Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  One officer kept his gun drawn on us while the other two first patted us down, then cuffed us. The pat down was humiliating, the cuffing painful. I think he purposefully tightened the cuffs to cut off the circulation in my wrists. I fought back the tears that stung at my eyes and stifled a whimper.

  One of the officers, a thirty-something guy whose name tag read Riley, began reciting the Miranda warning to us. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  I turned my head slightly and started to mouth, “I’m sorry” to Blake, but two flashes of black behind his right shoulder caught my eye. Craft and Remick! They must have seen the patrol cars and dashed out Suzette’s back door.

  “You have the right to speak to an attorney—”

  “They’re getting away!” I yelled, pointing my chin in the direction of the strip of grass that separated Suzette’s townhouse from the next group of four connected homes. “You’ve got to stop them.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked one of the cops who grabbed hold of my arm.

  “The men who broke into Suzette Stephanovich’s house. They ran out the back. I saw them.”

  “Nice try, lady. We’ve got our burglars right here.”

  “—And to have an attorney present during any questioning,” continued Riley.

  “No you don’t,” I insisted. “We pulled up right before you arrived. Your burglars are the guys who own that SUV, and they’re getting away.”

  The cops looked at each other, unsure whether or not to believe me. Riley cut short the Miranda. “I’ll stay here with them,” he said. “You two check out these phantom burglars.”

  The other two cops jumped into their squad cars and peeled off down the street and around the corner.

  By this time, a sizable crowd of senior citizen gawkers had gathered on the sidewalks on either side of the street. I hoped they all suffered from cataracts and wouldn’t recognize me again. These people were my target market, but standing there in handcuffs, I wasn’t the best advertisement for my fledgling business.

  “Those aren’t the robbers, you idiot!”

  Blake, Riley, and I turned as a large woman exited the first townhouse in the group of townhouses next to Suzette’s, the one on the other side of the strip of grass. She marched toward us, a Bichon Frise nearly buried in the voluminous sleeves of her pink and orange paisley caftan.

  “I told 911 two men. I may be getting old, and my eyesight may not be what it used to be, but I still know the difference between a man and a woman.” She pointed at me. “Does she look like a man to you?”

  The Bichon yapped in agreement, its pink ribbon-bedecked head bobbing up and down.

  “You called in the breakin, ma’am?” asked Riley.

  “That’s right.” She bobbed her own head in time with her dog’s. “I was watering the plants in my bedroom when that black car, that one right there,” she said, pointing to the SUV, “pulled up into Suzette’s driveway. Two men dressed in black got out and headed around back. So Fifi and I went downstairs to see what they were up to. They ducked behind Suzette’s azalea bushes and pried open her bathroom window. That’s when I called 911. They ran out the back door a moment ago and cut through to the next street.”

  Thank goodness for busybody neighbors! Whoever this woman was, I wanted to adopt her. “Any chance you could remove the cuffs now?” I asked Riley.

  “Not a chance, lady. For all I know, you’re accomplices of the other two.”

  That’s me, the Fashionista Felon. Dressed in Ralph Lauren and wearing Tory Burch on my feet, I break into retirees’ homes with the files and picks I carry in my mustard Milly Tote. I kept my sarcasm to myself, though, figuring Riley would take it as a confession. Besides, Blake was giving me The Look. I know when to behave. Sometimes. This was definitely one of those times.

  Riley realized he hadn’t finished Mirandizing us and started over from the beginning. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney, and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Got it?”

  Got it? I didn’t think that was part of the Miranda warning, but maybe the courts accepted paraphrasing. Both Blake and I nodded.

  A few minutes later Riley’s radio squawked. “We’ve got them,” said one of the other cops. “We’re heading to the station. Bring in the other two.”

  Blake and I were escorted to the remaining patrol car where Riley held the top of our heads as we awkwardly maneuvered ourselves into the back seat without the use of our arms. Not an easy task.

  “My car is still running,” said Blake.

  “And my purse is on the front passenger seat.” I added.

  Riley turned off the Camry’s engine, grabbed my Milly, and locked the door. He pocketed Blake’s keys and unceremoniously tossed my Milly onto the extremely cluttered and messy passenger seat next to him. I cringed, hoping Milly survived the greasy Burger King wrappers. I also wondered if he would have just driven off, leaving our car and my Milly for anyone to steal, had we not said something.

  THIRTEEN

  I’ve always had tremendous respect for the police. They put their lives on the line everyday to ensure our safety. However, I have no tolerance for stupidity, and right now Blake and I were the victims of the very definition of gross stupidity.

  As we drove toward the Bernards Township police station, scenes from every law enforcement drama I’d ever watched flashed before my eyes. If there was any truth to any of them, I knew the drill. Once we arrived, the cops would lead Blake into one interrogation room and me into another. We’d each sit for hours in a hot, stuffy, windowless room while some detective tried to coerce us into admitting to a crime we hadn’t committed.

  I’d already been questioned by the police for something I didn’t do. Let them pick on someone else for a change. Like the real criminals.

