M.urder R.eady to E.at (A Scotti Fitzgerald Murder Mystery Book 2)

by Anita Rodgers

  Daniels nodded and munched. "Truth is, she was more pissed than I about being forced to ride your ass." He dumped some ketchup on the plate of clams. "Besides the fact that it was all kinds of wrong, she knew it would only egg you on. So what was the point?" He salted the clams. "And for the record, it wasn't a demotion — just a transfer. Homicide is homicide, no matter what station house you're working."

  The bartender set the platter of mozzarella sticks on the table and I snagged one. "So noted. How's Davis feeling by the way?" I dipped the mozzarella stick into marinara sauce and bit into it. "Still sick?"

  His little blue eyes twinkled and he grinned like a clown. "Turns out it ain’t a virus — it’s a kid. The girl got herself knocked up."

  I threw back my head and laughed. "Davis, a mother? That's hard to imagine."

  He laughed. "Ain’t it though?" He hunched a shoulder. "She'll figure it out. Got herself hitched last month and now she's got a bun in the oven. And she'll suck the department dry for all the maternity and family leave she can get." He grabbed a mozzarella stick and waved it at me. "That woman knows how to get even."

  We shared a few more giggles about Davis and the kind of discipline she'd dole out to her future child, then the conversation lulled. Daniels munched clams and slurped beer while I thought about how to broach the subject of Ron.

  Daniels wiped his big hands on a napkin, balled it up, and tossed it at me. "Out with it, Scotti. What do you want?"

  I nibbled on another mozzarella stick. "What about the 'this is only a one-time deal'?"

  Daniels shrugged. "Could be I'm in a charitable mood today."

  That was all the encouragement I needed. "I want to know everything Ron Jansen's wife told you. Every single word."

  Daniels wiped his hands on a napkin and pulled out his notepad. "I'll do you one better, I'll tell you everything I got." He flipped through the notebook. "Because I know you'll just nag me until I tell you anyway, right?"

  I shrugged.

  In a just-the-facts voice Daniels, read me his notes. "Mike Conroy aka Mean Mike discovered the body and placed a 911 call at 7:37 a.m. Detectives Daniels and Davis arrived on the scene 8:16 a.m., along with CSU. Uniforms having arrived a few minutes in advance to secure the scene.

  There were no signs of a struggle at the scene and the deceased had no visible wounds, marks, cuts or bruising. Given the ambient temperatures the M.E. guesstimated the time of death around 2:00 a.m. Empty prescription bottles for insomnia, antidepressants, and migraines, were found in the deceased's pockets. Aside from the clothing he wore and the empty prescription bottles, no personal items were found on or near the body. The deceased was identified by the dog tags he wore around his neck."

  I smacked Daniels' arm and told him to quit acting like a robot and just tell me what happened. He slid the notebook across the table to me and said, "You read, I'll eat."

  I snatched the notebook before Daniels could change his mind and read to myself.

  Once Ron was identified they tracked down Marika and made the death notification. She took the news in stride and showed no outward signs of distress or shock. She told them she'd expected Ron to turn up dead one day, and he finally had. They'd been married for seven years, and Ron had returned from Iraq two years before his death.

  He suffered from PTSD and traumatic brain injury. Initially, treatment seemed effective, but Ron later refused to take his meds, claiming they made him worse. Their marriage fell apart and Ron would disappear for days. Only returning for money or personal possessions he said he needed. At times he became violent, breaking items, smashing windows and once took a hammer to her car. She changed the locks, but he still managed to gain entry into the house when he wanted something.

  A few days before he died, Ron came the house, insisting that someone was after him. Marika disregarded the statement because Ron had made the same assertions many times before. But because he was so distressed, she agreed to let him sleep in the garage guest room. During the two days he stayed there, he was visibly depressed, often woke up screaming, and Marika feared for her life. She asked Ron to leave, and he did so without protest.

  At Daniels' request, Marika checked the medicine cabinet, and said that old prescriptions of Ron's that she'd never gotten around to tossing out were missing. She didn't remember exactly what the medications were but was sure at least one of them was an antidepressant.

  She said that though she was sad about Ron's death, she wasn't surprised and feared he'd end up killing himself. "The war ruined my husband and killed him long before he died."

  They also interviewed Ron's sister, Donna Jansen. Conversely, she was quite upset about the news and swore Ron would never kill himself. He had also stayed with her for a few days prior to his death, and she too reported that he was agitated and had terrible nightmares that caused him to wake up screaming. She had no prescription drugs of her brother's at her home, and as far as she knew, he'd stopped taking them altogether. Though he was depressed and paranoid, Donna said she felt no concern for her personal safety and that her brother would never have hurt her or his wife.

  Attempts to talk to other homeless individuals who knew Ron were unsuccessful.

  I slid the notebook across the table to him then poured a beer. "That's it?"

  "What did you expect?"

  I frowned at him. "Didn’t you check out Marika’s story?" I pointed to the notebook. "She claims he got violent — did anybody corroborate that? Did she file a report about him beating up her car with a hammer? Did you talk to the locksmith who changed the locks?"

