She stuck her head inside. "Deke?" She stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind her. "Deke, it's Penny!"
She took a few seconds to enjoy the stunning entry-way that she had been so proud of, trying not to notice the things that were out of place or the cobwebs hanging from far corners illuminated by the rose-colored, recessed lighting. She inhaled the comforting scent of old plaster and Bri-Wax, and her heart squeezed with homesickness. She knelt to straighten a rug whose corner had been upturned, then frowned at a stack of unread newspapers by the door and brightly colored high-heeled shoes casually lying about, blazing a trail to the kitchen doorway on the left. Mail was piled up and falling off the Duncan Phyfe side table. A zebra-print jacket had been tossed carelessly over the bronze sculpture on the table.
She hated to think what she might see in the daylight.
Seeing Sheena's things strewn about the house she loved made bile rise in Penny's throat, but she tried to push the thoughts out of her mind. Deke had made his choice and Sheena was his problem now. Apparently, the woman was still at Caskey's, dressed to kill.
Penny swallowed hard, antsy to leave. "Deke! It's Penny!"
From the darkened entryway, she could see his office door on the second floor, just beyond the landing. The door was slightly ajar, spilling light into the hallway. The muffled noise of the television sounded. She could picture him reared back in his chair, his feet on his desk while he talked on the phone with one eye on a ball game.
She worked her mouth back and forth in sudden inspiration—if she was careful, she could get to the attic and remove her lovebirds ornament before he even realized she was in the house.
She slipped off her sandals and carried them as she crept up the wood stairs in semidarkness. Because she knew where all the creaky spots were, she was able to make her way up silently, although the floor felt gritty beneath her bare feet. Her heart rattled against her breastbone, but she conceded a thrill of excitement to be doing something so illicit.
When she reached the second floor, she held her breath as she stole by Deke's office door, sure that any second he was going to emerge and blast her for snooping around. But she made it past the door undetected. Next was the master bedroom. She couldn't resist a glance inside, but she grimaced at the unmade bed and piles of clothes on the floor. Their framed wedding picture on the dresser had been replaced with a picture of Sheena and Deke.
"He could have at least bought a new frame," she muttered. On impulse she walked in and picked up the picture, hurt and anger bubbling in her chest anew. The picture had been taken on a carriage ride—in New Orleans, no doubt.
Deke had never taken her on a carriage ride.
In the photo, Sheena looked pouty, and Deke looked...pained, as if his balls were in a bind.
Feeling malevolent, she placed the picture frame on the floor, then slipped her foot into her sandal and ground her heel against the glass until it cracked, sending a splinter across their faces. Then she positioned the photo facedown so that it appeared as if it might have been knocked off by a flying tube top.
With her ears piqued, she stepped back out into the hallway. Hearing nothing but the television, she turned toward the narrow stairway leading to the attic. A pull chain to a bare lightbulb provided just enough light to climb to the top. Penny jiggled the glass knob to the attic door and pushed it open, wincing when it groaned loudly. She waited a few seconds, but when she didn't hear Deke pounding her way, she stepped into the attic.
Every woman should have an attic, a place to put things that were special and not for public display. Unfortunately, she hadn't had the family keepsakes and heirlooms that would have filled up the large space beautifully. Instead she'd had an old calico chair losing its stuffing that she'd never gotten around to reupholstering, a large framed mirror that was cracked in the corner but had been too nice to put in the Dumpster, and a chest of drawers painted pale blue that had never seemed to fit anywhere in the house.
She stepped onto the linoleum she'd laid down, thinking her feet would be black by the time she left. She'd have to take a shower before B.J. showed up...but then if he had bedded Sheena, he probably didn't mind dirty feet.
The top drawer of the chest held mostly linens she'd bought at estate sales. She rummaged until her hand closed around the tissue paper holding the lovebirds ornament. For old times' sake, she unwrapped the pewter ornament and ran her finger over the white enameled birds holding a ribbon in their beaks that said Deke and Penny, forever.
