Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  Noah rose from his seat, took a Frosty Paws from the freezer, and flipped the treat to Lucky. While the Chihuahua devoured the doggie ice cream, Noah put his cereal bowl and mug in the dishwasher.

  As he was closing the appliance door, the local news came on the radio and the announcer said, “Last night, Shadow Bend resident Elise Whitmore was found dead in her home. Police Chief Eldridge Kincaid stated that it’s believed foul play was involved and a suspect is in custody.”

  Noah froze in shock. Elise had been a patient of his. Had she interrupted a burglar? She’d mentioned that she was getting a divorce and her husband wasn’t taking the situation well. Could her soon-to-be ex have killed her?

  Before Noah could speculate further, the newscaster continued. “Although Chief Kincaid refused to reveal the suspect’s name, an inside source claims that local attorney Boone St. Onge found Ms. Whitmore’s body and has been detained, pending further investigation.”

  “Well, damn!” Noah hit the counter, startling Lucky, who ran from the room.

  That was why Dev had left so abruptly last night. St. Onge must have called her down to the police station, which also explained why she hadn’t answered her phone. Chief Kincaid was notorious for his rule that all personal cells be silenced inside the PD.

  Dev was fully aware that Noah and St. Onge had never been friends. She was probably afraid that Noah wouldn’t be sympathetic. But was she right? Noah didn’t like St. Onge, but he couldn’t imagine him killing anyone. And if he had, he was too smooth an operator to get caught.

  Noah smiled, snatched up the kitchen phone, and punched in Dev’s number.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  Clutching my cell, I escaped into my bedroom before answering Noah’s call. I closed the door just as Gran’s curious face appeared on the other side of the threshold. Figuring she would have her ear pressed to the keyhole, I moved to the other side of the room before I pushed the On button and said, “Hello.”

  “Good morning, Dev.” Noah’s voice was smoother than a really good chocolate milkshake—and probably just as bad for me.

  It was a little unnerving when he didn’t say anything more—Noah wasn’t generally the strong, silent type—so I hastily said, “How are you? Did you . . .” I trailed off, fairly certain that he was angry with me for deserting him last night. But had he called me just to give me the cold shoulder? No. Come to think about it, I knew what he wanted. Too bad it was a word that didn’t come easily to me. “Uh. I suppose I owe you an apology.”

  “Five minutes ago, I would have said yes.” Noah’s tone was light. “But now that I’ve heard the local newscast, I completely understand.”

  “Thank you.” I hadn’t been expecting that. For a moment, I savored the fact that Noah wasn’t upset with me. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome. So—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted him as the full implication of what he’d just said hit me. “What exactly did you hear on the news?”

  “That St. Onge is in custody for the murder of Elise Whitmore.”

  “Damn it all to hell!” Poppy and I had blown it. We should have woken up Boone’s parents last night after all. “They said that on the radio? That he’s been arrested? But Chief Kincaid assured me that they weren’t releasing his name.”

  “The chief stated that a suspect had been apprehended and was being held for questioning,” Noah corrected. “The announcer said that the information came from an anonymous tip from an inside source.”

  “Thank goodness!” I leaned against the wall and sank to the floor, relieved that at least it hadn’t been Chief Kincaid who’d blabbed. “Poppy would have never forgiven her dad if he was the one who leaked the info.”

  “Yeah.” Noah’s tone was rueful. “It seems that a lot of us have parent issues.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right.” Pausing, I made a mental list. I put myself as number one, then Poppy and Noah. Boone got along with both his folks, but the fact that they didn’t speak to each other was tough on him.

  Did Jake get along with his mom and dad? He hadn’t mentioned them, and I kind of guessed that if he had a good relationship with his parents, he would have. Plus, he’d spent every summer and holiday with his great-uncle rather than with his folks. That had to mean something.

  If I weren’t afraid Gran would get the wrong impression, I’d have her ask Tony. But I didn’t dare show that much interest in Jake, or Birdie might book the church hall for our wedding reception.

