by CeCe Osgood
The child tickled the cat's ears. "That lady hasn't got any pets." She held up the cat, peering at her. "Instead of Elsa, I'm going to call you Bell."
Grandma huffed, "I've seen that woman's mail. Her name's not Bell. It's Maybelline. A good old-fashioned honest name, as if that mattered to the likes of her."
Chapter Seventeen
Abby's online search was another dead end. Maybelline Crichton had no social media presence.
From the decor of her house there was no sense of a masculine presence. But maybe she had been married, and was divorced now, but hadn't legally changed it back yet.
Abby snorted, recalling the small fortune she'd paid to have her maiden name restored.
Way too much, but there was no way after divorcing Charles Crabbe that she would keep his name. She would never be Abby Crabbe again.
The correct pronunciation was Crab, but who could resist calling her Abby Crabbe. Nobody.
She laughed. Even she did it sometimes back then. Thank goodness, Jill didn't seem to mind being Jillian Crabbe.
Still amused, she stretched out on the floor to relax her tight shoulders. As she relaxed, an image of Bell played in her mind. She had hoped seeing her in person would reveal visual cues to her true character.
She'd seen enough detective shows to know body language, especially the slight facial movements known as "microtells" could be an enormous help to a perceptive observer.
"But am I a perceptive observer?" she sniffed. "I think not since nothing in that woman's body language revealed anything useful to me. Kind of curt at the end when she practically kicked me out of her house, but, overall, she didn't seem like a killer."
Seem like a killer. That's a ridiculous thing to say. Of course, she didn't seem like a killer. Who does that? Well, creeps do, I guess.
She flashed on Bell having dinner with Silas Wabash and made a decision. An online search revealed his phone number. She punched it in and left a voicemail.
Her thoughts drifted to Bell again. Maybe there was another reason she wanted to meet Bell in the flesh.
Both Gina and Fran had described her as beautiful. Perhaps that was the real reason I wanted to see her in the flesh.
And, yes, she had to admit they were right. Bell's unblemished skin, azure blue eyes, high cheekbones and movie goddess figure made her a genuine beauty.
Abby, according to Charles, was "interestingly attractive." Those had been his exact words. Never beautiful or pretty. Interestingly attractive. Way to go, Charles.
With a shake of her head, Abby dismissed her ex's opinion.
What really mattered now was peeling herself off the detectives' suspect list by getting Bell on it.
Abby entered the garage, dusted off Jill's bike and wheeled it out to the street. An hour of biking might improve her mood.
She relished being in the mild September temperature and slowly pedaled through the neighborhood, enjoying the smell of the freshly mowed lawns while making a mental note to ask Twila if she had a mower.
A half hour later, as she turned down her block, she spied a black Corolla in her driveway.
Dropping the bike on the grass, she heard the engine idling and trotted up to the car.
Gina powered down the window. She looked ready to kill. Abby's pulse shot upward. "Gina. What's--"
"A detective came to see me."
"Detective Guthrie?"
"No, a butthead named Ross. He acted like I was a criminal. I despised him immediately."
"I can understand that. He treated me the same way."
Gina stared at her in such an evil way, Abby took a step back. "What did you say to butthead about me?"
"Nothing. I mean, Ross and his partner Guthrie questioned me that night I found Alan's body."
"And you told them you saw me and Alan kissing at Larry Tom's, didn't you?
"Well, yes. I had to. They made me give them a detailed account of my relationship with Alan starting from when we first met to when I found his body. When they asked me why I stopped seeing him, I told them I saw you two groping at Larry Tom's."
Gina's mouth twisted in anger. "That Ross nitwit stood right in front of my husband and asked me if I was having an affair with Alan."
Abby felt a twinge of sympathy, but then again, Gina had brought this on herself. She should've known her husband would find out sooner or later.
Abby knew that for a fact. Look at her own experience with Charles and Larissa. She had discovered a receipt in his suit pocket for an expensive dinner at the Hotel Archer in Omaha when he was supposedly participating in a conference at Withers University in Chicago. That was when she decided to conduct her own stakeout of Charles, so she tailed his car one evening.
