Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 01 - Trudy, Madly, Deeply Read online

  The automatic door swung open and he followed me to the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like nothing. Would it feel better with a beer?”

  That sounded like an opportunity to me. “It wouldn’t feel any worse.”

  After I followed Steve home, I parked the Jag in Gram’s driveway and met him at his front door.

  I hadn’t been inside his house since before his mother had remarried two years ago and moved to New Mexico. It seemed like déjà vu following him to the same sunny yellow kitchen with gingham curtains and white appliances, only this time for a beer instead of his mother’s oatmeal cookies.

  I noticed that the hardwood floors still needed refinishing and the solid oak dining room table hadn’t moved more than an inch since the last time I’d seen it, but that’s where the familiarity ended. Gone was the damask pattern wallpaper behind the table. Instead, a solid brick red accent wall extended from the dining room to the living room where a nubby area rug in bold earth tones separated a chocolate brown leather sectional from an overstuffed chair and ottoman the color of cherry cola. Woven wood blinds replaced his mother’s pleated curtains, leaving little doubt of the masculine taste of the new owner.

  Steve set the grocery bag with the beer on the white tile counter, and I glanced up at the chicken-themed French country wallpaper bordering the kitchen. “You don’t really strike me as a chicken kind of guy.”

  “Their days are numbered,” he said, handing me a beer. “I’m just a little busy right now.”

  I had some strong opinions about how he’d been spending his time, but given why I was about to suck down one of his Budweisers, it wasn’t in my best interest to appear critical of my host.

  Wandering into the living room, I noticed that other than an antique kerosene lamp on one of the old cherry wood end tables and a set of soapstone coasters, there wasn’t a knickknack in sight. It was clean, uncluttered, unlike my grandmother’s front room—a dust magnet with her collection of blue Depression glass.

  “I like what you’ve done in here,” I said. “It suits you.”

  He took a seat on the far end of the leather sectional and rested his beer bottle on his knee. “It’s okay … for now.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. Since my thoughts went to a woman in his life who might have some different decorating ideas, I directed my attention to the framed black and white photos on the wall. “These are nice.” I recognized the barn from the old Hansen farm where Gram used to buy her eggs. “Local artist?”

  “Yeah. Me.”

  I turned, facing him. “Since when are you a photographer?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  True. We had history, but we’d barely scratched the surface of the past sixteen years of our lives. I didn’t know why he’d left Seattle Homicide to come back to Port Merritt. I also didn’t know why he’d broken up with his old girlfriend. Last I’d heard from Rox, they were talking about getting married, then I came back home and it seemed he had started up again with Heather.

  “I have no doubt of that,” I admitted.

  His eyes darkened as his gaze locked on mine. “What do you want to know?”

  Everything.

  I sat in the overstuffed chair while a revolving door of questions I dared not ask swung through the recesses of my mind.

  I considered my options. Yes, Steve had presented me with an open invitation to satisfy my curiosity, but there had always been a line in our relationship I knew I mustn’t cross. It could make things between us complicated, and the last thing I needed was another complication.

  Focusing on the label of my beer bottle, I beat a quick retreat from that line. “You know, the meaning of life. Why nice people are dying at the hospital—little stuff like that.”

  He blew out a deep breath. “Char—”

  “Don’t Char me. We need to talk about this.”

  Steve drained his beer bottle and pushed out of his seat. “We have talked about it, but one of us appears to have selective hearing.” He tipped his bottle toward me. “Want another one?”

  I shook my head. “I need to tell you something.”

  “As a friend or a cop?”

  “Both.”

  “Is this going to piss me off?”

  “Not if you keep an open mind.”

  “Shit,” Steve muttered, stalking to the kitchen. “I don’t like the sound of this already.”

  “I haven’t even said anything yet!”

  “Then get on with it.”

  “Fine! I discovered something today.”

  He fired a squinty-eyed glare at me from the kitchen.

  “While I was in Port Townsend to serve that subpoena, I stopped at Jake Divine’s parents’ house and spoke with his mother.”

  “Dammit, Char!” Steve barked, crossing the room. “What part of ‘stay out of this’ do you not understand?”

  “I understand plenty, including the fact that you’re more pissed off than surprised that I talked to her.”

  Glowering, he sat back down and twisted off the bottle cap like he wanted to wring someone’s neck. I didn’t have to guess whose.

  I sighed. “Okay, so you’re not happy that I took a side trip after I got that latte.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “I know.” I leaned closer. “There’s something going on at the senior center.”

  I studied Steve’s face for a reaction, but the tic above his jaw line only confirmed what I already knew. I needed to tread lightly if I didn’t want to witness a major explosion.

  Even at my pre-divorce weight I wasn’t very light on my feet, so I braced myself. “And I think Jake Divine is right in the middle of it.”

  No explosion. Instead, Steve blinked. “What makes you say that?”

  “For one, he’s going by a different name. It’s like he’s trying to reinvent himself here in Port Merritt.”

  “Since you recently changed your name, I don’t think you should make too much of that.”

