“Whatever. Where were you this morning at around eleven o’clock?”
“Well, as I’m sure you know, I was at Max Dekker’s house. That shouldn’t be a surprise. I’m sure Lydia told you the same thing.”
“Who’s Lydia?”
So this is how we’re going to play the game. He’s going to be cagey like he’s some kind of super sleuth. Her muscles tightened, and she clenched her jaw.
“Lydia Ivey.”
“Who’s she?”
“History teacher at the high school.”
“And why do you assume I talked to her?”
Deena rolled her eyes. “Because she called you, of course. She had to be the one who told you we went to Max Dekker’s house. I told her I was going to contact the police, but she obviously called you and told you what we did.”
“I see.” The detective scribbled on the notepad. “And by ‘we’ you mean...”
“Myself, Lydia Ivey, and Betty Donaldson. She did tell you about Betty, right?”
“And what were you—the three of you—doing at Max Dekker’s house?”
“We were there to offer our condolences and to bring him a meal. That’s what we do here in the South. We are polite and offer comfort to people in need.”
“And Mr. Dekker was in need because...”
Deena crossed her arms, her patience wearing thin. “Because he just lost his wife.”
“Uh-huh.” More scribbling. “And what is your relationship to Mr. Dekker?”
“I have no relationship with him. I just met him two days ago. He’s teaching a class at—”
“And why weren’t you in class the first week? It is my understanding you just started on Monday. The day Mrs. Dekker was killed.”
Deena’s jaw dropped. “Detective Guttman. Why is that pertinent to what we saw at Max Dekker’s house?”
He loosened his tie. “I’ll ask the questions, Mrs. Sharpe.”
Heat rose from her neck as she tried to keep her anger in check. “I came here to make a statement and to tell you what we saw at the Dekker house.”
“And what did you see?” He tilted his head as though questioning a child.
“We saw Max Dekker kissing a woman. On the lips. Two days after his wife was murdered.”
Guttman’s eyebrow lifted above his beady dark eyes. “And how did you manage to see this? Were you inside the house? Were you spying on him?”
“Heavens, no! Like I said, we were there to bring food. He and that woman were standing by the window in the front room. Don’t you think that sounds suspicious?”
“What did you do when you witnessed this alleged kiss?”
“Lydia dropped her cookies.”
“Dropped her cookies? Is that some expression you Southerners use?”
“No. She had a plate of cookies and dropped them on the ground. Then we all ran back to the car and left.”
“Why?”
“We didn’t want him to see us, of course. Although, I think he did.”
“You think he saw you or you and your alleged companions?”
Deena pursed her lips. “I’m not sure.” She stood to leave. “Look, you have my statement. It clearly proves Max Dekker had another woman on the side and a motive for murdering his wife. You should be investigating him instead of Cliff Abel.”
The detective got out of his chair and took a step toward her. “You know Cliff Abel?”
His glare sent a shiver down her spine. She resisted the urge to back away. “Yes. He’s a friend. My brother works with him.” The detective stood nearly a foot taller. She raised her chin and returned his stare.
“Mrs. Sharpe, I’m advising you not to leave town.”
“What? Me?” She felt like she’d just been kicked by a mule. Apparently, she’d gone from witness to suspect faster than a New York minute. “This is all a big misunderstanding,” she said, softening her tone.
Deena thought about her accomplices. Who knows what Lydia might have told him. Maybe she was more unstable than Deena realized. She knew she could count on Betty to be factual and to the point. “Just talk to Betty Donaldson at the library. She’ll back up everything I told you.”
The detective eyed her as if taking a mental photograph. “I’m sure she will.”
Chapter 7
The ingredients mocked her. Sugar, eggs, corn syrup, vanilla, and pecans. The clean, new candy thermometer looked like a spear ready to pierce her heart. Who would put candy in cake anyway?
Gary’s mother, that’s who. Deena stared at the notecard with the hand-written recipe. She squinted to focus. Lately, she had noticed it was more difficult to read small print than she wanted to admit. She picked up the card and moved it closer and farther from her eyes. Making it easier to see wasn’t going to make it any easier to prepare.
“Chocolate swirl divinity cake,” she said aloud to Hurley, who sat ready to be her taste tester.
Gary loved divinity. It was one of the few sweets he liked. He preferred most of his desserts on the savory side. Deena, on the other hand, was a card-carrying member of Chocoholics Anonymous.
Early in their married life, she had attempted to make her husband the fluffy Southern delicacy. Bless his heart, he always tried to eat it and not let on that most of it ended up in the dumpster at work. Her last attempt at trying to prepare it came out so wrong that she ripped up the linoleum countertop trying to scrape off the blobs that had stuck there. They had to pay to have them replaced. That was in their old house. Now she had granite counter tops, and so far, they’d proven indestructible. However, she had even less confidence now.
This was a test run of divinity. It was Friday morning, and Gary’s birthday party was still a week away. “If I can master the divinity, the rest should be a piece of cake.” She looked down at Hurley who obviously didn’t appreciate her pun.
Step one of the recipe card simply read, “Make a batch of pecan divinity”—as though it were that simple. Deena decided not to take any chances. She had turned to Pinterest and found Paula Deen’s recipe. How could she go wrong?
