A Secondhand Murder

by Lesley A. Diehl

  I shook my head and followed the nurse. Before I stepped into the examining room, I turned and waggled my finger at him. “Stay put.”

  I liked to believe I wasn’t a big baby, but when it came to pain, I was a wimp.

  “I don’t really need stitches, do I?” I asked the doctor after he examined my thumb.

  “You do. Otherwise the cut won’t heal properly. It’ll keep opening up. Chance of infection is greater.” I watched as he reached for a syringe.

  “I don’t want to look.” I didn’t. The shot hurt like hell, but my hand quickly went numb. After the stitching, I asked the nurse for a lollipop. I thought I deserved something for undergoing the procedure.

  “No, no. Too much sugar.” She swept her hand toward an array of small action figures lined up on a shelf. “You can choose one.”

  I carried the Minnie Mouse figure in my unbandaged hand and looked for Alex in the waiting room. He was gone. Damn. I hadn’t taken him for the type to flee the impending wrath of a tall, blonde woman. I twirled Minnie in my fingers. “He certainly wouldn’t deserve you,” I told her.

  Madeleine had to be around here someplace. She’d take me home.

  Down the hall from the waiting room came a woman’s scream, the sound of metal falling onto the tile floor and the crash of a large object against the wall. That had to be my ride.

  A wheelchair came flying through the swinging doors at the end of the hallway, pushed by an elderly man dressed in a tropical shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts. In the chair sat a woman, probably his wife. There was familiar terror written all over her face. She kept turning her head to peer down the hall from which she had come. “Faster, Harold. The mad woman’s gaining on us.”

  I expected to see Madeleine bolt through the door. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she shouted to the couple. “I’m just clumsy, you see.”

  Madeleine had somehow wrapped herself in the tubing of a portable intravenous apparatus and was attempting to disentangle herself while pulling and pushing the mess toward the retreating couple. A few steps behind Madeleine came Alex, who grabbed her by the arm, held her still, and removed the tubing. By now the couple had alerted the security guard, and he was approaching Madeleine.

  “That’s her,” said the old woman. “My husband was wheeling me down the hall for a spin when this crazy woman, arms flapping like a windmill, grabbed my tubing and pole and ran off with it.”

  “That’s not true. I saw you remove the drip lines and abandon the apparatus in the hallway, but when I tried to return everything to you, you pushed me into that cart of bedpans. I got twisted up in the tubing. Don’t you know your medication is in that bag?” Madeleine was working herself into a frenzy. Who could blame her? Apparently she had been trying to help this lying old woman.

  “You ripped the needle out of my arm. I could have bled to death.”

  The man nodded, supporting his wife’s statement.

  The security guard turned his head back and forth from the couple to Madeleine with a look that said he wished he had the midnight shift when only druggies and gunshot victims came in.

  “Madeline is telling the truth.” It was Alex’s voice, issuing from behind me. “She was trying to return the apparatus.” Madeleine beamed with gratitude. The couple shook their heads. “Look at her arm,” Alex continued. “The needle hasn’t been torn out at all.”

  The doors to the hallway swung open once again and a man in surgical scrubs walked through. “There you are, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn. You’re not trying to take a hike again, are you?”

  The couple’s mouths opened. No sound came out.

  “They like to run down to the Twisty Cone for ice cream. Mr. Flynn, I told you she shouldn’t be off her drip.”

  “It was her idea.” Flynn pointed to his wife. “She made me do it.”

  “Well, now, let’s get her back into her room, and we’ll see what we can do.” The doctor put his arm around Mr. Flynn’s shoulders.

  The old woman’s eyes shot daggers at her husband and Madeleine. “We would have made our escape from this place,” she said. “I’d be having a chocolate and peanut butter soft-serve twist right now, if you hadn’t interfered.” She wheeled her chair past Madeleine. “Next time, mind your own business. Who do you think you are? A doctor or something?”

  I could hear Mrs. Twisty Cone berating her husband and Madeleine as they accompanied the doc through the swinging doors and down the hallway.