He and Larissa didn't even have the good sense to keep out of public view. Abby had hunkered down behind the wheel and watched as Larissa came sashaying out of her condo and wrapped her body around his.
Abby tunneled a hand through her hair. "Gina, they ask everybody all kinds of things when there's a murder investigation."
Gina gnawed on her bottom lip. "My husband wants a divorce."
Abby felt another twinge of sympathy. "Sorry, Gina, but like Shakespeare says, the truth will out."
"Go to hell." Gina wrenched the car into gear and took off.
Forcing herself to shake off the foul feelings that woman aroused in her, Abby walked back to pick up the bike. Her cellphone rang.
It was Silas Wabash. "Ms. Little, I was told you left a message."
"Um, yes, hi. Do you remember me? We met at Alan's funeral."
"Yes. What can I do for you?" He sounded rushed.
"Mr. Wabash, I met someone who I believe might have known Alan, and I was wonder--"
He cut her off. "I don't talk about my clients, Ms. Little."
Thinking fast before he could hang up, she came up with another question for him. "I would like to send a note of condolence to Alan's cousin in Dayton. I understand they were very close. Could you give me his cousin's name and address?"
"As I said, anything concerning a client is confidential."
"But Alan's dead."
"I'm still his attorney. I'm handling his estate, and therefore, I will not be able to say anything in regard to Mr. Durant."
A residue of anger bubbled up from having to deal with Gina's nastiness earlier.
She forced it down and, in an overly friendly voice, tried again. "Mr. Wabash, how could a sympathy card to his cousin possibly screw up anything? You have Alan's will. It's done and dusted, so there's no legal issue at stake. What's the harm of me simply offering condolences to his cousin?"
Mr. Wabash stayed silent. Was he reconsidering? Would he tell her what she wanted to know?
She offered more sugar. "Alan was truly fond of him. When the old man had a stroke, Alan drove to Dayton to see him and made arrangements for a private nurse at his own expense."
Wabash cleared his throat. "You say Alan went to see this cousin in Dayton?"
Abby played it cool. "Yes. Alan said he didn't care what it cost, he was going to make the old man comfortable."
Wabash was abrupt. "Ms. Little, I have no listing for a cousin or any relative in Mr. Durant's documents other than, of course, his parents. Also, I'm looking at the bank records as we speak."
He paused. "There are no payments to a private nurse or any type of home care individual or company in Dayton or anywhere else."
Chapter Eighteen
Abby pocketed her phone, feeling a bit triumphant. "The truth will come out. Yes, indeedy, Alan, you skunk."
If Wabash was correct, and she believed he was, there was no cousin in Dayton. Alan had lied to her. Lied to cover his tracks during some kind of deception.
Worse, he had used the sick cousin story to make himself sound like a decent man willing to help out a vulnerable relative. Major skunk behavior, Alan.
Wheeling the bike back into the garage, she wondered how she could find out where Alan actually went. Was he with Bell?
; She shuffled through her memory trying to recall the details of what he'd said that weekend.
Her brain churned out the scenes of that weekend as she recalled the Burnett-Hadley wedding. Two hundred people at three o'clock Saturday afternoon in the jasmine-covered terrace of the Ten Bears Vineyard.
Although the couple had a caterer, the bride had insisted on hiring Burt's Desserts for the wedding cake.
Unfortunately, Hilda had been sick that week, so Abby was doing everything, including making and serving the cake. She'd powered through a migraine to create a four-tiered coconut rum cake with white-chocolate mousse layers and a vanilla bean buttercream frosting.
Then she'd piped delicate lavender orchids on the sides.
The next part wasn't as pleasing to her. She thought the cake looked beautiful as is, but the bubbly bride wanted a hot-air balloon for the topper since that was where she'd met her groom.
They'd been strangers floating over the Mojave Desert, but by the time the balloon graced the earth again, they had agreed to a dinner date that evening.
