Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 02 - Sex, Lies, and Snickerdoodles Page 14

  Since the Lackeys lived less than five minutes away from the Falco house, and Pete could have caught Russell making his house call Monday night, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that he had taken a knife to Russell’s tires as a prelude to Friday’s tirade of warnings to stay away from Joyce.

  At least I wouldn’t have been surprised if Pete hadn’t convinced me that he didn’t have anything to do with it.

  So if he didn’t do it, who did? And why wouldn’t Russell have reported what happened to the police? From what Andy had said, it certainly seemed as if his brother had been upset and angry. If that had been the case, the natural thing to do would have been to call the police. Trying to put myself in Russell’s head, I’d only want to avoid the police if I didn’t want to be hassled about something. As far as I knew there were no open warrants for Russell. That led me to the more likely conclusion—he knew the responsible party and wanted to handle the situation himself.

  One person he might have talked to about that situation was opening her door across the street.

  I waved to Kelsey as I approached. “Good morning!”

  She smiled, a courteous pleasantry devoid of warmth. “You’re here early.”

  She wasn’t giving me the stinkeye that I’d received from Nate an hour earlier, but that didn’t mean she was any happier to see me. “Yep, I stopped for a latte and hoped that I could pick your brain about something you mentioned Sunday.”

  The electronic buzzer sounded as we stepped inside her shop. “About Russell,” she said, her voice mainly breath.

  No one wanted to talk to me about Russell Falco this morning. Tough. I had a very loud clock ticking over my head and I wasn’t leaving without some answers.

  I followed Kelsey to the mahogany counter where she stowed her shoulder bag below the cash register. She motioned to one of the two wooden stools behind the counter and I took a seat. “Specifically, I need to know if he told you about any problems he was having with anyone last week.”

  Several silent seconds ticked by, a little furrow above her delicate brows the only indication that she’d heard me.

  “You mentioned Sunday that he told you that someone slashed his tires,” I added with the hope that she’d bite on the tasty morsel I was dangling in front of her.

  Instead she sucked in a breath while her eyes pooled with tears. “You think someone killed Russell—that the two things are connected.”

  “I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m asking questions.”

  Nodding, Kelsey blotted her eyes with a tissue.

  I gave her a moment to collect herself and then tried again. “What exactly did Russell say when he told you about what happened last Monday night?”

  She cleared her throat. “Tuesday, he stopped by a few minutes before I closed at six, and after I showed him what I had in mind for Saturday night, he said that he’d do his best to arrive on time. I asked him what he meant and that’s when he told me about someone slashing his tires.”

  “Did he act upset, like he knew who did it?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, he minimized it, acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I think he didn’t want me to worry about him.”

  “Okay, did Russell say anything else about it? Anything that might give you the impression that he was having a problem with someone?”

  She shook her head, her hair sweeping her shoulder blades. “He had that black eye, but he said that was from some mishap at a job site.”

  No big surprise that he’d invent a story to cover for the dust-up with Andy.

  “Really, despite appearances, the only impression he gave me was of a man who’d made peace with his past and was … happy. His work kept him busy—so busy that we had to do a couple of late nights last week …”

  Blinking back tears while worrying her lips suggested that she didn’t want to divulge how they filled their time during those late nights.

  Kelsey as good as confirmed Andy’s statement. These weren’t work meetings.

  “… but things seemed to be going well for Russ. Really, it seemed like he wasn’t going to let some … vandal get him down.”

  “Why did you say vandal?”

  “I just assumed … the casual way he acted when he mentioned it. Who else would have done such a thing?”

  That’s what I wanted to know.

  I considered my limited options as I hoofed it back to the marina and slid behind the steering wheel of my car. I could head straight to the courthouse to get an early start on my final report and admit that I had a whole lot of nothing, or I could drive back to Duke’s for a free cup of coffee.

  Since a certain unmarked police cruiser was parked outside Duke’s front door, bad coffee accompanied by a side of conversation would be mighty tasty at any price.

