by B L Crumley
“No can do, we need to go talk to Walter. He called shortly before you got up to say that Earl was sued by a client a few years ago.”
That woke me up. “How are we just hearing about this now?”
“I vaguely remember hearing something about it, but I think nothing ever came of it. So, I’m not sure.”
Shoveling another bite of whipped cream into my mouth, I slid off the stool. “I’ll go get dressed and then we can go to Walter’s.”
Fern eyed my outfit. “What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?”
I shook my head and went back upstairs. Owl print pajama pants were not meant to be worn out of the house. I cringed, remembering that Cole had seen me in them.
In my room, I scoured the floor in search of something semi-clean to wear. My freshly washed jeans from yesterday’s baking marathon had bits of cake batter and frosting on them. And other than one pair of old sweats and the skirt I’d worn to my dad’s election party, I had nothing.
Desperate, I yanked on the bottom dresser drawer, hoping there was something from my past life in here that still fit. On top was a sweatshirt with my college’s logo that Kenny had bought me the summer I graduated from high school. It was actually in decent shape since it had hardly been worn. But why had I kept it?
Sifting through some socks and a few old tee-shirts, I found a pair of jeans that I’d worn in college. I muttered a quick prayer for them to fit.
After jumping, squatting, shaking my legs, and variety of other crazy movements, I’d miraculously managed to pull my jeans up over my butt. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get them buttoned, or zipped for that matter.
That’s what fifteen pounds will do. Depressing. I needed to quit eating my product.
Then again, maybe this would help me eat less today. Doubtful. A better question was whether I’d be able to sit in these things. Pulling on a grubby tee-shirt and the sweatshirt from Kenny, I stiffly stepped to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then headed back downstairs.
“Fern,” I hollered, carefully maneuvering down the steps in my skin-tight pants. “Do you have a rubber band or a safety pin? I can’t get my jeans buttoned, but I don’t have anything else clean to wear. And frankly, part of me is determined that they will fit,” I emphasized. “These were my favorite pants when I was in college and it’s maddening enough that I’ve gained—”
I turned the corner to enter the kitchen and froze.
Cole was here. With Fern, and they were both staring at me. My aunt stood slightly behind the sheriff and gave me a sheepish grin, as Cole smiled slyly.
Heat coursed through my body and I had a feeling my face was redder than my specialty marinara sauce. I then realized that I had been holding my sweatshirt up, thinking Fern would have something for me to fix my pants. My hands frantically tugged the sweatshirt down over my butt. Thank goodness it was long and baggy.
“Charlee,” Fern said, awfully chipper. “You look great! And there’s no shame in wearing stretchy pants.” She tugged at the waistband of her colorful knit pants.
I dropped my gaze to the floor, praying for Fern to shut up. If only there was a rotten floorboard I could fall through and disappear. I would welcome that. Heck, I would have preferred a root canal over this.
“Cole dropped by to give us an update,” my aunt finally said, changing the subject.
“Oh,” I muttered. “How nice. Maybe he should try calling first.” I glared at him, which earned me another roguish grin. I tread cautiously past him to the breakfast bar where I’d left my coffee. Eyeing the stool, I decided to remain standing. If I sat and my pants ripped, I think I would die of mortification.
“Sorry,” he said with no sincerity whatsoever. He was enjoying this, that infuriating man.
Then he turned to Fern and his smile faded. “We’ve received the medical examiner’s report regarding Earl’s autopsy, and as we suspected, he was killed by blunt force trauma to the head.”
That didn’t surprise me, as a mental image of Earl’s bloody head resurfaced.
“And it has been confirmed that Fern’s shovel was the murder weapon,” he disclosed stiffly.
“Well, isn’t that what you already thought?” I asked, not understanding why he was so glum, unless he was here to…
“The only prints on the shovel belong to you, Fern.” He turned back to my aunt. “I’m sorry, but—”
I lunged to step between Cole and my aunt. “You’re not going to arrest her,” I challenged.
“No, not yet,” he stated calmly. “I came by as a courtesy to prepare you.”
“Prepare?” I folded my arms across my chest. “Fern didn’t kill Earl. And her prints are on the shovel because it belongs to her! Cole, you know this!” I threw up my hands in disgust.
“Charlee, would you please listen? I’m not done.” His voice was stern, commanding.
I retreated a few steps and leaned against the island.
“Fern, you’re probably aware that a new district attorney was elected recently—”
Fern snorted. “Yeah, the snooty Mitchell girl. What a joke.”
Cole scowled.
“Who is she?” My gaze darted from Fern to Cole.
“I’m sure you’ve heard your parents mention the Mitchells,” Fern said to me.
“Is this the Mitchells who own Maritime Manufacturing? I think my parents were concerned he was going to run against Dad for mayor, but then he didn’t.”
“Yes, that would be him. This is his daughter.”
Cole cleared his throat. “Her name is Harper. She has an Ivy League law degree and moved here a few years ago.”
“What does she have to do with this?” I questioned. “She’s not even the DA yet.”
“I know, but she might as well be,” Cole replied. “She’s putting pressure on the current DA, Mr. Hines, to make an arrest.”
