To Fetch a Killer

by Maria Hudgins

  “Molly!” Becca’s voice reverberated down the path from the house.

  I detected a note of urgency. Not the call from someone who wanted to know where I was, but someone who was about to lose her stuff.

  “Molly!”

  Quick mental math: Tater was no longer locked in the garage plus Becca was in a mood equaled some fresh mutt-caused disaster during Mrs. Wade’s first political fundraiser. Yikes.

  “Mooooolllllllyyyy!” Her voice was getting louder. And more frenzied.

  While I had little affection for the dog, I did not want to see him sent to the glue factory, nor did I want to face the disaster he’d no doubt left in his wake, for which I, no doubt, would be partially blamed. “Let’s run away,” I whispered into Tater’s stinky fur.

  “Mollynda Elizabeth Perkins.”

  I sat up straight. Never a good sign when Becca used my full name. Especially not a good thing when she yelled it at the top of her lungs.

  “Come quick. Ohmigod. Molly. Where are you?” Again, that panicky tinge in her voice did not bode well. It set my stomach churning in worry. Or maybe fear.

  But what really pushed my fight-or-flight instinct into overdrive was the sound of sirens, many sirens, wailing in the night. Approaching our remote north end of the peninsula. A fire?

  Becca stepped off the path and onto the beach.

  I looked toward the house. The wailing of the sirens had stopped, but the pulsing blue and red lights cut through the night and outlined the home in an aura of sadness and tragedy.

  “What did Tater do now?” I asked in a timid voice while rubbing the mutt’s jowls. Not that I really wanted the answer.

  “It’s Mrs. Wade.” Becca paused for a moment. The only sound was that of waves crashing against the shore. “She’s dead.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos. That’s what we found when we returned to the Wade’s house. Tater practically pulled my arm out of its socket as he wanted to join the party, but then again, everything’s a party in Tater’s world. His deep, enthusiastic bark almost drowned out the cacophony.

  EMTs shouted orders as they flitted around Mrs. Wade’s body where she lay slumped on the dining room floor. Police radios chattered and squawked on full volume as six officers set up a human barrier in an attempt to keep the gawking guests at bay. Guests tried to out-shout each other as they relived the horror of their friend/neighbor/business associate dropping dead right before their eyes. The two kitchen workers stood on dining room chairs, peering over the guests to watch the activity.

  Nobody seemed to notice Tater and me, and we sure weren’t needed. I dragged the stinky dog to the spare bathroom where his dead-fish smell could be contained. Mrs. Wade would have to arrange for grooming tomorrow. Except Mrs. Wade was dead. Mr. Wade would have to make that call. Mr. Wade was going to have to do a lot of things, now. I don’t think he appreciated how much Mrs. Wade took care of in their household.

  Back in the relative quiet of the kitchen, I bellied up to a high-top table for two and waited, although I wasn’t real clear on what exactly I was waiting for. Everyone to go home? Then what? My hands, in need of something to do, danced the squatty, stainless-steel salt and pepper mills around in circles while my thoughts swirled with increasing speed.

  Mrs. Wade. Dead. Mrs. Wade. Dead. Mrs. Wade. Dead.

  While she and I hadn’t been best friends, we’d developed a good working relationship over the past three years. I cooked for them most weekdays, which freed up my schedule to cater more lucrative private parties on weekends. The Wades carried a great deal of influence in their ritzy social circle and steered a lot of business my way. She also paid well. Very well. So, I put up with her many moods—both giddy and foul—and defended her when she did the indefensible, like pushing guests into the pond to get her party started.

  Soft footsteps approached from behind. Maybe if I ignored them the person would go away.

  “Stop,” Becca said as she laid a hand on my arm, putting an end to the dance of the salt and pepper mills. “Talk to me.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Are you sure she’s gone?”

  Becca nodded. “Doc Larsen said so.”

  One of tonight’s guests, Craig Larsen, was a family friend. While he’d retired from doctoring years ago, I still trusted his abilities to tell the difference between dead and alive. That wasn’t a skill that rusted out.

