To Fetch a Killer

by Maria Hudgins

  That’s the kind of logic that goes through a brain that was running on only a few minutes of deep sleep.

  What was the jail time for accidental murder? I didn’t want to find out.

  There was another little voice in my head, a louder one, that told me to stand up for my innocence. But for that, I’d need a friend in my corner. That’s what besties are for.

  I texted Becca. THREATCON DELTA @ WADES.

  She and I had employed the military threat levels throughout our friendship, usually Alpha or Bravo stages, meaning get here ASAP. I’d only ever used Charlie once, when a blind date was getting too amorous after our first dinner-and-a-movie date. Becca had rushed in, fire poker in hand, and saved the night. Never, ever, had either of us employed the most critical Delta level. That showed my current state of mind and body. Seriously, my heartrate was off the charts.

  Turns out, the police had not come to arrest Mr. Wade or myself, but instead they were looking for Dustin Wade for crimes unknown (but trust, me, I would find out!) I told them Dustin wasn’t available.

  Todd joined me at the door and they all started talking in police lingo. I suggested they’d be more comfortable seated outside. There was method to my madness...maybe I could overhear something that would provide some answers to all of the crazy questions bottlenecked in my head.

  It was a picture-perfect fall day as the breeze blew in off the ocean. They settled in to the table by the koi pond. They sipped Beachcomber Blend and crunched on my homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies while chatting among themselves.

  Tater laid by the table, ready to Hoover up any stray crumbs.

  I huddled in the shadows of the doorway between the kitchen and deck. Oh, how I wished I’d listened to the doctor about exploring the idea of hearing aids. But I was too young—more like too vain—to even think about it. I cupped a hand to my ear, straining to comprehend what they were saying.

  Becca slipped in behind me and whispered in my other ear, “What’s the delta alert?”

  I reached out and grabbed her hand, giving it a good strong squeeze. “I thought they were here to arrest me for murder.” I kept my voice low, so as not to draw the officers’ attention. “But they weren’t. Todd told me that Mrs. Wade’s death appeared to be an accident, but the newspaper reported Mr. Wade is a suspect in her murder. He raced out the backdoor while the police were knocking on the front. I have no idea where he is. The police showed up with a warrant for Dustin, under the mistaken assumption that he lived here, but, well, you know that story.” Dustin was a product of Mr. Wade’s first marriage, and over the past twelve years Mrs. Wade had played the role of evil stepmother gloriously. I mean, Oscar-worthy performances on an almost weekly basis.

  My ears perked up at the mention of Dustin’s name at the table. I put a finger to my lips to dissuade Becca from saying anything so that I could focus on the private conversation a few yards away. Did I feel sneaky? Yes. But the desire for answers greatly outweighed the shame.

  The wind carried off more words than it delivered

  “Warrant... bar fight...McGuffy’s,” Todd said.

  Well, the warrant would have to wait until Dustin got back from his sojourn to Italy, wouldn’t it? But it explained why he was so quick to skip the country, knowing legal trouble loomed on the horizon.

  Officer Bruner, the taller, slightly chubbier one said, “Chief ...murder...evidence to the contrary.”

  Todd shook his head.

  I took a tiny step closer in hopes of catching more of the conversation.

  Shorter, skinnier Officer Ruiz said, “But you gotta admit, food cooked by a private chef should be safe.”

  I suppressed a shriek. He had me tried, convicted and sentenced in conjunction with Mrs. Wade’s untimely death. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it still made me nervous. Very nervous.

  “What’s her motive?” Todd asked.

  Ah, a voice of reason. Thank you, Officer Siddons!

  Ruiz shrugged. “Money. Personal animosity. Affairs of the heart. Need I go on?”

  An affair of the heart between Mr. Wade and me? Pah-lease! Not for all the money in the world!

  “No, I get your point,” Todd said. “But there are other suspects to be considered, if it truly was murder.”

