Murder Most Sweet
Page 11
• During my writing-colleague dinner in Racine with Tavish, his crazy muumuu-loving fan Annabelle Cooke went all Annie Wilkes on us and threatened me.
• I confronted Tavish’s assistant Melanie about revealing Tavish’s whereabouts to stalker Annabelle. She admitted it was for publicity and apologized to her boss.
• Annabelle, aka Lady Muumuu, showed up in town and warned me away from Tavish. Gracie lunged at her, and Annabelle kicked out, hitting me in the shin.
• Tavish and I sneaked to Milwaukee to have our first official date, where we discovered we were kindred spirits in many ways and I learned Tavish had an ex-wife with a perfect body. Just like Kristi.
• During that out-of-town date, someone broke into my house and fed a steak laced with sleeping pills to my unsuspecting dog, leaving Gracie unconscious while the burglar stole one of my scarves.
• Thankfully, Gracie rebounded from being drugged, and the dog-loving Tavish showed up to take her for a walk while Brady and I searched my house and discovered another one of my scarves missing.
• Stalker Annabelle was found strangled with my red polka-dot scarf.
• Brady questioned me, and then took Tavish in for questioning.
As I read over my notes and saw the mention of Tavish’s ex-wife, I wondered what she looked like. What had he said her name was again? Lucille? No, Lucinda. Tavish had mentioned she was a realtor in LA. I powered up my laptop and did a Google search for Los Angeles realtors named Lucinda. Several popped up. I wondered … would she have kept Tavish’s last name? I typed in Lucinda Bentley.
Bingo. A sun-kissed blonde in an icy-blue business suit that perfectly matched her eyes filled my screen. I made her face larger and had to shield my eyes so I wouldn’t get snow blindness from her megawatt smile. Wow. Those teeth. They had to be veneers. No one has teeth that white or that straight. Unless they’re a movie star.
Well, she does live in Hollywood.
Examining Lucinda’s smiling fortyish face, I recognized the telltale signs of Botox. As I skimmed through her website, however, I realized she wasn’t a blonde bimbo Kristi clone. Lucinda’s high-end real estate listings and testimonials from satisfied clients showed that she was a successful professional. A professional who didn’t want kids.
My phone buzzed with a group text from Sharon and Char.
Teddie, what the hell is going on??
Crap. I hadn’t called the Musketeers. I closed my laptop and did so now, putting them on speakerphone as I pulled out the cream cheese and butter from the fridge to soften.
“Sorry, guys, I got busy baking and totally forgot to call you.”
“You’re baking at a time like this?” Sharon asked.
“Of course she is,” Char said. “That’s what our Teddie always does in times of stress or confusion.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Speaking of guilty, do you know that Brady has Tavish down at the jail right now and is questioning him about the murder of his mad stalker?” Sharon asked. “Can you believe it?”
“Yep. Brady questioned me too, only at my house.”
“Why did he question you?” Char asked, her voice rising on the last word.
“Well, my scarf was found around Annabelle’s neck. That makes two women strangled with my scarves in less than a week. Seems more than a little suspicious.”
“Only to people who don’t know you,” Char said. “Is Brady suggesting that you might have killed those women? How dare he?”
“Yes, how dare he?” Sharon echoed. “He knows you could never do such a terrible thing.”
“Calm down. I was upset at first too, but the man’s gotta do his job. This is his first murder investigation, after all.”
“Actually, second,” Char said, “now that there’s two dead bodies.”
“Exactly. This is uncharted territory for Brady, so he’s probably trying to do everything by the book.”
“He needs to read a different book, then,” Sharon said, “one that doesn’t include throwing his friends under the bus.”
Even though we weren’t FaceTiming, I could see Char’s hackles rise on behalf of her boyfriend. “That’s not what he’s doing. But I am glad that he’s moved on to the person who’s likely the real killer.”
“Tavish Bentley isn’t the murderer.” I began opening the packages of cream cheese. “Of that I’m certain.”
“How do you know?” Char said. “Do you have proof?”
“Not yet, but I will. And I’m hoping you two will help me.”
