Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 02 - Sex, Lies, and Snickerdoodles Read online

  She sat up a little straighter. “I told Steve everything I know.”

  “I’m sure you did.” And there was no way he’d be sharing any of that with me. “But Steve can’t launch an investigation until Frankie sends him the case, so if you could …”

  Joyce’s puffy eyes widened as she turned to me. “But he’s the police.”

  “And his hands are tied until after the …” I didn’t want to upset her further and mention Russell’s autopsy scheduled for tomorrow. “… the preliminary investigation by the Coroner.”

  “Oh. I-I guess that makes sense.” She dabbed her eyes with the soggy tissue.

  I pulled my notebook and pen from my tote. “Maybe we could start with what Russell was doing at your house Friday.”

  She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “He was building me a new pantry along with a bookshelf for all my cookbooks.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “A black t-shirt, jeans, sneakers—pretty much what he always wore when he was working.”

  She’d just described the clothes I found on Russell’s boat and provided ample reason for the wood shavings on his shirt.

  Okay, so he’d worked at Joyce’s house Friday and then headed back over to help Kelsey for a few hours before cleaning up for his date with Beverly Carver.

  Busy guy. “Did he seem troubled? Anything bothering him?”

  Joyce shook her head. “Everything was fine. Russell was putting the finishing touches on the pantry. I was baking cookies.” She smiled while her azure eyes glistened with more waterworks. “Chocolate chip—his favorite.”

  Uh-oh. Aunt Alice might be in for some stiff competition if Joyce decided to enter those cookies in the fair.

  “It was just the two of you there?” I asked, hoping to gain a sense of their relationship.

  “For most of the afternoon.” Staring blankly at the street, she opened her mouth and then clamped it shut.

  Since she’d just censored herself, I guessed at the reason. “Until your husband came home?”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she nodded, tears streaking down her cheeks.

  “Where were you when your husband came into the house?”

  “The pantry.”

  “And where was Russell?”

  “The pantry,” she choked out, her voice mainly air as she sat very still, like she wanted to make herself invisible.

  Not the behavior of a woman with nothing to hide.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Pete … Pete walked in on us and jumped to some ridiculous conclusions.” Pressing her thin lips together she slowly shook her head side to side. She shifted her gaze to me. “Completely ridiculous. Really.”

  “Uh-huh.” Now she was digging a deeper hole for herself by omitting the most important part of her story: what she was doing in the pantry with Russell Falco.

  I jotted down some notes. “Had Russell been working at your house long?”

  “Almost three weeks.”

  “Three weeks for a pantry and a bookshelf?” My grandfather had built Gram’s pantry in less than a week.

  Joyce stiffened. “We also talked about other projects I wanted done.”

  Could she be any more vague? “Like what?”

  She narrowed her puffy eyes at me for a fraction of a second, making it abundantly clear that she didn’t like the question. Tough. I didn’t like her evasive answers.

  “Like a walk-in closet. I’ve always wanted one and Pete’s been so busy lately. Anyway, I thought Russell might be interested in the job.”

  That discussion would account for one hour, tops. “Did Pete know that you were talking to Russell about these projects?”

  She shook her head. “Not at first, but it became obvious. You know, once the construction started.”

  Pete didn’t impress me as a man who liked surprises. “And how did he respond to the news?”

  “He wasn’t happy about it.”

  “About the work being done or about Russell being the one doing the work?”

  “Both.”

  “So when your husband came home Friday and caught you in the pantry with Russell …”

  “We weren’t doing anything but talking.” She searched my eyes like it was important that I believe her. “Really.”

  But I really couldn’t, not after what Beverly Carver had told me.

  Joyce blinked away a fresh tear. “But he went ballistic, yelling at Russell. Calling him all sorts of nasty names while telling him to get out of his house.” Hanging her head, she dabbed at her leaky nose. “It was horrible.”

  I didn’t doubt the truth of this part of her story. “What time was this?”

  “Around four.”

  Giving Russell plenty of time to gather his things, pilot his boat back to the marina, and then work at Kelsey’s for a few hours.

  “I understand Russell came back later that evening.”

  Joyce’s lips trembled as her eyes pooled. “By b-boat. He’d been having car trouble all week.”

  Since that trouble consisted of two slashed tires, that was a monumental understatement.

  “And your husband and he exchanged words.”

  “It wasn’t an exchange. Pete was spewing all sorts of obscenities, telling Russell to stay away from me.”

  Pretty much what I’d expected to hear given what Beverly Carver had told me yesterday.

  Joyce’s shoulders slumped. “But … it wasn’t … me … he came to see,” she said between sobs.

  She obviously knew that Beverly wasn’t just her cookie baking competition.

  I passed Joyce a fresh tissue from the mini-pack I kept in my tote—something Karla had recommended I carry whenever I went out into the field to interview victims’ loved ones.

  I waited for a moment while Joyce blew her nose and mopped up her face. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about that night?” Or about your relationship with Russell Falco?

  Staring down at her scuffed sneakers, she shook her head until her shoulder-length hair shrouded her round face like a copper veil.