  “Was it a heart attack?” Given Mrs. Wade’s propensity for alcoholic spirits, my money had always been on her liver being the first organ to fail. But that usually involved a long, drawn-out illness, not one that had you keel over during the dessert course.

  The irony of having served Death by Chocolate Trifle tonight was not lost on me. I blinked back tears.

  “No heart attack. Anaphylactic shock.” Becca pulled her arms tight around her middle and looked down at her feet.

  Anaphylactic shock? That didn’t make a bit of sense. Mrs. Wade’s intense—some might say paralyzing—fear of dying from that due to severe peanut allergy was well known. She only ate food either she or I prepared, never nibbling when away from home, be it a restaurant or even a close friend’s home.

  My eye’s squinched shut as a migraine threatened to knock me down.

  Becca kept talking. “I don’t even know. It all happened so fast. One minute everyone was enjoying dessert, then Mrs. Wade stood up to start her spiel. Then she sat down, trying to catch her breath, like if she’d just climbed a hundred flights of stairs. Then she sort of slipped off her chair onto the floor.”

  “Didn’t Doc give her the epi-shot?”

  “We couldn’t find her pen.”

  “That’s preposterous. It’s in her purse. It’s always in her purse. You know that. Everyone knows that.” It was kept in the front zippered pocket of her don’t-go-anywhere-without-it Kate Spade handbag.

  “But it wasn’t. I personally turned that purse inside out. No pen.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said. “I watched her check for it before she went out today.”

  Becca shrugged. “It must have fallen out.”

  “There’s an extra one here in the kitchen, in the drawer by the pantry.” I turned with the intention of marching over to the drawer and producing the spare epi-pen. As if there were still a chance we could save her.

  Becca laid a restraining had on my arm. Her lips pressed into a thin, grim line as she shook her head.

  “But Mr. Wade knows where...”

  “Mr. Wade wasn’t around when it happened. He’d excused himself before dessert, said he needed to run to the office. Some emergency.”

  A business emergency at nine-thirty on a Friday evening? It’s not like he was an ER doctor or anything. He owns a string of car dealerships.

  I shook my head. Nothing made any sense. All kinds of crazy explanations zinged through my head, but before I could catch one and really stop it and study it, one of Sea Haven’s finest shuffled into the kitchen. Framed in the doorway, he looked all kinds of intimidating, what with that gun strapped to his hip. “I’m looking for Ms. Molly Perkins.”

  Me? Why me?

  The officer glanced between Becca and me.

  Becca gave me up. “She’s Molly,” swinging her thumb in my direction. “I’m her attorney.”

  Becca wasn’t a real attorney, of course, but she had followed a pre-law curriculum the three years she’d attended The College of William and Mary. She was the closest thing I had to defense counsel right now. She would have to do.

  “How can we help you, officer...?” Becca pulled out her don’t-mess-with-me waitress attitude, for which she was known far and wide.

  The officer smiled a crooked smile, revealing deep dimples. “Name’s Todd Siddons. No need for an attorney. Some simple questions.” He turned his attention on me. “You are the personal chef for the Wades, I’m told.”

  I nodded. Not sure why my brain-to-mouth connection wasn’t working right now. I blame it on the gun, although it could be
the dimples.

  “Your full name?”

  “Mollynda Elizabeth Perkins.”

  “Melinda?” he repeated back to me.

  “No.” I spelled it for him. “It’s a mashup of Molly and Lynda.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Not an uncommon reaction.

  Becca answered his unspoken question. “She’s named in honor of her mom’s two favorite bartenders at the Lord of the Wines bar her parents frequented before, during and after Molly’s arrival into the world.”

  Todd looked at me for confirmation.

  I nodded. My first memories were sitting in a highchair at the wine bar as Molly and Lynda kept the juice boxes flowing. Goes a long way toward understanding my strong connection to all things grape.

  Todd returned to his list of questions. “And you’ve worked for John and Penelope Wade for how long?”

  “Three years.”

  “Can you tell me what you served tonight?”

  After a deep brain-clearing and nerve-settling breath, I rattled off the entire menu, from the mushroom croustade appetizers to the chocolate trifle. Even he flinched when I mentioned the dessert’s official name.

