Midnight Snacks are Murder

by Libby Klein

  “I’m looking for ants.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a kitchen with this much food left out should be overrun with ants.”

  “Wow, that was really perceptive of you, Georgina. You know what else I don’t see? Flies. This stuff hasn’t been here long. I think it was staged.”

  I moved to the living room, where there was a blue corduroy sofa and a ship’s wheel coffee table. One wall held a flat-screen TV and the other had a small desk with a lighthouse lamp and a laptop sitting on it. An enormous painting of a mermaid hung over the sofa, but the most fascinating thing about the room was that it was clean. Spotless.

  Georgina crept in behind me. “Are we in the same house?”

  I looked at the MP3 player plugged in on the end table. “This was definitely not a robbery interrupted. There are too many valuable things in this room that could have been taken.”

  Georgina looked around the room with her nose turned up. “If you say so.”

  The bedroom was sparse, just a small wooden nightstand with an alarm clock and table lamp, a matching dresser, and a queen bed. The bed was stripped of linens and pillows, probably at the crime lab right now. A dark brown stain made a Rorschach blot on the mattress. The room said nothing of the owner’s personality unless Brody Brandt was quiet, plain, and boring, in which case it screamed his name.

  “Do you see anything in here Georgina? … Georgina?”

  I looked around. Georgina wasn’t with me. I dared not yell for her in case someone overheard me. I was about to go look for her when I heard a horrifying sound. A toilet flushed. Georgina came out of the bathroom straightening her gloves. I stared in disbelief until she spoke to me.

  “What? I had to go really bad.”

  “You might have left some of your DNA in there.”

  Georgina looked horrified. “I most certainly did not leave DNA or anything else in there.” She held up her hands in front of her. “I’m wearing gloves!”

  Deep breath, Poppy. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Okay.

  The bedroom and bathroom turned up no new clues. Everything appeared to be in order. I don’t know what I expected. A baseball bat covered in blood with a confession taped to it? I stopped by the desk again. There was a nearly full box of business cards that read, BRODY BRANDT, INVESTMENT BROKER, FREEMAN AND FURMAN, with the address and phone number. I took one from the box and slipped it into my pocket.

  “Poppy, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “You could have stayed home.”

  Georgina was indignant. “Someone had to back you up.”

  “Is that what you’re doing over there in the corner, hiding behind that chair?”

  “I’m being a lookout. And I would think you should be a little more thankful about it too.”

  “Ooooh-kay. Let’s go.”

  My phone dinged and I pulled it out of my pocket to check the message. Someone had left a review for the Butterfly House on Yelp. My jaw dropped. One star. Bad neighborhood. No pancakes at breakfast. It was a free weekend. Which couple could have done this? Or was it someone else?

  I cut my eyes at Georgina, who was studying her reflection in Brody’s mirror. There was about to be a second murder in this house. I shoved my phone in my jeans and grumbled, “I’m ready.”

  Georgina practically ran from the house, but I was making sure everything was as we left it. I was feeling pretty satisfied with Aunt Ginny’s innocence, but as I was putting the box of business cards back on the desk, I could see the outline of a shape in the dust. It was a little larger than the spread of my palm and shaped like a scallop shell. I ran my finger through the clearing and didn’t leave a mark. Whatever was missing had been recently removed.

  Oh no. Down to the last detail, it looked like Aunt Ginny had been here.

  Chapter 17

  I locked the house and replaced the key. Then I took off my gloves and shoved them in my pocket. Georgina walked tiptoe through the grass so as to not get her heels stuck again. I disposed of my gloves in the trash can at the Bagel Depot and got in the car.

  “How do I turn my light off?” Georgina tapped her cell phone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The screen. How do I get it to go back off?”

  “It should just go out. Give me your phone. Georgina, what is this? Oh my God.” I started to laugh.

  “What? What is it?”

  “You didn’t have your screen on. You have thirty minutes of video recording yourself going through the house.”

  Georgina reached for the phone. “Give me that!”

  I held it out of her reach. “You’re making some hilarious faces. Look at how disgusted you were when you saw that mermaid painting.”

  “Poppy, give it back. Hurry up before I go into the bathroom.”

  “Oh God, you had it running in the bathroom.” I laughed again, but she looked embarrassed and I took pity on her. “Do you want me to delete it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, there. All gone.” I handed it back to her and she tried to find her videos to see if I’d really deleted it like I said I would.

  “It’s not there, I promise.” I drove us home and stopped at the curb with the car running.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I have another stop to make. And for the love of God, please try to behave yourself in there, Georgina.”

  “I take offense to that, Poppy. When don’t I behave with the utmost decorum?”

  “You peed in the victim’s house.”

  “That was an emergency.”

  “Earlier today you stapled Smitty’s pants to the deck.”

  “How is that not behaving?”

  “He was still wearing them.”

  “I wanted him to finish power washing.”

  “Well, leave him alone tonight and let him do his work. This project is taking too long as it is. Every time I turn around there’s another emergency.”

  With a huff, Georgina got out of the car and delicately slammed the door. I could hear her calling for “Smutty” as soon as she turned on the porch light and it flickered and went out.