  “Do you need a ride home? Should I call your husband—”

  “No!”

  “Really,” I gently prodded, sitting on the edge of the bench seat. “You probably shouldn’t drive.”

  “You don’t understand. He killed Russell. I know he did.”

  I leaned closer, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Who?”

  “Pete.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I ran into Joyce outside,” I said without knocking on the open door of the Port Merritt Police Department’s Investigation Division.

  The sole member of that department glanced up over his computer monitor at me. The set of his jaw told me that he wasn’t happy to see me.

  I shut Steve’s door with more force than necessary to let him know that I didn’t care.

  “Hello to you, too,” he said, clicking on his keyboard.

  “If Joyce told you what she just told me, why are you still sitting here?”

  “I’m paid to sit here.” His eyes tracked me as I came around to the edge of his desk. “It’s called work. You should head back to your office and try it.”

  “Cute. What about Pete Lackey?”

  “What about him?”

  I inched closer, trying to get a better angle on his monitor to see if what he was working on anything that had to do with Joyce Lackey.

  Steve pointed at the hardback chair facing his metal desk. “If you’re staying, sit over there.”

  “Fine.” I scooted the chair closer as I took a seat. “Don’t you think you should question him?”

  “Don’t you think we should get through the autopsy and have a cause of death before we start jumping to conclusions about what could have been an unfortunate accident?”

  I hated the way he said we when he meant me.

  “So you’re not buying Joyce’s story about how angry Pete was that Russell seemed to be sniffing around his wife?”

&n
bsp; Steve leaned back in his squeaky black vinyl chair, giving me a clear view of his face. “I didn’t say that.”

  True enough, but he was skilled at not saying much, particularly when I was around.

  If I wanted a glimpse of the cards he was holding so close to the vest, I knew I needed to up the ante. “What if I told you there was a witness to the heated exchange Pete Lackey had with Russell, when he came back later that night?”

  Steve’s laugh lines tightened. “And what if I reminded you that this is not a coroner’s case and that you should stick to doing the job that you were actually hired to do?”

  “It’s not a coroner’s case yet.”

  He stared across his desk at me. “And since the autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow, nothing’s going to happen today, no matter how much some people may want it to.”

  I folded my arms, meeting his stare with equal measure. “Does that mean that you still don’t want to hear about my chat with Beverly Carver?” Because you really need to.

  Lowering his gaze, Steve shook his head, his lips drawn into a grimace he didn’t bother to disguise.

  “What’s with the face? I was just talking to her.”

  “Are you going to tell me that you just happened to run into her?”

  “Uh … sort of.”

  “Stay out of this, Char. The Lackeys and their neighbors don’t need you poking around in their private business.”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “I don’t care what you’re trying to do. Until this is an official case, you’re done. Got it?”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I pushed out of my chair. “Got it.” But I wasn’t even close to being done. “I take it that you won’t be making any inquiries about how Russell Falco’s truck ended up with two slashed tires?” I asked, watching closely for a reaction.

  “Nothing to inquire about seeing as how that incident was never reported.”

  Lie. Steve had been clever by wrapping up his response in a ribbon of truth, but that didn’t make me buy what he was selling, especially since Russell’s body was found at Cedars Cove five days later.

  “You know I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, focusing on his monitor. “Have a nice day, Chow Mein.”

  Ten minutes later, I was in line at the Red Apple Market with a three-pound can of coffee in my hands when I spotted Pete Lackey in the deli section.

  Since I was supposed to be avoiding Duke’s at lunchtime, this seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to pick up a tuna salad on whole wheat as well as some side dish conversation with Pete.

  I stood next to him in front of a refrigerated case of pre-made sandwiches and looked at the plastic containers of doughnuts, potato salad, and fried chicken bundled in his arms. “I don’t know that I’m in the mood for a sandwich. How’s the chicken?”

  He squinted at me, carving creases into his leathery skin. “Huh?”

  I pointed at the six-piece box of chicken he was holding.

  “Oh, don’t know. First time I’m trying it.” He picked up a roast beef sandwich then added a bag of chips to his pile.

  “You’re either very hungry or you’re buying for a crowd,” I said with an easy smile.

  “No crowd. Just me.” He started to walk away.

  I needed to stop him since I hadn’t found out anything other than it looked like his wife wouldn’t be doing much cooking for him today. “I ran into Joyce earlier this morning—”

  “Where?”

  By the way he whipped around and stared at me, I knew that I couldn’t have surprised him more if I’d lassoed him around the ankles. I also saw something else etched into every line of his face—worry.

  Since Joyce had given me the clear impression that she was afraid to be alone with the man, I opted for a generic answer. “Near Old Town.” True enough with the police department located three blocks away from the touristy section of town marked by its Victorian era construction and wooden sidewalks.

  “She seemed upset,” I added.

  Storm clouds brewed in Pete’s bloodshot eyes while his heavy brow furrowed, making him look as sympathetic as my ex-husband had when I’d told him I’d gotten rear-ended the one and only time during our marriage that he had let me drive his precious Jaguar.

