A Murder Moist Foul

by Carol Durand

Chapter 5

  “Do you realize I could have you arrested for impeding an investigation?” Chas hissed at her, livid.

  “How can you be upset with me when I found evidence linking him to the crime?” Missy shot back, hurt.

  “Evidence? You call a box of rat poison evidence? There’s probably one of those in every kitchen in Louisiana,” he commented dryly, bursting her bubble. “And what made you think that rat poison is what killed Davis anyway?” he scorched her with his gaze.

  “I’m not revealing my sources, but I have it on good authority that rat poison is what killed Darryl, and the fact of the matter is that someone who has motive to kill him is in possession of a great deal of it!” she stomped her foot in frustration. “Can’t you just arrest him for something and then do a search to see if you find anything?” she pleaded.

  Beckett sighed, running a hand through his hair, exasperated. “No, we can’t just arrest him, there has to be a reasonable suspicion of guilt and there are proper procedures involved.” He came around to the side of the desk where Melissa sat fidgeting in her chair. “Look,” he said quietly, “I told you that I would look into it, and I am looking into it, you need to trust that I’ve been following up on every possible lead.” He held her gaze and part of her melted at the concern that she saw in his eyes. For the first time in a long time, she was at a loss for words. It had been a long, tiring week and suddenly she felt entirely drained.

  “When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” Beckett suddenly asked almost sternly.

  Thinking about it, Missy realized that she hadn’t eaten since dinner yesterday and her stomach growled audibly in response. She giggled, embarrassed by the expression of her hunger and admitted that it had been almost 24 hours.

  “I’ll meet you in an hour,” he shocked her by saying. “We’ll continue this discussion at the steak house if that works for you. I could use a good meal myself,” and he actually allowed the corners of his mouth to lift briefly in a gentle and devastating smile.

  Missy’s insides shook like well-made aspic whenever she thought about her impending meal with the handsome Detective Beckett. She changed her blouse three times, finally settling on a bright blue silk that looked perfect with the ivory trousers that she had selected for the occasion. She brushed out her gleaming cornsilk tresses, leaving her hair falling gently down around her shoulders in a glorious cloud of soft curls, and finished her look with a touch of eyeliner and lip gloss. Simple sapphire studs adorned her ears and she admired their sparkle in the mirror. Missy knew that she was probably putting way too much thought into the evening, Beckett probably just wanted to pick her brain for more ideas about the case, but she was an old-school Southern woman and when a gorgeous man asked her for the pleasure of her company, she would dress for the occasion, no matter what his motives might be.

  Toffee followed her from room to room as she prepared for her evening (she refused to call it a date, she hadn’t been on one of those for a couple of years), the tags on her collar jingling as she moved. Missy had watched her carefully after the incident with the cigarette butt and the creaking gate, relying upon the retriever’s keen sense of hearing for clues to any possible intruders, but the mellow Golden hadn’t seemed to notice anything unusual in the last couple of days. She bent down to ruffle the fur on the top of her beloved friend’s head.

  “Well Toffee Girl, it may not be a date, but I’m going to enjoy the heck out of sitting across from Detective Chas Beckett this evening,” she grinned happily at her pet, surprised at the butterflies that fluttered lightly in her midsection.