“All for one and one for all,” pledged Sharon, echoing the motto of the original Three Musketeers that we’d adopted as kids.
Char, who had been a librarian for years before buying the Corner Bookstore, offered to connect with her librarian pals to research Tavish’s past to see if anyone might have a possible grudge against the best-selling author. Sharon agreed to spend more time with her B and B guest Melanie, Tavish’s assistant and publicist, and discreetly grill her about Kristi and any other girlfriends Tavish had had, including his ex-wife.
And me? I planned to make a little trip to Calumet City to visit Annabelle Cooke’s family and learn more about the recently deceased stalker. First, however, I had a few humble pie deliveries to make.
* * *
Half an hour later I entered the sheriff’s office with my peace offering, where I found Augie, Brady’s young deputy, doing paperwork at the front counter.
“Hiya, Teddie, how’s it going?” He whistled. “That’s sure a pretty dress.”
“Thanks.” I smoothed down the peppermint-striped sundress I had finally settled on along with a pink gauzy scarf after discarding four other outfits for my jailhouse visit. I had started to feel like Goldilocks trying on dress after dress: Too hot. Too dressy. Too bulky. Too sexy. At last, this dress was just right. I had also scraped my curly hair back into a high ponytail to keep it off my neck, but already I could feel tendrils springing loose.
Augie sniffed the air appreciatively. “Whatcha got there?”
Setting the box of individually wrapped carrot-cake loaves on the counter, I pulled out two for my best friend’s baby brother. “I remember how much you love my carrot cake, so thought I’d drop off a couple loaves.”
His eyes lit up when he saw the frosted loaves topped with a whimsical iced carrot. “You got that right. Especially that dope cream cheese frosting. Are you ever going to tell me the mystery ingredient?”
“Then it wouldn’t be a mystery. A girl’s got to keep her secrets, you know.”
Augie lifted one end of the plastic wrap, flicked his finger across the corner of frosting, licked his finger, and closed his eyes in bliss. “Thanks, Teddie. You rock. My sister could take lessons from you.”
“Baking is not Char’s thing.”
“That’s for sure.”
Raised voices from Brady’s office punctured the air.
Augie quickly removed the two baked loaves from the counter and set them on his desk. The young deputy then adopted a formal, businesslike tone. “So what can I do for you today?”
“I brought some carrot cake for Brady too, and Tavish Bentley.” I nodded toward Brady’s closed office door. “Is that who’s still in there with him?”
“I can’t answer that, but I do know Brady doesn’t want to be disturbed. If you want to leave the carrot cake with me, I’ll make sure the sheriff and the suspect—” Augie’s face flamed. “I mean I’ll make sure they get it.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather deliver it personally.” I smiled and sat down on the wooden bench opposite the counter. “I’ll just wait here until they’re finished.”
“Uh, I’m not sure the sheriff would like that.” The deputy lowered his voice. “He’s not in a very good mood right now, so it might be better if you come back later. Or even tomorrow.” His eyes brightened as he walked around the counter. “Yeah, tomorrow would be the best bet, Teddie. Why don’t you come back then?” He opened the front door to usher me out.
“It’s not that hot.”
“Not for you, but then you’re not a postmenopausal woman.”
Augie’s ears turned pink.
I fanned myself with both hands and blew out another puff of air. Then I started flapping my scarf against my flat chest. “I’m dyin’ here, Augie. I want to rip all these stupid clothes off. Can you get me a cold glass of water?”
“Sure.” He backed away, his face beet red, and scuttled behind the counter. “There’s some in the fridge. Hang on, I’ll be right back.” He hurried to the back room.
The minute he was gone, I headed straight to Brady’s closed door. I knocked lightly and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brady said in a raised voice as he scowled at me. “I’m conducting an interview here.”
“Yes, I know. The whole town knows, in fact. Surprise, surprise.” My eyes flicked from Brady’s angry countenance to Tavish’s set, unsmiling face and eyes that refused to meet mine. “I come in peace.” I held up the box of carrot-cake loaves. “Actually, I came to apologize. To both of you.”
“This is not a good time, Ted.”