  I’m just fine, dear. Nothing was hurt that can’t be fixed. Thanks for caring.

  Pressing his thin lips together, Pete averted his gaze. “Yeah.”

  Clearly, Joyce wasn’t the only one who was upset.

  “Everything okay?” I didn’t need to be able to read his craggy face to answer my own question.

  “Sure,” he grunted as he turned his back to me.

  I watched him make his way to the checkout line as if all the energy had been sapped out of him. Given what I’d heard about the guy from Joyce and Beverly, I’d practically expected hail and brimstone to rain from his eyes. Of course, he could have used it all on Russell Falco.

  After hightailing it back to the office to make coffee, I did an hour of filing for Patsy, sat in on an interview with a reluctant witness for one of the assistant prosecutors, and then remembered about the subpoena still burning a hole in my tote.

  Based on the address I figured I could kill two birds with one stone: slap the subpoena on the civil engineer who’d be called to testify for the prosecution later in the month, and avoid Gossip Central at Duke’s by eating my sandwich at Broward Park on the way back.

  As I made the left turn out of the Prosecutor’s office and crossed the checkerboard tile floor to the third floor landing, I saw Steve coming up the stairs. “What brings you here?”

  “A meeting.” He gave me a long look. “And where are you off to? Doesn’t Frankie have any actual work for you to do here?”

  I pulled out the envelope with the subpoena and aimed the county seal at his nose. “I’ll have you know I’m working.” But I was more interested in why he was here than in trading jabs. “Who are you meeting with?” And was it about Russell?

  He shook his head. “Stand down, Deputy. It has nothing to do with Russell Falco.”

  True. That meant he had probably come to see Ben about a criminal case that would soon be going to trial. “Did I ask?”

  He grinned. “You didn’t have to.”

  Dang. I hated that he could read me that easily.

  Leaning toward me, Steve sniffed the base of my neck.

  My temperature rising by the second, I scanned the rest of the third floor. Fortunately, the only person in sight was the Sheriff’s deputy, eyeing us intently from his post. “What are you doing?”

  “You smell good,” he whispered, his breath warm on my ear. “Not like mocha almond fudge anymore but still, damned good.”

  Oh, my.

  Heat radiated from his body. “Next time you want to do some finger-painting I pick the flavor. Something without nuts.” He winked. “Seems kind of redundant.”

  My, oh, my!

  I needed to hit the street and deliver the subpoena before I melted into a puddle of mocha almond fudge, so I pushed him away with an index finger to the chest. “We will definitely continue this conversation later.”

  “Speaking of later,” he called after me as I dashed down the stairs.

  I turned, trying to play it cool but feeling as giddy as a thirteen-year-old on her first date.

  “Want to go to Eddie’s for pizza?”

  Instead of joining Marietta and Gram for dinner and hearing all about my mother’s wedding plans? “Heck, yeah.”

  “I’ll pick you up around six.”

  “I may have to run an errand after work. I’ll meet you there.”

  Just two friends sharing a pizza like we had dozens of times since high school. Nothing there to resemble grist for the rumor mill—as long as he didn’t order any ice cream for dessert.

  Almost twenty minutes later, after a short uphill hike to an engineering firm located in a strip mall a block from Broward Park, I served the subpoena on a less than pleased civil e
ngineer.

  On the way back I spotted a vacant picnic table in the shade of a huge Douglas fir tree—a perfect spot to eat my lunch. Just as I sat down and pulled my tuna sandwich from my tote, I saw Andy Falco climb out of his pickup and walk over to a park bench where a woman with short black hair sat. The woman, who looked like she outweighed Andy by close to fifty pounds, stood and embraced him.

  I sucked in a breath. I hadn’t seen her in over twenty years, but there was no mistaking that the woman was Mitzi Falco.

  The last thing I needed was for Andy to think I was spying on him, especially since he’d seen me hanging around the marina Saturday, so I dropped my sandwich back in my tote and stepped away from the table. Unfortunately a preschooler squealing after a ball he’d rolled in Andy’s direction caused him to look over and lock gazes with me.

  Five seconds later, I had an irate Andy Falco in my face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you following me or something?”

  I showed him my sandwich. “I was just stopping for lunch. If I’d known you and your mother were here—”

  “Sorry. I thought …” He raked a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “Never mind. Just don’t say anything about seeing me here, okay? I don’t need this getting back to Nate.”

  I looked behind him at the five feet two inches of pissed off mother marching toward my table.

  She swatted Andy’s arm. “Need what getting back to Nate? That you’re seeing your mother? If he has a problem with that, he needs to get over it.”

  Andy squeezed his eyes shut and uttered a few choice expletives. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”

  Inching closer to the picnic table, Mitzi pulled on a pair of black, rhinestone-edged glasses and gave me a once over. “I know you.”

  I pasted a smile on my face. “Hello, Mrs. Falco.”

  She folded her glasses and dropped them into her oversized purse, a diamond wedding band sparkling on her ring finger. “It’s Mrs. Walther now.”

  Okay, she appeared to have moved on after leaving Gil Falco and the boys to fend for themselves.