Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  Boone took a seat on a stool at the soda fountain and the happy couple followed suit. I put down the Atari 2600 video game system that I had been trying to stand on edge against the silver spangled disco cape and came out from behind the register.

  As I went to the soda-fountain counter, Boone said, “I need a dark chocolate malt. Hell, after what I’ve been through, make it a double.”

  “Coming right up, Boone.” I started to scoop the ice cream. “What can I get for you guys?” I asked, nodding to Poppy and Tryg.

  “The usual,” Poppy ordered. “And Tryg will have the same.”

  “Two turtle sundaes with extra whipped cream and nuts,” I confirmed.

  “How long have you owned this place?” Tryg asked, twisting around to study the store. “Has it been in your family for generations?”

  “Nope. My people were farmers.” I slid a tall fluted glass brimming with chocolaty goodness in front of Boone. “I bought it less than a year ago from the original owner’s ninety-one-year-old twin granddaughters.”

  While I ladled caramel and hot fudge over vanilla ice cream, Tryg quizzed me about the business. As I answered him, I wondered what had brought the trio to my store in the middle of the workday.

  I finished up the sundaes with a generous sprinkling of pecans and a tower of whipped cream and placed the dishes in front of Poppy and Tryg, then leaned my elbows on the counter and asked, “So, what’s up?”

  Tryg ignored the sweet concoction in front of him and said, “I thought it best if we consulted regarding Boone’s interview at the police station yesterday. We all need to be on the same page.”

  “That sounds good.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I don’t know why we have to go over this again,” Boone complained. “They mostly asked me exactly what they had before, again and again.”

  “Boone.” Tryg’s voice was firm. “You promised to cooperate.”

  “Fine.” Boone played with his straw. “They wanted to hear about my relationship with Elise, why I was at her house, and what I did second by second from when I found her body to when I called nine-one-one.” He took a sip of his milk shake. “See? Nothing new.”

  “You left out a couple of things,” Tryg prodded, taking a notebook from the pocket of his polo shirt. “What else did they ask about?”

  “They wanted to know if I had seen anyone lurking around Elise’s house when I got there.” Boone snorted. “Like that wouldn’t have been the first thing I’d have mentioned when I was arrested that night.”

  “Hey.” I raised my hand. “I think I know why they questioned you about that.”

  “Do tell,” Boone drawled. “Is Chief Kincaid confiding in you now?”

  “No.” I swatted Boone’s arm. Being a murder suspect was not bringing out the best in my friend. After explaining about my search for Tsar and the neighborhood watch, I concluded, “It looks as if they called you back into the station as soon as they heard about Baseball Cap Guy skulking around Elise’s house.”

  “Interesting.” Tryg narrowed his eyes. “Too bad Boone didn’t see the man.”

  “What’s really too bad is that Captain Ingram didn’t call the cops,” I said. “If he had, the murder might have been prevented, or at least the actual killer might have been caught.”

  “Did you say the head honcho is a Captain Ingram?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes.” I grabbed a leftover peanut butter cup cookie and munched.

  “Wasn’t the woman who blew the whistle on Colin Whitmore’s affair named Lindsey Ingram?” Poppy licked caramel from her spoon.

  “Maybe.” I bit my thumbnail. “I’m not really sure. I didn’t pay that much attention to who had exposed Colin’s affair with the pet sitter. The rest of the story was the interesting part.”

  “Is Ingram a common last name in these parts?” Tryg asked.

  “There aren’t any Ingram families among the longtime residents around here,” I said. “At least not that I’m aware of.” I thought it over. “Nope. It doesn’t ring a bell.” I looked at my friends. “You?”

  They both shook their heads. Then Poppy said, “I’ll bet the captain is Lindsey’s husband. Remember, Noah didn’t know if she was local or not.” Poppy pursed her mouth. “But if you think about it, if she was dropping off papers from work, it makes sense that she lives in the same neighborhood as Elise. If she were from Kansas City, would she drive two hours round-trip to deliver something to Shadow Bend? Isn’t that what courier services are for?”