  Their voices dropped and I couldn’t hear a thing. Time to insinuate myself into the conversation.

  I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot and more cookies and raced back out. I approached the table. The conversation stopped.

  Todd looked up. “You must be a mind reader, Molly,” he said and held out his coffee mug.

  “Everything okay here?” I asked as I filled mugs with the aromatic brew.

  They all nodded.

  “Killer cookies,” Ruiz said.

  Todd glared at him. “Let’s follow the trail of evidence before we accuse anyone. And coffee break’s over. You need to get back on the streets.” He stood and turned to me. “I’ll be leaving, too. If you find my glasses, give me a call.” He handed me a business card, a personal one, not an official Sea Haven PD one. He smiled.

  I attempted to smile in return, but only managed a weak grimace. Wearing the label of potential suspect did not settle well on me.

  They all thanked me for the excellent refreshments before heading down the sidewalk that wended its way around to the driveway.

  Tater took advantage of the abandoned food and jumped up, four paws on the table, to better gobble up the food remnants before I could stop him.

  “Do me a favor,” I called to the backs of the retreating police officers. “When you find Dustin Wade, tell him to come here and get his dog. I’ve had about all I can take.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Talk to me,” Becca said as she relieved me of the coffee mugs and the plate Tater had licked. She carried everything to the sink.

  “I am beyond confused.” I leaned against the counter and scraped my thumbnail back-and-forth against my teeth. An irritating habit, I will confess, but it honestly helped me think. “I don’t want to believe that someone murdered Mrs. Wade, or that a cold-blooded killer is roaming the streets of Sea Haven. But I don’t see how it could have been an accident. Nobody touched the food but you and me. And I know neither of us did it.”

  “Opportunity is only part of the equation.” Becca rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher while she spoke. “Neither one of us had motive. I mean, Mrs. Wade may have had a few quirks in her personality, but she had a good heart. She helped so many women get started with their businesses, especially you. Who could possibly have wanted her dead?”

  “It appears that someone may have.”

  Becca shook her head. “Any more dishes before I run this?”

  “Yeah, up in Mr. Wade’s office. I’ll get them.” I pushed myself away from the counter and headed upstairs.

  I had only been to the second floor of the Wade’s house four times in the past three years. Two times in two hours today was a personal best, and not in a good way. Especially since no one else was home. It felt very sneaky, like I was trespassing or something. But I couldn’t very well leave dirty dishes lying around when I locked up. That goes against our personal chef code of ethics.

  When I reached for the coffee tray on the desk, my gaze wandered to the discarded morning newspaper, the one with headline about the murder accusation against Mr. Wade. I picked it up and read all five paragraphs once, twice, then a third time. There was not a single shred of evidence, just wild conjecture on the journalist’s part. The story noted the Wade’s marriage was on the rocks—common knowledge to anyone who had joined them for dinner in the past year—but that did not lead to a conclusion that the man had killed his wife. There were no facts, no evidence, no connecting dot A to dot B. But sensationalism sells papers, I guess.

  Poor Mr. Wade having to read that this morning. His purpose for hightailing it out of here might have had more do to with avoiding the paparazzi—which would eventually come knocking—and less to do with guilt
. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. The question now was where had he gone? And more importantly, when would he be back?

  I laid the paper back down.

  Another stack of official-looking documents caught my eye. You know the kind, thick expensive paper folded in thirds. The top portion poked up, reminding me of a Pac-Man mouth about to gobble a dot. I have no idea what got into me, but I bent my head enough to read the bold letters at the top of page one: The Last Will and Testament of Penelope Livingston Gardner Wade.

  Mr. Wade must have had it handy if he were going through it this morning, only hours after Mrs. Wade’s death. That seemed curious to me. I know when my parents died, I spent days pouring over old photo albums and other mementoes. I didn’t give thought to the dispensation of their meager assets until the lawyer told me I had to.

  Mrs. Wade’s will lay there.