Biting her lip at their naïveté, she conceded that they'd been happier then...before they'd had grown-up problems. With a sigh, she rewrapped the ornament and put it in her purse, then retraced her steps to the darkened hallway, where she tiptoed past Deke's office door to the top of the stairs. Then she stepped back into her sandals.
"Deke!" she yelled, stomping as if she were only now coming up the stairs. "It's Penny! I got your messages and thought I'd just stop by. Deke?" She walked to his office door and rapped loudly. "Deke?" She pushed open the door. "Deke, it's P—" Her voice died as her brain tried to process the scene before her. The television was on, airing a cheesy beer commercial. The phone on the desk was off the hook, ergo the busy signal.
And Deke...Deke was on the floor on his back, arms and legs askew. He still wore the European-cut suit and the trendy silk tie, but his white shirt was now red...from the wound caused by the object sticking out of his chest:
A wire stake topped with a pink plastic flag...just like the ones she'd used to stake off her new garden.
Chapter Eleven
Until it boils over...
FOR SEVERAL SURREAL SECONDS, Penny had the most bizarre feeling of déjà vu, as if she'd dreamed this incident, or had lived through it before....
No—the voodoo doll she’d stabbed.
She gasped and stumbled into the room, overwhelmed and confused. Terror pulsed through her veins as she fell to her knees next to Deke. Blood speckled the beige carpet.
"Deke," she murmured, choking. She was certain he was dead—his eyes were open in a blank stare. His skin was chalky. He lay in an unnatural position. But she made herself press her trembling fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing.
The sulfurous smell of blood enveloped her. Her stomach heaved, and despite her best efforts to move, she fisted her hands in the material of his jacket and threw up all over him. The alcohol burned her throat even worse on the way up than it had on the way down. By the time she had emptied her stomach, she was sobbing. She wiped her mouth with the edge of her shawl and stared at the unholy mess she'd made.
Deke was dead. Not just dead—murdered.
Shaking in disbelief, Penny scrambled to her feet, her mind reeling. What to do? Who to call? She hyperventilated until common sense finally kicked in—she had to calm down. Gulping for air, she picked up the phone to dial 911, and the situation slammed into her like a brick wall: What if the police thought she'd done it? Then another, more horrific thought hit her: What if whoever killed Deke was still in the house somewhere? Looting the spare bedrooms, rooting through the kitchen, prowling in the garage?
With trembling hands, she returned the receiver to the cradle and covered her mouth to smother the scream that hovered at the back of her throat. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe...think. Wildly searching the room for a weapon, she grabbed an antique cane from the umbrella stand near the door. First she had to get out of this house, then she'd flag down a car or call 911 from the store.
Desperation rose in her chest, threatening to paralyze her, but she forced herself to focus on her surroundings. With her heart thrashing, she stuck her head into the hall and frantically looked both ways. All clear.
Wielding the cane like a baseball bat, she stepped out into the hall illuminated only by the light from the office. She started for the stairs. A noise below, however, stopped her. She froze, her ears zoning in.
There it was again—the sound of quiet footsteps coming from the back of the house towa
rd the foyer...as if the person was trying to mask their approach. Panic lodged in her throat—should she scream? Try to escape? Hide in the attic?
Her lungs worked like bellows. Perspiration dripped down her back. She was sure the intruder would be able to hear her fractured breathing. Her stomach was roiling again, and she swallowed hard to try to ward off another sick episode. From where she stood on the landing, she couldn't see down into the foyer, and she prayed that she, too, couldn't be seen. A few seconds of silence passed and her breathing slowed. Then she heard the noise again—the person was climbing the stairs, and they apparently didn't know the creaky spots.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she fought the overwhelming urge to run. The light on the landing, she recalled, was blinding—if she could find the switch, she might have the advantage of surprise to get past the intruder or push them down the stairs. Pure fear spurred her into action. She lunged for the light switch and raised the cane, poised to kill if necessary. Or at least bruise.