  Boone tapped his fingers on the marble counter. “It sure would be odd if the woman who put the Whitmores’ divorce in motion is married to the one man who saw someone loitering around Elise’s house on the night of the murder. And I don’t believe in coincidences. What if Captain Ingram made up this suspicious guy in order to draw attention away from his wife?”

  “But why would Elise’s colleague want to kill her?” Poppy asked.

  “First we need to find out if Captain Ingram is married to Lindsey,” Tryg cautioned. “Then we’ll worry about a possible motive.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Someone needs to investigate that.”

  “You can ask your new pal,” Boone suggested. “Bryce Whatshisname.”

  “Grantham,” I supplied. “I didn’t get his phone number, but I can ask him tomorrow when I go look for Tsar again.” I stared at my friends. “Anyone want to join me?”

  None of them responded, and I narrowed my eyes. “Seriously, no one is willing to help?”

  “Well,” Boone refused to meet my gaze, “it’s been five days.”

  “Actually, maybe longer,” Poppy joined in. “Boone said he didn’t see him Saturday night, so maybe he ran away while Elise was still alive. He’s probably long gone, or maybe someone adopted him.”

  “Thanks, pals.” I grabbed the empty sundae dishes and slammed them into the water-filled sink.

  Ignoring my displeasure, Poppy glanced at Tryg and said, “You mentioned there were a couple of things Boone left out about the police interrogation.” She turned to Boone. “What’s the other one?”

  “It’s not important.” Boone slurped up the last of his drink.

  “It’s hard to tell what’s important at this stage,” Tryg countered.

  “Well,” Boone hedged, “I don’t see how this could be significant.”

  “Boone.” Tryg’s voice held a hint of warning. “You promised to follow my advice, and I advise you to tell your friends everything.”

  “If you insist.” He glared at his lawyer. “They found a jacket of mine at Elise’s and wanted to know what it was doing there.” Before anyone could ask, Boone continued. “It started raining one day while she was at my office and I didn’t have a spare umbrella to loan her, so I gave her my old raincoat to wear home.”

  I glanced at Poppy, whose doubtful expression matched mine. Had Boone been having an affair with a client? And did we really want to know if he had been? If the police ever questioned us, it was probably best that we could honestly say we had no knowledge of his relationship with Elise—or with any other woman, for that matter.

  Tryg broke the long silence that had fallen by asking me, “Did you discover anything when you talked to Whitmore’s employer?”

  “Noah had an emergency at his clinic yesterday so we haven’t been able to talk to the bank president yet,” I explained.

  “What a surprise.” Boone sneered, but his expression held a trace of disappointment. “I knew Dr. Deceiver’s act was too good to be true.”

  “Boone.” I laid my fingers on his arm. “I know you’re stressed and that under normal circumstances you wouldn’t be this obnoxious. . . .”

  “What do you mean by that?” He shook off my hand. “I’m not acting any differently.”

  “Yes, you definitely are.” I ignored his protest. “And you need to knock it off right now. We’re all trying to help you.” I gave him a hard look. “Including Noah. But we all have other commitments, as wel
l.”

  “Yeah,” Poppy chimed in. “Quit being a jerk.” She gave him a one-armed hug. “I heard that there was too much chlorine in the high school pool, and most of the six a.m. senior water aerobics class had a bad reaction, so they were all rushed to Noah’s clinic.”

  “A few extra patients that early in the morning shouldn’t have kept Dr. Dutiful busy all day.” Boone crossed his arms and pouted.

  “Unfortunately, the aerobics instructor was so discombobulated when the seniors started dropping like flies, she failed to tell the school that there was a problem,” Poppy explained. “Which resulted in the first-period swim class also having problems.”

  “Still,” Boone objected. “How long could it take to hand out some salve and eye drops? If Dr. Devoted really wanted to help me, he would have.”

  “My source tells me that one of the seniors and several of the teens had severe asthma problems, which the overchlorinated water exacerbated.” Poppy sighed. “Seriously, Boone, it’s time to get over your grudge against Noah. He’s doing the best he can.”

