by Gayle Trent
“Hi, Juanita. It’s Daphne Martin. I was just concerned about you. When you were here earlier, you didn’t seem to be feeling well. I hope everything is all right. Please give me a call, okay?”
As I made the call, I noticed the postal worker leaving my mail. I put on a jacket and went outside to the mailbox. Sparrow darted between my feet as soon as I opened the door, but fortunately she didn’t run in the direction of the road. Having been a stray, I suppose she was used to the freedom the outdoors afforded her. But she liked her regular meals and comfy bed too much to wander around outside for long.
I opened the mailbox and took out the stack of mail. A small box was included—the sample of fabric softener I’d requested a couple weeks ago. I could already smell the fragrance through the box and was looking forward to giving the product a try.
I flipped through the other pieces of correspondence as I walked back toward the house. There was a letter marked “Urgent” from the bank. I groaned. An urgent letter from the bank couldn’t be good. How often does the bank send you a letter marked “Urgent” to tell you that everything is going great and that you have plenty of money?
I tucked the rest of the mail under my arm and opened the envelope. They were saying my checking account was overdrawn.
I hurried inside, deposited the other mail on the kitchen counter, grabbed my purse, and headed for the bank. This had to be mistake. I was diligent in my record keeping.
I found a parking spot as soon as I arrived and got out of the car. As I went into the building, Steve Franklin was leaving it.
“Good afternoon, Daphne,” he said.
“Hi, Steve.” Remembering the Maureen/Dr. Bainsworth/Steve Franklin connection, I added, “I realize you’re probably in a hurry, but may I ask you a quick question?”
“Shoot.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Myra Jenkins and I found Dr. Bainsworth’s body,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who might’ve disliked Dr. Bainsworth?”
“Only every man with a wife, fiancée, or significant other,” he said matter-of-factly. “The man was a ruthless womanizer.”
“I’d heard that about him,” I said. “Did you know him well? Was he your dentist?”
“No,” he said. “My dentist is in Kingsport.”
“What about Maureen?” I asked.
His lips tightened. “Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “I’m simply trying to find anyone who knew him well enough to have more information about him.”
“Maureen once patronized Dr. Bainsworth’s office, but he behaved abominably to her and she transferred to Dr. Farmer,” Mr. Franklin said. “I don’t think she’d care to discuss Dr. Bains-worth with anyone.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time.”
His face softened slightly. “Dr. Bainsworth was a jerk, Daphne. The police won’t have to look very hard to find a likely suspect in his murder. Don’t worry about that.”
I nodded and went on inside the bank. All the tellers were busy, so I got in line.
“We meet again. Twice in one day.”
I turned and saw that John, the skinny red-haired EIEIO member, had come to stand behind me. I smiled. “Didn’t you say you’re from Georgia?”
“Yep,” he said.
“I didn’t realize our little bank had branches that far afield,” I said.
“Aw, this trip ain’t for me. It’s for the EIEIO. They have bank accounts all over the country so that wherever we go, we can get what we need,” John said.
“That’s cool.”
He nodded. “Real cool. By the way, who was that girl who was at your house earlier . . . you know, just before we left? She looked a little green around the gills.”
“That was Juanita. She works at the Save-A-Buck. She didn’t appear to be feeling well, did she?”
“Nope. Did she say what was the matter?”
“No, she didn’t,” I said.
“Hope she ain’t contagious.”
A teller called, “Next!”
I stepped up to her window and explained my situation. She called someone else and then asked me to wait in the lobby. I sat down on a blue sofa that faced two leather wingback chairs and watched John take my place at the teller’s window. Juanita had seemed fine when she first arrived. It was only after seeing the EIEIO members in my kitchen that she felt the need to bolt. What was it about those Elvises that had spooked her?
The man I was to meet with promptly arrived and ushered me into a private office. Twenty-five minutes later, I left, relieved by the knowledge that it was the bank—not I—that had made the erroneous calculation and that my account was not overdrawn after all.
I got home, and Sparrow came running. She was ready to have some food before curling up in her bed under my desk. If only all of life’s problems could be solved as easily as taking care of Sparrow and keeping my bank records straight.
I had a message from Ben, and I tried to return his call but I was directed to his voice mail. I let him know I’d phoned, but I didn’t say much more than that.
The dishwasher had run its cycle, so I opened it and began putting the dishes away. I’d almost finished my task when Officers Halligan and Kendall came to my door.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “what can I do for you?”
“May we come in, Ms. Martin?” Officer Kendall asked.
“Sure. I’ve got nothing to hide.” I gave him a pointed look.
I led them into the living room. I perched on the chair, and Kendall sat on the sofa. Halligan remained standing. He took a small evidence bag from his breast pocket.
“We found this at the crime scene,” he said, holding the bag out to me. “Is it yours?”
It was a diamond stud earring, and it appeared to be at least half a carat. “In my dreams.”
“I’d prefer a yes or no answer,” Halligan said.
“Then no, it isn’t mine,” I said.
“May we look through your jewelry to ascertain you don’t have a matching earring?” Kendall asked.
