A Hint of Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  “Did you read this?” she asked.

  I squinted. “What is it?”

  “Lila Sutton’s blog post about Maybelle’s perp walk,” my mother reported. “Apparently, she refused to let Officer Hendricks put her in cuffs until they’d been sterilized with Purel.”

  I leaned in. “Yep. That’s her. But I don’t see any handcuffs.”

  “On account of they were too slippery from all of the Purel. That Denny Hendricks is a cute young guy. And I love his wife. But he isn’t exactly J. Edgar Hooper.”

  “Do you mean Hoover?” I smiled. “If you’re talking about the FBI guy, it’s J. Edgar Hoover.”

  She flicked an angry scowl in my direction. “Whatever,” she grumbled. “You know who I’m talking about.”

  I smiled. “I doubt that Chief Winslow would’ve hired Denny if he didn’t think—”

  “Save it,” my mother interrupted. “You should read Lila’s blog about Maybelle’s arrest. Apparently, the police found something under the dead woman that belonged to Maybelle.”

  “Did you say dead woman?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, I hate to disparage Lila’s reporting skills, but the murder victim was a man.”

  My mother’s forehead crumpled. “You sure about that? Lila’s won awards for that blog.”

  I laughed. “That’s true. Her daughters gave Lila one of the gold plastic trophies that Toby Whitmer sells at the hardware store. It was Mother’s Day and the kids were honoring their mom for—”

  “Save it,” my mother said again. “Life’s too short to quibble. I’m more interested in how and why Maybelle got involved with a murder. I mean, she’s as big around as a house, as clumsy as all get out and not too fast on her feet. Doesn’t really strike me as having the nerves of steel you’d need to pull off something like a cold-blooded homicide.”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” I suggested.

  My mother frowned. “Come again?”

  “I said that maybe Mrs. Fletcher didn’t kill Mr. Wargrave,” I said. “Also, there’s the fact that Maybelle is innocent until proven guilty.”

  She thought about my remark. Then she drank more of her wine. And then she tapped her nails against the coffee mug.

  “Nothing wrong with drinking vino from this,” she said. “Besides, I’m on a budget.”

  “Is that because you spent all your mad money on makeup, hair accessories and peanut butter pretzels?”

  She shook her head. “Heck no, sweetheart. It’s because a smart woman is a frugal woman.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “And a frugal woman is a happy woman?”

  She smiled. “A frugal woman is a patient woman,” she said. “Because if she waits long enough, everything goes on sale at some point.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “And you’re nothing if not smart, patient and frugal.”

  She beamed proudly and sipped from the mug. Then she said, “You should look into it, Liz.”

  “Look into it?”

  “You should help your brother!” my mother explained. “He’d probably appreciate the assistance, especially since you spend so much time reading mysteries and listening to those castpods about real police investigations.”

  “They’re podcasts,” I said. “Not castpods.”

  She shrugged. “Six of one, dear. Besides, we haven’t had a homicide in town forty or fifty years. Matt will probably appreciate the help finding the killer.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s not technically Matt’s case. There’s a new detective with the department. He’ll be handling the investigation.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “That’s fine. You can still help your brother. After all, he was one of the first officers on the scene. And remember how much fun you and he had playing Sherlock and Dr. Watson when you were kids?”

  “But we’re not kids anymore,” I said, recognizing the glint of maternal pride mixed with sadness in her eyes. “I’m thirty. Matt’s thirty-five.”

  “Well, he’s still your big brother,” she said. “Always has been. Always will be. That’s just a fact of life, dear.”

  I laughed. “You know what else is a fact of life?”

  She sighed. “My boobs dropped another two inches overnight?”

  “Not exactly what I was referring to,” I said. “Another fact of life is that law enforcement professionals aren’t crazy about amateurs getting in their way.”

  “That’s easy, sweetheart. You just stay out of their way.”

  “I’d actually love to get involved with the case,” I said. “But Matt and I searching for lost dogs and stolen newspapers when we were kids hardly qualifies me for the real deal.”

  “Nonsense!” She waved away any doubt with both hands. “You used to work for the police up in Georgia. You know a thing or two about solving crimes.”

  “I was a 911 operator, mother. That’s not exactly on the same level with police detectives.”

  She made a face. “Well, I know that, hon. But Chief Winslow gave a presentation at the Crystal Bay Women’s Business Association luncheon a couple of months ago. He talked about how they’re slashing budgets and tightening belts at the CBPD. I’d guess they might actually welcome the assistance and support from a smart amateur sleuth.”

  I laughed at the earnest expression on her face. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I don’t think that’s what—”

  She stopped me with one wagging finger. “Mother knows best, hon. I already talked to Donald. He and I are on a first name basis, you know, and he said you’d be welcome to lend a hand if you abided by the rules and regulations.”

  “Which rules and regulations?”