  “Anyway,” Noah said, interrupting my musing, “I called to see if there’s anything I can do for St. Onge.”

  “Really?” Why was Noah offering to help someone he disliked?

  “Yes.” Noah paused, then said, “I know he and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but he’s one of your best friends. And he stuck by you when a lot of people didn’t.”

  Noah’s unspoken words like me hung in the air between us—a wall I needed to tear down if I ever wanted to find out whether our adult selves had the same passion for each other as our teenage selves. But the memory of him telling me he couldn’t be with me anymore because my dad was a criminal overwhelmed me. I tried to banish it by replacing that image with a picture of him apologizing a few days later.

  Too bad I had to make up that scene. Because even though Noah had assured me it had happened, I had no recollection of it. It’s truly amazing that two people could experience the same events and totally disagree on what had happened. Then again, maybe not. Reality isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.

  “Well, it’s really sweet of you to offer to help, but I have no idea what to do.” I summarized what I knew, which wasn’t much, then asked, “Any ideas?”

  “It’s tricky because you basically have to prove a negative.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed, surprised. I had forgotten how often Noah and I could almost read each other’s minds. “How do we substantiate Boone’s claim that he wasn’t having an affair with Elise?”

  “Well, I always thought maybe St. Onge wasn’t interested in women, so . . .” Noah trailed off. “Is that an option that could be pursued?”

  “Probably not.” I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “First, because I don’t know if that’s the case. And second, because if he hasn’t confided in me or Poppy after all these years, and considering all the stuff about ourselves that we’ve told him, then it’s not a subject he’s willing to discuss.”

  “Why?” Noah asked. “In this day and age no one cares anymore.”

  “Oh, please.” I blew a raspberry into the phone. “If no one cares, why is gay marriage such a big deal? Why is there still gay bashing? Why can’t gay men donate blood?”

  “I see your point,” Noah conceded.

  “Anyway, the real problem for Boone would probably be that Shadow Bend has only one foot—no, make that one toe—in the twenty-first century, and only part of the time at that. If he lived in a big city, whether he’s gay or straight wouldn’t be such an issue.”

  “Right. You and I both love this town, but it’s not without its flaws,” Noah commented. “But don’t you think if it would save him from prison, St. Onge could deal with the fallout?”

  “If it were true and if it would really help him. Maybe.” I tapped my chin. “But we’re not sure that either of the above assumptions is accurate.”

  “In that case, I think you should contact St. Onge’s attorney and find out what he or she has in mind for a defense.” Noah’s tone was clinical. “Do you know if the lawyer is in town?”

  “Boone said he’s coming from Chicago, which means he’s probably staying at either the Cattlemen’s Motel or the B and B.” I stood up. “And he’s number two on my list. First, Poppy and I have to go see Mr. and Mrs. St. Onge and tell them their son is in jail. Unless, of course, they already know.”

  “Good luck with that.” Noah’s voice was rueful. “Afterward, if I were you, I’d try the B and B first,” No
ah advised. “The Cattlemen’s is an acquired taste.”

  “Definitely.” I slipped on my shoes. “A city boy might not appreciate the antler chandeliers or the cowhide bedspreads and rugs.”

  Noah chuckled. “While you and Poppy are busy with the St. Onges, I could ask a few people on the shelter fund-raising committee about Elise Whitmore. Since she donated some expensive items for the auction, maybe one of the committee members is a friend of hers.”

  “That would be great.” I was touched by Noah’s suggestion. He really did want to help. “She’s not a customer of mine, so I don’t know anything about her.”

  Which was technically true. She hadn’t bought anything from me, and I’d decided there was no good reason to mention that I had purchased the antique molds from her—and there were several excellent reasons to keep quiet about my acquisition and possession of them. The list included that the molds might not have been Elise’s to sell, I could get into trouble for having bought items that might technically be considered stolen, and, topping the charts, I didn’t want to have any association with another murder victim.

