Tressed to Kill (12 page)

“We haven’t come up with anything useful on this,” he said, nodding toward the repaired section of the veranda. “We recovered shards of glass and determined the perp used a Heineken bottle.”
“So you’re looking for a snobby beer drinker?”
He gave me a half smile. “Over seventy cases of Heineken were sold in St. Elizabeth last week, and that doesn’t take into account beer sold in the county or empty bottles left sitting in a garage or a recycling bin. There’s no way we’ll be able to trace the perp through the bottle. We didn’t get any fingerprints.”
I wasn’t too surprised. “So you’re not going to catch who did this.”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “Not unless it turns out to be kids and one of ’em brags to a buddy.” His gaze followed a fat bee traveling from blossom to blossom on the magnolia tree, its legs furred with yellow pollen.
“But you don’t think it was kids.”
“No.” His eyes came back to my face. “And the note was a dead end as well. Common bond paper sold by the truck-load in office supply stores, drugstores, and convenience stores nationwide. No fingerprints there, either. If we had a suspect, we could compare the handwriting, but as it is . . .” He shrugged.
I took a deep breath, pretty sure he was going to be annoyed with my continued sleuthing, to use Nancy Drew’s favorite word. “Well, let me tell you what I’ve found out.”
When I’d finished, he said, “We already talked to Walter Highsmith, of course.”
I noticed he didn’t reveal what the police had learned, if anything, from their conversation with Walter.
“But this Lucy Mortimer isn’t on our radar screen. And a victim’s nearest and dearest—in this case, her children—are always under suspicion.”
I was surprised by his openness. “So you’re not mad at me?”
“For what? Trying to help your mother?” The magnolia’s shadow veiled his eyes, and I couldn’t read his expression. “Would it make any difference if I were?”
I bit back the yes that sprang to my lips. His opinion mattered to me, but I didn’t know why and I didn’t want it to. “Our business is falling off,” I said instead.
He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So it would be nice if you would arrest someone,” I added, “and clear everything up.” I put my hands on my hips and tried to look annoyed.
“I’ll get right on that,” he said, straightening. His eyes narrowed slightly as they studied my face. “Mrs. Terhune employs Althea Jenkins, right?”
I stood straighter, not liking where this was going. “Yes. She’s Mom’s best friend.”
“We reviewed the victim’s will yesterday, and it seems Ms. Jenkins comes in for a substantial inheritance.”
“Mm,” I said noncommittally, spoiling it by adding, “She didn’t know about it.”
“And no one saw her at the town hall meeting.”
“She was sick.”
He raised his dark brows. “How do you know?”
“She told us.”
It was his turn to say, “Mm.”
His obstinacy was making me mad, even though I’d had the same suspicions for a nanosecond. “She didn’t kill Constance,” I said, glaring at him. “And she certainly didn’t do the Molotov cocktail.” I jerked my head toward the far end of the veranda. “No way would she risk hurting Mom.”
“She’s one of several inheritors we need to talk to,” he said, pushing away from the rail. “Just routine.”
I blew a raspberry.
His mouth quirked at the corner, but he didn’t comment. “If you could manage to stay out of trouble for ten minutes so I don’t have to investigate arson attempts and threatening letters, maybe I could make more progress on the murder case.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. “So it’s my fault you haven’t caught the killer?”
He flicked my cheek with his finger as he passed me on his way down the steps. “Just keep a low profile,” he said.
I watched him walk toward his car, liking the breadth of his shoulders and his long, easy stride more than I wanted to admit. “You won’t hear a peep out of us,” I promised.

Chapter Twelve

I RETURNED TO THE SALON TO FIND MOM CHATTING with Stella, so I didn’t mention Dillon’s suspicions about Althea. The faint scent of cooked sausage from the gumbo clung to her. She picked up a message slip when I came in. “Oh, Grace, Mrs. Jones called. She wants you to call her back.”