  “It really wasn’t my fault this time,” Madeline said.

  “I know, honey, but you do manage to find trouble, don’t you?” I put my arm around my friend and hugged her.

  “Let’s go home,” said Alex.

  “No. First I need to talk to Frida. Then I want to talk to you.” I poked my finger into his chest. “No more lies.”

  “I haven’t lied to you.”

  “Okay, then, no more prevarications.” I should have been more direct and told him to just tell the truth.

  “I don’t think I know what that means.”

  “Yes you do. Don’t play dumb. We need to talk more about what you’ve been telling me.” Or haven’t been telling me.

  Alex and I walked out into the hospital parking lot and headed toward his car.

  “Hey, what about me? Can I come along, too?” Madeleine called from behind us.

  Alex looked at me for approval. I nodded.

  “Sure, but could you stay a block or so behind us? I’ve seen what you can do when you get too close.” Was Alex really worried or just teasing Madeleine? Maybe he was prevaricating again.

  “You’re right, of course.” Alex steered the car through the evening traffic and into my subdivision. Madeleine was right behind us.

  I was about to ask him what he meant, when I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Hey, I want to talk to Frida.” I reached for the steering wheel, but Alex shoved his muscular shoulder toward me, blocking my hand.

  “You just had stitches, and the anesthetic will wear off soon. The best place for you to be is at home, lying down.”

  That sounded lovely.

  “We’ll call Frida from your place. After I get you settled in bed.”

  Even lovelier.

  “What about Madeleine?”

  “She can make you a cup of tea while I get Frida on the line.”

  We pulled up in front of my house and Madeleine jumped out of her car to help me through the door.

  At that moment, as if on some predetermined medical schedule, the anesthetic wore off and my next sentence, which I intended to be “I’d prefer scotch to tea,” came out something like, “Fraggle postle mag.”

  “You’re white as a magnolia blossom,” said Madeleine.

  That might’ve sounded like a compliment, but I was a sun worshiper from the Northeast. I should have been as golden as a ripe papaya. Alex pulled me out of his car, took me in his arms, and carried me into the house.

  He deposited me on the couch.

  “Scotch.” I pointed across the room at my liquor cabinet. He ignored me.

  Keeping his promise, Alex dialed Frida. Madeleine busied herself in my kitchen.

  “Get out of my kitchen,” I yelled. Too late. The sound of breaking dishes, followed by the ringing of my pots and pans hitting the floor, assaulted my ears. Silence followed. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine. How would you feel about iced tea instead?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  I had no intention of drinking any kind of tea. I pulled myself up off the couch and walked with grim determination and wobbly legs over to my liquor cabinet.

  “Not so fast.” Alex grabbed the bottle out of my hand. Caught. “Nope. Frida will be right over. I explained your little accident to her.”

  “My little accident?” Madeleine said. “You told Frida about the hospital incident?” She handed me a glass of the weakest tea I’d ever seen.

  “No,” I said, “he told her about my hand.” I waggled
the bandaged thumb in the air to remind her.

  “Oh, good. I’d hate for her to think that I had molested an old man and his wheelchair-bound wife.”

  “Alex wouldn’t say that.”

  Madeleine looked relieved for a moment. Then her face scrunched up with concern. “I could only find one tea bag, and I used tap water. It comes out faster. You’re giving her booze?” Madeleine looked at Alex with accusatory eyes.

  “No. Tea should be enough. She’s had quite a day.”

  “I can relate,” Madeline said. “First those geriatric terrorists in the hospital and then I get here and can’t reach the tea cups in the cupboard because stilts here has them on the top shelf.” She paused and turned in my direction but didn’t raise her eyes to meet mine. “Listen, hon, I think you could use some cups or mugs if you want coffee in the morning.”

  That was odd. I had plenty of cups and mugs.

  Madeleine threw herself onto the end of the couch, grabbed the glass of tepid tea and took a sip. Then she looked me in the eye with one of those defiant I-dare-you-to-say-anything looks on her face.

