CRAZY, STUPID, DEAD
A Working Stiffs Mystery
Book 7
Wendy Delaney
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Dedication
Acknowledgments
More by this Author
Copyright
Chapter One
“I HAD A bad feeling that Florence wouldn’t have everything ready to go,” my grandmother whispered to me the second that Florence Spooner disappeared into a back room of her condominium. “Since day one of her taking over as garden club president, it’s been a disorganized disaster.”
This wasn’t the first time that Gram had groused about her fellow gardening enthusiast’s shortcomings. “Then maybe you should have stayed on as president.”
“And get stuck with that job for a sixth year in a row?” Gram shook her head, her helmet of spun-sugar curls not budging a millimeter. “No, when I turned eighty last year, I took a good look at everything I want to do before I leave this world, and serving another decade on the board wasn’t on my list.”
“Then how come you’re the one taking over as secretary? Again,” I added since I remembered my grandfather referring to her as “Madam Secretary” back when I was in high school.
Gram heaved a sigh. “Because I made the mistake of letting Florence talk me into it after Naomi’s funeral service.”
“You need to learn how to say no.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Gram scowled past me at the top of the stack of white banker boxes labeled GARDEN CLUB in orange block letters. “You would think that, in this computer age, we could come up with a better system of maintaining historical records than stuffing paper into boxes.”
Having worked in the Chimacam County Prosecutor’s office for the last fourteen months, I couldn’t agree more because we definitely featured an overabundance of paper historical records. Unfortunately, electronic solutions often required funds that would bust most rural counties’ budgets. That left me as the lowly administrative assistant whose duty it was to stuff paper into boxes—in my case, a couple dozen metal file “boxes” that bordered the windowless beige walls surrounding my desk.
“At least there are only three boxes,” I said, my ears detecting the whir of a laser printer coming to life. “Unless she’s back there trying to fill up another one.”
“Naomi passed a couple of days after the last board meeting, so I imagine Florence is making sure the records are up to date. Although why she couldn’t have done that before we arrived, I don’t have a clue.”
There was no point in my standing there like a lump when I had a lunch date with my boyfriend after I fulfilled my pack mule duties, so this mule was motivated to get a move on. I picked up the top box and headed for the front door. “While she’s finishing up, I’ll take this to the car.”
Gram opened the door for me. “We parked so far away. Are you sure you don’t want to pull the car into the driveway first? I know that’s heavy.”
“It’s not that heavy.” Just as the words came out of my mouth the contents shifted, propelling me forward.
“Charmaine Digby,” Gram called after me, using the parental tone that used to signal that I was in deep doo-doo. “I’ll never forgive myself if you spend the rest of the weekend in traction because I asked for your help.”
I glanced back over my shoulder. “Not to worry.” I sucked in a deep breath, my flabby arm muscles screaming for oxygen. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Back with the car that I could have sworn had been located a heckuva lot closer when I left it in the visitor parking area a few doors down.
“About time you got here,” an elderly man buttoned up in a tweedy cardigan said, quickening his pace as he approached.
My pounding heart didn’t need a sudden injection of adrenaline to kick it into high gear. Fortunately, I didn’t sense danger because short of tossing the box like a shot put at the old dude, I had no way to defend myself.
Huffing and puffing the last ten feet to my grandmother’s SUV, I balanced a corner of the box on the bumper while I fumbled with the tailgate latch. “I think … you have me … confused with someone else.”
He stepped up beside me. “Allow me to be of assistance, Miz Charmaine.”
I stared at the diminutive man with the steel wool hair and watched with some trepidation as he effortlessly popped the latch. Because I didn’t know him, but he seemed to know me.
Frowning, he helped me load the box into the back of the SUV. “Child, what do you have in here, rocks?”
“No, it’s—” It was none of his business. While the grandmother who raised me had trained me to be kind to my elders, she also valued her privacy. At least what little privacy she could carve out in a small coastal community dominated by a senior set fueled by local gossip. And since she wasn’t the least bit pleased to be collecting stacks of club newsletters instead of digging in a flower bed on this sunny October Saturday, I opted in favor of an evasive answer. “Actually, I don’t know. It’s not—”
“Yours?” He nodded. “I know. I saw them move the boxes out of Naomi’s place last week. You taking this one in as evidence?”
“Evidence?” Of what?
“I can’t imagine you’ll find anything very elucidatin’ in there. At least the police weren’t much interested in those old boxes when they processed the scene.”
I still didn’t know who this octogenarian was, other than the obvious—that he had been acquainted with the late Naomi Easley. But from his pattern of speech, he sounded like a transplant from the Deep South.
He gave me a hard look that I suspected had been intended to mirror the way I was staring. “Isn’t that what you and your friend, Detective Sixkiller, call it? Processin’ the scene?”