  So imagine my shock when we arrived to find Detective Loretta Menendez waiting for us.

  “Why are they cuffed?” she asked.

  “We didn’t know if they were accomplices,” said Riley.

  “They’re not accomplices.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “We caught them outside the vic’s house.”

  Menendez turned to me. “Didn’t I warn you to leave the investigating to me?”

  “But—”

  “Butt out, Mrs. Elliott. I have half a mind to let Bernards Township lock you up overnight to scare some sense into you. This isn’t a game. Stop playing Miss Marple.”

  Miss Marple? I resented the little old lady reference. Call me Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden or Veronica Mars, but do not compare me to the septuagenarian Miss Jane Marple! She’s old enough to be my mother.

  Besides, if it weren’t for me, Menendez wouldn’t have a clue about Not-Sid’s killer. Not that I had any clues, either, but I had uncovered Not-Sid’s identity and Craft and Remick’s plot to break into the homes of Not-Sid’s dates. Which led directly to Craft’s and Remick’s capture. Exactly where would Detective Menendez be had I not butted in?

  However, one look at Blake and I knew to keep my mouth firmly shut. No sense trying to douse a fire with oil. I’d wind up singed to a crisp, and he’d have every right to spout a few dozen I-told-you-so’s. Instead, I offered the detective a contrite nod of my head.

  Detective Menendez ordered Riley to uncuff us. He looked annoyed, but he complied. I don’t know if a Union County detective can give orders to a Somerset County patrolman, but he didn’t seem to want to test out any theories to the contrary.

  Even though we hadn’t been shackled for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, it felt like hours. Spasms of pain continued rocketing up my arms and shooting across my back muscles, after being freed from the restraints. My hands were numb, and red marks encircled my wrists where the
metal had dug into my flesh. I shook my hands to get the circulation going, then rubbed at my sore wrists.

  Riley handed me my Milly, now sporting a greasy French fry impression on one side, then reached into his pocket and tossed Blake his car keys. “You’re free to go,” he said.

  “How are we supposed to get back to our car?” asked Blake, rubbing his own wrists.

  Riley looked to Menendez for an answer.

  “I can’t take them,” she said. “I need to question the other two you hauled in.”

  Riley grimaced. “Wait here. I’ll take you as soon as I can.”

  *

  As soon as I can morphed into when I get around to it, and when I get around to it looked like it might stretch into next Tuesday. After waiting half an hour, Blake called for a cab, but Bernards Township isn’t exactly an urban mecca, and we waited another half hour before one showed up. By the time we retrieved our car and arrived home, it felt like next Tuesday.

  Blake and I hadn’t spoken to each other from the moment we left the police station. I’ve lived with my husband long enough to pick up on his moods. The thought balloon suspended over his head contained dark puffs of steam. I didn’t blame him for being angry. After all, it’s not every day a mild-mannered, by-the-book college professor is hauled off in handcuffs, but this really wasn’t my fault. He had every right to be angry. Just not at me. However, I don’t think he saw it that way, and I was too chicken to broach the subject.

  Our marriage has succeeded for so long because we provide balance for each other. I’m the Yin to Blake’s Yang. Confrontation plays no part in our marriage. Or at least it hadn’t until the day I told Blake about Relatively Speaking. Ever since, I’ve sensed a huge confrontation building, and at the moment, my tingling Spidey senses told me that confrontation was about to blow up in my face. So I took the coward’s way out. As soon as Blake unlocked the front door, I made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Five years ago, while still gainfully employed, I had designed a scarf pattern that became the next big thing, not quite along the lines of the quintessential Hermès scarf, but successful enough that the company bigwigs parlayed the pattern into licensing agreements for everything from clothing to linens to home furnishings.

  As an employee, I didn’t share in the big bucks they raked in, but they did surprise me at the end of the year with a bonus check equal to six month’s salary. I deposited half the money in Connor’s and Brooke’s college accounts and spent the rest on a master bathroom redo, transforming our outdated not-renovated-since-Eisenhower-was-in-the-White-House bathroom into a spa retreat, complete with Jacuzzi garden tub.

  At the moment my Jacuzzi garden tub called to me.

  After twisting on the faucets, dumping in three heaping scoops of fizzing chamomile bath salts, and stripping, I settled in for a long soak. With any luck, by the time my skin pruned, Blake’s logical brain would overcome the confrontational storm brewing inside him.

  Or so I hoped.

  However, as soon as the water filled high enough for me to turn on the jets, the bathroom door opened. “Go away,” I said, my eyes closed.

  “Not a chance. Hold out your hand.”

  Intrigued, I complied without opening my eyes. Blake placed a wine glass in my outstretched hand. I took a sip as he settled into the tub alongside me.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  I sighed. There was no escape, but at least I didn’t sense any signs of confrontation in his voice. And he had brought me a glass of Moscato. Still, I responded by saying, “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  “Do you?”

  He laced his fingers through mine. Not what I expected. Maybe I didn’t know what he was going to say. I opened my eyes and glanced sideways, seeing no angry slant to his mouth, no dark puffs of smoke in that thought balloon hovering over his head. Instead, I noted concern. And love.