  She frowned slightly. “The ones at the CBPD,” she answered. “I bet they’re not all that different from what I taught you when you were young either. Be polite. Don’t be too pushy. And always remember to wash your hands after you tinkle.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Instead of accepting my mother’s invitation to move back into my childhood bedroom when I returned to Crystal Bay from Atlanta, I’d rented a small apartment a few blocks from the beach. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but knew that living under her roof again would make it impossible to wander around in my cropped Hello Kitty T-shirt and bleach-stained boxers without earning a maternal lecture about decency and decorum.

  I was still getting used to the new place, but it felt a little more like home each time I came in the door.

  After I arrived that evening, I put my keys and phone on the console table in the entryway. Then I walked into the kitchen and gobbled a handful of almonds before collapsing on the sofa in the living room.

  I stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if I wanted to walk down the street to the Chinese restaurant or settle for one of the entrées that I always kept in the freezer.

  “My feet hurt,” I announced to the empty room. “I don’t feel like putting shoes on again.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed back into the cushions. After another long day at the Big Dipper, it felt good to relax for a few minutes. I could hear someone singing on the sidewalk below. It sounded like a series of grunts, snorts and groans with the occasional garbled phrase thrown in for good measure. I couldn’t identify the song, but their voice reminded me of a PBS show that I watched recently called Fellowship of the Whales.

  After the tone-deaf vocalist had faded away, I decided it was time to eat. I rolled off the sofa, stumbled to the kitchen and opened the freezer. As I debated the pros and cons of each option, my phone rang in the foyer.

  “It might be important,” I said, heading out of the kitchen. “Or it could be my mother.”

  Instead, it was my sister calling from her house on the far side of town. Shelby was an account manager for an advertising agency that handled hotels, restaurants and resorts. Despite our best intentions and promises to make plans, I’d only seen her twice since I returned to Crystal Bay.

  “Put away that Lean Cuisine,” she said with a giggle.
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  “Are you crazy? I’m getting ready to make a recipe from—”

  “Chicken or fish?” she cut in.

  “Seriously, sis. I’m actually cooking!”

  “Chicken or fish?” she said firmly. “I know that you only like two of their meals.”

  I exhaled into the phone. “It’s the tortilla-crusted fish,” I confessed. “I had the pecan chicken last night.”

  “You need to get out of that rut, baby sister.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I said. “I’m not in a rut!”

  “Ha!” Her second laugh was twice as loud. “You eat the same thing. You wear the same thing. And you think the same thing!”

  “It’s not exactly a crime,” I said. “I happen to really like pecan chicken and tortilla-crusted fish.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She’d shifted to her authoritative tone. “You’ve been back in Crystal Bay for six weeks, but you haven’t gone anywhere fun.”

  “Because I’ve been busy,” I said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, c’mon! I’ve been settling in at the shop with Aunt Dot,” I began. “I’ve been feathering my nest. And I’ve been—”

  “I bet the stack of boxes is still sitting in the corner of your living room,” she said.

  I looked across the apartment at the cartons labeled Kitchen, Books & CDs, Shoes and Dad’s Medals/Trophies. The last box had a bittersweet value. Our father left our mother for another woman many years earlier. The experience had left our family devastated and heartbroken. Mother had divided dad’s military and college football keepsakes into three collections that she gave to Matt, Shelby and me. It was for the best because they filled her with either rage or deep sorrow whenever she saw them.

  “Am I right?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you want me to come over this weekend and help you finish unpacking?”

  “That’s sweet,” I told her. “But I’m working both days at the shop.”

  “How about after it closes?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “I can live with a couple of boxes for a while.”

  “Or forever,” she said under her breath.

  “Hey! It’s my apartment. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  She muttered something else that I couldn’t make out. But when I asked her to repeat it, she quickly changed the subject.

  “I’m meeting a couple of girlfriends at Will’s Wine Dive in an hour or so,” she said. “Do you want to join us for a drink?”

  “I’d love to,” I told her, “but I’m so wiped out from the day.”

  “Who isn’t?” she said. “But you still need to get out.”

  “I know, but the—”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said. “It’s three blocks from your apartment. Come and join us for just one drink. It’ll be good for you to get out for a change.”

  I looked over at the stack of unopened boxes. Then I glanced at the frozen Lean Cuisine entrée.

  “It’s two-for-one taco night,” she said. “You love those things.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “And karaoke,” she added.

  I groaned. “I do not indeed,” I said. “But you’re right; it’ll be good to hang out with you and the other girls. I’ll take a quick shower, get dressed and be there in a flash.”

  “Promise?” Shelby said.

  “Cross my heart,” I answered. “Order a Dos Equis for me if you get there first.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning at seven, I walked into Coffee Cove just in time to hear Madge Furbish complaining loudly about the garnish sprinkled on the top of her mocha frappuccino.

  “Do you call that a tiny whisper of chocolate confetti?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I specified a small amount because I’m cutting back on sweets.”

  As I zipped over and slid in beside my aunt’s friend, she repeated the criticism again.

  “Morning, Madge,” I said when she finished. “Everything okay?”

  She whipped around. “No, it’s not! And good morning to you, too.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  The red-faced young woman behind the counter attempted to explain the situation, but Madge cut her off.

