Noah Underwood.”

  “Jake Del Vecchio.” The men shook and Jake jerked his chin to the left. “I noticed an empty room next door. Let’s talk in there, Doctor.”

  The sole other male committee member, Vaughn Yager, checked his diamond-studded Rolex and joked, “If you’re not back in a half hour, Doc, these beautiful women and I will mount a search party.” He winked. “But we might get lost.” Turning his attent
ion to me, Vaughn invited, “Dev, honey, why don’t you stay here with us and let me buy you a drink? Everyone knows that Underwood already had his chance at you. Give me a whirl.”

  “No, thanks.” I tempered my refusal by adding, “Besides, you already have your quota of women, all of whom are far more beautiful than me.”

  “But not half as smart or interesting.”

  “Flatterer.” I smiled; then for the women who were openly listening I added, “This is strictly business.”

  Vaughn had been in my high school class, but back then he’d been the son of the custodian, and as shunned and picked on as I had become after my father’s debacle. In recent years, Vaughn had made a fortune playing professional poker. He’d returned to town, purchased one of the few factories in the county that had survived the bad economy, and was now a big shot.

  I had liked him better before. Back then, I’d appreciated his drive and wit, but now that he had had his nose straightened, added a chin implant, and sported a manicure, he was no longer the boy I had admired.

  As I followed Jake and Noah into the other room, I thought about Noah’s instant, protest-free compliance with our request. Did he know that Jake was a U.S. Marshal? Surely he had no desire to speak to me.

  Once we’d taken a seat at one of the small round tables scattered around the Queen Mary salon, Noah said to Jake, “You’re Tony’s nephew, right?”

  “I’m his grandnephew, yes.” Jake didn’t seem surprised that Noah knew who he was.

  “Is Tony all right?” Noah asked. “I told him he needs to start taking it easier, which was why I was happy to hear you were helping out on the ranch.”

  “He’s fine,” Jake said, then sat mutely staring at Noah, clearly hoping the other man would be intimidated enough to want to fill the silence.

  I looked between the two guys. Jake was large and muscular and powerful, while Noah was sleek and elegant and aristocratic. Both gorgeous, but in utterly different ways. Dark versus fair. Stunningly masculine versus boyishly handsome. Wolf versus greyhound.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I nearly missed Noah’s question. “Not that I’m ungrateful for your help in escaping Gwen and the other ladies’ attentions for a few minutes, but what’s so urgent?”

  “Your fiancée’s murder.” Jake’s expression was indecipherable.

  “What about it? Do you have some information about her death? Have they found the person who killed her?”

  When Noah finally ran out of questions, Jake said, “I’m unaware of any arrests.” He continued, his eyes hooded. “Actually, we were hoping you might be able to shed some light on what happened.”

  “Me?” Noah’s broad shoulders stiffened under his perfectly tailored black suit jacket. “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

  “Maybe you’ll remember something more if you tell us.” Jake’s expression was unbending. “Now that you’ve had a few days to think about it.”

  “Why are you interested?” His voice caught for a moment, and his glance flickered between Jake and me. “Did you know Joelle?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me before, but it was odd that no one else we’d talked with had asked that question. I made a mental note to mention that fact to Jake once we were alone. Maybe he’d have some insight.

  “No. I never met her,” Jake said. “You may have heard that I’m a deputy U.S. Marshal, and although I’m currently on leave, I’m unofficially looking into Joelle’s murder on behalf of Devereaux.” Jake tilted his head at me. “Her connection to you has made her a target, and she’s being harassed.”

  Jake and I had discussed my not wanting Woods’s suspicion of me to get around, but Jake had argued that since Noah was the type of guy who seemed to like to rescue women, his desire to save me would make him more cooperative. I had grudgingly agreed that we would tell Noah, but no one else, that I was prime suspect number one.

  “Dev?” I heard the guilt in Noah’s voice. “Who’s harassing her and for what?”

  Before Jake could answer, I decided I’d rather spin the story my way, so I quickly said, “The detective on Joelle’s case has decided that because you dumped me in high school, I’m still carrying a torch for you. His theory is that I murdered your fiancée in a jealous rage in order to free you to marry me.” I took a breath and added, “And I’d appreciate it if you kept this confidential.”

  “Of course.” Noah’s smoky gray eyes clouded. “But the detective’s notion is ridiculous. Everyone knows you’ve hated me since then, and that you have no desire to rekindle our romance. Right?”

  I turned away, unable to cope with the pain etched on his face. “Right.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Apparently, Jake realized how much I didn’t want to discuss the past, because he immediately stepped in and said to Noah, “So I assume you’re willing to help us out.” He leaned back in the delicate gilt chair, his face set in hard lines. “Tell us what happened last Saturday.”

