My heartbeat quickened when I thought I heard a banging noise outside the front door. I froze and waited. Was it the maintenance man emptying the trash in the hallway closet? When I heard the elevator ding and the sounds fade away, I quickly searched all of the drawers and shelves, but found nothing else that belonged to me.
I went back through the kitchen and into the living room, past the two seating areas on the left, and into the master bedroom. The bedcovers had been pulled loosely over the pillows on Chad’s side, and one pair of men’s underwear lay just under the bed. I started to make the bed, but felt a little sick as the faint smell of a woman’s flowery perfume wafted up from the pillow. Certainly not mine. Inside the master bathroom, I opened the closet doors—Chad’s clothing was arranged by color and season. While I lived there, none of my stuff had been allowed to disrupt the order of his closet or even the bathroom counters. Of course I found no knife, no recipe cards, no more cutlery, no nothing. I felt frustrated and foolish.
Back in the living room, one shaft of light streamed through the front window, broken into jagged shadows by the coconut palm just outside. The sun lit up the tidy piles of paper on Chad’s expansive and modern desk, burnishing the tiger maple to a soft bronze glow. This was the only place in the apartment he allowed clutter—and not much of it at that. Grabbing the feather duster from my crate, I brought it back to the desk and began to work, straightening the stack of papers, tucking a Cross pen into the top drawer, and lightly brushing the striations of the maple surface.
As I dusted, I riffled through the paperwork, which was filled with the kind of incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo that a divorce lawyer lives on. My heart hammered when I came across some handwritten notes about an upcoming settlement. Chad had strong handwriting, manly and brisk but with a hint of softness—just the characteristics I fell hard for on first meeting him in the bookstore. These notes hinted at a difficult divorce (as if any were easy)—he had pressed so hard writing the words “inform M’s lawyer no settlement will be accepted that includes any part of the client’s home, furniture, vehicles, or Irish setter dog” that the same words were indented on the paper underneath. During my brief tenure in this apartment, I’d gotten a little window into how ruthless Chad could be in negotiation. I was probably—no, certainly—better off out of the relationship. Thank God I didn’t marry him and later suffer through a scalding and dispiriting divorce.
I heard a noise in the hallway and instinctively reached for the knife in my back pocket. As if a serrated steak knife would offer the least bit of protection.
The door to the apartment swung open.
“Drop your weapon and freeze where you are! Put your hands in the air!” called a fierce voice.
I let the feather duster clatter onto the desk, followed by the knife, and raised my hands above my head.
7
“When I made food, I made a tribe.”
—Kim Severson
Officer Torrence crouched in a scary combat stance with his gun trained on me, looking even more substantial than he had yesterday at the station. Behind him was a stocky female cop, and just yards behind them hovered Chad. Leona, possibly the nosiest neighbor on the island, peered around his shoulder.
“Step into the center of the room with your hands on your head,” said Torrence.
I shuffled forward, tears on my cheeks, knees wobbling. “I can explain everything. I work for Paradise Cleaning,” I squeaked, and plunged my hand into my pocket to retrieve and show him Connie’s ring of keys.
“Hands on your head!” barked the cop again.
I slapped my hand back to my skull. Chad winced in the background as my keys clanked onto his Italian limestone floor.
“She’s lying,” said Chad. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. She could own the last bottle of Clorox on earth and I wouldn’t have invited her to clean my toilets.”
I could feel an unattractive line of mucus trailing down my upper lip. Even scared to death, I was bursting with a powerful and inappropriate urge to cackle—I was losing it. “The last bottle of Clorox on earth?” I lapsed into helpless giggles, crossing my legs so I wouldn’t pee on the floor.
Torrence lowered his gun and blinked in sudden recognition. “Miss Mills? We’re going to take you directly to the station to straighten this all out.”
“It’s Snow,” I said. “Hayley Snow. But don’t worry—a lot of people make that mistake.” People over fifty who even remembered who Hayley Mills was, I thought but didn’t say. I was in enough trouble without insinuating he was over the hill. “Can I bring my things with me? Connie will kill me if I lose her equipment.” Connie was going to kill me anyway—and I couldn’t blame her.
After a brief discussion with the cops, Chad declined to waste his time coming to the station. But he insisted that he wanted the book thrown at me. As we shuffled out into the hallway, he disappeared with a bang into his apartment. Leona pushed into the elevator for the ride to the ground floor, her big ears (which poked unattractively through her thin blond hair) soaking it all in. I said nothing, knowing every detail would be reported faithfully to the mah-jongg group that met by the pool tomorrow morning.
We adjourned to the police station, my cleaning supplies in the trunk, the police in the front seat of the cruiser and me in back again, secured behind the metal mesh. But this trip was no pseudofriendly invitation, like yesterday’s had started out.
Connie was already pacing in the vestibule of the KWPD when I arrived with my double-barreled escort. Her face had turned a shade of red bordering on maroon and her eyes were a steely blue, not soft turquoise like they looked when she was happy. She was F-U-R-I-O-U-S, furious. With me.
Detective Bransford came around the corner and into the waiting area. “Thanks for coming down,” he told Connie. “We’ll be with you shortly.”