  The doorbell rang, saving Madeleine from injury by my good hand. Frida stood there.

  “What’s this about a knife?”

  I told her about finding the blade and cutting myself.

  “Let’s have a look at it.”

  I held up my bandaged hand.

  “No. The knife.”

  “Someone came into the shop while I was in the bathroom trying to stop myself from bleeding to death.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea, but the person went out the door just as Alex entered. I think the bell startled her, so she smooshed it flat to keep it from ringing again. Alex saw her leave. What did you tell me she looked like?”

  I took a sip of the tea. Not so bad. Actually, I was feeling pretty fine. The throbbing in my hand was letting up a bit, and I felt buoyed by the knowledge that Alex could identify the visitor. This case was fast coming to a close.

  “I didn’t. I’m not going to be much help. She looked like every other rich matron from the coast. Above average in height, I guess, although she was wearing heels. She had on huge, round sunglasses. Her hair was blonde, but she might have been wearing a wig. She had on a pleated navy skirt, red blouse, and white blazer.”

  He was right. An APB put out with that description would have netted the authorities every patron in the Neiman Marcus store at City Place.

  I sighed. We were no further along on this case than we had been the day Valerie died. Only now, because Jerry had blabbed to Alex, I also had to worry about Alex telling Frida what he knew about our relationship.

  “I think I might be able to clear up some of the questions about Valerie and Eve.” Alex cleared his throat, as if nervous.

  Here we go. I sank back into the couch cushions and yawned. Inwardly my nervous system was on high alert.

  “I don’t know what Eve has told you.” Alex looked at Frida. “She sometimes likes to parcel out half-truths.”

  I perked up. “And you don’t?”

  He ignored me. “I was hired by Mr. Sanders, who was concerned about his wife. He paid me to follow her.”

  “Why was he concerned?” asked Frida.

  “He didn’t say. I originally assumed that I was dealing with a divorce case and that I would be gathering evidence against her. Then I met Eve. Mr. Sanders saw the two of us at the funeral and thought we seemed too friendly for his taste, so he fired me. With Valerie dead, I wasn’t surprised that my services were no longer needed, but I was shocked at his rabid dislike of Eve. I wouldn’t be telling you this—client confidentiality and all—but I got an interesting story from Jerry, very similar to the one I heard from Sanders.”

  Frida looked interested. “Go on.”

  “Please do.” If I put anymore acid in my voice, I’d be spitting lemon seeds.

  “Sanders invested some money with Jerry and lost it. The fault wasn’t Jerry’s, for once. The investment opportunity looked good in the beginning, but proved to be much like the Bernie Madoff Ponzi scheme. Sanders knew that Jerry had been cleared of any criminal involvement. Valerie, however, found out that Eve was Jerry’s wife and, well, that set her on fire. There was Jerry’s wife in her sights. She even threatened to pull her clothes out of the store. That’s what the fight was about.”

  I breathed an inward sigh of relief and told my heart to stand down. The investment scheme gone bad was a part of what Valerie and I fought about, but it wasn’t the important part. I smiled.

  “Well, that’s kind of what I told you.” I looked at Frida.

  “No, it’s not at all what you told me,” she said. “If Valerie was planning to pull her items out of your store, that would mean a loss of income for you.”

  “Not a reason for murder, if that’s where you’re going with this. She didn’t threaten to pull her stuff out of the store. She couldn’t. We had a signed contract. All our clients do.”

  Outside the front windows, I saw a car pull up. A woman with white hair got out. Oh, oh. Now things were going to get interesting.

  Chapter 12

  “Grandy!” I jerked open the front door. The short, rotund woman standing there threw her arms around me.

  Worry lines etched her forehead. “What’s wrong, Eve? All is not well here, is it?”

  Whenever my grandmother shows up, I wonder if she is there to rescue me or cause more trouble. We have very similar personalities. Why wouldn’t we? We are blood relatives, and she raised me from the day my parents’ sailboat went down in the Sound. Their bodies were never recovered. I was nine then, and I can hardly remember a time before she came into my life. To me she is my Grandy and my mother.