  I met Steve’s gaze as I stepped behind the counter and reached for the two glass coffee carafes, leaded and unleaded, steaming side by side on their warmers.

  “Good morning,” I said to Stanley, who was sitting next to Steve.

  Stanley had a morning ritual that consisted of reading every regional newspaper he could get his arthritic hands on and slurping well-sugared decaf while he perused each page. No matter the weather, his ritual included wearing a plaid flannel shirt with every button fastened. Today was no exception.

  I lifted up a corner of the Bremerton paper he had his nose buried in to give him a refill.

  Steve pushed his empty cup toward me while he watched my show of draining the caffeinated dregs of the other pot into a paper to-go cup.

  I smiled as sweet as the packet of sugar Stanley was dumping into his decaf. “Sorry. I’ll make some fresh for you.” I tore open one of the packets of premeasured coffee from the shelf below the coffee maker, figuring this would buy me ten minutes of his time.

  Stanley chuckled. “If I didn’t know better I’d say she did that on purpose.”

  A corner of Steve’s mouth twitched into a curl of amusement as he pulled a couple of dollar bills from his wallet. “Yeah, seems a little premeditated.”

  Since I was being that transparent, I leaned on the counter with the intention of coming clean. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Too bad I can’t wait for that coffee,” he said, heading for the door.

  What? I grabbed my cup and caught up with him in front of his Crown Victoria. “I have a problem and need your help.”

  His gaze was wary.

  I raised my to-go cup. “I’ll share.”

  “That’s not much of a bribe.”

  “I know. It’s all I’ve got this morning.”

  He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

  Seconds later, Steve turned to me from the driver’s seat. “What’s up?”

  “Dr. Zuniga is going to tell Frankie that Russell Falco died from accidental drowning, and I haven’t been able to come up with anything to convince her otherwise.”

  He took a sip of my coffee. “That’s awful.”

  “I know, and I’m running out of time and ideas. I still think the person who slashed Russell’s tires had something to do with his death, but no one who was close to him knows anything about that and Russell appeared to be acting like someone who wanted to handle the situation himself. That makes me think it was done by someone he knew. Pete Lackey denied it and didn’t give me any reason not to believe him, but he’s certainly had motive and—”

  “I meant the coffee,” he said, handing it back to me.

  “Oh.”

  Three Gray Ladies, members of a Senior Center exercise group that proudly wore matching sweatshirts with their first names stitched on the front like 50’s era Mouseketeers, peered in through Steve’s windshield as they walked down the sidewalk in front of us. With the way news travelled around here, I had every faith that they’d have some strong opinions about the Pete, Russell, and Joyce pseudo-love triangle—probably just one of the many subjects up for discussion during this morning’s coffee klatch with Gossip Central’s ringleader, Lucille.r />
  Steve waved like his usual charming self and the three ladies smiled and waved back as if this were another typical late summer morning in Port Merritt. Except there was nothing about this morning that felt typical to me.

  His smile disappeared the nanosecond they stepped inside Duke’s. “So what do you want from me? You’ve got Zuniga’s verdict—accidental drowning.”

  “What if he’s wrong?”

  “I got the impression that you don’t have anything to counter your forensic expert’s opinion.”

  “Pete and Joyce Lackey appear to be covering for one another and—”

  “But you just said you believed him.”

  “When he told me that he didn’t have anything to do with slashing Russell’s tires, yes. But they’re hiding something. They both lied to me when I asked them questions about the night Russell died.”

  Steve angled his head to face me. “Chow Mein, it should be obvious to you by now—everyone’s hiding something.”

  Was he referring to me? To the fact that I hadn’t wanted to go public about our relationship?

  With awareness clawing at me that being seen together in his car could bring some unwelcome inquiries, I searched the length of the street. “I … I—”

  “Just don’t read too much into what you think you see.” He leaned toward me, angling past the computer monitor separating us.

