by Joanne Fluke
I hung up with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Some of it was probably indigestion from that egg roll. But mainly, I was concerned about Willard. Something in my gut told me he was innocent.
I know he hated Garth, but there’s a big difference between wishing somebody were no longer around to bother you, and actually trying to kill him. Besides, if Willard were really the killer, would he have been so openly vitriolic about Garth?
No, my gut was telling me that the cops had brought in the wrong suspect for questioning.
But what, I wondered, was the incriminating evidence they’d found?
I decided to pay a little visit to Ethel Cox and find out.
I made my way past the frolicking reindeer on the Coxes’s front lawn and rang the bell.
Ethel came to the door, still in her nightgown. A far cry from the happy hausfrau I’d met the other day, her gray curls had lost their bounce and her once rosy cheeks were drained of color.
“Ethel,” I asked, in what had to be one of the Top Ten World’s Most Rhetorical Questions, “are you okay?”
“Willard’s gone!” she cried, her eyes wide with fear. “The police took him away for questioning!”
“Try not to worry, Ethel. They’ll probably release him in a few hours. Let me come in and make you some tea.”
She nodded numbly and allowed me to lead her down the hallway to her kitchen.
Minutes later, we were seated across from each other with steaming cups of tea, laced with lemon and plenty of sugar. The warmth from the tea seemed to calm her a bit.
“Oh, Ms. Austen,” she said, taking a grateful sip. “It’s just awful. The police found a Fiedler on the Roof cap in Willard’s toolbox out in the garage. They think he was the one who loosened those shingles on Garth’s roof.”
So that was the evidence Seymour had been talking about.
“I don’t know how it could’ve gotten there,” she said, bewildered.
Clearly this woman didn’t have a suspicious bone in her body.
“Somebody may have put it there, Ethel. To frame Willard for Garth’s murder.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Did any of the neighbors have access to the garage?”
“Actually, they all did. There’s a little door on the side of the garage we never lock. In case the gardener wants to get in.
“To think,” she said, the color rushing back to her cheeks, “that some awful person would try to blame Garth’s death on Willard. Who would do such a terrible thing?”
The first person who sprang to my mind was my lead suspect, Libby Brecker. Hadn’t she said she’d been watching the roofers work? What if she’d seen one of them leave his cap behind? How easy to snatch it up, disguise herself as a roofer, and clamber up the roof to set Garth’s deathtrap. And how easy to slip over when the Coxes were away and plant the cap in Willard’s toolbox.
My musings were interrupted by the shrill ring of a phone.
“Oh, dear!” Ethel said, jumping up. “Maybe that’s Willard!”
She hurried out of the room, her granny gown billowing behind her.
I sat there, stirring my tea, wondering whether Libby Brecker was indeed Garth’s killer and/or whether Ethel had any brownies left over from the other day.
I know. I’m impossible, thinking about food at a time like this. I bet Sherlock Holmes never sat around wondering if Dr. Watson had any brownies in his kitchen.
I was in the midst of giving myself a stern lecture when Ethel came bursting through the door.
“Willard’s in jail!” she cried.
“They arrested him?”
She nodded miserably. “He got into a fight with one of the police officers and threatened to ‘punch his lights out.’ Now they’re holding him without bail.”
She sank into a kitchen chair, dazed.
“Oh, Willard,” she moaned, “what have you done now?”
Then she turn to me and said: “Do you know how to write a check, Jaine?”
I nodded, confused. Where the heck had that come from?
“Willard told me to pay the gas bill.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know how to write a check. Can you believe that? I’m seventy-two years old, and I don’t know how to write a check.”
She put her head on the table and burst out sobbing.
“Oh, God. What am I going to do without him?”
I jumped up and wrapped my arms around her.
“Don’t worry, Ethel. They can’t keep him there for long if he’s innocent.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wild with panic.
And in that moment I knew that, even worse than the fear of coping by herself, Ethel was afraid her husband might have really killed Garth Janken.
After teaching Ethel the fine art of check writing, I left her with a hug and a promise to keep in touch, and headed out into the bright sunshine, convinced that somebody had planted that roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox. I simply couldn’t believe he’d be foolish enough to leave it there himself.
My money, as you know, was on Libby Brecker. But I had no proof she was the killer. I wasn’t even certain that the flocking I saw on her rug came from Garth’s roof, or that it was indeed flocking.
I had no idea where to turn next. My interviews with the residents of Hysteria Lane had been a bust, yielding no leads whatsoever. No juicy gossip about Decorating Wars or poisoned roses. Just some tepid complaints about Garth hosting loud parties, turning away trick or treaters at Halloween, and being—in the words of eighty-six-year-old Mrs. Garrison—“an old grouchpuss.”
It was one of those moments when a lesser detective would have given up hope and drowned her frustrations in Ben & Jerry’s. But not me. I wasn’t about to waste valuable detecting time driving around in search of ice cream. No, sir. I drowned my frustrations in an Almond Joy I found buried at the bottom of my purse.