“It’s the perfect time, Brady.” I faced my longtime friend. “I’m sorry I got mad at you for questioning me and thinking there was a possibility I might be a suspect in Annabelle’s death. You had every right to question me—in fact, you would have been remiss not to, since both murder weapons belonged to me. You are the sheriff, after all.”
His scowl dissolved and his voice softened. “Thanks, Ted. I appreciate that.”
“However,” I plowed on, “you’re making a big mistake thinking Tavish is the killer. Tavish didn’t kill Annabelle. He didn’t kill Kristi either.”
Brady’s scowl returned, while Tavish appeared uncertain. Did I detect a glimmer of hope in those hazel eyes?
“And how do you know that, Ted?”
I lifted my bare shoulders. “I just know.” Actually, Gracie’s the one who made me realize that in her inimitable dog fashion. Wisely, I didn’t say that aloud, however. “Something else I know that I keep forgetting to tell you, Brady, is the morning of the signing when I was in the bookstore bathroom stall, I overheard two women in the restroom staking their claims to Tavish.”
“What?” Brady yelled, as Tavish’s eyes widened. “Who were the women?”
“No idea. I didn’t recognize their voices, but I know for sure they weren’t from Lake Potawatomi. No Wisconsin accents. I think it may have been Annabelle and Kristi.”
“You’ve heard Annabelle’s voice up close and personal now,” Brady said. “Did one of them sound like her?”
I closed my eyes and tried to recall the voices I’d heard. “Maybe … one sounded a bit growly and threatening, which would be right in Annabelle’s wheelhouse.” I shook my head. “But I can’t say for sure.”
Augie appeared, pink-faced, in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, I told her you didn’t want to be disturbed. I left the room for just a second, and when I got back she was gone.”
“That’s okay, Augie.” Brady sighed. “I know more than most that nothing can stop Ted when she’s on a mission. Except”—his eyes took on a speculative gleam–“maybe handcuffs. We’ll keep that in mind for next time.” He waved his deputy off.
“Sorry, Augie,” I called after his retreating back.
“Guess this is my day for apologies.” I turned to my fellow author and locked my eyes on his, feeling a flutter in my chest that I quickly tamped down. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions and thought the worst. You’re not the kind of man who could or would strangle a woman—no matter how obnoxious she is.” Lady Muumuu’s rage-contorted face filled my head. “You simply don’t have it in you. I mean, you write a great murder, but no way could you commit one. I know that. As sure as I know the sun will rise tomorrow, my mother will continue to bug me, and you will never taste a carrot cake as good as this.” I reached into the bakery box and extended two of the iced loaves to him.
Tavish’s mouth twitched as he accepted my peace offering.
“Friends again?”
His hand lingered a moment on mine, his mouth curving upward. “Friends.”
“Okay, good.” I turned back to Brady. “So, are we done here?”
“You are.” The sheriff took hold of my elbow and escorted me through the door. “I’m still conducting an investigation. ’Bye, Ted.” Brady shut the door behind me with a deliberate click.
Chapter Fourteen
Two hours later, I pulled up in front of a ramshackle ranch house on the outskirts of Calumet City. “You have reached your destination,” my smartphone announced in the crisp British accent I had programmed into it.
The run-down seventies ranch took me by surprise. I had expected Annabelle’s home to be a bit more colorful—perhaps even pink—not the boring beige before me. But Brady had said she lived with her parents, and when I looked up Annabelle’s address online and cross-referenced it with county records, it had shown the homeowners to be Darlene and Floyd Grubb. Perhaps the Grubbs weren’t as colorful as their daughter.
Ya think? With a name like that?
I plucked out the fake business card I’d printed that identified me as a reporter from the Lake Potawatomi Times, adjusted the knitted knockers inside my bra, and smoothed down the navy blazer that completed my journalist’s disguise.
After leaving Brady’s office and beginning my journey to the Illinois city bordering Indiana, I had stopped at a roadside gas station and changed clothes. Inside the restroom, which could have benefited from an entire package of bleach wipes, I removed my scarf and sundress and strapped on my bra stuffed with the lightweight knitted knockers I’d ordered online. I had first seen the handmade breast prostheses for women who have had mastectomies on social media—the invention of a fellow breast cancer survivor and knitter who wanted a lightweight alternative to the usual heavy silicone breast forms. Deciding I might want boobs every now and then—or at least the option to wear them if I felt like it—I had ordered a pair of the soft, comfortable, and breathable knitted prostheses after my first breast was surgically removed five years ago.