  Madeleine took one look at the woman in the doorway and flew across the room to embrace her.

  “It’s my little Madeleine.” Grandy enveloped her in a hug. “You gotten into any trouble lately?”

  Madeleine stole a glance in the direction of the kitchen, blushed and shook her head.

  Grandy bore a striking resemblance to Paula Dean and was often mistaken for her, but once she opened her mouth, everyone could tell my Grandy wasn’t the famous television cook. Her accent was pure Connecticut blueblood. Her secret was, she wasn’t gentry at all. She had worked most of her life as a servant to the wealthy and was very good at imitating their speech.

  “Max and I just got back from a week-long trip and nothing was on our calendar,” she said, “so I thought I’d drive down here to see what was wrong in your life.”

  I introduced her. She wiggled bejeweled fingers at everyone in the room then approached Alex with her hand held out. He reached out as if he meant to plant a kiss on her plump fingers, but instead he softly patted it. In return for his gallantry, she gave him one of her famous coquettish smiles. Even at seventy-five my Grandy oozed allure.

  “So I see not everything is amiss.” She continued smiling at him. Then she turned her attention to Frida. “But something is. A police detective, huh?” She grabbed the glass out of my hand and took a sip of it, wrinkling her nose at the taste. Plopping herself onto the couch, she patted the cushion next to her as a gesture for me to join her.

  “Max isn’t with you?” I asked. “I thought you said there was nothing on the schedule for a while.”

  Her eyes slid away from my gaze for a moment, then reconnected. “He’s doing an overhaul of the boat engine. He said I should get out of his way and, since I had a dream about you last night, I thought I’d stop by.”

  Max was Grandy’s third husband. The two of them ran a charter fishing boat out of Key West. Like all the Key West men over fifty, Max sported the Hemingway beard and mustache combination. He even entered the Papa Hemingway look-alike contest, which he had won several years in a row. Not lately, however. For, while “Papa” never aged, Max did, and the loss of hair put him at a disadvantage against the younger competitors.

  “Enough about me.” Grandy said, turning her attention to Frida. “What kind
of trouble has Jerry gotten Eve into now?’

  “Jerry?” asked Frida.

  “My Eve is a good girl, within reason, of course. She does have her playful side, as I’m sure you’ve discovered, Mr. Montgomery.” She threw a suggestive look his way.

  “Call me Alex.”

  “Alex. Anyway, having a husband who plays as loose with the rules as Jerry does is bound to bring on a load of trouble.”

  “You’ll be happy to know I divorced him.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. He’s getting married again, though. Soon.”

  Frida, Alex, and Madeleine filled Grandy in on Valerie’s death, the car bombing and my more recent encounter with the knife.

  “So how’s the black SUV fit into this?” she asked.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “The one that keeps driving by here. There it goes again.”

  We all ran to the window and, sure enough, a black SUV with chrome wheels slowed in front of the house then sped up again, probably because of all the faces staring out through the glass.

  “Half of the people in this town own a black pickup or SUV. Anybody get the plate number?” asked Frida. “I couldn’t see because the sun was reflecting off of it.”

  No one else had even thought to check.

  Frida got out of her chair. “I’m going out to the cruiser. If the vehicle comes by again, I’ll follow it. You guys stay away from the window so we don’t scare him off. Before I go, Eve, I’ve got some information about your car.”

  “Faulty wiring?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Someone planted an incendiary device under your car, but whoever planted the bomb was incredibly stupid. That was the worst homemade bomb the arson boys had ever seen. It was dumb luck that it went off when it did. It was just as likely to blow when they were planting it as when you were driving.”

  Oh, now, that was comforting.

  With the words “incredibly stupid” and “dumb luck,” an image of my ex-husband flashed through my mind. Why was that, do you think?

  “I can give you more details later.” Frida dashed out to the police car, got in, and slid down in the seat. After a few moments, her head popped up and she signaled us to get away from the window.