The rest of us trooped upstairs to the room I’d visited the day before, where I was waved to the seat facing the wall clock on the near side of the table. Officer Torrence thumped the carton of supplies onto the floor and took the chair next to me. Bransford leaned against the wall, his tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on his nose and the sleeves of a white-and-blue pin-striped button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows. Underneath my anxiety and fright, and as ridiculous as it might have been, I couldn’t help feeling a little quivery. Those feelings evaporated once I noticed the newspaper sticking out of his back pocket. I was too far away to read the type, but there was definitely a photo of a pie—the exact photo used to illustrate my article.
“Miss Snow, would you explain why you were trespassing in Mr. Lutz’s apartment?” he asked.
Choosing the right words so I wouldn’t be lying, I told him how it wasn’t exactly trespassing, as I worked part-time for my friend and today was one of my shifts and Chad’s apartment was the third one I’d cleaned today. I pointed to the box of supplies.
“That’s the bottom line,” I said. “But besides that, Chad kept some very important objects that were mine when we broke up, and I have to be honest, I did think I might find them while I was cleaning.” I explained about the missing knives and the family heirloom recipes. “My mother begged me to copy them before leaving home,” I added, “but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. They mean so much to her—and to me—there was no reason why he should refuse to give them back. No reason at all.” I tapped my fingers on the detective’s desk for emphasis. Twice.
And then I told the smallest stretcher: how there’d been a misunderstanding over which apartments Connie wanted me to clean. Chad’s place was definitely on today’s schedule and since I knew exactly what his quirks were, I figured she would want me to do his too. I didn’t think it would hurt to look around for my stuff while I was there cleaning.
“So you came to the apartment to remove some of his belongings.”
“That’s not fair!” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “It was my stuff and I’d asked him several times to return it.” I straightened my shoulders and tried to look professi
onal. “But the point is, I was doing a job for Connie.”
“You must have been aware that this was a crime scene?”
“Look, this is Wednesday, the day he wanted his place cleaned. Obviously, if it had been marked off, I never would have gone in,” I said. “But there was no signage, no yellow crime tape, nothing. Just some leftover fingerprint dust once I got inside. I would have thought Chad would be grateful that I was going to clean that mess up.” Which wasn’t true—I never expected Chad would be happy. I hoped he wouldn’t find out.
The detective shook his head and asked one of the officers to bring Connie into the room. As she entered, I flashed her the most pitiful pleading look I could muster. She took the seat across from me.
“Miss Arp, Miss Snow says she was working for you and that’s why she was in Mr. Lutz’s apartment. Care to comment on that?”
She stared at me for the longest time and then nodded. “She’s telling the truth. She does work for me and Chad Lutz was on today’s schedule.”
Phew.
The detective shifted his gaze back to me.
“Mr. Lutz said you were savaging the papers on his desk when—”
“I was dusting!” I threw my hands up in outrage—and Chad said I had a tendency to be histrionic—and then pointed to Officer Torrence. “Ask these guys. Didn’t I have a feather duster in my hand when you burst in?”
The cop nodded. “She had the duster in one hand and the knife in the other.”
Bransford stared at me again, then turned to thank Connie for coming in. “You’re free to go.” She picked up her carton of cleaning supplies and started for the door without looking at me.
“See you back at the ranch!” I called to her retreating form. She didn’t answer.
The detective pulled the newspaper from his pocket, smoothed it out on the table, and tapped my byline. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us about this?”
“Just that it might be a long time before I have a craving for key lime pie?” I tried. No one smiled. “The timing was not fortuitous,” I said. “But you can ask the editor at the paper. That piece was in the queue for almost a month—I sent it in even before Chad and I broke up. I wrote it on spec and there was no guarantee they were going to publish it, never mind when. But it’s not like I wrote it last week and then got the bright idea to poison Chad’s new girlfriend.” I stopped to take a deep breath. “Why aren’t you looking at him?”
He ignored my question. “I thought your editor was the deceased Kristen Faulkner.”
“She was the co-owner of the magazine I hope to work for—a different entity from the local newspaper,” I said stiffly.
He made me hash through another series of questions about my aspirations to become the food critic at Kristen’s magazine and her aspirations to win my boyfriend. And I did my best to explain why these connections were unrelated to the murder.
“Where does your job stand in relation to Ms. Faulkner’s death?”
“That’s a darn good question. Look,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “You’ve seen the security down at the Truman Annex. How would I even get into Chad’s apartment to poison Kristen?”
Officer Torrence took a step forward and deposited Connie’s key ring on the table, the same keys I’d dropped on the floor in Chad’s place. “Exhibit one.”
I should have thought of the keys before asking the damning question. I could only hope they’d believe I was too dumb to pull off a murder.
When I was finally dismissed, I found Connie had left for home without me. So I phoned Eric and asked if he could swing by to give me a ride back to the Truman Annex to collect my bike. It wouldn’t have hurt me one bit to walk the twenty minutes across the island, but I needed the company.
