“Great.” He snapped his seatbelt. “I should be fully emasculated by Monday.”
Chapter 11
Old Jack Garvey lived up to his name. Look up “grizzled” in the dictionary and his picture was there. Yet, he’d worked for the Muskrats as hard as anyone half his age.
Harper was fond of Jack. As they pulled up to his house, they found him outside, cutting down a rotting tree in his yard with a large chainsaw.
The house was one story and sided in white wood. What took her aback was the tricked out shiny new van in the driveway and the extensive remodel of the front of the house to make it wheelchair accessible. The usual ramps weren’t there. Instead some sort of fancy hydraulic lift would hoist the wheelchair up to the front stoop.
“That’s some van,” Noah said in guy-awe over anything with four wheels. “I thought Jack was financially struggling.”
“I thought so, too.” She exited the car and lifted her hand to wave at Jack. He turned off the saw. “Kimmie said he was fired and only had a tiny pension. I don’t know how he can afford all this.”
As they walked up the driveway, she noticed upgrades to the property that hadn’t been there when he’d showed her a picture of his house, and Mrs. Garvey, when he got a new smart phone for his birthday. A big satellite dish crouched on a new roof as if awaiting news from the mothership.
“Does he rob banks?” Noah said as he gave the van an examination. “I’d guess he paid well over fifty grand for this alone.”
Old Jack set the saw down and headed their way with an uneven gait. His arthritic knees had always given him trouble.
“I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled widely and met Jack halfway. He scooped her into a hug.
“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise.” He patted her back and released her. His eyes twinkled. “Kimmie told me you got canned, too. Did you come to get coupon clipping tips from the missus?”
Still smiling, she shook her head, then turned serious. “Maybe some other time. We’re actually here to talk about Gerald’s murder.”
Jack shook his head grimly. “Sad business that was.” He leaned to rub his knee. “Gerald was a bad seed, but he didn’t deserve that. God is the only one to judge him.”
Harper agreed and took a moment to introduce the two men. After their handshake, she turned back to the investigation. “I hate to do this to you, but we need to talk to anyone who had a grudge against Gerald. Unfortunately, you’re on the list.”
The elderly man walked over to a fancy rock wall—also a new addition—and sat. This, and all the other purchases, triggered warning bells in Harper. For a man who’d spent nearly everything he had on medical bills for his ailing wife, he’d come into a sizeable windfall.
Could that be tied to the murder?
She didn’t want to believe he could be guilty of possibly aiding in the crime. It was unlikely he could take Gerald down on his own. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be someone’s co-conspirator. Money could make a desperate man do unthinkable things.
When they joined him, he said, “Ask away.”
Noah took the lead. “I understand that you worked for the team for about four years?”
“That’s right. However, I knew Gerald much longer.”
Harper interjected, “He worked as the groundskeeper for Gerald and Betty Anne for almost twenty years before moving over to the team.”
“Being the equipment manager was easier on the knees,” Jack said. “I did a good job for that man.” There was a trace of both pride and bitterness in his voice.
“Harper told me why you were fired,” Noah said, sounding very FBI-like. “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
In that moment, it was easy to picture Noah in a suit, grilling suspects and solving cases. Someday she’d ask him why he’d been let go.
The old man’s story was much the same as the one Harper told him. He ended with, “I’m innocent of the charges.”
Harper believed him.
“You think someone else deflated the balls?” Noah took notes. “Any idea who the culprit might be?”
Jack hesitated. “I have no proof.” His desire to help soon outweighed his reluctance to point fingers. “I think it was either Deke or Cosmo. Who else would benefit?”
“Cosmo is Dave Comosavitch. The wide receiver,” she explained. “Did you ever see either one act strangely?”
“I did not,” Jack said. “I only have my suspicions.”
* * * *
Noah tried to wedge Old Jack into his idea of a killer. The piece didn’t fit. However, the old man had a motive, if not the strength to carry it out. Still, he could’ve been the lookout or getaway driver. He didn’t need strength for that.
He went in for the kill. “Can you tell us where you were Wednesday night?”
“Here with my wife, Sally.”
“Can anyone other than Sally confirm this?”
His gray head shook. “We did watch a pay-per-view chick flick that my wife likes. The heroine’s name was Buttercup. I’m sure the cable company can confirm the purchase.”
The information didn’t strengthen his alibi. A movie buy didn’t prove he was home to watch the show. He let that go for now.
“Harper said when you were fired, you were denied your full pension.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How can you afford to fix up your house and buy an expensive van on Social Security?”
Nice Jack morphed into angry Jack in an instant. His arms crossed tightly over his chest. “That, young man, is none of your business.”
Noah made a note. He’d have to dig for the answers in Jack’s financials. “Did you or were you involved with others to plan and execute the murder of Gerald Covington?”
Jack stood. His knee crackled. “I did no such thing.” He glanced at Harper. Disappointment filled his expression. “Now get off my property.”
Harper looked on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry.”
Jack walked away.
They left with more questions than clues. Noah felt a twinge of guilt that he may have ruined her relationship with the elderly man.
“In order to help you,” he said. “I have to ask tough questions.”