  “So how about we meet for lunch at the new Chinese restaurant and compare notes?” Noah suggested. “You should be done by noon or so.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure I was ready to spend more time with Noah, but for Boone, I’d risk it. Besides, Poppy would be with me. “I’ll call you when we’re through with the parents and the lawyer. Poppy and I have been wanting to try that place for a couple of months now.”

  “Good.” Noah’s voice held a shade of disappointment, then it brightened. “It’ll be nice to have the three of us working together again.”

  “Yeah.” I was about to say good-bye when I thought of a question. “Was Elise your patient?” People in Shadow Bend either doctored with Noah or had to drive to one of the neighboring towns for medical services.

  “Sorry. I can’t answer that.” Noah’s tone was absolute. “Confidentiality.”

  “But she’s dead.”

  “The obligation of secrecy doesn’t cease to exist after a patient is deceased.”

  “Oh.” That was interesting. I had no idea that the dead had rights. “Well, I better get going. Thanks for not being mad about me leaving last night, and for helping with Boone’s case. Bye.”

  * * *

  It was five after eight when I pulled my Z4 into the St. Onges’ driveway. They lived in a large tri-level that had been cutting-edge contemporary when it had been built in the mid-1970s. Now it reminded me of the house from The Brady Bunch; Gran liked to watch the show’s reruns on the TV Land channel.

  Poppy was parked by the curb when I arrived. She climbed out of her Hummer as soon as I turned off my engine and was waiting for me when I stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “You’re late.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped the toe of her black suede ankle boot. “Did you hear the local news this morning?”

  “No, but I heard about it.”

  I hadn’t mentioned that I’d been with Noah when I’d asked Poppy to pick me up the night before, and she’d been too obsessed with her father’s arrest of Boone to ask what I’d been doing at the country club all dressed up. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to me seeing Noah, and right now wasn’t the time to go into it.

  “Cross your fingers that Boone’s folks didn’t have the radio on,” Poppy instructed.

  I nodded, then asked, “Do you have a plan on how to tell them?”

  “Since we’re flying blind here”—Poppy turned on her heel and headed toward the entrance, still talking— “we’ll have to wing it.”

  I followed her, and as she rang the bell and waited, I said, “But you will be the one to break the news, right?” She tended to wiggle out of things she didn’t want to do, leaving me holding the bag.

  Instead of answering me, she commented, “Maybe they’re not home.”

  “You wish.”

  “I’m out of here if someone doesn’t appear in ten seconds.” Poppy pressed the button again, crossed her arms, and stepped back.

  “Give them a couple of minutes.” I blocked her from ringing a third time. “They could still be asleep, and this is a big house.”

  “I want to get this over with,” Poppy grumbled, trying to reach around me.

  Before she succeeded, the door swung open and Mrs. St. Onge said, “Dev, Poppy, what are you doing here so early?” She was dressed in a terry cloth robe and slippers, and her short brown hair was flat on one side. There was a crease in her cheek and mascara smudges beneath her eyes.

  “May we come in, Mrs. St. Onge?” I asked, moving over the threshold. I sure didn’t want to have this conversation on the front steps.

  “How many times have I told you girls to call me Janice?” she said, a worried look on her face as she stepped aside so we could enter.

  “Sorry, Janice.” Even approaching thirty years old, I found it hard to call the parents of my childhood friends by their first names.

  “What’s this all about?” Janice asked as she led us around an open staircase that swept past a tall stonework wall and into the kitchen.

  I glanced at Poppy, who refused to meet my eyes. After a long, awkward moment, I realized that Poppy would not take the lead despite her promises, so I said, “Is Mr. St. Onge home? We’d like to talk to you both together. Poppy could run and get him for you.”

  Janice must have finally fully woken up and put the pieces together, because she sank into a chair and in a tear-clogged voice she said, “Oh, my God! Something’s happened to Boone. Was he in an accident? Is he okay? Tell me he’s not dead.”