  Okay, he had a point. I had dumped Christopher Scolari’s last name the day my divorce was final. “But unlike Jake or Jack—as everyone used to call him—a guy who appears to depend upon the generosity of older women, I didn’t attend the knife fight that placed him five blocks away the night of Howard Jeppensen’s death.”

  Steve’s dark gaze sharpened. “How do you know about the knife fight?”

  “Shea, the girlfriend of the defendant in that case, placed him there.”

  Steve slowly nodded. I didn’t know if it was because of what I knew or what he had just found out.

  “It seems awfully convenient that Virginia Straitham got Jake Divine that job at the senior center,” I said, watching Steve, “and when you add in the fact that his buddy Wesley has access to prescription drugs to do Grandma’s bidding …”

  I spotted a flicker of a frown but nothing to indicate surprise. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

  “… the three of them are probably up to their eyeballs in these murders,” I added, anticipating a reminder that this wasn’t an official murder investigation.

  Nothing. Instead, he took a pull off his beer bottle.

  After several exasperating seconds ticked by, I couldn’t take any more of the silent treatment. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything like stop jumping to conclusions, and Howard’s death doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Trudy’s?”

  His jaw tightened. “I’d say you pretty much covered it.”

  Lie. He was holding something back, the poker face firmly in place while he played his cards close to the vest.

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. “In other words, you aren’t going to say anything on this subject.”

  “I can tell you this much. If you’re right, and if Trudy’s death becomes a coroner’s case, there will be an official investigation.”

  Duh.

  “In the meantime,” he said, sounding like he was conducting a lecture, “you don’t want to
force anybody’s hand by trying to flush them out like a bird dog, or by speaking to their mothers. Mothers tend to call their sons when a strange girl shows up on their doorstep.”

  “I didn’t use my real name.”

  “Like his mother wouldn’t be able to describe you with that big game hunting outfit you were wearing today.”

  “So, stay out of this, Char,” I said, mimicking him. “You don’t want me to get hurt. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

  The corners of his lips curled into a humorless smile. “You have been listening.”

  “I wish you’d take this more seriously. At least five people have been killed.”

  The frown line between his brows deepened. “I never said I wasn’t taking this seriously.”

  True. And he made no effort to deny the fact that Trudy’s murder was the tip of this iceberg.

  I sucked in a breath. “That’s why you were there Tuesday. You’ve been investigating this all along!”

  “Walk away from this, Char.”

  “But I can help. I’m going to his aerobics class now and—”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Find something else to do for a couple of weeks and stay away from the senior center.”

  “But—”

  “And that includes Tango Tuesday!”

  “But if you’re—”

  “Chow Mein, trust me on this,” he said, his voice low, calm.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Trust me and let it go.”

  Not the answer I wanted to hear. “I trust you.” I picked up my beer and headed for the door.

  “What are you doing?” he called after me.

  “Letting it go.” More or less.

  * * *

  Steve fixed me with a molten chocolate gaze as he held me tight on the dance floor. “Let go, Char.”

  “You’re not exactly making it easy,” I said, the skirt of my little black dress swaying in rhythm to Hernando’s Hideaway.

  He guided me back, step by seductive step. “It’s easier than you think. Trust me.” He cradled me in his arms, his lips closing in on mine.

  Suddenly, I was staring into eyes as cold as death, and the music stopped.

  Leaning over my hospital bed, Jake kissed me lightly on the lips. “Goodbye.”

  Goodbye?

  “Steve!” I screamed, searching the room for him.

  While Jake stroked my hair with one hand, he reached for a hypodermic needle with the other. “Shhhh. Relax. It will be over soon.”

  “No!”

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  Jolting awake, I pushed back the covers and bolted out of the hide-a-bed.

  Sucking down oxygen like I’d run all the way home from the hospital, I stood at the foot of the Crippler and stared at the only thing that had been hovering over my bed—the orange and white tail of my grandmother’s tabby.

  A bead of cold sweat trickled down my back. “Dammit, Myron!”

  Myron leapt onto the window ledge behind the hide-a-bed and proceeded to clean himself.

  At least one of us wasn’t bothered by my nightmare on G Street.

  My flesh prickly with goosebumps, I raced upstairs to the bathroom to shake off what had to be the result of a beer-infused, hyperactive subconscious. Either that or a sadistic one. Although I had looked damned good in that black dress.

  After a long, hot shower I was finally able to wash away my fear of dancing boogeymen with hypodermic needles. I took the easy route with my hair and pulled it back into my tortoiseshell clip, and then swiped on a layer of mascara and some lip gloss. Finally, I pulled on a pair of navy slacks and an oversized navy and white polka dotted tunic—Patsy attire, nothing that would turn heads. After the dream I’d had, perfect.

  Fifteen minutes later, Aunt Alice frowned at me as I tied the strings of a white apron around my waist and joined her at her work table. “You’re making a bad habit out of these early mornings,” she said sharply.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead or when Marietta leaves, whichever happens first.”

  My great-aunt grimaced as she flattened piecrust dough with her rolling pin. “Why is she still here?”

  The reasons why my mother blew in and out of my life always had everything to do with when she was needed in front of a camera or the latest man in her life.