  My hand tingled. I rubbed it in an attempt to eliminate the urge to reach out.

  I shouldn’t.

  I really shouldn’t.

  I really shouldn’t read it.

  It was none of my business.

  One little peek.

  It was none of my business.

  I really shouldn’t read it.

  I really shouldn’t.

  These are the thoughts that flashed through my mind as my hand reached out on its own accord and lifted the document from the desk and ever so slowly brought it close enough to read.

  Well, then. No stopping me now.

  I glanced through a long list of Mrs. Wade’s charities, past and present, along with a shorter list of causes she had mentioned for future consideration. They all would split a significant portion of her estate.

  Then came a list of local businesses, all female-owned from what I recalled, which would share in another substantial percentage.

  Her faithful employees, of which there were only two—myself and the gardener Bill Overton—each were to receive a half-million dollars. What? I read that again, and again. The more the paper shook in my nervous hands, the more difficult it was to read. But the disbursement was there in black and white. A half million dollars. Oh, Mrs. Wade. You shouldn’t have. But thank you.

  “Becca,” I shouted.

  She might have thought I was being held at gunpoint, the way she came running. “What?”

  I shoved the document under her nose.

  She took it and read it through, flipping pages back and forth, mumbling to herself.

  I waited, with my fingers intertwined and tucked under my chin, for her verdict. A casual observer might have thought me praying, but praying for a huge chunk of money on that back of a dead woman was blasphemous. It was only wishful thinking.

  Maybe—probably—my tired eyes had deceived me. The amount was only five-hundred dollars, five-thousand at the most. That seemed more reasonable for three years of loyal service.

  “Interesting,” Becca said. “I don’t see her husband mentioned at all.”

  Hmm, come to think of it I hadn’t either. I’d just assumed...

  “You and Overton make out all right. A half-a-million each.” She wolf-whistled as she lowered the paper and looked me right in the eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “That I can take that culinary tour through France that I’ve always dreamed of?” My hands were clenched together so tightly that the blood supply had been cut off to the tips of my fingers.

  She looked me straight in my baby brown eyes. “This means you have a motive for wanting her dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Becca said, taking control of the situation. She folded the papers back into their tight trifold, running her fingers along each crease, and then stuffed them down the front of her loose-fitting Zac Brown Band concert T-shirt.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I grabbed for the papers but caught nothing but cotton.

  She jumped backwards, out of my grasp, and then turned and headed for the door. “Our fingerprints are all over this. We can’t let the police find it. At least not until we have a plan.”

  “A plan? What kind of plan?” I chased after her as she clattered down the front steps. “I don’t like the sounds of this.” Let me just say, Becca’s plans had gotten me into hot water more than once over the many years of our friendship. I felt very nervous about this one, since it involved me directly, and murder indirectly.

  I caught up with her by the front door. “I’m gonna call Officer Siddons right now.” I had my phone in my hands, ready to punch in his digits once I found the business card with his number on it. What had I done with it? I patted my pockets and then glanced around the room as if it would be floating in mid-air. It was not.

  In that moment of distraction, Becca snatched my phone right out of my hand. It, too, disappeared down the front of her T-shirt. She then jumped into a self-defense stance, hands up and ready to karate chop me. This move she must have learned watching cartoons, because I know had never had any martial arts training.

  But I had.

  I reached out in the classic move to grab her arm and twist it behind her back while pushing her head to the ground. I was quick.

  But she was quicker.

  Becca kneed me in the stomach and raced out the front door. She ran straight to her classic VW bug. That girl had some speed. All that waitressing gave her muscle tone I hadn’t seen in myself since junior high.

  I gave chase, taking the last three steps off the porch in one ungraceful leap. I stumbled and fell to my knees, giving Becca the crucial seconds she needed to get in her car. I scrambled to my feet and stumbled to the driver’s side as she cranked the ignition. Despite my banging on the closed window, Becca wouldn’t lower it. All I wanted was a civil conversation. And to get my phone back. And Mrs. Wade’s will back. And maybe to strangle Becca. Not really, but it sure was tempting.