  It was too late to go to the Freeman and Furman investment firm where Brody worked, but I had another idea. I pulled out my phone and googled the Cape May County Humanitarian Award. The news article stated that Brody Brandt, a Pennsylvania native, had been recognized for his work developing a program to keep at-risk youth busy through academic and community pursuits. That explained all the photos in his house. The premise was that if they could keep their hands busy and expand their minds, they could keep off of drugs and stay out of trouble. He founded the Lower Township Teen Center two years ago. The center was awarded a grant from the chamber of commerce for their work with disadvantaged youth.

  He sounds like a Boy Scout. Why would anyone want to kill him?

  The article ended with the address for the Teen Center. I plugged the address into my phone nav and headed out.

  The Teen Center was in a brown brick building between the library and the police department in the heart of a residential neighborhood known as the Villas. Even though it was dark out, there was a large basketball court that was well lit, and a concrete U-shaped ramp where kids were skateboarding between the buildings. The front lobby was painted lime green, and there was a bulletin board covered with notices about silent dance parties, Pokémon Go meet-up groups, and a Girls Who Code event. Jeez, all I did after school was homework and babysitting. Life was very different back in the ’80s.

  Down the hall was a bright lemon-yellow room filled with tables and chairs. Two vending machines were lined up against the back wall and a Ping-Pong table sat to the right. A group of kids sat around a table in total silence, tapping on their phones.

  “Hi. I’m Poppy and I was looking for someone who would know Mr. Brandt.”

  The kids paused for a moment, staring wide-eyed and suspicious, then their fingers resumed tapping in a frenzy.

  “I’m a
friend. I’m trying to find out some information to help someone.”

  A girl of about fifteen with straight black hair and rectangular black glasses put her phone in her lap. “What about?”

  I had not considered that news of Brody’s untimely demise may not have reached his mentees yet, and I did not want to be the one to break it to them. “Does Mr. Brandt come here every day?”

  One of the boys wearing jeans and a concert T-shirt for a group I’ve never heard of spoke up. “You a cop?”

  “No, I bake gluten-free muffins and cookies for a coffee shop.” Five sets of eyes lit up. “I could bring some in … in exchange for some information.”

  The girl with the rectangular black glasses asked, “Will the cookies be gluten-free? I can’t be bribed without gluten.”

  “I’ll make them full of gluten … and chocolate chips.”

  “Deal,” another boy with curly blond hair said, “but the popo been all over this place.”

  “We told them, nobody here knows about no drugs. Brody wasn’t dealing, man.”

  Drugs? That’s new information. I set my purse down on a table and took a seat. “Do you know where the cops found the drugs?”

  A black girl with her hair in an intricate tower of braids answered. “They found drugs in his house when they searched it after they … you know … found he was dead.”

  “Did you all know Brody was doing drugs?”

  The boy in the concert T-shirt shook his head. “No way! Brody was clean. He had a policy against drugs.”

  The girl with the glasses said to the blond boy, “You know they planted them.”

  “Oh, straight up.”

  An Asian boy wearing a Manchester United jersey spoke for the first time. “You can’t trust ’em. Now they trying to shut us down.”

  “So bogus,” the blond boy responded.

  “I know a little something about that myself. I spent some time in jail a couple months ago for something I didn’t do.”

  That got their attention. They had lots of questions, which I tried to be cool about. What was I accused of? Did I kill anyone? Did the cops rough me up? Did someone frame me?

  “I was wondering the same things about Brody. Did he have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  The two girls started tapping furiously on their phones.

  “If you know anything, it could really help find out who did this.”

  They nodded to each other in some secret teenage telepathy.

  Braids spoke up. “There was a problem with Erika a few weeks ago. Her dad came in and threatened Brody, and said he should be locked up.”

  “Threatened him how?”

  Concert-T answered me. “He said if Brody ever came near his daughter again he would kill him.”

  Braids continued, “Erika was Brody’s favorite. He was trying to help her get a scholarship.”

  Glasses added, “He was really upset after that. Erika hasn’t been around since.”

  “Do you know what the threat was all about?” I asked.

  “We got the gist,” Braids said. “Erika’s father said that Brody should have his you-know-what cut off and shoved up his—”

  I jumped in quickly. “Oh, I see.”

  The kids nodded their heads in accord.

  “Do you know what Erika’s father’s name is?”

  Glasses thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know. I think Erika’s last name is Lynch.”

  I sent the information to myself in an email, to follow up with Erika and her father later.

  “Has anyone talked to Erika since the incident?”

  Braids answered, “She won’t see any of us. We told her it’s not her fault.”

  Glasses nodded. “It was so unlike Brody. We just thought he had a special mentoring relationship with her. We had no idea that was going on.”

  The kids had no other information, and their attention span was exhausted, so I promised to bring cookies when I came back and I gave them my number if they thought of anything else. They promised to text. They were absorbed back into their phones before I was out of the room.

  I headed back outside. A light wind rustled the dry leaves swirling around the parking lot. Something was making me feel uneasy, and I wanted to get in the car and lock the door as soon as possible. A movement to my right caught my attention. I looked up just in time to see a tall, skinny kid in a black hoodie disappear into the shadows. I didn’t know what he’d been doing watching me, but I wanted to get as far away from the Teen Center as possible.