“But that’s—” I moaned.
“Lee Hines doesn’t have a backbone,” Fern grumbled. “His wife wears the pants, and the Mitchell girl will walk all over him.”
My stomach started to churn, fearing what might be coming. It also could be that I ate whipped cream on an empty stomach.
“So, you’re saying that Fern might be arrested because this hotshot city lawyer wants to throw her weight around?” I fumed.
Cole nodded slowly. “It’s looking that way.” A phone beeped, pulling the sheriff’s focus to his belt. He reached for his phone and studied the screen. “Sorry, but I need to go.”
“But what are we—”
“Charlee…” Cole took a step toward me. “I’m sorry. We’re still investigating, and I’m doing what I can. In the meantime, you and Fern,” he looked pointedly at the two of us, “need to mind your own business. It’s for your own good,” he added, before he turned and strode to the front door. It shut with a click.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, this is just peachy.”
“It’ll be okay, Charlee.” Fern squeezed my shoulder. “I haven’t been arrested yet, so let’s go talk to Walter.”
“All right, but let me change out of these pants first.” I took measured steps out of the kitchen. “They’re so uncomfortably tight, I don’t think I will make it past your driveway in them. And,” I turned back to glower at Fern. “You could have warned me that Cole was here!”
Fern lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’m sorry. I figured you’d heard him come in.”
“No, I was too busy trying to squeeze my butt into these stupid jeans!”
Laughter tumbled from my aunt’s mouth. “Oh, Charlee, the look on your face. It was—”
I shooed her with my hand, and turned toward the stairs. “It isn’t funny.”
Once I’d traded my impossibly tight jeans for faded, baggy gray sweats, Fern and I walked the block and half to Walter’s place. It was approaching nine-thirty, so I was
hopeful that he would have his teeth in and his pants on. Walter must have been watching for us, as he opened the front door as we turned onto his cobblestone path.
“Took ya darn near long enough,” he murmured, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if he’d put his teeth in.
“The sheriff stopped by.” I felt that excuse was more legitimate than I couldn’t find any pants to wear.
“What did he want?” Walter didn’t bother to hold the door open for us, instead letting us trail behind him into the living room. He darted to his overstuffed recliner, reminding me of a child who calls shotgun and races to the car first.
I turned to Fern, unsure how much we should share with Walter, seeing he was the town gossip and all. Then again, I was the one who’d blurted that Cole had been over, all to save face since my jeans didn’t fit. Like Walter would care. Still, I didn’t want everyone to know that Fern was the number one suspect.
Fern’s mouth was set in a grim line, as she sat down on the opposite end of the couch from me. “He gave us an update on Earl’s cause of death,” my aunt answered.
“Oh.” Walter’s bushy white brows shot toward his receding hairline.
“Blunt force trauma to the head, with my shovel,” Fern relayed concisely.
“Didn’t we already know that?” Walter scratched his head.
“We suspected that was the case, but now it’s confirmed,” I reiterated. “We heard you might have a person of interest for us.”
“That’s right,” he nodded, and clicked his dentures. “Yesterday at Lulu’s, this gal came in, and folks started whispering.”
How awful. This poor woman. Made me want to steer clear of the Steamin’ Beans if people were just going to talk behind your back. This was unfortunate because they had the best coffee in town.
“Apparently, her husband was one of Earl’s clients. He died, but something happened with the policy, and the wife didn’t get jack squat.” Walter clicked his false teeth rapidly, before adding, “So, she sued.”
I pulled out a pen and notepad from my bag. With the people I’d talked to over the past few days, the details were becoming jumbled, so I’d begun to write things down. “What’s her name?” I asked.
He stroked his chin, thinking. “Weinberger. First name started with an F, I think.”
Well, that was a start. I bent my head and started writing.
Walter snapped his fingers. “Fanny, Fiona, Phoebe, Faith.” He paused to click his teeth again. “Phyllis. That’s it. Her name is Phyllis Weinberger.”
Phyllis started with a P, not an F, but close enough. “Fern, do you know her?”
My aunt shook her head.
“Phyllis isn’t from here,” Walter informed. “She lives in Gull Harbor.”
That explained why Fern didn’t know her. Gull Harbor was a small coastal community of about fifteen hundred people around forty-five minutes south of Rockfish Bay. It was doubtful that Gull Harbor had many insurance options, and it made sense that Earl would have had some clients from there.
“Do you know why she sued, Walter? You said something happened with the policy?”
Walter opened his mouth to speak, when the scanner blasted from the kitchen. He cocked his head in the direction of the staticky garble as if that would help him hear better. Good grief, the thing could be heard from outside. But hearing and understanding were two different things. I would have thought that Walter would be fluent in scanner speak by now.
“Ah, nothing important,” he turned his head back to us. “Where were we?”
I took a deep breath, trying to drum up some patience. “I asked what happened to the insurance policy.”
“Oh yeah,” he thought for a moment. “It relapsed,” he nodded affirmatively.
“I think you mean lapsed,” Fern clarified nicely.
“Yeah, same thing,” he said.