Abby had sculpted the balloon topper out of the pale green, yellow and lavender fondant then fashioned the basket out of almond slivers.
Later that day, she'd driven out to the vineyard to set up the cake on the designated table in the reception room. The already pretty-nice venue had been transformed by pastel garlands and strands of twinkling silver lights.
That was Saturday, and Alan never called her. On Sunday, Abby, feeling a migraine was about to arrive, spent the day relaxing in her darkened bedroom, with a cool towel on her forehead. Jill was staying with her father that weekend, and Alan was in Dayton.
Alone in her king-sized bed, she realized she didn't really miss him. Then, feeling guilty, she'd picked up the phone to call him.
She was about to press the talk button when she considered what Alan might be dealing with. The cousin could be dying or had already passed. A call might be intrusive. "If he wants to talk to me, I'll wait for his call."
The next day, Monday, he did call, but he barely mentioned his sick cousin.
She fumed. "Because you don't really have a sick cousin. Where were you, Alan?"
Her thoughts drifted to the collage photograph in Bell's living room. Bell the cheerleader in her blue uniform perched on the shoulders of the young football players.
Was Alan the brown-haired boy on the right? Had he and Bell recently rekindled a high school romance? A romance that ended in murder?
She washed her face then smeared on an expensive cream, hoping to rehydrate her dry skin and banish the fine lines beginning to appear around her lips. The cream had promised to smooth out the lines.
She leaned in closer to the mirror. She'd been using the cream for months now, and there was no difference, not one iota of a difference.
"Suckered again, Abs." Closing her eyes, she splashed water on her face and devised a plan.
Chapter Nineteen
With her pulse ticking up, she veered the Volvo to the curb less than half a block away from Bell's house. Something wasn't right up ahead. A police cruiser blocked Bell's driveway. Right behind the cruiser was a black sedan.
This was not how she'd envisioned her return visit to Bell's. In that scenario, she knocked on the door and Bell opened it and happily invited her in when she informed Bell the little gray and white kitten was safe with a family.
The good news so thrilled Bell, she insisted on a celebratory glass of wine, and, as they chatted, Abby would point to the center photograph in the collage. "I always wanted to be a cheerleader. What school did you go to?"
Bell would tell her and then, if she sensed the timing was right, she would ask about the boys in the photo, especially the handsome guy on the right.
That was the scenario she was counting on, not whatever was unfolding right now in front of her.
Hunkering down behind the wheel, she kept her eyes on the house, watching and waiting.
A moment later, Detective Ross stalked outside. Right behind him came Detective Guthrie and Bell Crichton, in paisley gypsy pants with a white midriff top. Her hands weren't cuffed. In fact, her arms were folded defiantly across her chest as she sauntered toward the black sedan.
Ross swaggered around to the driver's side while Bell slipped into the back seat, Guthrie in front. Then the car sped off.
Abby sat watching the cops drive off with Bell, certain now that they had found some kind of link between Bell and Alan. A link that made Bell a suspect.
Later that day, Abby stuffed a grocery list in the pocket of her jeans and grabbed a small cart. "I should've brought a sweater," she grumbled as the market's automatic door whished open. It was freezing inside.
A young boy, about six, came racing down the aisle toward her. She reacted by swerving the cart which smacked into a display of cereal boxes. The boy skidded to a stop; his baseball cap flew off his head and hit the floor by Abby's foot. She reached for it, noticing the logo for the Saltdogs, a minor league baseball team.
The logo, a snarling dog with amber eyes, triggered a memory of the strange encounter she'd had with the guy with the wolf tattoo on his arm. Why does it seem like the older I get, the weirder people are?
A memory flickered to life. Bell's cheerleader outfit. Her fingers traced the embroidered logo. Was there a logo on Bell's uniform?
She hadn't paid much attention to it or the boys' uniforms.
The little boy ran back to Abby and snatched his cap out of her hand. "That's mine."
"And you're welcome," she said as he raced off.