  “Joelle wanted our first Valentine’s Day weekend together to be special. Occasions like that were extremely important to her.”

  Hmm. That sure didn’t sound like a woman who wanted out of an engagement. Had the mayor lied to us or had Joelle lied to him about her relationship with Noah?

  Noah stared at the tabletop. “She arranged everything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘arranged’?” Jake prompted him.

  “She made the reservations at the Parkside Hotel, planned a special room service menu with the chef, and cleared my late-afternoon schedule with the clinic receptionist. The night before, she packed my overnight bag.” Noah studied his clasped hands. “That morning she drove to Kansas City, checked in, and drove back to give me one of the key cards so I could avoid any delay at the registration counter.”

  “Check-in at most hotels is three or four o’clock,” Jake observed.

  “She said she cherished our time together too much to waste even a second of it, so she slipped the clerk a tip to get the room earlier,” Noah explained.

  I barely stopped myself from making a face, gagging at the idea that Joelle had allowed Noah to believe that his time was more valuable than anyone else’s. She had found the ultimate doctor ego trip and reeled him in like a striped bass on a fishing line.

  “What time did she give you the key card?” Jake’s question broke into my thoughts.

  “I’m not sure. She left it at the clinic’s reception desk.” Noah’s tone was self-lacerating. “I was too busy to come out and get it from her.”

  “Then what did she do?” Jake’s voice was nonjudgmental, but I could see his lips tighten.

  “I guess she went back to the city.” Noah shrugged. “She wanted to do some shopping and get her hair done.” He looked at Jake. “You know that detective asked these same questions, right?”

  “Yeah.” Jake scowled. “But the police aren’t exactly eager to share information with us since Devereaux is their main suspect.”

  “Of course. How stupid of me.” Noah’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. “I’m still not thinking straight.”

  “Joelle picked up the gift basket from me a little after one o’clock, so she probably came straight to the store after stopping at the clinic,” I offered, fighting the sympathy I was beginning to feel for Noah. “When I was putting the basket in her car, she mentioned she was heading into the city as soon as she stopped for gas.”

  “Maybe we can locate the station she stopped at,” Jake said. “Her credit card usage would give us the time.” He turned to Noah. “Did she have a favorite place to gas up?”

  “No.” Noah shook his head. “Whichever one was most convenient.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive her most likely route and see which filling stations are located along the way.” Jake fished out a notepad and pen from the pocket of his flannel shirt. “We also need to find out when she first checked in to the Parkside and when she got back.” He turned to Noah. “What time did you arrive at the hotel?”

 
; “I was supposed to be there at six. My last appointment was at four, and I figured thirty to forty-five minutes with the patient, then a quick shower. My plan was to be on the road no later than five o’clock. But we got a call about a medical emergency coming in, so I stayed.”

  “What time did you finish with that patient?” Jake glanced up from his note taking.

  “I didn’t. She never showed up.” Noah frowned and blew out a regretful sigh. “When we tried the number the woman had left, no one answered. And there was no voice mail or answering machine.”

  “How long did all of this take?” I asked. I was beginning to think Noah had been deliberately delayed, which would imply that Joelle’s murder was premeditated. “Did you go directly to the Parkside afterward?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t leave town until after six.” Noah looked at me as if he were begging me to understand his decision. “I had to wait. I had no choice. What if it had been a real emergency and her arrival was delayed by car trouble or some other circumstance? The nearest hospital is forty miles away, and ours is the only clinic that’s open past noon on Saturday. I couldn’t risk letting a patient die because I was anxious to start my weekend.”

  “So the room service guy had already found Joelle’s body when you got there?”

  I winced at Jake’s bald statement. Noah’s face was pale, and beads of sweat had popped out along his upper lip. He seemed to be truly suffering. I reached out to comfort him, but caught myself before my hand made contact with his, reminding myself that Noah had deserted me during the worst experience of my life. His defection, coming on top of losing both of my parents—one to jail and one to California—had devastated me. He didn’t deserve my compassion. Or did he? Was it time to forget the past?

  “Yes.” Noah’s ragged voice interrupted my trip down memory lane. “There was heavy traffic going into the city, so I didn’t get to the hotel until nearly seven thirty. I think the police said the waiter found her about a half hour before I arrived.” Noah inhaled sharply. “If I had left when I was supposed to, not waited around for a phantom patient, maybe I could have saved her.” His Adam’s apple moved convulsively as he tried to swallow his remorse. “It’s all my fault.”