Actually, the rush of sugar was just what I needed. Standing there, inhaling my candy bar, I remembered that there was someone I still hadn’t questioned—Prudence Bascomb, president of the local homeowners association. The lady Willard had accused of taking bribes from Garth.
Old Mrs. Garrison had pointed out her house to me, but so far I hadn’t been able to catch her at home.
Licking chocolate from my fingers, I crossed over to Prudence’s impressive white colonial.
Interesting, I noted, that her only Christmas decoration was a simple wreath on the door. Perhaps as judge of the decorating contest, she’d decided to put herself above the fray.
I rang her bell, but there was no answer. I was just turning back down the path when I saw the mailman coming up the street.
“Hey, there!” he waved, the sun glinting off the hair on his well-muscled forearms. I still couldn’t get over the difference between this guy and my mail carrier, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Frankenstein’s aide-de-camp, Igor.
I guess everything gets more attractive when you live north of Wilshire.
“How’s your investigation coming along?”
“Slowly,” I sighed. “This is where Prudence Bascomb lives, right?”
“Yep,” he said, coming up the path with her mail. “But she’s never home during the day. She’s an attorney.” He deposited the letters in her slot with brisk efficiency. “Has her own law office. In Century City, I think.”
“Thanks. I’ll try reaching her there.”
“No problem,” he said, hustling off on his rounds.
I whipped out my cell phone and got the phone number for Prudence Bascomb, Esquire, then called her office to set up an appointment.
“Her first available slot is two weeks from Monday,” her secretary informed me curtly.
The Law Biz was clearly booming for Prudence.
“I was hoping for something a bit sooner. Like today.”
“Are you kidding?” she said, as shocked as if I’d just asked her for a loan. “That’s out of the question.”
“Just tell Ms.
Bascomb I want to talk to her about Garth Janken’s death.”
“Hold on,” she commanded. For the next few seconds I was treated to the soothing strains of classical music, and then Ms. Congeniality came back on the line.
“Can you be here in twenty minutes?”
I could, and I was.
Chapter Eight
Prudence Bascomb got up to greet me, a tall, cool redhead in a designer suit that cost more than a Kia.
To call her fortieth floor corner office “impressive” would be like calling the Grand Canyon “large.” Furnished with sleek modern furniture straight out of a decorator’s showroom and carpeting so plush I could hardly see my Reeboks, it was an executive’s dream come true.
But the most impressive feature was the view. Sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking panorama of the city. On a clear day, which it was, you could see out to the ocean.
With an office practically in the clouds, one thing was certain: Prudence Bascomb was not afraid of heights.
I stood in the doorway, suitably awed.
“Come in,” she said, waving me inside. “Have a seat.”
She gestured to a sleek chrome and leather chair.
I sat down across from her, marveling at her sculpted cheekbones and startling green eyes.
“Can I have my secretary get you an Evian?”
“No, thanks.”
When it comes to no-calorie water, I’m always able to Just Say No.
“Then let’s get started, shall we? You wanted to talk about Garth Janken’s death?”
“Yes, I’m afraid his fall from the roof may not have been an accident.”
“Oh?” she said, her face an impassive Chanel mask.
“I think someone tampered with the shingles. Someone who wanted to kill Garth.”
“Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” she asked with a dismissive smile.
“Not really. In fact, the police think so, too. They just arrested Willard Cox this morning.”
“Willard Cox?” Her brows lifted a fraction of an inch, her version of surprise. “I knew he and Garth had their differences, but murder? I find that hard to believe.”
“I agree with you. I think somebody else is trying to frame him for Garth’s death. The real killer.”
“And who might that be?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I came to see you. Do you know anybody who might’ve wanted to see Garth Janken dead? Anybody he was at odds with?”
She smiled wryly.
“Garth Janken was ‘at odds’ with half the neighborhood. The man made enemies like Pringles makes potato chips. But I can’t believe anybody on Hysteria Lane is a killer.”
Same old, same old, I thought, stifling a sigh.
“Wait a minute,” she said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on her cheek in thought, “there was somebody else he was fighting with.”
I sat up, interested.
“Who?”
“Peter Roberts. Garth’s law partner. I heard through the grapevine that he and Garth were going through a particularly vicious split up.”
How foolish of me. All along I’d been limiting my suspects to people on Hysteria Lane. I should’ve known that a guy like Garth would make enemies wherever he went.
“Not that I’m saying Peter killed Garth, mind you,” Prudence quickly added. “I’m not about to implicate anybody in a murder.”
Spoken like a true attorney.
“Well,” she said, her cool smile still lodged firmly in place, “if those are all your questions…?”
“Just one more,” I said, coming to the point of my visit. “What was your relationship with Garth like?”
“Mine?” She laughed a laugh singularly devoid of mirth. “I hardly knew him. Just to wave and say hello.”
“You judged his house every year in the Christmas decorating contest, didn’t you?”
For the first time since I walked in the door, a look of discomfort flitted across those gorgeous green eyes.
“Oh, yes. The contest. One of my chores as president of the homeowners association. I’ve really got to step down one of these days. It takes up way too much of my time.”