  “I’m sure she’ll leave next week some time.” When her presence was required in Los Angeles to shoot her next infomercial.

  My more immediate concern was Alice, standing statue still with her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Aunt Alice, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just have a little hitch in my giddy-up is all.”

  Lie. A whopper of a lie that didn’t begin to explain the pasty pallor of her skin.

  Duke stood by the fryer and met my gaze while he dipped a couple of sour cream old-fashioneds into chocolate glaze. He slowly shook his head, concern etched into every line of his grizzled face.

  “You’ve had this ‘hitch’ for days. Let me take you to the doctor,” I said to Alice.

  She sucked in a breath as she eased herself down onto her wooden stool. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t run to the doctor because of a little bit of gas.”

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t a little bit of gas, but she was stubbornly sticking to the same lame story.

  I grabbed a bowl and reached for the bag of flour.

  She scowled at me. “What are you doing?”

  “I need a bran muffin … for my diet.” If she could stick to her lame story, so could I.

  Almost three hours later, I’d stocked the bakery shelves with very little protest from Alice and the last of the pies were in the oven. I’d expected her to take a break and have something to eat. Instead, I saw her wincing as she measured flour into a stainless steel mixing bowl. “I thought we were done with the baking.”

  “This is for Norm,” she said, reaching for the salt. “Sour cream apple. His favorite pie.”

  Norm Bergeson had rarely come to Duke’s pie happy hour even before Trudy’s death. That meant that Alice planned to make a house call. Not only did I smell the heavenly aroma of pie crust venting from the oven, I sniffed some luck wafting my way.

  “He barely ate anything last week,” Alice added.

  Last Saturday we’d left the man with a month’s worth of cake and casseroles. If he was going hungry, it wasn’t because he had an empty refrigerator.

  Alice sliced a stick of butter into her bowl. “I’m just going to see how he’s doing. I owe that much to Trudy.”

  “You know, I’m planning on taking an early lunch today.” I wasn’t until a minute ago. “I could stop by before noon, then drive you over to Norm’s.” And on the way back, drag her into Dr. Straitham’s office.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m perfectly capable—”

  “Sounds like a perfect plan,” Duke said as he grabbed a flat of eggs from the refrigerator behind me.

  “I don’t need to be babied,” Alice grumbled. “I’m fine.”

  I smiled at her. “You know I don’t believe you.”

  She scoffed. “That lie-dar of yours isn’t infallible.”

  “True.” I reached into my tote and pulled out the invitation addressed to Duke and Alice. “But if you don’t feel better by tomorrow, you might not be able to come to the party.”

  Alice frowned at the white envelope. “What party?”

  “Your sister’s eightieth birthday party,” I said.

  Lucille squeaked in our direction with a coffee carafe, her eyes widening at the envelope in my hand. “Did I hear something about a party?”

  Yes, and I didn’t have an invitation with her name on it.

  “Eleanor’s eightieth birthday,” Alice said to Lucille. “I forgot all about it. Can you imagine that?”

  Lucille refilled Alice’s cup. “You’ve been a little under the weather. You’re entitled to forget a couple of things.”

  She turned to me expectantly, waiting. I knew it
wasn’t to see if I wanted a coffee refill.

  “It’s just a barbeque,” I said. “Family and a few friends.” I hoped she would get the hint.

  She did, loud and clear. And by Lucille’s pained expression I might as well have backed over her with my car.

  Good grief. I reached into my tote for the envelope addressed to Gladys, pulled out the embossed invitation and handed it to Lucille.

  Sorry, Gladys. “I hope you’ll be able to make it.”

  Lucille beamed and slipped the invitation into her front pocket. “I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “Good save,” Duke whispered in my ear as Lucille squeaked away. “We never would have heard the end of that one.”

  True. And I had no intention of adding Complaint Department Manager to my business card. Assuming I’d be getting business cards.

  Duke ambled toward the grill. “Mornin’, Steve.”

  My heartbeat quickened at the mention of Steve’s name. Stupid dream.

  Now was as good a time as ever to complete my delivery service duty, so I slid the white envelope addressed to him onto the counter, next to his coffee cup. “With compliments from my mother.”

  Steve glared at it like it was an invitation to a baby shower.

  “She’s throwing a birthday party for Gram,” I said.

  He folded the invitation into his back pocket. “You couldn’t just tell me about it?”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  The silver bell over the door jingled as Jake Divine walked in. He gave me a friendly wave, kicking my pulse into hyperdrive.

  I locked onto Steve’s gaze. “Jake’s here.”

  “And probably not to see you. I know I’m wasting my breath, but try to act normally.”

  Act normally. Sure, I could do that.

  Maybe.

  Steve drained his coffee mug. “I could use some more coffee.”

  “Uh huh,” I muttered, staring at Jake as he swung a leg around the barstool two down from Steve.

  Jake smiled as bright and sunny as the summer morning. “Good morning!”

  His cheerful demeanor didn’t set off any warning signs to suggest that he was doing anything more than stopping in for some breakfast before work. But since I had just paid a visit to his mother yesterday, I doubted that he had a sudden hankering for bacon and eggs.