  After pulling his third choice of shirt impatiently over his head and throwing it on his bed, Chas frowned at his own behavior. Why was he making such a big deal over something as simple as two hungry people sharing a meal together? It wasn’t like it was a date or anything, he reminded himself. After his fiancée had left him at the altar all those years ago, he had vowed that he would never allow another woman to get close enough to him to devastate his soul the way that Chloe had. Until now it hadn’t been an issue, although many willing and able young ladies had practically thrown themselves at his feet over the years, he had managed to keep them at arm’s length until they realized that he meant what he said when he declared that he was married to his work and that she was a jealous wife. Sighing, he pulled a deep purple button-down from its velvet-clad hanger (organization was a priority in his life and his closet highlighted the concept), and pulled it on. The shirt was perfect, but looked far too upscale for the perfectly fitted dark-wash jeans that graced his hips, so he grabbed a pair of charcoal-colored woolen trousers that completed his look. He glanced at his watch, ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it into place, hurriedly fastened his favorite watch to his wrist, grabbed a coordinating sport coat and headed for the door. He was never late. His father had been a military man who insisted upon impeccable manners, which included pathological punctuality, and the practice of arriving never less than ten minutes early had served Beckett well. He was always prepared, always ready for whatever awaited him, and always in control of himself and his surroundings, so why on earth was there a somewhat breathless sense of anticipation coursing through his veins at the thought of sitting across the table from the lovely Melissa Gladstone? It had been a long week and he hadn’t eaten in quite a while – he was quite certain that once his belly was full, he’d return to his normal state of detachment. At least that’s what he told himself.

  Missy arrived at the Happy Horseshoe Steak House, trying not to notice how her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Detective Beckett’s low-slung sport sedan already parked in the lot. Breathing deeply to steady her inexplicable bout of nerves, she took one last glance in her visor mirror, fluffing her curls with her fingertips before heading toward the restaurant. Her breath caught yet again when she saw him sitting alone in a candlelit booth, seemingly perfectly at home against the rich soft leather of the seat. His casually elegant appearance made her heart beat faster than it had in quite some time and her smile was anything but forced as she approached the table.

  Beckett stood and lightly touched her arm to guide her to her seat and Missy had to work hard at suppressing a shiver of excitement at the feel of his touch through the light silk fabric. She sat across the table from him, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, still intimidated by his even gaze.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a wine that is a delicious complement to the steaks that are featured,” he began. “I hope you don’t mind,” he raised an inquiring eyebrow. Missy wondered absently if he had any idea how devastatingly handsome he looked when he used that expression.

  “Not at all,” she murmured, smiling shyly. “A good pairing makes all the difference!” she exclaimed, mortified the moment the words left her mouth and hoping that he didn’t take them the wrong way. “I mean, with wine and food, you know…they’re really much more tasty when paired correctly,” she babbled, blushing. Much to her surprise and delight, a slow grin spread across Beckett’s finely chiseled features and he nodded.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he came to her rescue. “The right wine and food pairings can be extraordinary.” Missy returned his smile, relieved and was more than glad to see the approach of the waiter, bottle of wine in hand.

  “Detective Beckett, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the work that you’re doing on the case,” Missy said, earnestly, sipping the delightful Cabernet that he had selected for the occasion.

  Beckett held up a hand to interrupt her. “First, please call me Chas; and secondly, let’s not talk about the case right now. I think we could both use a break from it for at least the duration of our meal,” he gave her a pointed look, but softened it with a slight smile.

  “I think you’re absolutely right, Detect – I mean, Chas,” she agreed, loving the sound of his name on her lips. “And please, call me Missy,” she directed.

  “It suits you, Missy,” he tipped his wine glass toward her and she clinked hers li
ghtly with his. “Tell me about yourself,” he invited after appreciating his sip.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell,” she admitted ruefully. “I was born and raised in this tiny town. I’ve done some traveling, but not nearly as much as I’d like, and the shop takes up practically every second of my time,” she shrugged.

  “I know the feeling,” Chas nodded. “Do you have any family in town?”

  Missy eyed him speculatively. “Is that a personal question or a professional one?” she challenged lightly.

  She was treated to another flash of that devastating smile. “Personal, no business tonight, I promise,” he asserted, hands up in mock self-defense.

  “No, no family,” she dropped her gaze, but not before he noted the touch of melancholy in her soft grey eyes. “My parents died in an accident when I was 17, leaving me with the family business. Friends and generous folks from the community helped me out with it until I graduated from high school, then I went to college part-time to earn my degree while I ran the store during the day. My younger sister helped out when she could, but she was in school too, so she could only do a few hours here or there.” Missy quieted, caught up in her memories of the past, then shook her head as if to escape them. “Needless to say, it was challenging for a while, but I managed,” she tried to smile.