  “I’ve heard just about enough,” she said. “Make me another one.”

  The barista looked despondent. “Some people never know when to stop!”

  Madge pointed at the young woman. “Listen here, missy! If your mother wants you to make another mocha frappuccino so you can get the chocolate confetti right, then you’ll make another one!”

  I did a double take, shifting my gaze from Madge to the barista and back again.

  “This is Bernadette?” I asked.

  The woman behind the counter held up her right hand. “Guilty as charged,” she said. “Are you from my mother’s knitting group?”

  I shook my head. “I have zero domestic or creative skills. My name is Liz Hutton. I work with my aunt at Dot’s Big Dipper.”

  “Oh, the ice cream lady!”

  “That’s Dot,” I said. “I’m the ice cream lady’s niece, bookkeeper and occasional scooper.”

  “Well, I just love the Salted Pretzel with Caramel!” Bernadette confessed with a bubbly laugh. “It’s been my favorite flavor since I was in kindergarten.”

  “Do you know what I just love?” Madge said, smiling at her daughter. “Having someone remake my mocha frappuccino with a whisper of chocolate confetti while I’m still alive!”

  Bernadette groaned, turned around and started working on her mother’s replacement drink.

  “Do you like mocha fraps?” Madge asked.

  I nodded.

  “This one’s on me,” she said, nodding at the drink on the counter. “Unless that’s also too heavy on the confetti for you”

  “Well, thanks!” I reached for the beverage. “But you don’t have to buy my coffee.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “And I hope you don’t think that I was seriously upset with Bernie. This is her first job working with the public, so I’m trying to help her develop thick skin to deal with the nimrods and jackholes.”

  “Lot of that going around these days,” I said. “We see the same sort of thing at the Dipper.”

  “It’s a wild world,” she said as the front door creaked open. “As well as a squeaky one. I’ll have to tell Bernie to tell Miriam and Joe that the shop needs some TLC.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the three women walking into the shop. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they looked to be in their mid-twenties. They were all dressed in pricey jogging gear and running shoes. Madge waved at the tallest one in a powder blue jacket and black leggings.

  “That’s Jody Tate,” she whispered to me. “Married Rhoda and Bill Uttley’s youngest boy.”

  “Teddy?”

  Madge nodded. “Do you know Theodore?”

  “We went to school together. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

  “Well, he looks about the same,” Madge said. “Big as a barn, cute as a button and smart as a box of hammers.”

  “His wife’s a knockout,” I said.

  “She is,” Madge agreed. “Theodore may wear the pants in that family, but Eve has to help him figure out how to put them on every morning.”

  I laughed at her joke. Then I watched as she studied her daughter behind the counter. I knew that the application of chocolate confetti would be a high-stress moment for Madge, so I waited quietly, sipped my mocha frappuccino and listened to the new arrivals whispering behind me.

  “…because the old witch wouldn’t stop talking about him,” one of the women was saying. “It was Simon Wargrave this, and Simon Wargrave that the whole night. I mean, they’re freakin’ rivals in the real estate business. Why would she think he’d find her the least bit attractive?”

  “Uh, hello?” one of the other women said in a singsong voice. “He’s also still married, although they
claim to be separated!”

  While the trio chattered excitedly in hushed voices for a few seconds, I listened for clues and tried to guess the identity of the disreputable old witch.

  “What did your friend say about that?” asked one of the women.

  “Oh, you know,” the first woman replied. “She thinks Maybelle Fletcher walks on water because she helped my parents negotiate a better price when they sold their house last year.”

  When I realized the women were discussing my aunt’s friend, I was tempted to walk over and suggest they refrain from chattering about such explosive gossip in pubic. But then I realized the confrontation might bring more attention to the unfounded buzz about Maybelle.

  “That’s great and everything,” the second woman replied, “but when you’re her age, you shouldn’t throw yourself at a married man like a desperate fool.”

  “Do you really think that’s what she was doing?” the other woman asked.

  “What would you call it?” said the first. “She spent the whole night asking my parents about the guy’s personal habits, when he was coming back, how much he made and a bunch of other things like that.”

  “Well, maybe she’s—”

  I was listening so intently that I squeaked when Madge nudged my arm.

  “Would you look at this?” she said, motioning at the second mocha frappuccino on the counter. “My baby girl got the chocolate confetti perfect this time around!”

  “Mother!” Bernadette moaned. “I’m twenty-one. Stop treating me like an infant!”

  Madge reached for her coffee. “I’ll tell you what, sunshine. As soon as you start doing your own laundry, making your own bed and buying your own Skinny Girl Margaritas, I’ll start treating you like an adult.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Later that day, on the way back to the Big Dipper from the bank, I decided to take a little detour and stop at Maybelle Fletcher’s office. Gulf Sunshine Realty was located in a small brick building on Palmetto Drive, one of the main thoroughfares in Crystal Bay’s commercial district. After running the business by herself for a few years, Maybelle had recently expanded the enterprise with a second realtor, a curvy redhead named Christine Marshall.