Okay, I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?” Because he couldn’t have made it more clear that he knew that Steve Sixkiller and I were a couple.
The man’s expression softened, a smile dancing at his thin lips. “Miz Charmaine, I know it’s been a few years, but don’t be a heartbreaker and tell me that you don’t remember me.”
Crap. That was exactly what I was going to have to tell him if he didn’t offer up something to clue me in.
“I’d have the Reuben with extra sauce on the side, and Jerome would have the tuna melt on …”
“Sourdough,” we said in unison.
While I remembered the lunch order the southern gentlemen never varied from when they came to Port Merritt to visit family, I didn’t recognize the lines of the kindly face looking at me, nor did I have a name to go with it.
I extended my limp noodle of an arm and shook his hand. “It’s been more than a few years.” Because I was probably
nineteen and still working summers at my great-uncle Duke’s diner the last time our paths crossed. “Mr. …”
“Armistead.” His watery blue eyes twinkled with good humor. “I’ll say that you haven’t changed a bit if you’ll do the same for me.”
Since I sported a thicker middle from eating my way through a divorce, and my jeans were doing nothing to conceal the saddlebags that had attached themselves to my thighs, he had a deal. “You got it, Mr. Armistead.”
“Leland, please. We’re old friends.”
Not really, but I could go along with that, too. Plus, I wasn’t picking up any nonverbal cues to cause concern. Except for the fact that this “old friend” clearly wanted something from me.
He inched closer. “So you can tell me. You don’t believe Naomi’s drownin’ was just an accident, do you?”
Despite just having worked up a sweat by walking a hundred yards, an icy shiver went down my spine. “I don’t have any reason to question the coroner’s findings.” And even if I did, since the Chimacam County Prosecutor/Coroner was my boss, I’d be committing career suicide to offer an unsolicited opinion.
“And yet, here you are at the scene of the crime,” Leland said, thumbing in the direction of the for-sale sign stationed in front of the condo across the street. “Like my daddy used to say, ‘It’s not a coincidence when you turn up where you’re supposed to be.’ ”
True, but I was going to be on the receiving end of an earful from my grandmother if I didn’t turn up on Florence’s doorstep in the next sixty seconds. “I’m sorry. I’m on a bit of tight schedule, so I wonder if we could continue this conversation another time.”
He patted my hand. “I get it. You’re not at liberty to divulge any information while you’re conductin’ an investigation.”
I didn’t know whether to thank Leland or set him straight. No coroner’s investigation, open or closed, had ever existed to determine the manner of Naomi Easley’s death. Since she’d obviously made the deadly decision to mix painkillers and alcohol before being found submerged in her bathtub, it hadn’t been deemed necessary. “I—”
“And I know these things take time, but I am at your service anytime you’d like me to make a statement. I’m sure Mavis feels the same way.”
I had no idea who he was talking about. “I’m sorry. Who’s Mavis?”
“Lives across the street.” Leland pointed at the manicured duplex in front of Gram’s car. “Had a key to Naomi’s house, so I got her to open the door when I couldn’t reach her by phone. That’s when Mavis discovered her cold as a mackerel in the tub, and I called the police to report the murder.”
Murder?!
Chapter Two
“LELAND ARMISTEAD CLEARLY doesn’t think Mrs. Easley’s drowning was accidental,” I said, laboring to keep up with Steve’s long strides after the door of the Roadkill Grill closed behind us.
He turned to me as I crawled into the cab of his Ford pickup. “Mr. Armistead’s entitled to his opinion. As is anyone else in town who would like to second-guess the opinion of the detective in charge of the investigation, and the coroner who carefully reviewed his report.”
“I’m sure it was a very thorough report.” Knowing Steve, painstakingly thorough.
“Then why are we having the same conversation we had three weeks ago?”
“Because drowning in your bathtub seems like a stupid way to die.”
“It’s not the smartest.” Steve started the truck. “Goes to show how washing down prescription painkillers with a bottle of wine can be a deadly idea.”
True. And that bit of wisdom should have been common knowledge after all the media attention that accompanied certain celebrity deaths. But …
“You’re stating that like that’s conclusive. Have you seen some toxicology results that I don’t know about?” Because when I had made copies of Naomi Easley’s death certificate for her family, the cause of death had not changed from the original Undetermined, pending Toxicology.
“Nope, too soon to get the report back from the crime lab, but I saw a couple of empty bottles next to the tub,” Steve said, pulling out of the parking lot. “And since Mr. Armistead agreed with the family members that Naomi Easley was someone who drank wine on a regular basis, with no signs of a struggle, it appeared that she did some serious self-medicating. Probably passed out and slipped under the surface of the water.”