I dialed the phone, curious as to what my landlady wanted. She’d never called me at work before. I hoped nothing had happened to her. It wasn’t that bad, but it was bad enough. A utilities work crew had severed the water main while doing construction on the street behind her property. We would have no water for at least twenty-four hours.
“I’m going to my niece Marjorie’s to stay,” Mrs. Jones said, cheerful despite the inconvenience. “She’s the one whose boy is an architect, remember? I’ve already got my suitcase packed. He’s going to pick me up on his way home from work.” After collisions with a mailbox, a parked car, and a couch left on the curb for Goodwill collectors, Mrs. Jones didn’t drive anymore. For which her insurance company and the citizens of St. Elizabeth were grateful.
“I’ll stop by and get some overnight stuff,” I told her. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Mom immediately offered me my old room. As I walked back to the apartment, I heard myself telling Marty Shears that I had my own place, that I hadn’t run home to the nest after my divorce. Recently, it felt like I’d spent more nights at Mom’s than in my apartment. Ye gods. I threw clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag almost at random, then remembered I was meeting Marty Shears the next morning and packed a tan cotton sundress with a design of stylized leaves in green, cream, and rust. The dress’s halter top bared my shoulders, and I hadn’t worn it since before the divorce. I wasn’t quite sure why I packed it, but I tossed in matching sandals before I could overthink it and locked the apartment as I left.
Mom, Althea, and I ate gumbo in the kitchen, carefully avoiding talk of the salon’s declining business. Althea mentioned that the police had questioned her just before she came over. I poked my fork at a shrimp in my gumbo, wondering if I should have warned her. Mom looked startled. “Why ever for?”
Althea sent her an ironic look. “It’s no secret that there was no love lost between me and Connie DuBois,” she said. “And then she ups and leaves me the old bank building.” She blew on her gumbo to cool it. “I wonder if that’s why she did it?” she said, a crease appearing between her brows. “Did what?” I asked.
“Left me the building. To make me look guilty.” Almost before she finished the sentence, she was shaking her head. “Nah. That would presuppose she knew she was going to be murdered, and that’s just plain ridiculous.”
“No more ridiculous than the idea that you might have killed her,” Mom said.
THE REST OF THE EVENING PASSED COMPANIONABLY, and I tucked myself into bed before ten. I was sound asleep when a knock on my door and an urgent “Pssst!” woke me.
I pushed myself up on my elbow. I could just make out Mom’s figure, clad in a striped nightie, in the doorway. Her hair was flat on one side from being slept on, and she had her glasses on. She was looking over her shoulder toward the stairs.
“What’s up?” I said, something in her posture bringing me to full alert.
She tiptoed closer. “Someone’s in the house,” she whispered. “Listen.”
I stilled myself and tried not to breathe, straining to hear. The bedside table clock read 2:15. After a moment, I heard a scraping noise, no louder than an emery board rasping across a nail, and then faint footsteps. Were they coming up the stairs or going down? I flung the sheet away and swung my knees off the bed, bumping my mom. “Sorry. Call the police,” I said, already moving quickly and quietly toward the door.
“Grace,” my mom hissed. “Grace Ann! Don’t you even think—”
Pausing only long enough to grab Alice Rose’s old baton from the closet, I dashed into the hall. My bare feet made barely audible squeaks on the wood floor. At the top of the stairs leading to the kitchen I hesitated, peering down into the darkness. Sweat from my palm made the baton slippery. A bumping sound, like someone colliding with a piece of furniture, spurred me on. Heedless of the noise I made, I took the stairs two at a time and fumbled for the light switch when I reached the kitchen. The screen door was thudding shut as the lights sprang to life. Clutching the baton tighter, I raced toward the door, stubbing my toe on a chair that was out of place. The pain brought tears to my eyes and words my mother wouldn’t tolerate to my lips. Hopping on one foot, I banged through the screen door and glimpsed a dark figure streaking down the alley that ran behind the houses and shops. I started after him, but my bare feet and braless state slowed me too much. I gave up after a block. In a last-ditch effort, I hurled the baton as far as I could. It glinted silver as it spun end over end, falling short of the fleeing figure that disappeared into the shadows behind the old bank building, Walter’s shop. “Damn!”