Someone touched her shoulder.
Startled, Abby spun around. Hilda's eyes went wide. "I didn't mean to scare you."
After a hug, Abby asked, "How's the new job going?"
Hilda's lips curled down. "Hate it. I started on the day shift, but then the manager changed me to nights."
She stuck out her tongue. "I prefer days because I swear the night customers can't ever make up their minds. Pie or cake? Muffins or scones? Eggnog Latte or Cappuccino Freddo? They have too many choices. The day customers have it down pat. They gotta get what they want and scoot, or they'll be late for work."
Abby chuckled then sighed. There were times, like now, that she missed the mesmerizing aroma of the shop along with the adrenaline rush of scrambling to please customers, not to mention the joy of having a friend like Hilda working with her.
When she had first started helping out her father at the shop, she and Hilda, despite their age difference, became pals quickly.
When she became the owner, it was Hilda who had suggested having Johnny blow up a few of the old photographs she'd taken over the years of Burt in the shop.
On every wall, they had placed black and white poster-sized photographs of Burt Little serving a customer or wiping down the glass cases or making a Cloud Ten dessert.
She liked having him watching over the shop and mourned the loss of those photographs in the fire.
Hilda said, "Gosh, it'll be a happy day when you get Burt's reopened. It's the day I'll quit Sweets-To-Eat."
Abby nodded absently, her mind on something else. "Hilda, does Johnny still have that camera I gave him?"
"I'm sure he does."
Thirty minutes later, Hilda inserted the key she'd located in her son's top drawer and unlocked the oak chest in his bedroom. "He keeps the relics in here."
Abby looked through the newspaper wrapped objects and found the relic, the ancient Nikon, she'd given to Johnny after her father passed away. The teen had shown an interest in photography, and she wanted to encourage it.
Moving to a window, she aimed the zoom lens outside at a squirrel. It scrambled up a tree so fast she couldn't track it with the zoom, but higher up on a branch of the oak she was able to zoom in on a blue jay. The zoom lens worked fine.
"I don't think Johnny has any film for that camera," Hilda said. "He only does the digital stuff these days."
"That's fine. I don't need film."
Twenty minutes la
ter, the Volvo's left turn signal blinked as Abby waited for the cross traffic before turning.
She had imagined parking in front of Bell's house. If the front drapes were opened like they'd been the last time she was there, she might be able to sit in the car and use the zoom to see inside.
If she couldn't see well enough from there, and there were no cops around, she would sneak up to the plate-glass window and use the zoom lens to see if the uniforms Bell and the boys were wearing had a logo or a school name. Once she had high school, she'd find out if Bell and Alan were in school together.
At the stop sign, she hooked the camera strap around her neck and turned the corner onto Bell's street.
An ominous white van with CSI on the door panels sat in the driveway behind a squad car.
"Uh-oh. This is can't be good," she groused.
Before she could cruise away, a black sedan rolled up behind her, inches from the Volvo's trunk.
Abby shaded her eyes from the sun. She could see the silhouette of someone who had just exited the car.
Her body sagged as Detective Ross approached and rapped on the window, motioning for her to step out.
She climbed out of the car, nervously fingering the camera hanging between her breasts.
"Ms. Little, what are you doing here?" Ross eyed the camera. "And what's that?"
"I-I..." She couldn't come up with a single logical excuse.
Detective Guthrie came around the hood of the sedan to where she was standing. "Answer the question, Ms. Little. What are you doing here?"
"I-I met her. The woman who lives there. Bell Crichton."
"You two got something going on?" Ross sneered.
Guthrie snapped his fingers silencing his overeager partner. "Why don't you tell us exactly when and where you met Bell Crichton."
She gave him a cheesy smile, hoping he wouldn't go too hard on her. "Do you remember me saying Alan returned a lipstick he thought was mine?
"I remember."
"I thought it might belong to Bell, so I decided to return it and, maybe, see if she was, well, involved with him." Abby paused. "Romantically involved, I mean."