I didn’t have any reason to doubt Steve’s professional opinion. Especially since Frankie Rickard, the Chimacam County Prosecutor/Coroner, the elected official who had declined pursuing anything beyond a standard death investigation, had agreed with his assessment. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Steve shot me a sideways glance. “Now that wasn’t so hard to say, was it?”
“Hey, it’s not like I’m trying to argue Mr. Armistead’s case for him. It’s just a weird way for someone to go.”
“I know. I saw something similar when I worked Homicide in Seattle. A guy a little older than us was found in his hot tub after a night of partying.”
Okay, so Naomi Easley’s death wasn’t especially unique. “But that was a homicide?”
“Nope. Based on the autopsy results, cause of death was accidental drowning, but his blood alcohol level of point two something had a lot to do with it.”
No doubt it had everything to do with it, but drowning in a hot tub seemed a heckuva lot more plausible than a bathtub. I was about to say so when my cell phone dinged with a text message.
Expecting news that my very pregnant best friend, Roxanne Fiske, had finally gone into labor, I pounced on my phone.
“Oh,” I said with a sigh, reading the message from my actress mother’s newest husband.
Heading over with something your mother wants you to have. You home?
After I responded that we were on our way there now, I turned to Steve. “Barry’s on his way over with something.”
“Again?”
In the five weeks since I had moved into Barry Ferris’s rental house, hardly a weekend went by that I didn’t see him arrive with some piece of furniture that my mother wouldn’t allow him to keep in their new home.
“Again. I’m sure he won’t stay long.” Just long enough to ensure that my chow mix, Fozzie, hadn’t scratched up the recently refinished hardwood floors.
“Any clue what it is this time?”
“Nada.” Fortunately, I hadn’t moved in with much furniture of my own, so Barry’s hand-me-downs weren’t entirely unwelcome.
Fifteen minutes later, my canine home alarm system alerted Steve and me to the high school teacher in his mid-fifties climbing out of his recently acquired Dodge pickup.
Waving as I followed Steve out the front door, my eyes zeroed in on the black behemoth strapped to the corners of the truck’s bed. “What is that?” And why the heck was it showing up at my house like an oversized pigeon come home to roost?
“An elliptical machine,” Barry said, injecting enough attitude into his voice to make it clear that he wasn’t happy that “Mom” had forced him to return one of his toys.
Steve stepped to the tailgate and started untying one of the back straps. “Looks like a nice one. I assume the missus would prefer one that will make her a latte while she pedals.”
All too aware of my mother’s champagne taste, I thought Steve had to be hitting pretty close to the mark with that assumption.
Squinting against the glare of the midday sun, Barry grabbed the strap on his side like he wanted to choke someone with it. “It squeaks.”
“Probably just needs a little lubrication,” Steve stated as gently as if he were diffusing a bomb.
“Probably.” Barry aimed that squint at me. “Only your mother decided that she needed to replace all the outdated equipment in the bedroom that she converted into a home gym. So the exercise bike is coming back, too.”
A new million-dollar house, a new pickup, and now a completely new home gym—all major expenditures
made by a Hollywood actress accustomed to having money. But that lucrative income had existed before she had fallen off the B-list and borrowed against the house in the Santa Monica hills that she’d been trying to sell for most of the last year.
“I don’t like the sound of that. Er … the spending, not the squeak.” Because my mother appeared to be rolling the dice that her big-budget movie premiering next week would revitalize her floundering career.
Although I didn’t mind the idea of getting a free exercise bike.
Barry didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. I could see the worry pulling at the corners of his mouth.
As Gram had bemoaned to me on several occasions, my former biology teacher had gotten a lot more than he’d bargained for with this marriage. But I’d had enough experience living through my mother’s first three marriages to know that this wasn’t something I wanted to get in the middle of.
With nothing left to say, I excused myself to put Fozzie in the backyard and then held the front door open for the men angling the piece of heavy equipment toward what had been an empty spare bedroom.
Barry winced as he dropped his side down with more force than I was sure he intended. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he said, his eyes tracking two dog-hair dust bunnies tumbling toward the doorway.
When he met my gaze I felt as guilty as when he caught me chewing gum in class twenty years back, and I made a quick exit to fetch a broom. “I was just about to do some housework when Steve stopped by to take me to lunch.”
“Sure you were,” Steve whispered as he followed me down the hall.
“Shhh, I don’t need my landlord to think that he made a big mistake when he rented me this house.”
“Trust me, that’s not the mistake he’s thinking about right now.”
Grabbing a broom from the laundry room, I had the sinking feeling that Steve couldn’t be more right.
Chapter Three
FIVE HOURS LATER, I was pouring Donna Littlefield a glass of Chablis at Eddie’s Place, where I had been tending bar on the weekends while our mutual pal, Roxanne, was on bed rest. “What do you know about Naomi Easley?”
Crazy, Stupid, Dead Page 1