  Daniels held up his hands. "Down girl." He shook his head. "No need."

  I gaped. "No need? I thought spouses were always suspect when their mate died." Although, I knew things about Marika that Daniels didn't know, there seemed plenty to me to look into where she was concerned. "Isn't that one of the golden rules or something?"

  Daniels smirked. "Signed up for the Detective 101 course online, did you?"

  I threw a mozzarella stick at him, which he caught and popped into his mouth. "Okay, okay. Yeah, when the death is suspicious we look at the spouse. But it ain’t. See where I'm heading with this?"

  I slouched over my beer and pouted.

  "You didn't get much out of the wife when you talked to her?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. She was very polite but didn't say anything about him staying with her." I looked up at Daniels. "Or that she was afraid of him. Very nonchalant, actually. I asked her if Ron mentioned being followed, but she shrugged it off saying that the bad guys only lived in his head."

  Daniels tucked the notebook back in his breast pocket. "She's probably right about that." He nudged me with a pudgy hand. "Come on Scotti, the guy was in bad shape."

  I nodded and finished my beer. "Did the M.E. confirm it was an overdose?"

  Daniels nodded. "Yeah." He cocked his head. "But you don't believe it, right? Because you got some alternate theory swirling around in that little brain of yours?"

  If Daniels knew that Marika Jansen was having an affair, he might look at the case differently. But telling him wasn't an option. I shrugged. "It just feels wrong. It could just be that I liked the guy and can't believe he's dead." I looked up from my beer. "But he flat out refused to take his meds. I offered to drive him to the VA myself. He didn’t want anything to do with the VA or his meds. Then all of a sudden he starts taking them? Why?"

  Daniels leaned back and draped his arm over the back of the booth. "Maybe he thought if he got straight, the wife would take him back?"

  I hadn't thought of that. If Marika had told Ron, or implied there was a chance of reconciliation if he went back on his meds, he could've done a one-eighty. Some men will do anything to win back the woman they love. Except Marika was sleeping with Beidemeyer. Why give Ron hope if there wasn't any? I blew out a sigh and nodded. "You've got a point." I frowned. "Except…"

  "What?"

  "If he overdosed accidentally because his short term memory was shot and he
didn't remember taking his meds. Wouldn't he forget promises of reconciliation with the wife too?"

  Daniels tapped a pudgy index finger on the wood tabletop. "I didn't say the wife promised reconciliation. I said maybe he got it in his head." He hunched a shoulder. "People get all kinds of whack ideas without any outside help."

  From Daniels' expression I knew he was finished with that particular story. He had nothing more to offer. And without volunteering further information I had nothing left to ask him. I checked my watch, and it was time to go. I wanted to swing by the house, then pick up takeout on the way back to Ted's. "Yeah, I guess you're right." I paid the bartender and gave Daniels a brief hug. "Thanks, I owe you one."

  "We accept all major credit cards and of course pie."

  I laughed and tossed him a backward wave as I walked out the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Boomer was trembling all over, peeing on the floor, happy to see me when I walked into the house. I considered taking him back to Ted's but didn’t want to leave Zelda all alone.

  She sprawled on the sofa, half-heartedly watching a movie. Her skin glowed from a day in the sun, and her black windblown hair tumbled around her shoulders. She looked like an ad for sun tan lotion. "Tired of shacking up already?"

  I plopped into the easy chair. "Just checking in."

  "Having fun playing house?"

  "Coming to the game on Friday?"

  She shrugged. "Sure, why not? Better than sitting around here all night."

  I wondered if Eric was out of the picture, but I didn't want to ask. "Great, I'll pick you up around six then?"

  She nodded and squinted at me. "Okay, and what else have you been up to little girl?" I told her about my chat with Daniels. "Interesting," was all she said.

  "I'm going to Ron's sister's on Friday morning to help her with the cooking for the wake. So I’ll swing by tomorrow and do some baking. We could get a jump on next week's baking too, if you're up for it?"

  She nodded and hugged a pillow to herself. "Sure, I have no life. I'll be here."

  "Oh Zee."

  She swung her legs to the floor and sat up. "Don't start Scotti. I'm fine. Leave it alone, okay?" She cranked her hand. "What else?"

  I waved my arms at her. "What? Do you have radar? How do you just know?"

  She rolled her eyes and waited. I told her about the dinner with Melinda and the phone message I'd heard that morning.

  She snickered and started singing, "Here Comes the Bride."

  I sulked. "Shut up."

  "Teddy boy told her he was going to propose and she wants him to wait. I'll bet she suggested he ask you to move in and see how that goes for a while. Secretly hoping he'd realize you’re a disaster."

  I covered my face with my hands. "That makes me feel much better, thanks."

  "Oh quit being a baby."

  I raised my head. "I'm not being a baby, the woman hates me."

  She flicked her hand at me. "So what? Melinda won't stop him from marrying you." She scrutinized me. "The only thing that'll stop Ted is you."

