Plum Pudding Murder Bundle with Candy Cane Murder & Sugar Cookie Murder

by Joanne Fluke

  “What about Mr. Roberts? What’s he like?”

  And just like that, an invisible screen slammed down between us.

  “Oh, he’s a very nice gentleman,” she said, stiffly.

  Although perfectly willing to share the details of her wedding and her parents’ Christmas decorations, she wasn’t about to badmouth her boss, not yet, not until she knew me better. Clearly I’d have to win her trust.

  Which was where Phase Two of my plan went into effect.

  “So,” I asked. “Is there a place to have lunch here in the building?”

  “Oh, sure. There’s a coffee shop downstairs. The food’s pretty good.”

  “Any place to unwind after work?”

  “There’s The Legal Eagle, right next door. They have a fantastic happy hour. People from the building go there all the time.”

  Just what I wanted to hear.

  “I love their buffalo chicken wings. I’ve tried to make them at home, but I can never get the spices right. I think I’m adding too much cumin. Or maybe it’s chili powder. I always get the ‘c’ spices confused.”

  “Hey,” I said, as if I’d just thought of it on the spur of the moment. “Want to go there right now? I’m sort of wiped out from that interview and I could really use a margarita.”

  “I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I really should get home.”

  “My treat. For helping me out.”

  She flashed me another grin. “Okay, what the heck? Hector’s working late tonight anyway.”

  She locked up the office and off we trotted to The Legal Eagle, Phase Two of my plan now in full swing. With any luck, I’d get Sylvia tootled enough to dish the dirt about Garth and Peter and their “amicable” split up.

  Sylvia was right about those buffalo wings. They were scrumptious. Spicy, but not too spicy. I absolutely could not allow myself to eat more than two. Three, tops. Okay, five at the outside.

  Happy Hour had just begun when we showed up and the place was doing a brisk business. It was one of those ersatz turn of the century pubs with a massive mahogany bar and mock gaslight sconces on the walls. We managed to snag two seats at the bar, in grabbing distance of the buffalo wings, and I quickly proceeded to order us two frosty margaritas.

  I was thrilled to see Sylvia suck hers up like a Hoover.

  This was going to be a piece of cake. She’d be tootled in no time, and dishing the dirt with a trowel!

  Or so I thought.

  She got tootled all right, but all she wanted to talk about was that dratted wedding of hers.

  “So do you really like the A-line?” she asked, the minute we were seated.

  It took me a minute to realize she was still talking about her wedding dress.

  “Oh, yes,” I assured her, “it’s lovely.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too plain.”

  “Then maybe you should go with the Cinderella dress.”

  “I know, but that might be too fussy.”

  I took a healthy slug of my margarita. Yes, this was definitely going to be tougher than I thought.

  No matter how much I tried to deflect the conversation away from her wedding, she kept coming back to it like a well-trained homing pigeon. I learned every detail of her floral arrangements (violets, to match her bridesmaids’ lilac gowns), her deejay (Hector’s cousin Ricardo, aka “Little Ricky,” who, in case you’re interested, does a dynamite Elvis impersonation), and the cake (an agonizing fifteen minute dissertation on the merits of yellow cake with chocolate cream frosting versus white with strawberry preserves). I thought I’d died and gone to Wedding Planning Hell.

  “The thing that’s really got me worried,” she said, starting in on her second margarita, “is Estella.”

  “Estella?”

  “Hector’s mother. What a witch. I can’t tell you how awful she’s been.”

  Oh, yes, she could. And she did. Another excruciating half hour dragged by as I heard each and every one of Estella’s many character flaws.

  By now I’d long passed my five-Buffalo-wing limit and was inhaling them faster than the speed of light.

  “She’s always criticizing me,” Sylvia whined. “Nothing I ever do is good enough. The first time I cooked dinner for Hector and his parents, I made a roast chicken. Okay, so I was stupid and didn’t know anything about cooking, and I forgot to take out the plastic bag with the liver and gizzards and stuff.