  “Were you aware of her food allergies?”

  I nodded.

  My attorney chimed in here. “Everyone knows about Mrs. Wade’s peanut allergy. She makes an announcement at every event and makes sure everyone knows where she keeps her epi-pen. Only it wasn’t there today.” Becca’s voice wound down to a whisper.

  “Why all the questions?” I asked. And quickly realized the silliness of my inquiry. He asked because, given the circumstances, they were investigating the possibility that Mrs. Wade had been murdered. Death by peanut allergy.

  And I had cooked all of the food.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’m not gonna lie...the bejeebers were officially scared out of me the next morning when my phone chirped and the caller ID beamed Mrs. Wade’s name. Couldn’t be. I’d witnessed her being rolled out of the house in a body bag.

  Turned out to be Mr. Wade calling from Mrs. Wade’s phone.

  “I need you to stock my food supplies,” he said. No please, no thank you, no I-know-this-is-your-day-off-but... He rattled off a list of foods he liked to eat; the kind of things Mrs. Wade never allowed in the house. Things like my personal favorites, Nutty Buddy Bars, which, by definition, contain nuts. “And Tater stinks. Do something.” Click.

  That was curt, even by Mr. Wade standards. Although to be truthful, I’d had very little interaction with him over the years. While I would label him a man of few words, he had always been cordial. I chalked today’s behavior up to the sudden death of his wife of twelve years. That’s bound to change one’s personality, at least in the short term.

  I couldn’t imagine myself working for him for the long haul, though. But I would, in Mrs. Wade’s memory, help him get through the next few weeks. Which is why, after only a few hours of restless sleep, I hauled myself out of bed and dressed for the day in jeans, long-sleeve T-shirt, and light zippered sweatshirt, which probably had food stains on it, but I was too tired to care. I believe it is better to feel good than to look good.

  Two hours later I found myself juggling six bags of groceries while trying to punch numbers into the cypher lock on the Wade’s side door.

  “Allow me.” A pair of strong arms relieved me of my grocery bags. Out of uniform and dressed instead in faded Levi’s, a crisp white button-down and scuffed square-toed boots, it took a minute for me to recognize Officer Todd Siddons, the oh-so-subtle interrogator from last night. He looked so much more approachable without the uniform—and without the gun—that I almost forgot to be wary of him and his interrogations.

  But here he was, back, literally at the scene of the crime.

  What, me worry?

  Yup.

  “Thank you, Officer.” I punched in the lock’s secret code. Well, not so secret. It was the house number. “Are you here on official business this morning?” There. That was good. I sounded cool as the proverbial kumquat.

  “Please call me Todd.” He followed me in to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. “Nothing official to be here on. It’s not a murder investigation, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  I guess in a roundabout way that was what I’d been getting at. What a relief to know Mrs. Wade died from a tragic accident, not a killer sitting right next to her at the dinner table. But still disconcerting that life could end with so little notice. Inquiring minds—like mine—wanted to know what had triggered her allergic reaction.

  Todd began unloading the bags onto the counter. “I believe I left my reading glasses behind last night. I couldn’t read my paper this morning. Throws my whole day off when my routine is interrupted.”

  As a stickler for routine myself, I could relate to that. In fact, you could almost say my life was in a rut. A work-sleep-repeat rut. But I liked it that way.

  The thundering of big dog paws echoed down the hallway, getting louder and louder. Before I could warn Todd to take cover, Tater zoomed into the room. He zoned in on the newcomer, greeting him with one-hundred-thirty-pounds of I’m so-happy-to-see-you enthusiasm; paws on the man’s shoulders and slurping his face like it was a big ol’ ice cream cone.

  Todd took the fervent reception standing up, and with good humor. “Who do we have here?” he asked while massaging Tater’s ears. “A mighty smelly beast, it seems.”

  “Tater, get down,” I said, to no avail. I grabbed a cannister of Pringles, quickly opened it and threw a stack of chips out the back door. Tater, always a fan of people food which Mrs. Wade frowned upon sharing, raced after the chips. I slammed and locked the door behind him. “Sorry, next on my agenda is to call You Dirty Dawg to come pick him up for a shampoo and set. He rolled in something last night down on the beach.”