When he pulled up in his Mustang convertible painted with scenes of sea life, I almost burst into tears—I was that relieved to see him. I slid into the passenger seat and began filling him in on the day’s debacle. Sniffling all the way through, of course. I’d cried more over the past two days than I had in years. I didn’t like it one bit. As we drove past Voltaire’s bookstore on the corner of Eaton, my mother called.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and cheerful. “Eric and I were just headed out for a drink.” I waved crossed fingers at Eric.
“You sound a little funny, Hayley,” she said. “Are you coming down with a cold?”
This time my problems were too close to the surface to contain and I spilled out most of the story. Including the bit about the poisoned pie and my article, because what was the point of holding anything back now?
“Come home,” Mom said. “I’ve got your room ready. I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed tonight. And make some cookies. It’s almost Thanksgiving anyway. Everyone’s hiring holiday help. You can probably get your job back at the bookstore—just for the time being while you figure out the next step.”
She’d always been big on my coming home while I identified the next direction my life should take. She’ll be saying the same thing when she’s ninety and I’m seventy and I’m mad at my husband because he forgot to take out the trash. If I ever snagged a husband. Prospects looked dim right now.
“I can’t come home. I’ve been told not to leave the island,” I said. Better to tell her that than try to explain what a complete loser I felt like at the moment. And how landing this food critic job and figuring out a way to stay in town was the only path I could see to resuscitate my battered self-esteem. And how I’d watched her struggle with her own self-confidence my entire life because she didn’t have a focus outside of me and Dad. And food. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Eric double-parked alongside my scooter and shifted into neutral.
“I guess she’s right,” I told him. “There’s not much point in hanging around here, really.”
Eric just looked at me. “At what point did your mother give up on her life?” he asked finally. “Even younger than you, right?”
I started to protest. “Maybe she didn’t give up. Maybe it was totally the right thing for her to become a housewife and mother. Not everyone can be a rock star. And to tell you the truth, she was a rock star as a parent.” I blinked and squared my shoulders.
He gave me the inscrutable shrink look that means he believes I’m copping out.
“I know. I know. I have to figure out whether the universe is telling me to pack up and go home, or whether it’s just the voice of my neurotic inner child, clamoring for a life path that’s a little easier.”
He busted out laughing. “That’s not the way I would have put it, but you definitely got the concept.”
My phone chirped again and the number from my father’s office flashed onto the screen. I heaved a dramatic sigh and accepted the call.
“Hayley Catherine,” he said. “Your mother informed me that you’ve been arrested.”
“I wasn’t arrested, Dad. There was a small misunderstanding and I was invited down to the police station to straighten things out.” I screwed up my face and stuck my tongue out at Eric, who was rolling his eyes at my description.
“I agree with your mother this time,” he continued. “It’s time to come home and get a real job. You’re wasting your talents and your education down there. Do you need money for a lawyer? Or a ticket home?”
I assured him that things were under control and that I’d seriously consider his input and, yes, let him know the instant I needed legal advice. Because his nightmare was having someone in his family choose an attorney based on an ad in the Yellow Pages and then end up in jail for half a lifetime after they were too dumb to use his connections. I hadn’t bothered to tell him that no one my age would even think to search the Yellow Pages.
“What’s up with that?” I asked Eric once I’d hung up. “Don’t you find it odd that my mother would call my father and tell him all my problems when they’ve been divorced for years and maybe spoken five times in the interim?”
“They obviously still have a strong
connection,” he said. “More separation issues you could explore in therapy.” He flashed a double eyebrow raise for emphasis.
I got out of the car and slammed the door. “Thanks for the lift.”
Connie had already gone upstairs by the time I got home. But Ray’s bicycle wasn’t chained outside and the light was on in her room. Probably a good time for a heartfelt, double-knee-down, beg-for-mercy apology. I stumped up the stairs, Evinrude padding behind, and tapped on her door.
“Connie?” I tapped again when she didn’t answer. “Can I come in for a sec?”
I took her “mmmrf” as a yes and opened the door. She was in bed reading a book I’d loaned her—My Life in France by Julia Child. I adored that book—Julia had fallen in love with Paris and French food the way I had with Key West. And it took her a long time to find the right man too, which gave me hope.
I sucked in a breath and smiled at Connie. “I’m so sorry about everything. I just want you to know that I would have cleaned that apartment so well you could have served supper to my stepmother on his floor. And that’s saying something.” I chuckled, longing for her to lose the disapproving expression and join me laughing. But she didn’t.
“I appreciate that, but Chad already called and canceled my contract. And trust me, once the word gets out, that will be the end of any referrals from the Truman Annex.”
I started to protest—no one would take his word for it, and she had plenty of references from around town—but Connie broke through.
“You should have heard his voice, Hayley. Stone cold. I worked my butt off during this trial period with him, dusting underneath every stupid artifact and spit-shining the tiles in all three bathrooms, and now it’s all over.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which stuck up like the stand of wheat grass I’d planted for the cat so he wouldn’t miss going outside. “Counting that income, I was just about breaking even. And now?” She shrugged her shoulders and tried to hold in her tears. “I could lose the boat and everything I’ve worked for.”
An Appetite for Murder Page 6
