by Gina Cresse
“The sparkly is for you and the hubby. Something I do for all my buyers,” she explained, setting the bottle on the counter. “Hey, toots. This is looking terrific,” she said, gazing around the freshly cleaned kitchen. Her eyes stopped on the painting I’d just taken down. “Oh, I love that. The color is perfect for my living room. And that lamp is gorgeous,” she went on.
“Your living room has some purple?” I asked.
“The carpet,” she acknowledged. “And the walls. My sofa is lavender, to match the ceiling.”
I tried to picture a room that was entirely purple. Somehow, it seemed to fit Fiona. I smiled as I collected the lamp and the painting. “They’re yours,” I said, standing them both near the door where she wouldn’t forget them.
“What a sweetheart. Sure I can’t pay you for them?”
“No. I was just going to put them in a yard sale. You’re doing me a favor by taking them off my hands,” I insisted.
“Well, this is turning out to me my lucky day. I was just gonna stop by to see how you’re doing with the place, and I figured you’re one of those gals who forgets to eat. Now me? I could never forget something so dear to my heart—and stomach. But skinny little you? Anyhow, I figure you for a turkey on whole wheat girl. Am I right?”
I nodded. “Perfect. Let’s sit out back on the patio. I’ll wipe off the old table and chairs out there,” I offered.
“Great,” she said, following me out the back door. “And I also figured you for a cherry-lemonade girl. Sound okay?” she continued, pulling bottles and sandwiches out of her bag.
“Just right. How’d you guess?”
“I’m a people person. I’ve worked with people for forty years. I’ve learned how to read them. I noticed the other day when I took you to breakfast, you made a funny little face whenever a waitress walked by with a greasy old plate of sausage or bacon.”
“Really? I make a face?” I said.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s very subtle. Probably nobody else would ever even notice. But, like I say, I’m a people person. Sort of like a sixth sense with me.”
I took a bite of my sandwich and washed it down with a swig of lemonade. “You’ll never in a million years guess what Craig and I found here last night.”
Fiona studied my face and grinned. “Oh, I love a mystery. What’d you find?”
I leaned over the table closer to Fiona so I could speak softly. “A lottery ticket worth fifty-eight million dollars.”
Fiona nearly choked on her sandwich. She coughed and hacked as I jumped to my feet to slap her on the back. “Are you okay?” I asked, patting her firmly between her shoulder blades.
She took small sips of her soda until she was finally able to speak. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“No. Really. Someone taped it to the top of a ceiling fan. We took it home and checked the numbers. It’s a winner,” I assured her.
“Well, what the heck are you doing here with a broom and rubber gloves? I’d be out spending some of that dough.”
I frowned. “We had a slight problem.”
Fiona’s smile faded. “Problem? God, no. Tell me you didn’t accidentally flush it down the toilet. Or your dog ate it?”
I shook my head. “It was stolen.”
“Stolen? How? When?”
“Early this morning. Bob from next door called to tell us someone was in the house. We locked the ticket in our desk and hid the key, then came over here. When we got home, the ticket was gone,” I explained.
“Oh—my—God,” she gasped. “I thought this sort of thing only happens in the movies.”
“Apparently, it happens in real life, too,” I said.
“Who else did you tell about the ticket? Someone had to know about it.”
I shook my head. “No one. We found it and came right home. We checked the numbers on the Internet. We didn’t call anyone.”
“So how did they know?” she asked.
“I think they followed us from here and watched me hide the ticket through our windows. That’s the only logical explanation.”
“But how did they know you had it in the first place?”
“That’s a good question. My guess is they did the same thing—watched us through the windows here. Whoever has been breaking in here must be looking for the ticket. They’d probably been watching me the whole time.”
“You did call the police, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They weren’t too encouraging. They didn’t find any fingerprints other than ours.”
“So if someone shows up to claim the ticket?“
“It’s our word against theirs. As they explained to us, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Well, doesn’t that just frost your apple cart! There’s got to be something you can do.”
“I don’t know what.” I paused and watched a hummingbird dart from flower to flower on a trumpet vine that had crept over the fence from a neighboring yard. “Was there anyone who seemed very interested in the house when it first came on the market?”
“Well, sure. Like I say, I thought I had it sold a couple times, but they all backed out.”
“What about other people who looked at it? Any of them want to see it more than once?” I asked.
Fiona searched her memory. “Let’s see. I can’t think of anyone. Like I said, most people were scared off by all the work it needed. I don’t think anyone came back more than once.”
I finished my sandwich and drank my last swallow of lemonade. “Well, it doesn’t really matter anyhow. Craig and I talked about it. We were happy before we found the ticket, and we’re still just as happy now.”
“But to have come so close, and have it taken away like that. I’d be a little peeved. Heck, I’d be more than a little peeved, I’d be downright mad. I’d be boiling over. My wig would be frizzed from the steam coming out of my ears.”
I chuckled at the thought of steam bellowing out of her ears. “Calm down, Fiona. It’s only money.”