Deena wished her mother, an average cook for the time, had made her spend more time helping in the kitchen instead of letting her stay in her room reading. Maybe she wouldn’t struggle as much as she did when it came to pots and pans.
She had just enough time to attempt this batch before picking up Russell to go in search of Cliff’s mystery eyewitness. After she botched her interview at the police station, Ian had assured her he would smooth things over with Detective Guttman.
She measured out four cups of sugar with the precision of a chemist and added them to the large saucepan. Next, she added a cup of cold water and a cup of light corn syrup. She turned on the burner and began stirring.
So far, so good. She had already separated the egg whites and had them ready in a large bowl. She knew she was at a disadvantage only having a hand mixer and not a bowl mixer. She beat the egg whites. She needed them to form stiff peaks. But how stiff was stiff? She gave them a few extra beats, just in case.
Then she remembered the candy thermometer. She put it in and clipped it to the side of the saucepan. The temperature soared. Just then, the telephone rang. It was the landline phone in the bedroom. No way was she going to drop everything just to answer the phone.
But what if it was Gary or Russell? Maybe something was wrong. No, it was probably just a sales call. After all, anyone who knew her would call her cell phone. The ringing stopped, and she relaxed.
Why don’t they make a digital candy thermometer with numbers a person could actually see? She leaned in close to the boiling mixture trying to focus on the tiny numbers, looking for 255 degrees.
Then her cell phone rang. Uh-oh. She had set it on the dining room table, safely out of harm’s way. Maybe something really was wrong. If she just turned the temperature on the stove down a little, it shouldn’t hurt anything. The phone was like a screaming baby. It seemed to ring louder, urging her to come tend to its needs.
She turned th
e knob on the stove and rushed to grab her cell phone. It was Russell. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Whoa, Nelly. What’s eating you?”
“Divinity. Is something wrong? Did you just call my other phone?”
“Yeah. I didn’t have on my reading glasses and must have hit the other number.”
“Ugh.” She looked across the open bar at the steam pouring out of the pot. “I’m in the middle of something.”
She rushed back to the stove. The smell of burnt sugar filled the air before she even looked inside to see the scorched bottom of the pot. She looked at the knob and realized she had turned it to a hotter temperature instead of cooler. She moved the pan off the burner just before it was about to bubble over the sides.
Her cell phone slipped, but she caught it before it slid into the hot mixture. She stared at the pan. “This better be important.”
“Actually, it’s not. I was just making sure you still wanted me there at ten thirty.”
“Yep.”
“Okay. See you then.”
Great. It will me take that long to clean up this mess.
“WHAT’S ESTELLE UP TO today?” Deena asked as Russell got into her blue Ford Explorer. “I’m surprised she let you out of the chicken coop today.”
“Ah. She’s not that bad. She just likes having me around.” Russell fastened his seatbelt. “Besides, she’s having her ‘spa day.’” He emphasized the phrase with air quotes.
“That’s surprising. She never seemed like someone who would enjoy that sort of pampering.”
“You have no idea,” Russell said. “Ever since you took her to get a pedicure before our wedding, she’s been going every other week it seems. She gets everything painted, plucked, filed, or waxed. And I mean everything!”
“Okay. TMI, big brother. I get the picture.”
Russell chuckled.
She wrinkled her nose. “Not that picture. You know what I mean.”
At ten forty-five, Deena pulled into a parking space at the Riverdale Shopping Center. “Let’s start at the doc-in-the box. It’s probably got the most employees.”
Russell nodded. “Speaking of pictures, I forgot to show you this.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a small stack of folded papers. “Cliff gave me a description of the guy we’re looking for, and I made this drawing.” He unfolded the papers and passed them to Deena. “I made a few copies.”
“I had forgotten how well you draw,” she said, admiring the pencil drawing. “So this is the guy we’re looking for, huh?”
“Yep. I had a hard time getting the mouth right, but Cliff said it was a pretty good likeness.”
“Nice work. This should really help.”
They headed into the Maycroft Medi-Clinic.
A receptionist sat behind a sliding glass window.
A young woman tried to distract her busy toddler who seemed intent on slapping the front of the waiting room’s aquarium.
As she and Russell approached the window, the plump, middle-aged receptionist pointed to the sign-in sheet on the counter.
Shaking her head, Deena motioned for the woman to slide open her glass window.
The woman slowly pushed back the glass. “You have to sign in and have a seat. I’ll call you when it’s your turn,” she said curtly. She slammed the glass closed before Deena could utter a sound.
Russell stepped in front of Deena and smiled at the woman. He waved as though they were best friends.
She smiled back. Russell was usually shy, but people always responded to his friendly demeanor. Opening the glass again, she asked, “May I help you?”
“We’re not here to see a doctor. We’re here to see you.”
Like the doorkeeper of Oz, Deena expected her to utter the words, Well, that’s a horse of a different color.
Instead, she pushed her short locks behind her ear and asked, “What can I do ya for?” She batted her eyes through puffy lids. She apparently liked her position of power.