  “Well, you’d think the world came to an end. That was three years ago, and to this day, Estella tells anybody she meets about the time I cooked the chicken with the plastic bag inside.”

  I tsk-tsked in sympathy, desperately trying to keep my eyelids propped open.

  “I just know she’s going to ruin my wedding. Somehow she’ll think of a way to screw things up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she interrupts the ceremony to tell that stupid chicken story.”

  “I’m sure she won’t do that.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she said, polishing off her second margarita and signaling the bartender for a third. “The woman is capable of anything. Did I ever tell you about the time I caught her going through my underwear drawer?”

  “Yes, I believe you mentioned that about ten minutes ago.”

  “Let me tell you, it’s been utter hell to live through.”

  And listen to, too.

  “At least there’s no stress at your office,” I said, gamely trying to steer the conversation back to Garth and Peter. “Your boss sounds like a really nice guy.”

  “He’s okay, I guess,” she said, licking the last of the salt from the rim of her margarita glass. “Although he can be awfully fussy when it comes to his coffee. He swears he can tell the difference between Equal and Sweet ’N Low. Heaven forbid I make a mistake and get him Sweet ’N Low—”

  Enough, already! I had to be firm and nip this Artificial Sweetener Tangent in the bud.

  “I guess you must really miss Mr. Janken.”

  “Are you crazy? He was one nasty S.O.B.”

  “Really?” I sat up straight, finally interested in what she had to say.

  “Thank goodness I wasn’t his secretary. He ran through them like water. Couldn’t keep one to save his soul. So demanding. He made Estella look like a saint.”

  “How did he get along with Mr. Roberts?”

  “He didn’t. Peter put up with him for years, but finally he had enough. He wanted to dissolve the partnership. At first Garth didn’t seem to care. But then when he learned that his biggest client was switching his account over to Peter, he hit the roof. Garth stormed into Peter’s office, screaming at the top of his lungs.”

  At last—after packing away three margaritas and two $12 shrimp cocktails—she was finally on a roll!

  “I was sitting at my desk, and I heard him clear as day: If you think you’re taking The Great Litigator with you, he shouted, you’re crazy!”

  “The Great Litigator?”

  “That’s what Garth called his client, because the guy was constantly suing people. You’re not taking him or anybody else with you, he told Peter. I know what you did back in Ohio, and I’ve got evidence to prove it. I intend to report you to the bar association. And when I do, you’re going to lose your license so fast your head will be spinning.”

  “Ohio? What did Peter do in Ohio?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Little Ricky called to talk about wedding music then and I got distracted.”

  Darn that Little Ricky.

  Oh, well. I’d still gotten quite an earful. Garth had been threatening Peter with disbarment. Which sounded like a viable motive for murder to me.

  “Gosh, look at the time,” I said, making a big show of checking my watch. “It’s been fun chatting, but I really should be going.”

  “Thanks for the margaritas, Charlotte. And the shrimp cocktails. I can’t believe I ordered two of them.”

  Neither could I. But I assured her it had been my pleasure and waved to the bartender for the check.

  He brought i
t over with impressive speed, and just when I was stifling a gasp over the total, I heard someone say:

  “Hey Sylvia, how’s it going?”

  I looked up and saw a tall well-dressed black woman heading toward us.

  “Betty!” Sylvia blinked, confused. “What are you doing here? Charlotte said she saw you leaving hours ago.”

  Oh, crud. It was Betty, the secretary I was supposed to have met this afternoon.

  “Do I know you?” she asked me, puzzled.

  “Sure,” Sylvia piped up. “You guys met when Charlotte interviewed for your job today.”

  “What are you talking about?” Betty said. “I’m not leaving my job. And I didn’t go home hours ago.”

  Uh-oh. My cue to exit.

  “Well, see ya round.”

  And without any further ado, I slapped fifty bucks on the bar, grabbed a chicken wing for the road, and got the heck out of there.

  I drove home, filled with a sense of accomplishment—and enough Buffalo wings to stock a chicken farm.

  Thanks to my successful, if costly, rendezvous with Sylvia, I now had a new suspect to add to my list.