  I had kept silent, knowing that if I tried to defend Noah, Boone would be even less likely to see reason, but now I said, “Will you be mad at me because I can’t go talk to the bank president today?”

  “No.” Boone shook his head. “I realize that the store is open late today and you don’t have any help and can’t afford to close it.”

  “Good.” I patted his shoulder. “Just cut Noah the same slack. Okay?”

  Boone nodded grudgingly, then said, “Shouldn’t someone be talking to Willow Macpherson? None of us has contacted her yet, right?”

  We all shook our heads. Then Tryg said, “Yes, one of you should probably speak to her. Do any of you have an in with her?”

  We all shook our heads again. Then Poppy said, “I’ll check to see if any of my regulars at the bar have any kind of connection to her.”

  “I’ll do the same with my customers,” I offered, then added, “And I’ll see if Birdie or her crowd has some kind of link to her.”

  “I can ask around, too,” Boone said. “Unless I shouldn’t?” He looked at Tryg.

  “If you’re extremely subtle,” the attorney warned. “We don’t want the police claiming that you’re interfering with their investigation.”

  “Right,” Poppy scoffed. “Like my dad will even hear about Willow unless we tell him.” She paused. “Actually, shouldn’t we tell the chief about the other people who have motives?”

  “Let’s wait until we have more facts.” Tryg rubbed his chin. “Right now, I believe the authorities would brush off our information, thinking we’re scrambling to clear Boone.”

  “Which we are,” Poppy said. “Still, maybe we could make an anonymous tip.”

  “If Boone is called in for questioning again, we’ll throw everything we have at them,” Tryg said. “But until then, I believe our best move is to gather as much evidence as we can, because once the police get wind of the other suspects, we’ll be closed out.”

  We all agreed to do what Tryg thought best, and the impromptu meeting ended. The attorney insisted on paying me for the soda-fountain treats they’d all consumed, and I admit my respect for him skyrocketed—at least for a second—until it crossed my mind that he’d turn around and bill Boone for the cost.

  It was three by the time the trio departed, so I put my basket-making supplies away and braced for the afterschool onslaught. Then when the last of the kids left around five, I called Gran to touch base again. We had our standard conversation: She assured me she was fine and called me a worrywart.

  Once I was sure Birdie was okay, I checked my messages to see if Noah had called. He had. There was a voice mail from him saying that he’d remembered the store was open until nine on Wednesdays, but that it closed at noon on Thursdays, so he’d gone ahead and arranged for us to have lunch with Max Robinson. He’d pick me up at twelve thirty and we could go together.

  I texted back my agreement, then started setting up the craft corner for Blood, Sweat, and Shears. As usual, Winnie and Zizi were among the first arrivals. The mother-and-daughter duo exploded through the store’s entrance, arguing about a book they’d both read.

  Winnie marched up to me and demanded, “What did you think of that novel?” She shrugged out of her coat and winked at me. “Since you make erotic baskets, I bet you liked it.”

  “I haven’t read it.” The title she was referring to had been popular a while back, but I’d never gotten around to taking a look at it.

  “It’s nothing but mommy porn,” Zizi insisted, crossing her arms.

  “Lighten up, buttercup.” Winnie poked her daughter, then turned serious. “Before I forget, I heard about Boone being a suspect in Elise Whitmore’s murder, and I wanted to say that Zizi and I think the pigs are crazy to suspect him.”

  “Thanks.” The quick change of subject left my head spinning, but I appreciated Winnie’s support.

  “Absolutely,” Zizi said. “And if you ever need someone to run the store while you investigate—you are going to help clear him, right?” When I nodded, she continued. “Mom and I will be happy to come in and cover for you.”

  “Definitely.” Winnie patted my arm. “This town wouldn’t be the same without either you or Boone.”

  “Thanks again.” The idea of Winnie in charge of my store scared me half to death, and I wasn’t all too sure of Zizi, either. “It’s so sweet of you guys to offer to help.”