  “Wow, caring for a younger sibling while going to school and running a shop is pretty amazing for an adult, it must’ve been tremendously difficult for a teenager,” Chas frowned sympathetically. He noticed that she smiled brightly, falsely, and changed the subject immediately when he expressed sympathy. He totally understood. Pain, anger and raw courage he could deal with – compassion and sympathy, not so much. He wondered how much more he had in common with this charming Southern belle.

  “It all seems like a hundred years ago,” Missy smiled, trying desperately for nonchalance. “What about you – do you have any family?” she inquired, more than ready to shift the focus of the conversation.

  “My mother passed a couple of years ago, and my father is alive…physically at least. He’s in a nursing home in upstate New York – I see him every couple of months, but on most visits he doesn’t even know who I am,” Chas showed a surprising vulnerability when he spoke of his father, Missy’s heart went out to him.

  “Oh Chas, I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “Has he been that way for very long?”

  “Too long,” was the somewhat husky reply. “He would never have wanted to live this way,” he finished gruffly. Missy started to reach for his hand, but held back when the waiter approached with their steaks.

  “That smells fantastic,” Chas noted, grateful for the interruption. Missy’s stomach growled loudly in agreement and they both laughed, their shared moment dissipating into safer realms.

  They shared the rest of their time together talking about current events (other than the Davis case), places they’d like to visit someday, and embarrassing childhood experiences that had them at times practically doubled over with laughter. It was, without exception, the best evening that either of them had experienced in a very long time, their carefree laughter drawing smiles and indulgent glances from their fellow diners.

  Chas insisted upon walking Missy to her car, and, in light of recent events, (along with the fact that she was as pleased as a blushing schoolgirl at the prospect), she agreed.

  “I had a really lovely time tonight,” she smiled softly up at him, eyes shining. “Thank you so much – it was nice to feel like a person again,” impulsively she lightly touched his arm, truly grateful for his company. He studied her for what seemed like a long time, smiling warmly. Her heart beat faster and faster. She gazed at the tempting fullness of his lower lip, wondering if he was going to kiss her. He noticed the focus of her attention and drew in a deep breath, seeming to come to some sort of decision.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he said, clearly meaning it. He brushed his fingers gently over the hand that she had placed on his arm and stepped back, clearly reluctant to maintain distance, but needing to do so.

  They said their respective goodbyes and Missy practically floated up her front steps when she got home, smiling dreamily and totally unaware of a presence in the shadows watching, waiting.

  Chapter 6

  Missy absently brushed the flour from her hands on the front of her apron before putting another batch of her popular Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes in the oven. She had been working extra quickly this morning, trying to get everything in the kitchen done well in advance of her 7 a.m. opening time. Ben had called in sick – a first for him, he hadn’t had a sick day the entire time he worked for her – and her heart went out to him, he sounded positively miserable. Which left her with all of the opening and customer service responsibilities, it was going to be a long day.

  Humming to herself as she worked, Missy jumped a mile when she heard a familiar raspy Italian voice directly behind her. “You should be more careful about locking the door behind you,” Andretti snarled in a menacing tone.

  Heart racing, she whirled to face him, eyes wide with fear. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice a tad shrill.

  “You didn’t admit who you were when you were snooping around in my shop last week,” Andretti’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “And I didn’t remember you until the police came and started asking me questions,” he continued in a low growl. “People who go looking for trouble usually find it. You’d do well to remember that, lady,” he spat contemptuously, turning Missy’s fear to ire.

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Andretti?” she challenged, hands on hips, eyes flashing. Andretti took a deliberate step toward her, thrusting his face so close she could smell traces of last night’s garlic on his hot, chuffing, breath. Missy stumbled away reflexively, fearing that the irate Italian would become violent.