Limping, I retrieved the baton and was headed back to the house when a swirl of red and blue lights lit up the alley. “This is the police,” a harsh voice called. “Drop your weapon!”
The blinding glare of headlights made me scrunch my eyes closed. I wanted to point out that a baton wasn’t much of a weapon, but the voice didn’t sound like it would welcome discussion. Opening my eyes a crack, I raised my hands overhead and let the baton fall to the ground. It bounced off the rubber knob and ricocheted onto my already hurt toe. “Ow.”
“Grace, is that you?” Hank’s voice came out of the darkness.
Great. Just great. “Yes,” I called back. I lowered my arms, feeling like an idiot.
“We got a call about an intruder.” His tall form suddenly loomed in front of me, solid and comforting. It was just the uniform, I told myself, feeling shaky as the adrenaline leaked out of my system.
“He—or she—is gone now,” I said, pointing to where the intruder had disappeared. I squatted to retrieve the baton, holding my tee shirt hem down with one hand.
Hank signaled to his partner, who started shining his flashlight between the trashcans and around the sheds that lined the alley. “Damn, Grace, why don’t you ever wear one of those sexy nighties I bought you?”
Hank’s whispered question reminded me that I was once again wearing my red Bulldogs tee shirt. I’d thrown out the tarty wisps of cheap red lace and teal satin he called lingerie the day I served him with divorce papers, dumping coffee grounds and egg shells on them for good measure.
“What I wear or don’t wear to bed and who I do or don’t wear it with is none of your business, Hank Parker,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be trying to catch the burglar?”
An expression of mingled astonishment and anger clouded his face. “You’re not cheating on me?”
I rolled my eyes. “Hank. We’re divorced. Kaput. Splitsville. I can date whoever I want.” Not that I was dating anyone. But I could. I stalked toward the house.
His relieved laugh followed me. “There’s no one new. You’re sleeping at your mom’s.”
With analytical skills like that, he’d make detective in no time. Scary thought. Mom appeared in the doorway, backlit by the kitchen light, and I marched toward her. I was still a few feet from the kitchen when another figure strolled around the house, coming from the front.
I stopped. Special Agent Dillon, in jeans with holes in the knees and a black tee shirt, swept his eyes over me from my bare feet with their Tahitian Coral nails to the hem of my tee shirt at midthigh to my sleep-snarled hair. His stern expression relaxed until I was convinced he was biting back a grin. “Practicing your twirling?” he asked with a nod at the baton.
“We had a break-in. I chased the burglar.” I hefted the baton, wishing I were wearing something more dignified. With my hair tumbling around my shoulders and no makeup, I probably looked like a “before” picture in one of those women’s magazines.
“Shouldn’t that outfit have fringe if you’re going to do a majorette routine? And little white boots?” This time the smile leaked through and his shoulders shook.
“Ha-ha. Very funny, Marsh. I don’t know why a big-shot detective like you showed up for a simple B and E, but since you’re here, how about doing some detecting?” I glared at him. It occurred to me that I didn’t even know what town he lived in, but it couldn’t be too far away because he always managed to show up when something happened at our house. Mom’s house.
“I came because I recognized the address,” he said, shepherding me toward the house. He waved off another patrolman who would have approached. “I’m glad you’re okay, although I could spank you for chasing after an intruder with no better weapon than a baton. Don’t you at least have a nice, solid Louisville slugger?”
Before I could tell him Alice Rose and I never went out for softball, preferring tap (both of us), volleyball (me), and cheerleading (Alice Rose), we had reached my mom. Wearing a robe over her nightgown, she held the screen door open. “I think I found where he got in,” she said. Her expression was calm, but I saw the pulse fluttering at her throat. I hugged her and then followed her into the mudroom, which opened off the kitchen and led to the carport. Shards of glass glinted from the utility sink’s basin. Above it, a hole gaped in the window.