  “Don’t worry, kid.” Winnie gave me a thumbs-up. “We’ve got your back.”

  Luckily, at that moment, several other members of Blood, Sweat, and Shears walked in and saved me from responding. The next three hours passed in a blur, and by the time the last of the sewing group left a little before nine, I was pooped. Although I wanted to forgo cleaning up, I knew that if I was cat hunting again the next morning, I’d better have the place ready for business before I left. So I lugged the folding tables, chairs, and sewing machines into the back room, then swept the floor.

  Finally satisfied that the store was all set for the next day, I put the cash drawer into the safe and turned off the lights. I had already locked the front entrance when the last of the sewers left, and I had parked my Z4 in the rear lot, so I headed out through the back door.

  Just as my hand touched the car door handle, a male voice behind me said, “Boo.”

  I screamed and jumped back, hitting my head against someone’s hard chin. The last thing I saw was a pair of dull brown eyes peering down at me as my vision blurred and I passed out.

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  Jake Del Vecchio, don’t you ever sneak up on me like that again.��� Having recovered from my momentary swoon, I was now sitting inside a beat-up 1969 Dodge Charger, bawling out a man I barely recognized.

  The guy I’d been dating for the past month was dazzlingly handsome. The dude in the driver’s seat next to me looked like a cross between someone who had been sleeping on the streets and a member of a motorcycle gang. My Jake was clean-shaven with a lean, chiseled profile and bronzed skin that pulled taut over the elegant ridge of his cheekbones. This character hadn’t been near a razor in several days, and his complexion was a pasty gray.

  The man I’d been seriously considering sleeping with had gorgeous, silky black hair and striking sapphire-blue eyes. This guy was bald and his eyes were the color of a cow patty. He didn’t even smell the same. Jake’s scent reminded me of fresh air and newly mown fields of hay, while this dude stank of cigarettes, stale beer, and sweat.

  Clearly, he was undercover, but the changes in him were stunning. How had he accomplished such a complete transformation in such a short time? Obviously, he’d started shaving his head and stopped shaving his face, but how had he changed his skin tone from suntanned to nearly dead white? Was he wearing makeup?

  The different eye color could be contact lenses, and the odor was easily achieved by not bathing, but he didn’t even appear to be six-four anymore, and his well-muscled body now se
emed to be thicker and less toned. There was no way he’d gotten shorter and gained weight in the five days since I’d last seen him.

  The only parts of him that were familiar were the strong column of his throat as it rose from the collar of his scuffed-up leather jacket, the hard thighs straining the fabric of his worn blue jeans, and the large calloused hands resting on the steering wheel.

  I noticed all this while I continued to yell at him for scaring me half to death. Finally, once I’d calmed down enough to think, I demanded, “And why haven’t I heard from you? Were you too busy getting reacquainted with Meg?”

  Okay, I shouldn’t have added that last sentence, but it just slipped out. My only excuse was that I was still freaked by how he’d crept up on me while looking like a serial killer.

  “I’m sorry.” Jake held up his palms in surrender. “I thought you saw me when you walked out of the store and that you were just ignoring me because you were mad I’d broken our date.”

  “I wasn’t angry about that,” I lied. “I knew you were going back to the marshal service as soon as you were cleared.” I pasted a fake smile on my face and added, “By the way, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Jake’s expression was cautious. “But you are upset that I haven’t been in touch and am working with my ex-wife? Because, let me assure you, even though Meg and I are together constantly pretending to be a couple, we are not together in any other way.”

  “While it would have been nice to have heard from you sooner, I understand that you were too busy to make a call or send a text,” I lied again, ignoring his comment about his nonrelationship with his ex-wife.

  “As you’ve probably guessed,” Jake gestured at himself, “I’m undercover.”

  “Really?” I widened my eyes in mock astonishment. “And here I thought you’d changed fashion stylists.” I wrinkled my nose. “Or maybe just hadn’t been able to complete your usual hygiene practices.”