A hot, white light flooded the landing. The intruder threw up her overtanned arms and screamed like a wounded hyena.
Sheena.
Penny's shoulders slumped in abject relief.
"I knew it!" Sheena said, stabbing her finger in the air. "I knew you and Deke were carrying on behind my back!"
Penny squinted. "What?"
"If you think you're going to get him back, you can think again!"
Penny glanced toward the office door—at this angle, the scene inside wasn't visible.
"How long has this been going on?"
"You've got it all wrong, Sheena. Stop talking—I have to tell you something."
"I want to hear this from Deke," Sheena said, then started toward the office.
Penny grabbed her arm. "Don't go in there, Sheena."
"What—is he naked?" Sheena shouted. "Still cleaning up the scene of the crime?"
"No," Penny said, squeezing the woman's arm harder. "Deke—"
"Let go of me." She wrenched her arm away, then ran to the door of the office. "Deke, how could you—" She covered her face and screamed, jogging in place. "Omigod, omigod, omigod. Is he dead?"
"Yes."
"You killed him! You killed my Deke!"
Penny shook her head and held out a hand to calm her. "No. I found him like this, Sheena. Just a few minutes ago."
Suddenly the blond's eyes widened at the sight of the cane Penny held. Sheena flattened herself against the doorjamb, her mouth a gaping red hole. "And now you're going to kill me, too!"
"Calm down," Penny said, holding up her hands. "See, I'm putting down the cane. We need to call the police."
In a flash, Sheena whipped her cell phone out of her snakeskin purse and pushed a button. Just as quickly she whipped up a few crocodile tears. "Hello? This is Sheena Linder. My fiancé, Deke Black, was just murdered by his ex-wife in our home."
Penny's knees buckled. "What are you doing?"
"Yes, she's still here. Her name is Penny Francisco. We're at 110 Charm Street in Mojo. It's the pink house. Thank you." Sheena snapped the phone shut. "They're on their way." She narrowed her eyes. "You're going to fry for this, Granola Girl."
Chapter Twelve
Let things simmer for a while...
PENNY SAT IN A ROOM at the local jail wearing baggy gray sweats borrowed from the supply room and feeling ready to come undone. At least an hour had passed since she'd been escorted to the room, since she'd left a voice message on Gloria Dalton's cell phone, two hours since she'd found Deke's body. By now word of the grisly murder had probably spread to every household in Mojo via Sheena's megaphone mouth. Penny alternately tapped her fingers on the table, hugged herself, and pinched herself, just in case this was all a long, bad dream. Unfortunately, she was very much awake.
And under suspicion.
Under suspicion for murdering Deke. The idea was so ludicrous that she had burst into laughter several times while waiting for Chief Davis to return. If anyone was watching on the other side of the darkened window, they probably thought she had lost her mind.
Her throat was parched, and her mouth tasted of stale vomit. Her head pounded from the countless vodka martinis. Her finger stung from the punch-needle the CSI tech had used to check her blood-alcohol level at the scene. Her pride hurt from having her clothing confiscated. And her heart had turned to lead over the fact that Deke was dead.
And that someone had either unwittingly or purposely made it look as if she had done it.
The door opened, and Penny's pulse jumped. Police Chief Allyson Davis, a tall, big-boned brunette, walked in, accompanied by a rocky-faced, suited man that Penny had never seen.
"Sorry for the delay," Allyson said, her face pale and drawn, making her look even more severe. With the festival going on, she'd probably had a long day. "This is Detective Maynard from New Orleans—he's going to be assisting in the investigation."
Penny nodded, although she had a feeling that the two of them were not overjoyed to be working together.
"Can I get you some coffee?" Allyson asked, setting a tape recorder on the table.
Penny eyed the machine warily. "Water, please. And maybe some aspirin?"
"No can do on the aspirin, but I'll be back with the water." She looked at the detective. "I'd appreciate if you'd wait to talk to my witness."