“Or do we need to come back with a search warrant?” Halligan reached for the evidence bag.
I handed him the earring and told him and Kendall to look wherever they’d like. I led them to the bedroom. “That’s my jewelry case there on the chest. I’ll stay all the way back here so you can be assured I’m not taking anything out of it.”
I watched as Halligan took my jewelry box and dumped its contents onto my bed. Great. That’d take at least an hour to return to some semblance of order. After going through every piece of jewelry I had, they concluded that I did not have the matching diamond earring.
“We’re going over to Ms. Jenkins’s house now,” Halligan said. “If I find out you’ve called and alerted her that we’re on our way, you’ll be charged with obstruction of justice. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I said.
I doubted Myra was even home from the movie yet. And so what if it was her earring? The police already knew both she and I had been at the office that night. How could an earring be more damning than our finding the body?
IT WAS NEARLY seven P.M. and pitch-dark on that moonless night as I was driving Myra and me to the Sunoco. Both of us were uncharacteristically quiet. I’d been bummed all day because, frankly, it had been a crappy day. Myra had found Cecil a bit boring when stripped of his Elvis persona. Plus, the movie had been a bomb, and she’d come home to find Halligan and Kendall waiting for her. The earring wasn’t hers either. Overall, we were both rather lost in our own thoughts.
Suddenly, I glanced up into the sky and, thanks to the streetlights, saw hundreds of crows circling the treetops. I knew they were roosting, as crows are apt to do in winter; but it was still an eerie sight. “Ooh, Myra, look.”
I noticed movement to my right and saw that Myra was making the sign of the cross. “What’re you doing?” I asked her. “You aren’t Catholic.”
“So what? I’ve seen them do it on TV when something bad is fixing t
o happen and they don’t have time to pray.”
“What bad is fixing to happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But all those crows have gathered to watch whatever it is, and I’m thinking it’s got to be something really bad.”
“The crows are going to bed,” I said. “They know there’s safety in numbers.”
Myra shook her head. “Haven’t you ever seen that Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds?”
“I have. As a matter of fact, the movie is based on a novella written by my namesake, Daphne du Maurier,” I said. “Besides, the first bird to peck Tippi Hedren in the head in that movie was a seagull.”
“So? The crows didn’t waste any time getting in on the revolt,” she said. “And you’ll think seagull when those crows swoop down out of those trees and start pecking your brains out when we get out of this car.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” I said.
“Me too,” she said. “Now I know we’re doomed.”
“Crows are not portents of doom,” I argued.
“Says you,” Myra said. “Alfred Hitchcock and Edgar Allan Poe knew different. And you see where they both are now, don’t you? They’re dead.”
“Of course they’re dead. Did you expect them to live forever?” I asked.
She huffed. “Let’s just go in and talk with this woman for whatever it’s worth.”
“Myra,” I said gently, “we’ll get through this. We didn’t do anything wrong, and we’ll be exonerated.”
She nodded. “Sorry. I guess I’m just not used to having runins with the law like you are. You know, what with your finding Yodel Watson dead, and then the police checking your cake after Fred died.”
“They checked all the food at the party where Fred got sick.” I sighed, parked the car, and we got out.
“How do we do this?” Myra asked before we entered the convenience store. “We can’t flash a badge and tell her we have a few questions for her. . . . Can we? You don’t have any sort of badge, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Maybe something from a cake show somewhere at home, but I don’t think that kind of badge would convince anyone they have to talk to me.”
“I’d talk to you for cake.”
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I think that is why you talked to me the first time.”
“I believe you’re right,” she said.
When we opened the convenience store door, Myra scrunched up her nose in distaste. “I don’t think these people got Governor Kaine’s memo about the smoking ban.”
“That only applies to restaurants,” I whispered.
“Well, maybe so, but Hot Lips over there is gonna need an iron lung if she keeps that up.”
“Hot Lips” was, naturally, the woman we needed to speak with, and at the moment, she was using one cigarette to ignite another before stubbing the first into an overflowing ashtray on a stool by her side.
“Hi there,” I said, smiling as I approached the counter. “How are you this evening?”
Hot Lips narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask you about the guy who came in here Saturday night just after the dentist was killed,” I said. “You know, the man who had blood on his sleeve.”
“And looked like Elvis,” Myra added.
Hot Lips blew smoke in my face. “You a cop?”
“No.” I looked around the store to make sure Myra and I were the only ones in there. “We’re the ones suspected of the crime.”
She nodded. “So if you can pin it on this Elvis guy . . .”
“It’d make things a lot simpler for us,” Myra said. “So what did you see that night?”
“Just what I told the cops,” she said, taking a draw off her cigarette. “Some guy trying to look like he was Elvis came in to buy a Coke. I noticed he had blood on his sleeve. Kinda grossed me out.” She blew another breath of smoke at us. “I asked if he’d hurt himself. I especially needed to know if he’d hurt himself on the cooler or something. I’m the night manager here, and if the guy had come in and complained to my boss the next day saying he got hurt here, it could’ve cost me my job.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Said he was with a buddy whose nose was bleeding and some must’ve got on his jacket,” she said.