  I jerked my head back. "Me? How would I stop him?"

  "By saying no."

  Zelda's certainty made me suspicious. "You swear Ted hasn't said anything to you? Tell me the truth, Zee."

  She made the boy scout sign and crossed her heart. "Not a word. But anyone with eyes can see it. Except you."

  I shook my head. "No, I see it too."

  Zelda gaped and threw her sandal at me. I ducked as the sandal flew past me and hit the wall. "Then what's the problem? All your life you've wanted the house and family thing. And here it is. Why aren't you out of your head happy instead of weird and depressed?"

  I slouched in my seat. "Do I have any idea how to be a wife? And I don't know if I can have kids, but if I can, would you leave small children in my care?" And that churned up my fears about Ted realizing sometime in the future that he wanted more than me. "Ted says he doesn't care about having kids, but what if he changes his mind and realizes he does want them? Then what?"

  Zelda rolled her eyes and mocked me. "Oh poor Scotti, she's got a guy totally crazy about her who wants to marry her. So sad." She sighed. "What if you stop driving yourself crazy with all that crap in your head and roll with it? You just have to do the best you can."

  I laughed. "So your advice is that I should stop acting like me?"

  Zelda hunched a shoulder. "It's a thought."

  <<>>

  Ted and I sat on the floor eating Thai takeout at his coffee table. I watched as he plowed through his second container of Pad Thai. "Didn't you eat today?"

  He looked up from his food, chop sticks poised. "Did you want some of this?" He held it out to me. "It’s great, have some."

  I pushed it away. "No honey, you obviously need the calories."

  He wolfed down the rest of the Pad Thai and eyed my spring roll. I offered him my plate. "Did you want this? I'm full."

  A clack of chop sticks and the spring roll was gone. "You're not very hungry tonight."

  "I'm getting full just watching you." I marveled at how much food he could stuff into that long lean frame — never dropping a crumb or a morsel. Like Daniels, food made Ted happy. Although Ted wore it a lot better than Daniels. "The funeral is Saturday morning — eleven o'clock."

  Green eyes looked up.

  "At the National Cemetery on Sepulveda."

  He nodded.

  "I want to go. Should we ask the guys if they want to go too?" I sighed. "Providing we can find them."

  He nodded again.

  I stood and gathered empty containers, sauce packets and used napkins, then tossed them into the paper sack. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

  Ted frowned. "You're set on going?"

  I cocked my head. "Aren't you?"

  Ted put his chop sticks in the empty container and pushed it across the table to me. "I don't know."

  It wasn't the answer I expected. "In other words, no?" I busied myself with putting the trash into the bag. "Okay, I can go on my own."

  Ted stretched his long arms over his head and leaned back. "So is that an, I can go on my own and it's no problem? Or an, I can go on my own, and you're going to pay for making me go alone?"

  It was too late and I didn’t want to argue. "The first one I think." He blew out a breath and relaxed. Hands on my hips, I frowned at him and said, "But why don't you want to go?"

  Ted snorted. "I knew that was too easy…"

  I wasn't trying to pick a fight but I really didn't understand Ted's resistance. "No, I'm not mad. But aren't you the one who thinks of all vets are his brothers? Wasn't Ron a brother by default then?"

  Ted tugged on his earlobe. "Honey, your voice is nearing that pitch that only dogs can hear."

  I finished stuffing the trash into the bag and handed it to Ted. "Can you take out the trash please?"

  Ted snatched the bag from my hand, pulled himself up, and walked the trash into the kitchen.

  I refilled our wine glasses and sat down with my glass in one of the club chairs. One leg crossed over the other, foot wagging.

  Ted returned from the kitchen with an open bag of chips. He offered the bag to me as he passed. I shook my head, he shrugged and sprawled on the sofa. In silence, he munched chips and I drank my wine. He sighed. "Why is it so important that I go?"

  I couldn't hide my sarcasm. "Do you have other plans?"

  His expression was hard and unreadable. "I've been to plenty of funerals."

  I knew his statement was code for 'it reminds me of the war, and I don't want to be reminded of the war.' And since he wouldn't talk about his service there would be no more talking. "Okay."

  He studied my profile. "Really, okay?"

  I nodded at him. "Yeah, really okay. I understand."

  He reached out a hand to me and I took it. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  He yawned and fisted his eyes. "I think I ate too much."

  Setting my wine glass on the table, I moved ov
er to the sofa and sat next to him. "You're a sleepy boy." I smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "Time to put you to bed and go home."

  He played with my hair and smiled. "You can put me to bed and climb in with me."

  I stood and tugged on his hand. "Come on, you big gorilla."

  Barely able to keep his eyes open, Ted didn't resist being tucked in. I rubbed his back until he drifted off then tiptoed out of the room.

  Coming down the stairs, I let myself imagine living there — waking up everyday with Ted next to me. It made me feel happy and scared at once. To make up for our little spat, I cleaned the kitchen and set up coffee for the next day. I wrote "I love you" on the whiteboard that was stuck to the fridge, locked the back door and turned off the lights.