Deena couldn’t help but think of the school secretary who everyone had suspected helped herself to kids’ lunches when they were brought to school by anxious parents. Why was it that people who worked in doctors’ offices often looked so unhealthy?
Russell’s sweet smile seemed to melt the receptionist’s defenses. “I can tell that you are obviously in charge of this place, so you can hopefully help us out. We’re looking for someone who may have been here last Monday. This guy.” He held out the picture.
The woman’s flirty eyes quickly narrowed. “Never seen him before.” Through tightened lips, she asked, “Are you private eyes or what? I already told that detective I didn’t see nothin’ or nobody suspicious that day.”
“We’re not detectives. We are—friends of—uh...”
Deena stepped forward. “We are helping out with the investigation. Would it be possible for us to speak to other staff members?”
A side door opened, and a nurse called for the mother and her son.
“No, it wouldn’t be possible.”
Deena took the picture from off the counter and wrote Russell’s name and cell phone number across the bottom. She handed it back to Ms. Hospitality. “If you could, please show this picture to your colleagues. If anyone knows him, give us a call.”
The woman snatched the picture and shut the window so hard it rattled the wall.
Deena led the way out. “What do you think? Will she help us?”
“I doubt it,” Russell said. “That picture is probably in the paper shredder as we speak.”
“Maybe not. I noticed a couple of Agatha Christie paperbacks next to her computer. Maybe she likes a good mystery and will keep her eyes open.”
“Or maybe she is a slacker who reads on the job instead of taking care of business.”
Deena stopped walking. “Since when did you get so cynical about people?”
“Since my best friend got questioned for murder.”
Deena stared over at the Manely Beauty Salon and noticed it was fairly crowded for the middle of the week. “Ready to go in?”
“You know, maybe you should check out the beauty shop without me. They’re probably not used to guys being in there.”
“First of all, Fred Flintstone, no one says ‘beauty shop’ anymore. It’s a salon. And lots of men get their hair cut in there. It’s where Gary and I both go.”
“Gary? Huh. Well, you’re not gonna catch me in there with all that estrogen and peroxide. I go to a barber.” He jutted out his chin. “Like a real man.”
Deena shook her head. “Good grief. I’ll go here, and you check out those other businesses. Call me when you’re done.”
He handed her a copy of the drawing and headed to the other end of the parking lot.
Who knew he was still living in the Stone Age. Luckily, Estelle was an old-fashioned woman, or else she probably wouldn’t be able to put up with him. She likely found his chauvinism charming.
The sound of blow dryers and chatter greeted Deena inside the shop. Unfortunately, there were no men in the place. She wanted to give Russell a big “I told you so.” Oh well, she had more important matters to attend to.
Her stylist, Kristy, was chatting away with a woman getting highlights. “Oh, hey,” Kristy said when she spotted Deena. “I didn’t see your name on the books. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m here looking for someone. Or rather, someone who might know someone.”
“Huh?”
Deena held up Russell’s drawing. “I’m trying to find anyone who might know this guy.”
Kristy set down the brush and hair dye bowl and took the picture. After studying it, she handed it back to Deena and shook her head. “Nope. Never seen him. Who is he anyway?”
Deena wasn’t sure how much she should say. She trusted Kristy but didn’t want to speak openly in front of the stranger in her chair. She motioned for Kristy to follow her backward a few feet. “Were you here Monday night when Alexis Dekker was here?” Deena asked in
a whisper.
Kristy glanced over her shoulder at her client. “No. That was Melissa. Why? What do you know?”
Deena looked down, fumbling with the picture. “I just need to talk to her.”
“Okay. I’m almost finished putting on this color. Then I need to tell you something.”
Deena nodded and turned to the other side of the shop where Melissa was showering her client’s head with hairspray.
How ironic that Melissa was known for creating “big hair” when she kept her own blonde locks cropped short in a boy cut. She was probably in her thirties but seemed younger. All Deena really knew about her was that she was originally from New Orleans and had moved to Maycroft to live with her aunt and uncle.
As soon as the client left, Deena walked up. “Hey, Melissa. Do you have a minute?”
“Um, not really. I have another client coming and...”
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
Grabbing a broom, Melissa began sweeping around her chair. “What do you want?”
“I’m trying to figure out who this guy is. Do you know him?” She held the picture out.
Melissa grabbed it, took a quick look, and shoved it back at Deena. “No. Is that all?”
“Are you sure? You didn’t happen to see him here Monday night when...um...Alexis Dekker was here, did you?”
The broom clattered to the floor, and Melissa quickly bent down to retrieve it. “What are you, a cop? I already talked to that detective.”
“No, no,” Deena said. “I’m a friend of Cliff Abel’s. I’m just trying—”
“Murderer!”
Suddenly, everything and everyone in the shop froze. Deena looked around to see all eyes on her. She looked at Kristy, imploring her to help.
Kristy grabbed her blow dryer and turned it on even though her client was still getting color applied. She waved her hand for her colleagues to carry on. A low hum returned to the shop.
Deena turned back to Melissa. “What do you mean?”
Melissa kept her distance but lowered her voice. “Cliff Abel got pissed off and cut that woman’s brake line. He caused that accident. He killed her.”
Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set Page 54