“Only money? The last person I heard utter those words was pushing a beat-up old shopping cart down main street and living under the Harbor Street overpass.”
Fiona and I finished lunch and she left me to work on my project. On her way out the door, she promised she’d help in the search for the culprit who stole the ticket, for a six percent commission, of course.
I’d made my way to the master bedroom, lugging the big garbage can behind me. I began sorting through the rubble and got pretty good at tossing objects across the room and making rim shots into the trashcan. I picked up a blanket that was piled on the floor and uncovered a wrinkled calendar. It was one of Lowell Herrero’s Cow Calendars. I sat down on the floor and smoothed the pages, smiling at the amusing pictures as I flipped through them. When I’d gotten to the December page, I started back at January, only this time I decided to read Lou Winnomore’s entries. There weren’t many—a couple of doctors’ appointments, a scheduled tune-up for his car, a few birthdays, and an anniversary.
It looked like Lou didn’t have a whole lot going on in his life—either that, or he had a terrific memory. Then I thought, no, if his memory was that good, he wouldn’t need to mark down the birthdays of his family members and his own wedding anniversary. I studied his entries again. Something nagged at me as I scanned the pages, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I finally shook it off and tossed the calendar into the barrel. I had too much work to do. I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
I’d worked up a decent sweat and could feel the perspiration drip down my forehead. I’d just about finished cleaning out the bedroom, so I decided to take a little break. I headed down the hall to the bathroom and ran the cold water. I splashed it on my face, then realized I didn’t have a towel to dry off. I looked at my dripping face in the mirror when it struck me—the entries in the calendar, that is. I used the front of my shirt to dry my face and hands and ran back to the bedroom. I dump
ed the trash barrel out on the floor and dug through it until I found the calendar. I quickly flipped through the pages and noted the circled dates. “That’s it!” I said. The dates that were most important to Lou were the same numbers he’d played on his winning lottery ticket. That made sense to me. A lot of people use special dates for their lottery picks. I felt relieved that I’d solved that nagging question, much like when I finally remember someone’s name, two days after I swore it was on the tip of my tongue.
I began throwing everything back in the trash barrel, but I still had an uneasy feeling. People who play special numbers tend to always play those numbers. Lou probably played the same numbers every time he bought a ticket. I wondered how often he played the lottery. I also wondered who else knew about Lou’s special numbers. I decided not to throw the calendar out.
I returned to the kitchen and pulled my phone from my purse. I called Fiona’s office.
“Fiona? This is Devonie. Do you know how Lou Winnomore died?”
“Winnomore?” she replied, puzzled.
“Yes. The previous owner,” I reminded her.
“Oh, him. Gee, I don’t know. He was old. I think his ticker just gave out on him.”
“Heart attack?”
“I think that’s what Chuck said, but you know I can’t swear to it.”
“So you don’t know if an autopsy was done?” I asked.
“Autopsy? You may as well ask me what color the Queen of England’s underwear is. I haven’t got the foggiest idea, but Chuck would know,” she offered.
“How is Chuck related to Lou?”
“Brother-in-law, I think. Yeah. Yeah. Lou was married to Chuck’s wife’s sister. They were twins. Not identical, but the other kind, you know, paternal?”
“Fraternal twins?”
“That’s it. Fraternal,” she said.
I studied the cow calendar on the counter. “Would it be okay if I called Chuck?”
“Sure. I’ve got his number right here.”
I dialed Chuck’s number and waited for an answer. I used the excuse that I was cleaning up the place and found some photo albums, and wondered if any of the family members wanted them before I just threw them out. Chuck seemed like a nice man. He said that he didn’t think any of Lou’s kids would be interested in the albums, but if I wanted to bring them by his house, he’d take them. I could tell he didn’t really want them either. He’d probably just toss them out. I told him I’d save him the trouble and do it myself. He didn’t protest.
We chatted awhile, then I eased the conversation into the direction I really intended.
“Fiona tells me Lou died of a heart attack?”
“That’s right,” he verified.
“Gosh. That’s too bad. Was he very old?” I asked.
“Not as old as me, but I’ve got old genes,” he said, chuckling.
“Isn’t it amazing what they can find out with an autopsy?” I said.
“Sure is, but they didn’t do one on Lou. No reason to. He had a history of heart trouble. No one thought it was that serious, but Lou proved us wrong,” Chuck explained.
“I see,” I replied, still staring at the cow calendar I’d set on the counter.
I wrangled the conversation around to another subject and then gracefully let myself off the hook and said goodbye.
I headed for the garage and returned with one of the full garbage bags I’d put there earlier. I rummaged through two of them before I finally found the assorted bottles of vitamins and supplements I’d thrown out. I gathered them up and put them in a smaller paper sack.
I made sure all the doors were locked before I left the house, then I gathered up the bag of pills, the cow calendar, and headed for Detective Sam Wright’s office. If my hunch was right, Lou Winnomore’s cause of death was about as natural as my cousin Marilyn’s platinum blond hair.