“Have you checked to see what’s missing?” Special Agent Dillon asked, the humor gone from his voice as he studied the scene.
“Nothing that I can see,” Mom said. “Grace probably scared him off before he could take anything.”
She gave me a look that told me I’d be hearing about my rashness before the night ended. I thanked my lucky stars that the water main breakage had resulted in my sleeping here tonight. The thought of my mom confronting an intruder on her own made me shiver. I put my arm around her shoulders and faced Dillon. “We’ll check more thoroughly in the morning, okay?” I said. “My mom needs to get back to bed.”
“I’m not an invalid, Grace,” she said. She slipped out from under my arm and walked back into the kitchen, dignified even in her old robe and scuffed slippers. “In fact, I think I’ll make some tea for these nice officers.” She looked out the kitchen window at the flashlights bobbing in the alley. “Unless you’d prefer coffee?”
“Sure,” Special Agent Dillon said absently. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, almost under his breath.
“Me, either,” I agreed, sure he was referring to the Molotov cocktail, the threatening note, and now the break-in. “Do you think it all ties back to Constance’s death?”
He frowned as we joined Mom in the kitchen. “I don’t see how it could,” he said. “But . . . you didn’t see anything that night, or pick up anything from near the body, that you didn’t tell me about, did you?”
“You mean like the murderer?” I asked, miffed with his tone. “Or the murder weapon? No.” I thought about what his question implied. “You think the murderer thinks we know something?” The idea chilled me.
A knock heralded Hank’s arrival. “No sign of the intruder, sir,” he said to Dillon. His eyes slid to me. “Grace here must have scared him off. She has that effect on men.”
Special Agent Dillon didn’t return his grin. “Thank you, Officer Parker.”
“Have some coffee,” Mom said, pouring some into a disposable cup.
“Thanks, Violetta.” Hank reached for it, but somehow Mom fumbled as she was handing it over, and it splashed onto his hand. “Damn!” He sprang back.
“I’m so sorry, Hank,” Mom said in a not-sorry voice as he danced around, waggling his scalded fingers in the air. “I don’t know how that happened. Let me get you another cup.”
“No, thanks,” he gritted. “I’ll go to a drive-through.” He stalked out of the kitchen, banging the screen door behind him. “I’m coming by for my NASCAR things tomorrow, Grace,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Dillon said. “Make sure you lock up after me. And put a board over that window for tonight. Call a window company in the morning, first thing.”
“
Jawohl, herr kommandant
,” I said with my best German accent, clicking my bare heels together. The man definitely had a bossy gene.
“Grace,” my mother sighed. She turned to Dillon and offered her hand. “Thank you for coming over,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, patting her hand. “I think you should consider staying somewhere else for a couple of days. Just until we can get a handle on what’s going on. I can’t think this break-in was a coincidence.”
Mom shook her head and pulled her hand away. “I’ve lived through my husband’s death, more hurricanes than I can count, and a fire in this house,” she said serenely. “I’m not going to be chased away by any two-bit burglar or vandal.”
“How about by a murderer?” I asked.
“If he’d wanted to murder us, he wouldn’t have run off like that,” she said sensibly.
“She’s got a point,” I told Dillon.
He threw up his hands. “I’ll make sure a patrol car keeps an eye out around here. Get a dog. The barking would at least give you a heads-up if your burglar comes back.”
“I’ll sleep with the baton under my pillow,” I said, twirling it through my fingers. “And I’ll go down to the sporting goods store in the morning and pick up a baseball bat.”
Special Agent Dillon shook his head as if I were a lost cause and let himself out the screen door without even a “good night.”
“Sweet dreams,” I called after him, closing and locking the door.
I sent Mom up to bed and found an old piece of plywood to nail over the mudroom window. By the time that was done and I’d checked all the doors and windows three times, it was almost four. I trudged up the stairs to bed, determined to visit Belk’s in the morning, not a sporting goods store, and buy a pair of pajamas with more complete coverage than my tee shirt.