  Garth had been threatening to rat on Peter Roberts to the bar association. What incriminating evidence had Garth been holding over Peter’s head? And more important, how the heck was I going to get my hands on it?

  I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart it was stashed away somewhere in Garth’s house.

  Which meant I had no choice, really, but to tootle over to Hysteria Lane and break into the place.

  Chapter Ten

  At seven A.M. the next morning, I was parked across the street from Cathy Janken’s house on my first ever professional stakeout.

  It had been hell hauling myself out of bed at six to get ready for this gig, but now that I was here I was starting to feel quite Private Eye-ish. I’d come fully prepared with breakfast, lunch, a thermos of coffee, and an audiotape of Anna Karenina I’d bought ages ago and never got around to listening to.

  And, of course, a bottle to tinkle in.

  Hey, I’d seen Stakeout I and II. I knew the ropes.

  I was prepared to camp out in my car until I saw Cathy leave her house. At which point I’d scoot over and do a little Breaking and Entering.

  I was keeping my fingers crossed, though, that none of my stakeout accessories would be necessary. I remembered the sweat suit Cathy had been wearing when we first met, and I was hoping she was one of those maddeningly noble people who start the day with a workout at the gym.

  But no such luck.

  Hour after hour dragged by with no sign of Cathy.

  By eight A.M., I’d finished my breakfast. By nine A.M., I’d finished my lunch. I tried to get into Anna Karenina, but in spite of three cups of coffee zinging through my veins, I was bored to tears. By the time the last chapter rolled around, I was rooting for the train.

  Five hours, four coffees, and two diet Cokes later, I was desperate to take a tinkle.

  I took out the empty liter bottle of Sprite I’d brought along for this purpose and eyed it with dismay. How on earth was I ever going to do this? I could never get my aim straight in the ladies room at my gynecologist’s office; no way was I going to do it in a Sprite bottle. Had I lost my mind, bringing along a bottle with such a tiny neck?

  Now what the heck was I supposed to do?

  I couldn’t very well ring a neighbor’s bell and ask to use their bathroom.

  For a few agonizing minutes I tried to hold it in, but it was impossible. With an angry curse, I started the car and sped over to the nearest Jack in the Box where I availed myself of their facilities. Okay, so I picked up an order of fries while I was at it. It had been ages since I’d eaten my lunch at nine A.M., and I was hungry.

  Grabbing my fries, I got in the Corolla and raced back to Hysteria Lane. Just my luck, Cathy had probably strolled out of the house the minute I’d gone.

  But no. Lady Luck finally decided to give me a break.

  Just as I was pulling back into my stakeout space, I saw Cathy come out of her house and drive off in her SUV.

  The minute she was gone, I leapt out of the Corolla and grabbed a gift-wrapped box from the backseat. There was nothing actually inside the box. I’d brought it along in case one of the neighbors saw me snooping around. I’d just tell them I was bringing Cathy a Christmas gift. Clever of me, wasn’t it?

  A darn sight smarter than the Sprite bottle, anyway.

  I reached back in the car for a final handful of fries, then trotted across the street and rang Cathy’s bell. I wanted to make sure nobody was home. Maybe there was a cleaning lady inside just waiting to pounce on me.

  But nobody answered the door, and satisfied that the coast was clear, I crept around the side of the house, testing for open windows.

  Everything was sealed tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift.

  And suddenly I was overcome with doubts. What if none of the windows were open and I had to force open one of the doors? I’d brought along my professional Breaking and Entering Tool (a shish kebab skewer I’d grabbed at the last minute), but really, I had no idea how to force open a door. I had a hard enough time getting the wrapping off a CD. What made me think I’d be able to hack my way past a dead bolt? And even if I did, what if Cathy had an alarm system? True, there weren’t any security signs out front, but what if she had one?

  Just when I was about to slink back to the Corolla in defeat, I spotted a small window above a jasmine bush at the back of the house. The bush was camouflaging the window, but on closer inspection, I saw that it was open.

  Thank heavens. I wouldn’t have to force any doors and set off any alarms.