  “He’s not dead and he wasn’t in an accident,” I assured her. “But we really do need Mr. St. Onge to be here when we explain what happened.”

  Janice took a quivering breath, then nearly gave me a heart attack when she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Steven, come here!”

  Afterward, she seemed surprised at herself. And since this might have been the first time in twenty-five years that she had spoken to her husband, I, too, was a little shocked.

  A half second later, Steven St. Onge rushed up from the basement. He was a tall, spare man dressed in loose slacks, a white shirt, and a cardigan. His thinning hair was combed neatly and he held a pipe. He looked as if he were trying out for the role of Mr. Rogers.

  As he burst into the kitchen from the basement doorway, he demanded, “Janice, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” When he finally noticed Poppy and me, he asked, “What are you two girls doing here?”

  Once again, I waited for Poppy to speak, and once again, she remained silent. Shooting her a venomous look, I said, “Boone asked us to come and tell you in person that he’s being held by the police.”

  “Oh, my God!” Janice grabbed my hand. “What do they think my baby did?”

  Steven had seated himself next to his wife and was patting her shoulder.

  I turned slightly so I could address both of them. “They suspect him of killing Elise Whitmore. Last night when he went to pick her up to escort her to an art gallery opening, he found her dead.”

  “Are they sure she didn’t die from natural causes?” Janice asked.

  “Yes. There’s no way this wasn’t murder.” I eased my fingers from her death grip. “There was a bullet wound in her forehead.”

  “Then she must have committed suicide,” Janice said in a pleading tone.

  “I’m so sorry.” I looked at Poppy again, but she had her back to me, apparently fascinated by the olive-green refrigerator. “Since the gun was missing, Elise couldn’t have killed herself.”

  Steven finally spoke. “Boone can’t handle jail. It will destroy him.”

  “I know.” Searching for something comforting to say, I added, “We’re hoping his attorney can arrange bail.” Honesty forced me to continue. “But that probably won’t be until Monday morning.”

  “Oh.” Steven stared into space, and Janice slumped in her seat.

  While I waited for the St. Onges to process what
I’d said, and unable to bear the devastated looks on their faces, I glanced around the kitchen. Spotting a coffeemaker on the counter, I jumped up and asked, “Okay if I make a pot?”

  They nodded their consent, and I went to work. It wasn’t hard to find the coffee beans in the freezer, and everything else was arranged on a tray next to the sink. Poppy, whose mute button had apparently gotten stuck in the On position, took the mugs from me and brought them to the stricken couple. She then filled the creamer, picked up the sugar bowl, and took them over to the St. Onges. Finally she poured herself a cup and joined Boone’s folks at the table.

  I followed with my own caffeine reinforcement in hand and slipped into the last of the four chairs. After we’d all added what we wanted of the cream and sugar and taken a few sips, I asked, “Did either of you know Elise Whitmore? Had Boone ever mentioned her?”

  Steven shook his head, but Janice said, “Boone told me how sorry he felt for her, and how fond of her he was.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I can’t remember exactly what he said, but I do recall thinking that maybe he’d found the girl for him.” Janice’s voice grew animated. “And that we might finally get some grandchildren to spoil. All my friends have grandchildren and it’s so hard to hear them—”

  “Oh, my God!” Poppy screamed, interrupting Janice’s babbling. She turned on the startled woman and ordered, “You cannot tell that to anyone else. That information could mean a life sentence for Boone.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  How in God’s green earth could you say that to her?” I demanded as soon as Poppy and I were out the St. Onges’ front door and a few feet down the sidewalk. “Who blurts out to a mother that her words could send her only son to the slammer for the rest of his life?”

  Every so often, I had to marvel over Poppy’s lack of sensitivity. She looked like a woodland sprite and acted like a lumberjack. Not that I was the most tactful person, but at least I made an effort not to make people cry—unless they really deserved it.