He nodded, but he made no promises, Penny noted.
When the door closed, he sat in one of the chairs and withdrew a packet of chewable aspirin from his coat pocket. "I take them by the handful. Just don't let her know I gave it to you."
"Thank you," Penny murmured, then tore open the packet and chewed the orange-flavored tablets.
"So...Ms. Francisco, how long have you lived in Mojo?"
"Eight years."
"What brought you to town?"
She shifted on the uncomfortable chair. "I moved here with my husband."
"You mean, your ex-husband?"
She bit her tongue. "Yes."
"Where is your family?"
She hesitated. "I grew up in a small town in Tennessee."
He nodded. "What town?"
"King...ston."
"Kingston?"
She coughed and nodded. "But I don't have any family left."
"What do you do for a living, Ms. Francisco?"
"I own a health food store."
"Across the street from the house where the murder was committed."
"That's correct. My husband—I mean, my ex-husband and I owned both pieces of property. When we divorced, he kept the home we lived in, and I kept the business."
"Why did you and your husband divorce?"
The door opened, admitting Allyson Davis. She handed Penny a bottle of water and glared at Maynard. "I thought I told you to wait."
"We're just getting acquainted," he said mildly.
Allyson lowered herself into a chair. It was then that Penny noticed that the woman's nose and eyes were red. Penny realized that Allyson had known the Black family for some time...that she and Mona, if not friendly, seemed to tolerate each other, that she and Deke had conferred on many cases. Penny suspected that this was the first homicide that Allyson had worked on since she'd arrived in Mojo; for the victim to be someone she knew must be doubly difficult.
"Are you doing okay, Penny?" Allyson asked gruffly.
Penny took a long drink of water, then nodded. "Considering."
"Do you want to tell us what happened?"
"I already told you," Penny said.
"For my sake," Maynard said, his voice apologetic.
"And I'd like to hear it again," Allyson said, "just to make sure I didn't miss anything."
Penny fidgeted with the label on the bottle. "Has Gloria Dalton arrived yet?"
"Your attorney? No."
Penny wet her lips. "Perhaps I should wait."
Allyson pursed her mouth. "Why do you need an attorney, Penny? I thought you said you didn't kill Deke."
The woman had already convicted her, Penny realiz
ed suddenly, and the knowledge pushed her sweat glands into overdrive. "I didn't kill him," she said evenly. "But until the evidence can be processed and I'm cleared, I want my attorney to be involved, and I'd rather not have to go through all of this again when she arrives."
"What if I told you that we already have enough to arrest you on?"
A rap on the door sounded. Allyson frowned and pushed to her feet. When she opened the door, Penny sagged in relief to see Gloria step inside. She was wearing a suit, but no makeup, and she looked flushed. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were bloodshot. Penny squinted—Gloria's eyes were normally green, like her own. Her contact lenses must be colored.
"I'm Gloria Dalton, Ms. Francisco's attorney. What's this all about?"
"It's about murder," Allyson said dryly. "Your client's ex-husband is dead, and she was discovered at the scene."
Gloria looked at Penny, then back to Allyson. "Is she under arrest?"
"Not yet."
"Where are her clothes?"
"Her clothing was bloodstained, plus she threw up all over herself—and the body. We offered her something clean to wear."
Gloria blanched. "I'd like to talk to Penny alone."
"It's fine, Gloria," Penny said. "I don't have anything to hide, I just wanted you to be here when I gave my statement."
Gloria looked at Allyson. "A moment, please?"
Allyson signaled to Maynard, and they left the room. As soon as the door closed, Gloria strode over to the table, her expression pinched. "Penny, I'm not a criminal attorney!"
"I know. But relax—I didn't kill Deke. I just wanted someone here I could trust."
Gloria pulled her hand down her face, clearly agitated. "Are you sure you don't want me to call someone who could better advise you?"
"Yes. The last thing I want is for Allyson to think I'm lawyering up on her."
Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries) Page 37