“But did you have to be so hard on him?” she asked after they returned to the car. “He couldn’t have killed Gerald. He’s a frail old guy with a bum knee.”
Yep, he saw that coming. “A year or so ago, a hundred-year-old man killed his wife with an ax. Don’t tell me that Old Jack, with the right motivation, couldn’t be a killer.”
“Is that true?”
“It’s true.” He faced her. “I don’t believe he did the actual murder, but something smells funny and it isn’t burnt oil from the car.” He let that sink in. “The money came from somewhere and we need to find the source.”
This seemed to pacify her. She returned him to the garage so he could get his truck. “I agree with your tactics to a point, even if I don’t like grilling my friends and accusing them of murder. Now get lost. I need a hot bath and a glass of wine before we tackle the funeral tomorrow.”
* * * *
The drive back to her motel didn’t ease her worries. Spending the day with Noah had her heart beating like a drum. He liked to tease her and he smelled so good, like woods and spice. He hit every nerve in her body, good or bad, and she had a hard time focusing.
Unfortunately, there were many more days like that ahead.
Once inside, she wandered into the bathroom and turned on the water. After checking in, and horrified by the condition of the room, she’d gone to the store for supplies.
She’d taken cleaner and a scrub brush to the tub to fight against whatever cooties it contained. Although stained by hard water and ill-use, she was confident it was clean.
When the trickling water changed from ice to tepid, her mind drifted back to Noah. Wet.
Naked. With her. Darn.
“Why does he have to so sexy?” She reached for the bath tray in the counter and the bubble soap. It wasn’t there. “Huh.”
She looked around. “Where did I put that?” It took a bit of searching to find the item in the small closet. “Weird.” She must have set it down there and didn’t remember. The distractions had piled up over the last few days.
With the bath filled, she poured a small glass of wine, stripped, and hoped the warm water would wash away the disappointments of the day.
Her eyes drifted to the bubble soap. Odd that she’d put it in the closet. That made no sense. She closed her eyes and leaned back to relax.
Somehow, she just couldn’t shake the feeling that something on the outer fringes of her world was off.
Chapter 12
The funeral of Gerald Covington was held on Friday, a day that was fittingly overcast as if put together by a Hollywood movie studio. Although rain wasn’t expected, Harper brought an umbrella, just in case. With her curls, any amount of moisture could turn her into Medusa.
If Willard caught sight of her and sent his bodyguards after her, the spike on the umbrella top could be used for eye gouging and testicle reorganization.
“Do you want to stand with the family?” Noah kidded as they wandered up a small hill toward where the other mourners were gathered. He had on a gray suit, without a tie, and had unbuttoned the top shirt button for comfort in the heavy humidity.
“Um, no. We’d better stay out of sight for safety.” She nudged the dark glasses she’d purchased at a dollar store up the bridge of her nose. She restrained her hair into a tight bun and wore a black dress that was a little short for the occasion. Still, she’d tried. “If Willard sees me, he’ll have me shot.”
The crowed was small, which surprised Harper. She expected a full delegation to see Gerald sent off. “They must have done the bell and whistle show for the viewing.”
He looked over the rolling hills and tombstones. “Balloons and confetti guns would be kind of tacky here.”
As expected, former colleagues and family—those who wanted to make sure he wouldn’t rise from the dead and cheat them out of their inheritance—were decked out in black. A few of the players and cheerleaders loitered near the fringes of the mourners.
“There’s Deke,” Harper said. The quarterback stood near the family. “How strange it is to see him here. He’d frequently called Gerald a parasite on the ass of humanity.”
“Maybe he wants to earn points with the boss.”
“Possibly. As the team moneymaker, he allowed Gerald to fawn and slobber over him with strained patience. Willard will look fondly on him for showing up.”
She skimmed her eyes over the group. Estelle stood near the foot of the coffin, slightly away from the family. Kimmie loitered near Willard, ready to jump if he said so. Without Gerald, who’d hired her, she had a tenuous hold on her job.
Like a secret service detail, a trio of armed burly bodyguards loitered on the perimeter, clad in black with sunglasses and ear pieces in place. Harper glanced about.
“Do they really need armed guards? I’m half expecting the U.S. president is in attendance.”
“Money and fame buys a lot of fawning and bowing,” Noah said, drolly. “I’m guessing the guard detail is for show.” He pointed to where a pair of news vans were parked down the street. Cameras and reporters stood ready to pounce when the service concluded.
“Willard is notoriously cheap, but he does like to look important.” She frowned. “That’s him in the dark blue suit and red tie.” A robust man like his nephew, he dabbed his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief. She smiled evilly. “His nose was straighter until Taryn elbowed him in the face.”
Taryn was a hero to cheerleaders everywhere.
Careful not to step on any graves, she and Noah took up a position on the blacktop path behind a tree, and the large and worn tombstone/memorial statue of a Civil War vet named Pervis Cleve, who’d passed on in nineteen forty-seven at the ripe old age of one hundred and two.