Oh boy… And we were relying on this man for information on potential murder suspects. I’m not sure what that said about Fern and me. But let’s face it, we were desperate. Well, I was. And Walter was convenient and willing to talk, and I guess Fern trusted him.
“It’s possible something changed with the policy or the premiums and maybe the Weinbergers weren’t aware of this and didn’t pay, but assumed the policy was still valid,” Fern conjectured.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Walter agreed.
“Okay, then her husband dies, and the wife thinks she’s going to get a settlement and finds out there isn’t one,” I thought aloud. “Then she goes after Earl. I guess it makes sense. Walter, do you know what happened with the suit?”
He clicked his teeth again. “Nope. Just that she didn’t get any money.”
I looked at Fern. “Do you think that’s enough motive to kill?”
“It depends. How much was the policy for?”
Walter whistled. “A lot,” he said. “I heard a million.”
Case in point, he’d heard. But that didn’t mean that was true. “Even if it was for a million dollars, it sounds like this happened a few years ago. The timing is off. Isn’t it more likely that Mrs. Weinberger would have gone after Earl right after she learned that she wasn’t going to get anything?”
“Not necessarily,” Fern said. “That would be too obvious. In many cases, people like to stew in their bitterness and anger for a while before formulating a plan for revenge.”
“I don’t disagree with that, I’m just not sure how likely that is. At this point, I don’t think we know enough.” I jotted down a few more notes. “If she still lives in Gull Harbor, she shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I can look up her address.”
“Anything else, Walter?” Fern asked.
He stared directly at me, an impish smile forming on his mouth. “What’s this I hear about you running away from your ex yesterday?”
“Excuse me?” I blinked several times.
“You know, the Miller boy you were sweet on back in the day. Word at Lulu’s is you had a lover’s quarrel.”
I was officially boycotting Lulu’s. Till the end of time.
Fern pushed herself off the sunken couch cushions and stood. “I’m sorry, Walter, but we’ve got to get going. Charlee’s helping bake for a fundraiser today,” she lied.
Shoving the notepad and pen back into my bag, I followed Fern’s lead.
“Walter, thanks for the info,” I gave him a fake smile, then made my way to the door.
“Anytime, Charlee,” he called out from behind me, still sitting in his chair. “I take it this means you’re still broken up. Not that I blame you. That boy doesn’t deserve a pretty thing like—”
Unable to listen to another word, I hurriedly left the house. Fern emerged a moment later after saying goodbye, and closed the door behind her.
“Well, that was unexpected. You want to talk about it?” Concern lit her face.
“Might as well.” I started with my conversation with Floyd, leaving out the part about him threatening to kill me if I talked to the cops.
By the time I finished telling her about Kenny, we were back in Fern’s kitchen where I was sipping on a large mug of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. Today I didn’t feel as upset about what happened with Kenny. That could have been because I’d had time to sit on it for a while, or maybe it was just overshadowed in light of learning that Fern might be arrested for a murder she didn’t commit.
At the moment, I was most upset that Walter, a man I’d maybe met three times in my life, felt that he had the right to ask me something so personal. Although, it was apparent that Walter was a strange bird (to put it nicely), since he couldn’t seem to keep his teeth in his mouth and didn’t understand the correct definition of relapse.
Despite my frustrations with people gossiping about me, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. With the clock ticking on finding another valid suspect, I needed to go ta
lk to Phyllis Weinberger.
Chapter Fourteen
Luckily, tracking down Phyllis Weinberger turned out to be easy. It only took me a few minutes searching Google on my phone to find her address. The potentially tricky part would be to get her to talk with me.
I tried the number that was listed, but it was no longer in service. This didn’t deter me, as I’d rather talk with her in person anyway. It just would have been nice to know if she was home before I drove the forty-five minutes to Gull Harbor.
I managed to wipe off the bits of frosting and batter from the one decent pair of jeans I’d brought with me. It wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t have time to wash them, and couldn’t go looking like a bag lady in my sloppy sweats that probably should have been thrown out years ago (yes, I do mean in the trash; they weren’t nice enough to donate). And I couldn’t sit in the car for two minutes, let alone thirty-five miles, while wearing the pants I’d barely squeezed into this morning.
After making Fern and myself a healthy green salad with chicken for lunch, I left in my SUV and made the trip to Gull Harbor. The drive itself was actually rather scenic as the highway ran along the Pacific Ocean, but it was a two-lane road for most of the way and with winding roads and slow-moving vehicles, it took me a full forty-eight minutes to get there.
I arrived in town shortly before one o’clock and followed the directions on my phone to Phyllis’s house. She lived in a neighborhood similar to Fern’s. In town, but up on a hill with a nice ocean view. Actually, her house and her view were both nicer than my aunt’s.
It didn’t appear that Mrs. Weinberger was missing out by not collecting the insurance money. Granted, what happened still didn’t seem fair, but it’s not like she was destitute. Far from it.
I pulled to a stop along the side of the street, not wanting to block her garage by pulling into the paved driveway. On the short walk up the drive to the front porch I noted the custom two-story chalet-style home with an abundance of large windows overlooking the Pacific. Very nice.