“He won first prize five years in a row, didn’t he?”
She reached for a crystal water glass at her elbow, and took a careful sip.
“Garth may not have been very popular, but he was amazing when it came to Christmas decorations. A true artist.”
“Willard Cox says he was bribing you.”
Bingo. I’d hit a nerve. Prudence’s eyebrows shot up a whole half inch.
“That’s absurd!” she said, an angry flush creeping up her cheeks. “Do I look like I need the money?”
I had to admit she didn’t. But something about that contest had her worried. I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart on it.
“Garth Janken won first prize every year because he deserved to,” she said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
And before I knew it, I was in an elevator, zipping down forty-plus floors to the Peon Level of the garage.
I headed to my car, filled with a much-welcome sense of accomplishment. My ten minutes with Prudence Bascomb had yielded two important facts.
Fact Number One: There was something decidedly fishy about the Hysteria Lane Christmas decorating contest.
And Fact Number Two: Garth Janken had a law partner who hated his guts.
But both of those facts paled in comparison to Fact Number Three, one I was about to discover as I made my way toward the exit—that parking in Prudence’s Century City garage was a jaw-dropping fifteen bucks an hour.
I made a mental note to write a letter to the mayor about the exorbitant parking rates in Century City and headed back to my apartment for a bite of lunch.
In spite of the Almond Joy I’d wolfed down on Hysteria Lane, I was hungry. I had an untouched order of pork potstickers in my refrigerator which I intended to demolish the minute I got home.
Back in my apartment, I raced past the eternally napping Prozac and made a beeline for the kitchen. I grabbed the potstickers from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave, counting impatiently as the seconds ticked by. It’s amazing how long thirty seconds can seem when you’re starving.
Then, wouldn’t you know, just when I’d snatched them out, the phone rang.
Argggh! Why does the phone always ring when you’re about to shove a potsticker in your mouth?
“I’ll be right back,” I promised the little darlings, and raced to the living room to get the phone.
“Yes?” I growled, answering the dratted thing. Probably some stupid telemarketer.
“Am I speaking with Jaine Austen?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“It’s Tyler Girard.”
Oh, shoot. In my frenzy to get at those potstickers, I hadn’t recognized his voice. Why had I been so grouchy? I wanted him to think I was sweet and upbeat, not a snarling harpy.
“Oh, hi, Tyler!” I gushed.
“It sounds like you were in the middle of something.”
“Well, yes, actually. I was baking cookies for the homeless.”
Huh? Where had that come from? Why on earth had I made up such an outrageous lie?
“For the Union Rescue Mission,” I added in a fit of lunacy, referring to a local soup kitchen.
“Really? I didn’t know they accepted homemade goods. I thought the stuff had to be packaged for security reasons.”
“Oh, they know me down there. I’ve been doing it for years. In fact, they call me The Cookie Lady.”
If I told one more lie, I’d be struck by lightning.
“So,” he asked, “how was your date with Angel Cavanaugh?”
“Fine! Terrific. We definitely began to bond.”
Would the whoppers never end?
“That’s so gratifying to hear. It’s always nice to know we’ve made a good match. I hope we’ll see you at the Christmas p
arty.”
“We?”
I smelled a Significant Other lurking in the wings.
“Yes, I told Sister Mary Agnes all about you, and she can’t wait to meet you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. The “she” in his “we” was Sister Mary Agnes.
“Well, you’d better get back to those cookies.”
“Cookies?”
“For the homeless.”
“Oh, right. My cookies.”
I hung up, vowing to some day actually donate cookies to the homeless, and praying that Angel wouldn’t spill the beans about our disastrous date. Then I hurried back to the kitchen for my potstickers, whose heavenly aroma had now drifted out into the living room.
What happened next was absolutely heartbreaking. Sensitive readers may want to get out their hankies.
I bounded into the kitchen, only to find Prozac curled up on the kitchen counter, belching softly, surrounded by what just five minutes ago had been my potstickers. Now they were mangled bits of dough, pathetic dim sum corpses.
Prozac, the little devil, had burrowed her way through the doughy wrappings and devoured every speck of pork inside.
“Prozac!” I wailed. “How could you? That was my lunch.”
And quite delicious it was, too.
I picked up a limp piece of dough and stared at it balefully.
“How can one cat eat so much, so fast?”
Pretty impressive, huh?
For a desperate instant I considered eating the shards of dough, but don’t have the vapors. I didn’t.
Instead I had a nutritious lunch of English muffins and martini olives.
After which, I put in a call to Garth’s law partner, Peter Roberts.
“Law offices of Janken and Roberts,” a perky receptionist answered. “Oops, I mean law office of Peter Roberts.”
Interesting, I noted, that Janken had top billing in the law practice.
“May I help you?” she asked in a friendly voice, about a zillion times more friendly than Prudence Bascomb’s dragon lady secretary.
I asked if I could speak with Peter.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, he’s in court all week. Would you like to leave a message?”
Once again, I posed as an insurance investigator looking into Garth Janken’s death, and asked her to please have Mr. Roberts call me back as soon as possible.