“The woman on his left is the widow.” Betty Anne was a mousy woman with stick straight black hair parted in the middle and an even flatter personality. She wore a baggy dress in gulag gray, likely a cast off from an elderly relative, and sensible brown shoes. Out of respect for the deceased, she’d thrown a black shawl over her shoulders.
If she was grieving the loss of her husband, she hid it well. Though somber, there were no tears.
The few times Harper had tried to engage her, a few head nods and one or two word answers was all she got back. Finally Harper stopped trying. “I’ve always felt sorry for her. Gerald was an overbearing and miserable husband.”
Betty Anne leaned to speak to Little Gerry, the heir. Although younger than his sister, Gerald saw Gerry as the offspring poised to take over when he retired. Harper wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t the brightest kid and he was a spoiled and surly little smartass.
“Next to Betty Anne is her son, Gerry.” A stocky boy with curly blond hair, ten-year-old Little Gerry had his finger so far up his nose that he had to be tickling his medulla oblongata. Ick.
“I imagine he didn’t fall far from the paternal tree,” Noah said and made a face.
She snorted back a laugh, then hushed him with a glare. “Be respectful. His father just died.”
“Sorry.”
Little Gerry casually moved the finger toward his mouth as if a couple dozen people weren’t watching his nasal treasure hunt. Appalled, Harper turned away.
“Moving on. The thin pale girl with the sunken eyes standing next to Willard is Gerald’s daughter, Francie. The Muskrats affectionately call her Wednesday, because of her resemblance to Wednesday Addams from the Addams family. She sees dead people.”
Noah’s head snapped down. “You’re kidding?”
She met his stare. “That’s the rumor. Her parents had her tested at a psychic facility in Helsinki.” The girl was odd but sweet. “Gerald said she freaked out the doctors with her abilities and they had to take her home early.”
Francie had on a black skirt, matching blouse, and black combat boots. Black tights with a diamond pattern rounded out her outfit. She had a book under one arm.
For a long moment, Noah watched the girl. Then, “No wonder she looks like a deer in the headlights. She probably watched her daddy snatched up by the grim reaper and dragged down—”
Harper elbow jabbed him in the side. “Ouch.”
“Stop making jokes. It isn’t nice.”
* * * *
Noah always hated funerals. They made him anxious. Ever since drunken Uncle Brick dropped his open beer can into his grandma’s coffin when Noah was four, and made her body twitch when he fished it out, he’d been freaked out that his deceased relatives were, in fact, undead.
The rational mind that came with adulthood didn’t keep him from refusing to get close to open caskets. The casket was closed and he was a grown man. Childhood trauma aside, Harper needed support and this wasn’t the time for jokes.
“Sorry.” This time he meant it. “I’m not a fan of funerals.”
“Is anyone?” she asked.
He told her the grandma-beer can story.
“Wow.” She put a hand on his arm. “I guess I’d be traumatized, too. Hold my hand if you need to.”
At first he thought she was teasing him. He quickly realized she sympathized with him.
For a moment, he wanted to take her up on the offer, not for comfort, but because he’d have an excuse to touch her.
“Did I miss anything good?” The voice came from behind and they both startled. An attractive redhead in her thirties, decked out in black, complete with matching hat and veil, stood uneasily on pointed heels that dug into the grass beneath her feet.
She yanked the heel out, stepped onto the pavement, then squinted and peer
ed down at the mourners. “Did Betty Anne throw herself onto the casket yet? I don’t want to miss that part.”
What do you say to that?
“Sharla?” Harper leaned to look through the thick lace. “What are you doing here?”
Sharla flipped back the lace, revealing bright blue eyes rimmed with false lashes and framed by unnaturally red hair. Noah thought her attractive, though overdone, for a funeral.
“I came to pay my respects.” She had a heavy southern accent that spoke of verandas and magnolia bushes.
He knew this because Gone with the Wind was his mother’s favorite movie. Had he or his brother, Adam, been female, Scarlet would’ve been her name of choice.
“I couldn’t exactly stand down there and comfort the widow,” Sharla continued and pointed at the mourners with a perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernail. “Can you imagine? That would go over like a fire at the firehouse.”
“Betty Anne will kill you if she sees you,” Harper snapped. “Or get one of the bodyguards to do the deed.”
A smile broke through bold red lipstick. “That’s why I’m up here with you two.” She reached out a hand to Noah and turned flirty. “I’m Sharla, Gerald’s mistress.”
He shook her hand. “Noah Slade, Harper’s investigator.”
Sharla batted her lashes. Noah heard Harper expel a frustrated sigh. He looked over and she wasn’t happy. Her frown did not go unnoticed by the new arrival.
Amused, the hairdresser released his hand and pulled down the veil. “Enough chit-chat,” Sharla said with a wink and took up a position near the tree. “The party is about to get started. Want to take bets on who will break down first?”
Despite the distance, the reverend possessed a booming voice that carried all the way to heaven. Somehow he managed to paint the deceased in a rosy light, no doubt due to a nice donation to his church. By the time the service ended, Gerald was all but canonized in the eyes of those gathered around. All they needed now was a signoff from the pope.
“Wow,” Harper whispered. “I want him doing my service.”
The Sweetheart Mystery Page 7