  I returned home, where Fig waited for me by the front door. He tried to lead me to his food bowl, but I had another thing I needed to check on. I’d been uneasy since discovering there was an item missing from Brody’s house. I didn’t want to doubt Aunt Ginny, but I peeked in the liquor hidey hole, just in case.

  Chapter 18

  I spent the morning making brownies and muffins at Momma’s for Gia’s shop. I’d slept much better last night, having found Aunt Ginny’s treasure trove still empty. Today I wanted to question Erika’s father about his fight with the recently deceased. I googled Erika Lynch and came up with nothing, but there was a Jonathan Lynch on Eldredge Avenue in North Cape May. I cleaned up my station, waved goodbye to Momma, who answered by sticking out her tongue at me, and headed out.

  The address took me to a two-story yellow house set back in a large yard on a shaded and deserted street. Somewhere down the block a dog was barking. I knocked on the door but there was no answer. I didn’t even know if I had the right house, but I would have to come back tonight to try again.

  It was too early for my afternoon meeting, so I killed some time sitting at Cape May Point, watching the seagulls and refereeing the numerous texts from Smitty and Georgina over the great light bulb debate of 2014. Sawyer sent me a text that Brody was a ghost. I thought she meant it as in he was haunting her, but apparently she meant that he didn’t have a digital footprint. No Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, LinkedIn, or Myspace accounts. He was the last holdout of the digital age.

  I texted her back asking if she had time for a coffee date. Twenty minutes later I got a cryptic reply that she was busy and would call later. Nice.

  At three o’clock I drove over to Cape May Court House, a neighborhood in the historic district. The investment firm took up three rooms of a two-story blue bungalow that had been divided into office space—two lawyers, a title company, Freeman and Furman, a hoagie shop, and a psychic palm reader. That’s South Jersey zoning for you.

  Freeman and Furman was on the second story behind a receptionist alcove. A small, mousy brunette sat behind a tiny wooden desk with an enormous fifty-line phone covered in buttons. It seemed a bit overkill given the size of the office. She had her head down on her desk and she was sobbing. A pile of used Kleenex littered the floor next to a wastebasket.

  I cleared my throat. A pair of red eyes tried to focus in my direction.

  “Hi, I called this morning about needing some investment advice.”

  The receptionist sat up and began tidying her work area. “I’m so sorry. I forgot that you were coming. Not that you aren’t important to us … we’ve just had an office tragedy … a death.” She snuffled loudly.

  “I’m sorry, what happened?”

  “One of our brokers died this past weekend. He was … murdered.” Her face screwed up to a pinch and she crumpled into her chair.

  I bent down to face her. “What’s your name?”

  She plucked a tissue and loudly blew her nose. “Judy.”

  “Can you tell me what happened, Judy?”

  “He was a hero.” She took a deep breath. “Now what will those kids do? Who could have done this?”

  A loud “Ahem” from behind Judy startled us both.

  A thin blonde in white fur booties, a white pencil skirt, and silk blouse stood in the doorway of one of the offices. “Can I help you?”

  I stood and offered my hand. “Poppy McAllister. I have a three o’cl
ock to discuss investment services.”

  The blonde narrowed her eyes at the receptionist. “Judy, why don’t you take the rest of the day.”

  Judy rose limply, packed up her few belongings, and tore a corner off the flyer on her corkboard and shoved it into her pocket.

  The blonde led me into a large room with a shiny cherrywood table surrounded by eight office chairs. A buffet with water bottles, a fancy new single-cup coffeemaker, and a stack of paper cups sat at the back of the room.

  “I’m sorry about that. I’m afraid we’ve all had quite a shock today. I’m Kylie Furman, one of the partners here. Ken will be along in just a minute.”

  Kylie offered her hand and I shook it. A tall, thin man with a full beard joined us. If it weren’t for his three-piece suit and paisley tie he would have looked more suited to sleeping in a cave and living off of twigs and berries than an investment office.

  “Ken Freeman. Nice to meet you.” He did not offer his hand, and if he really thought it was nice to meet me, he wasn’t selling it. He flopped down at the head of the table and lay back in the big leather chair to stare at the ceiling.

  For the next twenty minutes, I listened to Ken’s half-hearted spiel about their services. I could tell his head wasn’t in the game. Kylie kept biting her nails and stealing glances at him.

  I finally got to the point of why I was really there. “I heard about your broker who was killed. Do you know what happened?”

  Ken’s nostrils flared and his beard bristled out like a puffer fish. “That is none of your business! If you’re more interested in gossip, I suggest you find another investment firm!” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Kylie sighed deeply. “I’m so sorry for his outburst. We lost a great friend this weekend. Brody was a very important member of our team, and I think Ken is just trying to process.”

  “I’m sorry. I know losing someone you care about is very painful. What do you think happened? Was he having problems with anyone at work?”

  Kylie shook her head. “Not at all. Brody was the best. We were about to make him partner.” She choked up and her eyes filled with tears.