  “Nothing a little oatmeal bath won’t cure.” Todd washed his hands in the sink, dried them on his jeans, and then returned to unloading the groceries. “Gourmet food,” he said as he lifted a half-gallon carton of cheddar crackers shaped like little goldfish.

  “Maybe if you’re a school boy.” I meant to sound flippant, but then realized I might have sounded condescending. He could be a super busy single guy who relies on prepared foods due to his demanding schedule of ridding our community of crime. Todd might very well survive on “a man, a can, and a plan” cuisine. I smiled at him, hoping that would soften my words. “I’ve got nothing against junk food. I often make a meal of Fritos and Diet Coke for myself. Mrs. Wade drove the healthy-eating in this house.” I held up two quarts of ice cream, one mint chocolate chip and one chunky monkey, “This is all at Mr. Wade’s request. I’m thinking he might be entering his second bachelorhood.” Again, that didn’t come out quite as glib as I’d hoped. The man’s wife had just died. Who wouldn’t want to stock up on comfort food?

  Mr. Wade walked in, wearing the same clothes as last night, only considerably more rumpled. He looked like he’d had less sleep than I had. “Coffee,” he barked.

  “Right away.” I put the ice cream in the Sub-Zero then headed for the Technovian Mochamaster, a true beast of a coffee machine.

  “Bring it to my office when it’s done,” Mr. Wade snarled.

  “Yes, sir,” I called after him as he headed down the hall. Once out of sight, I released a breath and relaxed my shoulders. Eggshells, I said to myself. I’d need to walk on eggshells while he dealt with his grief.

  Todd tapped his knuckles on the marble counter. “He always like that?” He jerked his head toward the hallway.

  I looked at Todd and shrugged an I-don’t-know response. “He’s not a chatty man, that’s for sure. I’ve never run into him before noon, so he might be one of those don’t-talk-to-me-before-my-first-cup-of-coffee types. And, well, you know, given the circumstances...”

  Todd gave one last knock on the counter then came around to watch what I was doing. “That smells delicious.”

  “Special Beachcomber Roast from Sea Haven Coffee down on th
e boardwalk. I’ll make a whole pot if you’d like a cup.”

  “Yes, please. While that’s brewing, I’ll look around for my glasses, if that’s ok? I’m pretty sure I left them in the front room.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Todd walked out of the kitchen toward the formal area of the house. The place where the Wades entertained guests. And, well, last night, the posse of police officers.

  I fixed Mr. Wade’s coffee tray and headed up the back stairs. The door to his office stood slightly ajar. I knocked, but no answer. I pushed it open. “Got your coffee, Mr. Wade,” I called out before stepping inside.

  Mr. Wade looked up from his desk, his face expressing that of a broken, defeated man. Seriously, it would melt the Grinch’s heart. The pre-Christmas Grinch, not the friendly green guy who transformed into a lover of all Whos down in Whoville. “They think I did it,” he whispered.

  “Did what?” I asked while placing the coffee tray on his desk.

  “Killed Penny.”

  Wait, what? Todd had just said there was no investigation into murder. “Why do you think that?”

  “In today’s paper.” He flashed this morning’s Sea Haven Sentinel in my direction. The headline screamed Local Businessman Top Suspect in Wife’s Death.

  The doorbell rang at that moment, a redundant signal since Tater had already sounded the alarm from his post in the backyard.

  Mr. Wade looked out of the window.

  I peeked over his shoulder. A police cruiser sat in the circular driveway, parked behind what I assumed was Todd’s smokey grey Wrangler, which was behind my darling red Miata.

  Mr. Wade jumped out of his chair and raced for the door, shoving me out of his way as he passed.

  Tater’s bark echoed up the front stairway while Mr. Wade’s footsteps clattered down the back stairs.

  Was that the act of an innocent man? Or a guilty one?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The little voice in my head told me to run, too. Why else would the police be here other than to arrest me for Mrs. Wade’s murder? I certainly had opportunity to serve the fatal dose of peanuts.