Today, since I wanted to fly under the radar and be inconspicuous, I decided against going flat, my preferred state. After donning the flesh-colored pair of fake B-cup boobs that wouldn’t make me sweat, I covered them with a businesslike white blouse and blazer and finished off my member-of-the-press costume with oversized reading glasses, pale-gray slacks, and comfortable flats in case I needed to make a run for it.
During the two-hour drive, I rehearsed what I planned to say to Annabelle Cooke’s grieving family. When I initially called them to ask a few questions under my reporter’s guise, I had expressed my condolences to her mother and said I didn’t want to intrude during such a difficult time. However, I told her, I would like to paint a true picture of her daughter in the story I was (not) writing for the local newspaper. “No one here knew Annabelle,” I said, hands poised over my laptop to take notes, “so I was hoping you or one of your family members could tell me more about her.”
“Shoot, honey, why don’t you just come on out here and interview us in person,” Darlene Grubb had suggested. “That way you can talk to all three of us. My husband doesn’t get out much these days and he doesn’t like talking on the phone, so if you want to hear from him, you’d best come on over.”
That’s why I now found myself standing on the front porch of the Grubbs’ run-down ranch.
You sure this is a good idea, Anderson Cooper? What if cray-cray runs in the family?
My hand closed around the container of pepper spray in my purse. Then, taking a deep breath and adopting my objective journalist stance, I rang the doorbell.
Nothing.
I waited a minute and rang again. Still noth
ing. Were they not home?
I checked my phone to make sure I was on time. Yep. In fact, a minute early—punctuality is one of my strong suits. I double-checked my screen. No texts or missed calls. As I started to tap in the Grubbs’ phone number, the front door opened to reveal a paunchy white-haired man in a burgundy nylon tracksuit, gripping a walker and breathing heavily around the large lump in his lower cheek.
“Sorry. Takes me a while to get where I’m goin’ these days,” he said.
“That’s okay.”
“My wife’s still puttin’ on her face, and there’s no tellin’ where my no-good son-in-law disappeared to.” He scowled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth and a wad of chewing tobacco.
“No problem.” I’d intended to shake his hand, but the brown spittle that he wiped away with the back of his age-spotted hand stopped me. Instead, I settled for a bright smile. “Hello. I’m Brooke Starr. I spoke to Darlene on the phone?”
“Yep. You’re that reporter from Lake Whatchamacallit.” He shuffled a few steps backward. “I’m Floyd. Come on in.”
I followed Floyd’s lumbering frame into the cluttered living room, where a massive flat-screen TV blaring Judge Judy dominated an entire wall. A sagging sectional and two brown recliners faced the boob-tube behemoth. Floyd sank into one of the Naugahyde recliners and swigged a beer from the overflowing TV tray table beside him. After spitting a stream of tobacco into a second beer can next to an open bag of Doritos, he gestured for me to sit on the sofa.
Surreptitiously brushing away crumbs and trying to avoid the multiple stains that polka-dotted the beige corduroy fabric, I perched on the edge of the couch and pulled a pen and notebook from my purse. As I adjusted my reading glasses, a stray curl escaped the slicked-back bun I’d scraped my rebellious hair into at the gas station. Tucking the curl discreetly behind my ear, I leaned forward. “I’m so sorry about your daughter, Mr. Grubb. Please accept my condolences on behalf of our town.”
He jerked his head in a nod, having just crammed a fistful of nacho Doritos into his mouth. “Annabelle was always doing somethin’ stupid,” he mumbled around a mouthful of the chips, leaving a halo of orange dust above his wrinkly lips. “I always knew one day she’d wind up in deep kimchi, as they said back in my Army days. I tried to tell her, but she didn’t listen.” He took another swig of his beer. “Girl had a mind of her own.” Floyd picked up his beer can spittoon and spit another stream of tobacco into it.