“What type of jacket was it?” I asked. I was thinking that if it would have had to have been professionally dry-cleaned before the next performance, we had a good shot at finding our guy. There were only two or three dry cleaners in Brea Ridge.
“Blue,” Hot Lips said. “Dark blue.”
“What kind of material?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Suede, maybe. Could’ve been that fake stuff, though,” she said.
“Was he a fat Elvis or a skinny Elvis?” Myra asked.
“Uh . . . he leaned more toward skinny, I’d say,” said Hot Lips. “Although I don’t believe I’d call him bony.”
Myra leaned as close as she dared. “Was he wearing a diamond earring?”
“I don’t think so . . . not that I remember.”
“Old or young?” Myra asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, taking a draw off the cigarette and expelling smoke through her nose. “He had on those big sunglasses.”
“At ten o’clock at night?” I asked.
“Yeah. I thought he looked ridiculous too, but I guess it was part of his costume or whatever.” She shrugged. “It was weird. He kept looking out the window. I thought maybe he was watching for his ride. After hearing the dentist was killed, I thought maybe somebody had been driving the getaway car for him.”
“The getaway car driver didn’t do such a hot job if the Elvis couldn’t run right out and jump in the car,” I said.
“I heard that,” Hot Lips said. “I wouldn’t want that guy for my wheelman. You know . . . if I ever needed one.”
“Me either,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” she said. “That’s really a shame, you know. Dr. Bainsworth was a good guy.”
“I guess he came in here a lot?” I asked.
“Yeah. Came in about every day for his Diet Mountain Dew fix.” She barked out a husky chuckle. “He was always fussing at me about the smokes.” She shook her head. “Oh well. Hope y’all find your guy and stay out of jail.”
“Yeah,” Myra said. “Us too. Thanks.”
We went back outside and got into the car, both of us reeking of smoke.
“Well, now what?” Myra asked.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the Elvis who came in here on Saturday night is our guy, which means we have to work quickly to find out which one of the Elvis impersonators killed the dentist before they leave town on Saturday and we’re—”
“Screwed?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You’re still assuming it was somebody in the EIEIO,” Myra said. “Don’t forget it could’ve been somebody who knew they were coming to town and decided it was the perfect disguise.”
“Did we ever kid ourselves that this would be easy?” I sighed. “Let’s start first thing tomorrow morning by calling every dry cleaner in Brea Ridge. If that jacket was suede, our Elvis would have had to get it professionally cleaned to get the blood out of it, right?”
“I imagine he would.”
“And maybe Scottie could tell us if one of the Elvises needed a spare jacket for Sunday’s performance,” I said.
“Unless he’s the one who needed it.”
I glanced at Myra. “You’re right. If none of the local cleaners have the jacket, we’ll try every one within a twenty-five-mile radius.”
“But don’t you need to work on your cakes and stuff?” Myra asked.
“I’ll do that tonight,” I said. “And after we speak with the dry cleaners, let’s talk with some of the people who worked with the dentist.”
“But the office is closed,” Myra said. “The police are going through the files and records and everythin
g. I don’t even know if they’ll open the office back up at all without another dentist to come in and take over the practice.”
“Still, we can surely find one or two people who worked there, can’t we? I mean, you were his patient. You’re acquainted with some of the members of his staff, aren’t you?”
“Well, sure, but I don’t know where they live,” she said.
“Do you know anyone who would know where they live or where they hang out so we might be able to meet with them?” I asked.
She thought about it for a second. “Yeah. Tanya. I’ll give her a call as soon as I get home.” She sniffed her jacket. “Right after I’ve showered and put my clothes in the washer.”
CHAPTER
Eight
LIKE MYRA, I was eager to shower. When I got home and washed the day’s frustrations—and Hot Lips’s smoke—down the drain, I realized I was exhausted. This whole dentist-jail-Elvis-Ben ordeal had left me physically and emotionally empty. I felt as if I could crawl into bed and sleep for a week. But I still had work to do.
I put my hair up and then slipped on clean, crisp cotton pajamas and my slippers. Then I went into the kitchen and tied my apron around my waist. I had made the brownies that morning. Now I needed to get to work on the cookies. I got my recipe box out of the cabinet and found my favorite chocolate chunk cookie recipe. I turned on the oven to 350 degrees and then got out my flour, butter, white and brown sugars, eggs, baking soda, salt, and vanilla. I doubled the recipe so I’d have plenty to put on the party trays.
I mixed up the cookie dough and used a cookie scoop to place it onto the parchment-paper-lined baking sheet. The oven clicked, letting me know it had reached the proper temperature, and I placed the first batch of cookies into the oven. I covered the remaining dough with plastic wrap and set that mixing bowl aside.
I got out another mixing bowl, some cinnamon, and a snickerdoodle recipe. While the chocolate chunk cookies were baking, I stirred up the snickerdoodles. When they were done, I made oatmeal raisin cookies. Finally, I had enough cookies for the party trays. In the morning, I could get up and dip some pretzels in both milk and white chocolate, decorate the sheet cakes, prepare the party trays, and make my delivery to Save-A-Buck.