Chapter Five
Detective Sam Wright scowled at me from across his desk. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want me to tie up police lab resources to check out these pills because you think some old guy with a known heart condition didn’t die the way a trained medical examiner said he did?”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “This is exactly the reaction I expected. I don’t know why I even bother coming to you in the first place,” I complained.
“Because I’m the only fool here dumb enough to give you the time of day. Anybody else would throw you out.”
I’d known Sam for several years. From the first time I met him, he’d shown a hostile tendency that still crops up from time to time. We’re actually good friends now, but he still insists on making me prove myself every inch of the way when it comes to my conspiracy theories. I’ve learned to ignore his hostility, to a point. Once in a while, he follows through on a threat, so I’ve learned just how far I can go with him. Most of the time, he puts up with my misadventures and comes up smelling like a rose.
“So, are you going to check out the pills?” I pressed.
“Tell me again why I should?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Because, as I’ve already explained, Lou Winnomore played his own special numbers. They’re his family’s birthdays and his anniversary. I’d bet you a hundred bucks he played those same numbers every time.” I shoved the calendar closer to Sam and flipped through the pages, pointing out the circled dates. “The last ticket he played was a winner—fifty-eight million dollars. Someone had to know he played those numbers. No one could be that unlucky—to win fifty-eight million, then suddenly die of natural causes. Someone knew about the ticket, because his house was ransacked several times after he died. They were looking for the ticket. When I found it, they stole it from me.”
Sam rocked in his chair and glared at me, but didn’t say anything.
“And the lids to these bottles of vitamins were all mixed up,” I continued.
“So?”
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared right back at him. “Do you take vitamins?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“Do you take all the lids off at once to take them, or do you remove one at a time?”
“One at a time, but that doesn’t mean—“
“Me too. One at a time. The only reason someone would remove all the lids at once is if they were tampering with them. They were probably nervous, and didn’t pay attention to which lid went on which bottle,” I speculated.
“That’s a pretty far reach,” Sam said.
“Far reach? So most murderers put the evidence right in your hand?”
He smirked at me but didn’t reply. Typical Sam Wright. I reached across his desk and snatched up the calendar, then collected the bottles and dropped them back in the paper bag I’d brought them in. I jammed the calendar under my arm and grabbed the sack. “Fine. I’ll go see someone else for help,” I snapped.
Sam stood up and snatched the bag from me. “Don’t bother someone else with your little escapade. I’ll have the lab check it out, but if it comes up negative, like I know it will, will you drop it?”
I smiled. “Okay, but you’re going to find something in that bag, and when you do, you’ll owe me lunch.”
Jason is an old friend of mine who owns an appliance sales and repair shop. He puts up with a lot more from me than a mere acquaintance would. I keep telling Craig that someday I want to throw a big “thank you” party for all the family and friends who’ve gotten mixed up in my capers. Jason would be at the top of the guest list. He got me a great deal on new appliances for the kitchen at Rancho Costa Little. I met him there early the next morning so he could install them. The top half of his body disappeared under the kitchen sink as he hooked up the new dishwasher. I sat on the floor to assist.
“Wrench?” he requested, holding a flattened palm out like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel.
“So what kind of poison do you think they’ll find in those capsules?” I asked, placing the wrench in his hand.
The wrench disappeared under the sink and clanke
d on a hard-to-reach pipe. “Don’t know. If you think he was killed for that lottery ticket, then your killer ought to show up in the next couple of days when he tries to claim the prize money,” Jason said, between grunts.
“But if I can’t prove Lou was murdered, then he’ll get away with the money and the murder.”
Jason held out his empty hand again. “Screwdriver?”
I rummaged through the toolbox. “Phillips?”
“No. Flathead,” he replied.
I placed it in his hand.
“Got any suspects?” Jason asked.
“Not anyone in particular. Whoever it is probably knew him pretty well. He’d have to to know the numbers that Lou always played. There are a couple of relatives who seem a little quirky.”
“Quirky?”
“Yeah. There’s a crazy son, but he’s locked up in a mental institution,” I said.
“You sure?”
“I was told he was.” I wondered if Fiona might have been wrong about it. “Maybe I could call Chuck to make sure.”
“Chuck?”
“He’s Lou’s brother-in-law. He was the executor to the estate,” I explained.
“Maybe it’s him,” Jason offered.
“I thought of that, but decided he’s probably not the one. He could have taken his time to look for the ticket before putting the house on the market. He didn’t have to rip it apart. No one was pushing for the sale of the house.”
“You’re probably right. Who else?”
“A daughter. She’s off in Africa somewhere. She’s a missionary or something—has no interest in her father’s estate.”
“Probably not her then, either.”
“Then there’s the widow of Lou’s third son. Now she’s a possibility. Her late husband had an illegitimate son whose mother is demanding half of everything Lou’s legitimate grandson gets for her own son. The wife doesn’t want her son to have to share.”
“Sounds kind of messy,” Jason said.
“It is.”
“But it could just as easily be the mistress, don’t you think?”