  “That,” he began, enunciating and emphasizing every word with unspoken but nearly tangible malice, “That. Was. Not. A. Threat, little Missy.” He stabbed his finger in her direction repeatedly, trembling in his anger, causing her to step back yet again. She knew this kitchen like the back of her hand and knew that he had her backed into a corner with no escape. For better or worse, when it came time for fight or flight, Missy’s usual reaction was to stand up for herself. She may be in a bad position, but she’d be damned if she’d go down without a fight.

  Inwardly loathing the weak-sounding tremor in her voice, she drew herself up to every inch of her diminutive height, thrust her chin forward with bravado that she almost felt, and declared, “Mr. Andretti, I think you’d better leave now.” She was determined to stand her ground, come what may. She refused to cower before a bully, even if it killed her, and she was actually afraid that it just might.

  “I’ll leave when I choose,” he thundered in response, his color rising, turning from red to nearly purple in his ill-contained rage. He moved in close to shout in her face again, but this time she refused to retreat, despite her revulsion at the hot stench of his breath and the spittle that launched forth. “Just you remember what I said, and keep that fragile nose of yours where it belongs – I’d hate to see something happen to it,” he hissed through his teeth, turned on his heel and strode toward the back door. Grabbing a dishcloth before touching the doorknob, he spun to face her with a pointed glare that spoke volumes. He pointed at her, jabbing his finger toward her again, raised his eyebrows in warning, and backed out the door.

  Missy heaved a giant sigh of relief, and ran trembling to lock the door after Andretti departed. She leaned back against it, willing her heartbeat to slow, taking deep breaths. An acrid smell teased her nostrils and she looked toward the ovens in alarm. Her cupcakes were burning and tendrils of smoke were starting to rise up through the burners. Furious, she raced over to turn off the ovens and decided against opening the shop today. With the burned disaster in the ovens she wouldn’t have enough stock to make it through anyway, so she made a sign for the door and grabbed her car keys. Maybe Chas Beckett would believe her suspicions
about Giacomo Andretti now.

  Chapter 7

  Rhonda Davis Burns sat across the conference table from Detective Beckett smoking a cigarette and distractedly tapping her ragged nails on the scarred and pocked surface while studiously avoiding his steely gaze.

  “Did your brother have any girlfriends or ex-girlfriends with whom he had some sort of conflict?” he probed, impatient with Darryl’s sister’s reluctance to participate in the conversation. He thought that he had interviewed every living relative of the Donut Man, to no avail, and then Rhonda sauntered into his office at the insistence of her other siblings. She looked as though she had been pretty once, a long, hard lifetime ago. She stated her age as 28, but looked as though she was at least a decade older than that, with harsh lines around her mouth, deep frown lines on her brow and teeth and nails showing the dull yellow of neglect, and years of chemical experimentation.

  “He kinda gave up on having a girlfriend after that Gladstone snob humiliated him,” Rhonda drawled, taking a deep drag. Beckett wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly.

  “Gladstone?” he inquired, his pen poised above his notebook.

  She snorted derisively, “You mean no one told you about her? That smug little babe ruined Darryl for good,” she sneered. “He didn’t date much before he tried to date her, but he didn’t date at all once she destroyed what few shreds of manhood he had left.” Chas put down his pen, needing to clarify what he thought he was hearing.

  “Who are you talking about here?” he drilled her with a look.

  “I told you, the Gladstone chick,” she allowed a curl of smoke to drift from the corner of her mouth.

  “Melissa Gladstone?” he offered, hoping that he was wrong.

  “Oh hell no, Darryl knew better than to even try with that snooty little goody two-shoes, he went for the little sister, Sherilyn. He thought he was in love with that girl and she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He asked her out quite a few times and she always turned him down. He sent her flowers and found them in the trash behind the cupcake shop. The last straw was when he bought space on the light board at the ballpark and asked her out between innings, in front of the entire crowd. She refused him, again, told him to leave her alone or she’d go to the police, and ran from the park crying. He tried calling her for a few months and used to ride by her house in his car, but he finally gave up. A few months later, she was dead,” Darryl’s sister shrugged as if her story was common knowledge, and of little consequence.