  His elbow grazed my breasts, my heartbeat quickening until I realized the contact was accidental.

  “I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes,” he said, opening my door.

  I took his less than subtle cue and stepped out of his car, but I couldn’t let Steve leave without asking the question that had been preying on my mind the last three days. “Do you think there’s a connection between Russell’s apparent drowning and his tires being slashed?”

  “Sounds like you talked to everyone that I would have talked to and they didn’t have much to say.”

  That was an evasive answer if ever I’d heard one. “Nothing useful.”

  “Maybe that should tell you something.”

  It did tell me something—that I had yet to speak with the right person.

  I went back into Duke’s, dumped the foul contents of my to-go cup, and refilled it from the fresh pot I’d just brewed. With Stanley watching my every move, I took the seat that Steve had vacated five minutes earlier.

  “Did ya get what you were after?” Stanley asked as Lucille squeaked her way to the pass-through window to pick up a breakfast order, her gaze fixed on me.

  Dumping a couple of creamers into my coffee, I was well aware that Stanley wasn’t the only one interested in my answer. “Not yet.”

  I waited for Lucille to deliver three hubcap-sized plates heaped with eggs, bacon, and hash browns to the regulars at table seven. Then like I’d anticipated, she hovered in front of me like a mosquito honed in on my scent.

  She topped off my coffee. “Is there some news about Russell?” Without waiting for an answer she cringed. “The autopsy results came back and the doc found something you want Steve to investigate—”

  “No, nothing like that.” Although I almost wish he had. I glanced over at the Gray Ladies, who were watching us intently. To avoid their prying eyes, I grabbed my coffee and nodded to Lucille to follow me into the kitchen.

  Pushing the door open, I was immediately nailed by my great-uncle Duke’s scowl.

  He pointed his spatula at me like I was a pesky fly buzzing his domain. “Just because you’re not on the clock yet doesn’t mean that everyone else around here isn’t.”

  Lucille planted her feet in front of him and her hands on her rounded hips. “I’ve worked for you for thirty-six years. If I want to take a five-minute break—trust me, I’m good for the time!”

  He grunted. “Your order is going to be up in a couple of minutes.”

  “And I’m sure I’ll hear you just fine from over here when it is,” Lucille said, walking toward the fryer.

  Duke squinted at me like a gunslinger with an itchy trigger finger.

  Sorry. “I’ll make it fast.”

  “Whatcha got?” Lucille said the instant I turned my back to Duke.

  “Not much. No one close to Russell has had much to say about his death or who they think slashed his tires.”

  “Honey, you’re not talking to the right people.”

  I inched closer, lowering my voice. “What do you know?”

  Lucille smiled conspiratorially. “Most of our regulars have daughters, and it seems like Russell knew almost every one of those girls.”

  “Yeah?” So did I. I may have been a few years behind them in school, but I’d probably served them dozens of burgers and fries growing up. I stared at her, failing to see her point.

  She heaved a sigh. “Knew as in knew! Sheesh, read your Bible now and again.”

  Oh, that kind of knew. “Are you suggesting that I look up his old girlfriends? That one of them was carrying some sort of grudge?”

  That earned me another sigh accompanied by a roll of her baby blues. “From fifteen or twenty years ago? Hardly. But Russell Falco was a hound dog, and a hound dog doesn’t change his spots.”

  She was mixing her metaphors, but the truth of her words made me shiver despite the heat of the oven ten feet behind me.

  “Order up,” Duke barked.

  “Be there in a sec.” Lucille grabbed my wrist, pulling me closer. “Mark my words, a woman did this.”

  “Slashed his tires?” With Pete Lackey as my semi-prime suspect, I hadn’t considered the possibility that a pissed off former girlfriend could have sent Russell an impassioned message about how she felt about him throwing her over for Beverly Carver.

  “And killed him. Did you see Fatal Attraction?”

  “That movie with Glenn Close?”