  I sighed again. “Maybe not.”

  “I aged ten years today, Gracie. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before. Worse yet, I saw a gun pointed at you. Too many horrific scenarios flashed through my mind. I want us to live to a ripe old age together, rocking on the front porch, enjoying grandchildren, griping about our aches and pains. I don’t want a future that includes prison, or worse yet, cemetery visits.”

  Neither did I. “You want me to stop investigating Not-Sid’s death.”

  “Please?”

  How could I refuse? I didn’t like having guns pointed at me, either. Not that I wanted to play Can You Top This?, but I think I aged twenty years today. And I, too, was looking forward to grandchildren. Just not for a few years yet, given that Connor and Brooke were both still in college. Not to mention wanting miles of distance between me and any prisons or graves.

  “All right,” I agreed. Blake’s logic had won out over my need to figure out whodunit and avoid any bad publicity for my fledgling business.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “You need to reconsider Relatively Speaking.”

  “I can’t. We need the money.”

  “We need each other more.”

  My normally logical husband had let emotion cloud his judgment. None of my other clients were getting bumped off. Not-Sid was an anomaly. I saw no reason to fold Relatively Speaking over one scumbag scam artist who’d used me to get to rich women. However, this seemed like an ill-advised moment to launch into a defense of my business. Instead, I leaned my head on Blake’s bare shoulder and dropped the subject. For now.

  The shrill ring of the phone interrupted our relaxing soak. “Ignore it,” said Blake as I reached for a towel. “It’s probably a telemarketer.”

  Because the National Do Not Call Registry works so well. I often wonder if any of those nuisance callers ever really get slapped with fines and if so, do they pay them? At eleven thousand dollars a pop, judging from the number of calls we receive each week, the government should have been able to pay down the national debt several years ago.

  Still, the call could be someone other than a telemarketer. “What if it’s not?” I asked.

  “If the call is important, the caller will either phone back or leave a message.”

  Practical as always, my Blake.

  There are fundamental differences between men and women that have nothing to do with penises and vaginas. For one thing, the Y chromosome renders men incapable of multitasking, which makes women the superior species, in my opinion. However, that same inability to multitask allows men to ignore ringing phones whenever they’re busy doing something else. Like watching football or soaking with their wife in a Jacuzzi. Women are genetically incapable of ignoring a ringing telephone.

  So for the remainder of our time in the tub, while Blake did his best to distract me, my mind raced with worry over who had called and why. Men never seem to worry about such things. I haven’t yet worked out whether that’s a good thing or not, given that I have a tendency to worry about everything.

  When the phone rang again less than ten minutes later, Blake gave in to my anxiety. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded barefoot into the bedroom. A moment later he returned with the cordless handset. “Sylvia Schuster,” he said, handing me the phone. “She says it’s urgent.”

  Since the recently deceased Not-Sid was my only connection to Sylvia Schuster, an urgent phone call from her had to have some connection to Not-Sid’s murder. And this is why women always answer a ringing phone. I took the handset from Blake and held it up to my ear. “Hello, Mrs. Schuster.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, dear,” she said, “but I thought you’d want to hear about what happened.”

  “About what?”

  “About Blanche Becker.”

  I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I asked, “What about Blanche?”

  “That lady detective showed up while we were all eating dinner. We had just finished our salad course. Baby greens with pears and goat cheese. Served with a champagne vinaigrette
dressing. You’d love it.”

  “I’m sure I would, Mrs. Schuster, but what about Detective Menendez and Blanche Becker?” Once again, I shuddered to think this is what I might sound like in thirty years. Worse yet, is this the way I came across now? I really needed to make an effort not to babble.

  “I was just getting to that, dear. As I said, it was just after our salad and before the wait staff brought out the main course. Flounder almandine with broccoli and sweet potato fries.”

  “Yes?”

  “And that detective—what did you say her name was? Lorraine?”

  “Loretta. Loretta Menendez.”

  “Yes, of course. Anyway, she arrives with two other officers and arrests Blanche. Right there in the dining room. Read Blanche her rights and hauled her away. In handcuffs. Made for quite a show, I can tell you.”

  I’ll bet. I glanced at Blake as I asked Sylvia, “Did Detective Menendez say why she was arresting Mrs. Becker?”

  That caught Blake’s attention. He mouthed for me to hit the speaker button.

  “Oh, she rattled off a long list of charges. I can’t remember them all, but of course, there was resisting arrest. You wouldn’t believe the stink Blanche made.”

  “Anything else?” The police wouldn’t arrive to arrest Blanche Becker for resisting arrest. That made no sense. They’d have to have a warrant authorizing her arrest for some criminal activity.

  “I remember something about intent to commit something or other and conspiracy regarding something else. Anyway, that’s not the best part.”

  “There’s more? What else happened?”

  “I’m going to be on television!”

  “What?”

  “I’m so excited. I haven’t been on television since I was the original Karpet King housewife back in the fifties. I told you about that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but why are you going to be on television this time, Mrs. Schuster?”