  The engine turned over. Becca put it into gear, slowly puttering away from me.

  I pounded on the window, running alongside the car as she drove around the circular driveway. “Give me my phone,” I ordered, over and over while banging on the glass.

  She cracked the window about two inches. “I’ll be back in an hour. I need to think this through.” The window rolled back up, and Becca hit the gas.

  No way could my forty-something, pleasingly plump body keep up with her. I watched as her little beetle but—along with my cellphone—disappeared down the road.

  Hands on hips, I stood staring, trying to replace the oxygen in my lungs that my physical exertion had depleted.

  A soft, stinky Tater head pushed its way into my hand. I looked down. Tater looked up. He had a pair of half-chewed glasses—Todd’s glasses—hanging from his mouth.

  What’s the adage? Silence is golden, unless you have a dog. Then it’s suspicious.

  Bad me for being distracted and not keeping an eye on him.

  Bad Tater for chewing up something that didn’t belong to him.

  Bad for Todd. He wouldn’t be able to read his morning paper until he purchased a replacement pair.

  I sighed, a great big sigh that left me feeling like a deflated balloon. In the past twenty-four hours, my life had gone from peaceful, purposeful, and mildly predictable, to topsy-turvy, sliding sideways off the edge of a steep rocky cliff into the raging sea below.

  And I couldn’t seem to stop it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Oh, Tater,” I said to my canine companion. “What has happened to my life?” I buried my head in his fur, and quickly pulled away. Unlike a good wine, Tater’s dead-fish smell was not improving with age. “First thing we need to do is to get you cleaned up.”

  Since my cellphone was tucked in Becca’s T-shirt, I’d have to go old-school on my communication methods. Fortunately, the Wades maintained a landline, along with a tattered telephone diary that listed important numbers. You Dirty Dawg was listed under the T’s, for Tater. (It seemed the numbers were listed based on their connection to the family.) I called. They would
come and pick him up and return him freshly washed and fluffed in a few hours. He was officially someone else’s responsibility.

  While near the phone, I called the number listed on the business card Todd Simmons had given me, which had been in my back pocket this whole time. When the call went to voicemail, the light and breezy conversation I’d imagined flew right out of my head. Instead, I rattled off a curt, “Tater found your glasses,” and then disconnected.

  I finished putting Mr. Wade’s junk food collection away and tidied the kitchen. My work here was done. Time to head home. Lack of sleep kindled a dull pain at base of my neck. I grabbed my sweatshirt off the chair and fished around in the pocket for my car keys.

  Before I locked the door behind me, I returned to the house to write a note for Mr. Wade, letting him know when Tater would be dropped off...

  Wait just a darn second. What if Mr. Wade didn’t return in time? Who would be here to greet the dog?

  Oh, geez. I’d almost abandoned Tater...like everyone else in his life. I’d long ago accepted the fact that I hadn’t been in line the day they handed out the maternal gene. I don’t like being responsible for other living creatures, hence I remained single and childless. And pet-less. Heck, most days I don’t even like being responsible for myself. But here I was, the caretaker for a troublesome mutt. Lucky me.

  I needed to track down Mr. Wade and find out his plans so that I could relinquish my dog-sitting duties. And if I was feeling generous—which I wasn’t at the moment but that could change—maybe I could cook his dinner. After all, a man couldn’t live on junk food alone, although lord knows many try. What else was I going to do for the next few hours, anyway.

  I didn’t have his cellphone number, but maybe I could reach him through his admin, Prissy Palmer (I know, tough name to go through life with, right?) This being Saturday, she wasn’t at the office and the snippy voice on the other end of my call to the dealership wouldn’t give me Prissy’s personal cellphone number. No matter how much I begged. Thumbing through their important numbers diary again, I found it under M, for whatever connection the Wades had to her that started with that letter. I called her.