  Lucille nodded. “I think he messed with the wrong woman and then moved on. Doesn’t mean that she moved on quite so easily.”

  Not a completely outlandish idea being floated by Duke’s resident conspiracy theorist, especially when I considered the fact that Russell never contacted the police to report the damage to his truck—almost like he’d known who did it and Mr. Discretion hadn’t wanted to damage her reputation. That could have been his fatal mistake, allowing the situation to escalate into a deadly Fatal Attraction re-enactment.

  Usually, Lucille’s theories were filled with more hot air than a puff pastry and I could walk away from them without a second thought. Not only did this one fit into the realm of possibility, given everything I’d learned in the last week, it could even make perfect sense. If only I could make it make sense in the next four and a half hours, when my report was due on Karla’s desk.

  Eleven minutes later, I was parked in front of the home belonging to the woman who had most recently played the love interest role in this deadly drama with Russell Falco: Beverly Carver.

  I knew that she’d be less than thrilled to see me on her doorstep before eight in the morning or anytime for that matter. But if Russell messed with the wrong woman, odds were high that it happened some time during his off and on, four month relationship with Mrs. Carver. Less likely was the probability that he’d kiss and tell, but I had to ask.

  I rang her doorbell and heard nothing but the barking of her golden retriever. After waiting a few seconds, I knocked. More barking.

  The last I’d been told, Heather’s mother didn’t work, having made a small fortune from the sale of the mini-mart chain her husband had left her. Since she no longer had a job to dash off to and she didn’t strike me as being any more likely to work up a sweat on a morning jog than my mother, I walked around to the side of the house to peek through the window and see if Mrs. Carver’s car was still parked in the garage.

  Wedging myself between two beefy tomato plants, I peered into what looked to be a well-organized and car-free garage.

  “Crap.” Not only was I going to be late for work, I’d be arriving with little to add to my report beyond how Russell connected with his brothe
r’s fist to get that black eye.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing over there?” demanded a gravelly female voice behind me.

  My heart pounding, I turned to see gray-haired Angela Doolittle, an old mahjong buddy of my grandmother’s, aiming the nozzle of a garden hose at me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Doolittle. It’s Charmaine.” I figured she might douse me if I made any sudden movement, so I slowly reached into my tote and pulled out my badge. “I had a couple of questions for Mrs. Carver, but she doesn’t seem to be home.”

  The diminutive eighty-year-old with the oversized eyeglasses squinted at my badge and then lowered the hose. “Oh, that’s all right then.” She brightened as I approached the low boxwood hedge separating us. “Charmaine, I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said, her gaze landing on my waistline.

  “It’s been a while.” Probably at least ten years and double that many pounds.

  “I thought you might be another peeping Tom.”

  “Another?”

  “We had someone lurking outside a window a couple weeks back. If that’s the right term for it.” She frowned, puckering her already pucker-lined lips. “Can you call a woman a peeping Tom?”

  I was willing to call her anything Mrs. Doolittle wanted if it would keep her talking. “I think so. You said you saw this woman a couple of weeks ago?”

  “When I went outside to retrieve a pair of garden shears I’d forgotten to put away. I was right over there, by the amber queen when I saw her,” Mrs. Doolittle said, pointing at a rose bush in full golden bloom bordering the property line she shared with Beverly Carver.

  “Where?”

  She dropped the hose. Motioning for me to follow her, she came to a stop a couple of feet behind her yellow rose bush. “I was here, about to reach for my shears when I saw her there, standing at Beverly’s bedroom window.”

  “What time was this?”

  “It was just before the eleven o’clock news so maybe around ten-fifty.”

  “And you’re sure it was a woman.”

  “My eyes aren’t that bad. I know a woman when I see one.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  She puckered her mouth again—the same how honest should I be expression my great-aunt Alice used to make when critiquing my pie crust. “Well … other than being fairly curvy, not really. I only saw her from the back.” She shook her head. “Honestly … it was just for a second … and it was really dark.”