  I scurried to the window and tossed my empty Christmas package under the jasmine bush. Then I hoisted myself up to the ledge, which was no easy feat with those prickly jasmine branches scratching my fanny.

  Shoving my upper body in the room, I saw that it was a guest bathroom. What a lucky break that Cathy had left the window open.

  And that’s when my luck came to a screeching halt. The upper half of my body sailed through the window without incident, but sad to say, my lower half did not have such an easy time of it. Somewhere in the dreaded hip/tush zone, I’d come to a standstill. Yes, like 99 percent of all the bathing suits I’ve ever tried on in my life, the window frame was too small for me. My hips simply wouldn’t squeeze through.

  In defense of my hips, I should tell you that the window was pretty darn small. That’s probably why Cathy had left it open in the first place. Clearly she wasn’t expecting any anorexic cat burglars. I should’ve realized I might not have squeezed through, but I hadn’t, and it was too late now. I’d just have to climb down and give up this stupid breaking and entering plan.

  I started to push myself back out of the window. But, to my horror, I couldn’t budge.

  Oh, crud. I was stuck.

  What a nightmare. Eventually one of the neighbors was bound to notice a tush hanging out of Cathy Janken’s house. Why the heck had I scarfed down all those chicken wings last night? Not to mention breakfast—and lunch—this morning. And that last handful of fries. What if those last few fries had wedged me in for good?

  By now I was in an advanced state of panic. Any minute now the cops would come and arrest me! My name would be splashed all over the papers. I could see the headlines: FANNY BANDIT FOILED IN REAR ENTRY!

  Just when I was cursing the day I ever heard of Seymour Fielder and Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, I noticed a jar of hand lotion on the bathroom counter. Could I possibly use that as a lubricant and grease my way loose? It was a long shot, but worth a try. I reached for the lotion, but it was just out of my grasp. Grinding my teeth in frustration, I tried once more.

  And then a miracle happened. Somehow, in stretching my muscles, I must’ve loosened up that fraction of an inch I’d needed to set myself free. Because suddenly I found myself popping through Cathy’s window like a human champagne cork.

  I slid onto her imported tile counter, gasping for a
ir, and clinging to a towel rack for dear life.

  Me and my hips had made it, after all.

  Plucking jasmine blossoms off my rear, I set out in search of Garth’s home office. After everything I’d just been through, I sure hoped he had one. I found what I was looking for at the front of the house, across from the living room: A masculine library cum office, with built-in bookcases, leather furniture and hunting prints galore. Very British Lord of the Manor. But what caught my eye was the cherrywood desk by the window, complete with laptop and hand-tooled leather desk accessories.

  Wasting no time, I scooted over to it and began rifling through the drawers.

  The top drawer contained the usual assortment of rubber bands and paperclips, as well as a bottle of Viagra and a lifetime membership card from The Hair Club For Men.

  I now knew that the impressive mane of hair I’d seen in Garth’s portrait wasn’t his own, and that he’d needed a little help in the dipsy doodle department. All very interesting, but no help whatsoever in my search for incriminating evidence against Peter Roberts.

  I hoped I’d have better luck with the two deep file drawers on either side of the desk. The first one contained nothing but some old computer manuals and a pair of gym socks. And the other was locked.

  Oh, well. I’d just have to break out my trusty shish kebab skewer and bust the lock open.

  But, as I was about to discover, shish kebab skewers are totally useless when it comes to breaking a lock. After a frustrating ten-minute struggle, I gave up on the skewer and finally managed to pry the drawer open with Garth’s Mark Cross letter opener.

  Much to my relief, I saw that it was filled with files.

  I quickly started rifling through them. First, under the P’s for Peter. Then the R’s for Roberts.

  Nothing.

  Then I remembered what Sylvia overheard Garth saying to Peter: I know what you did back in Ohio.

  I looked under the O’s. And sure enough, there it was: A file labeled OHIO.

  Inside I found a single piece of paper: a reprint of a newspaper clipping from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, dating back twenty years, about the arrest of Peter Robert Simmons, 19, for grand theft auto.