Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (8 page)

“Well, there were other people she kept out of the guild,” she admitted reluctantly. “And Opal Wilkinds was not happy Denise got that senior portrait gig.”

“Really? Why?”

“Opal’s been the only senior portrait photographer for years,” Henna said. “She makes most of her income from that. Some of those crazy parents spend up to a thousand dollars on those things.”

I couldn’t hide my shock. “A thousand?” Our school pulled from nearby towns and had over two hundred seniors. “She makes two hundred thousand dollars?”

“No,” Henna said. “Some just buy one and copy it at the drugstore. But Opal makes a pretty penny anyway. And sharing that with Denise was going to be a major hit.” She poured a bit of white paint onto her artist palette and dabbed a tiny paintbrush in it. “But she’d never do anything like, like kill someone.”

I didn’t know Opal very well, although she occasionally bought chocolates for her customers during the holidays. She was part of a middle-aged party crowd that drank a lot and lived to have a good time at the local bars. Occasionally, they’d go too far and I’d hear the gossip in the shop. Like when they tried to pick up married men, or when one of them threw up outside the all-night diner, or the time they went streaking on Lady Godiva Day. Supposedly, that was a sight to see. Or not see.

I remembered that I was here to check out Henna. “So have you had any problems with mice or rats or anything out here? I thought I saw something move when I put the garbage out last week.”

Henna gave me a weird look for my awkward change of subject. “There’s nothing for them to eat out here. I had one hide in my material roll once—just plugged the ends and drove it down the road.”

“So you’re like me and use the humane traps,” I said.

“Gotta watch out for karma,” she said.

My cell phone rang in my pocket and I silenced it.

Henna looked alarmed. “Get that out of here!”

“What?”

She stood up and made a shooing gesture with her hands. “Those EMF waves are terrible for your health. And they mess with my creative process.”

I took a step back to the doorway. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“No,” she said. “You should get rid of yours. You’re young. You really don’t want those things messing with your immune system. Or your lady parts. They cause damage to your very DNA. And your babies’ DNA. No one has any idea how we’re affecting our future generations.”

My cell phone rang again as if on cue. Henna’s eyes widened in horror. “Out!”

I covered the phone as if protecting her from its dangerous rays and didn’t answer until I was outside.

“Michelle,” Erica said in a way-too-friendly voice. “Mayor Gwen is here and needs to talk to us.”

“Really?” I asked. “I’m on my way.”

Gwen lived in the middle of the almost empty housing development she’d lost her shirt on, way on the other side of town, so she certainly hadn’t stopped by on her way home. As I rushed back, I wondered if she had any news about Denise.

Gwen jumped to her feet as soon as I opened the door. Erica had put her in our shared living room. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said grabbing my hands and holding on. “I rushed back as soon as I saw the news.”

“Thank you.” I extricated my hands and gestured for her to take the couch. Erica and I sat in chairs facing her. “Have you talked to the chief?”

“Oh yes.” Her hands fluttered when she talked, which wasn’t like her. “That was the first thing I did. I told him that he had to figure this whole thing out a lot faster than he usually works.”

I noticed a layer of dust on the end table. This room normally got cleaned when we had a party but we’d been too busy to host one in months.

“It’s terrible that you two had to find her,” Gwen said. “You’re so brave.”

“We’re fine,” I said.

“I hope this doesn’t dim your zeal to produce the best cook-off and arts festival this town has ever seen,” she said.

Ah, the real reason she was here. My dismay at her insensitivity must have shown on my face because her hands fluttered again.

“No dimmed zeal here,” I said lightly.

“We wouldn’t want to disappoint all of your neighbors who’ve been working so hard on their fudge entries, or all of the town businesses who are counting on those tourist dollars,” she said.

She continued. “I was telling Erica that I
begged
the chief to get this mess cleaned up as soon as he could, so Memorial Day weekend can go off without a hitch. We all admire his methodical way of approaching his job, but this time he just has to move things along a lot faster.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

She pursed her lips. “That this is the first murder our town has seen in more than a decade and it’s up to the state police to determine how long it will take. But the chief will be working closely with them and I’m sure he can speed up the process. Especially after I educated him about how vitally important those tax dollars we expect to earn that weekend are to this town, the town that employs him.”

“Did he say when we’d be able to get back in the shop?” Erica asked.

“Yes, that’s the good news,” the mayor said. “The crime-scene investigation will be done tomorrow. I thought that you should wait until the weekend to reopen, to be respectful of course. Plus, there will be some cleaning to be done.”

I shuddered and then removed that thought from my mind. “Do you think people will want to eat my chocolate if the investigation isn’t complete?”

She looked so outraged that I felt heartened. “Of course they will! And I’ll be first in line when you reopen.”

A
fter the mayor left, I filled Erica in on what Henna had said, especially about Opal Wilkinds, photographer to the stars. The West Riverdale Stars that is.

We were updating the investigation project plan when Bean came in the front door. “Hello?” he called from the open doorway.

“Come on in,” Erica said absentmindedly as she typed into her laptop and I wrote on the paper on the wall.

“Erica!” I pointed with my pen. We wouldn’t be able to let anyone into our kitchen until this whole thing was over.

“Oops,” she said.

Bean seemed surprised by our new artwork, but understood it immediately. “Is this a good idea?”

“Why not?” Erica asked at the same time I insisted, “Yes,” both of us with the same defensive tone.

He raised his eyebrows. “Denise was intentionally murdered. Whoever killed her might kill again.”

“We won’t be doing anything dangerous,” I said. “We’ll just be asking questions. Discreetly.”

“As discreetly as your project for your cousin?”

I scowled at him. Erica smiled. She’d obviously seen the video.

“Nevertheless,” Erica said. “There’s no reason we can’t make a few inquiries. Just to help the police.” She lifted her shoulder as if to say “no biggie.”

“What’s the news from the Ear?” I asked. “Was Opal Wilkinds there?”

“Why? Is she one of your suspects?” He sounded like an older brother teasing his little sister.

Erica pointed to Opal’s name in the suspects column.

“People were talking about her,” he said. “Something about how she was hitting the Scotch hard lately.”

Hmm. Maybe because she was guilt-ridden.

“Spill it all, Bean,” Erica said. “I know you had to be asking questions. Who are the top suspects according to the townspeople?”

“Okay boss,” he said. “Harold and Beatrice Duncan think it was the big box store that’s been trying to get the town council to approve their building application.”

“What possible motive could they have?” I asked.

“Something about how Denise must’ve caught them doing something illegal, maybe paying off a town councilman. They think anyone who voted yes should be looked into.”

“Who else?” Erica asked.

“Your buddy Tonya thinks it was Reese, trying to get a real story to work on.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I said.

“And some other customer had used her Ouija board to learn that it was ghosts. Or vampires. She wasn’t very clear.”

• • • • • • • • • 

I
didn’t fall asleep until after one in the morning and was woken up at five a.m. to the sound of two people running around upstairs. I made it to the door just as Erica and Bean pounded down the stairs.

“The state police just brought Mark in for questioning,” Erica yelled.

Colleen’s husband? “About what?” That made no sense.

Bean’s face was grim as he rushed by. “Meet us at the police station.”

I changed out of my pajamas, a small part of me glad that Bean hadn’t seemed to notice my comfort clothes of flannel pants with a hole in one knee and a West Riverdale High T-shirt so threadbare the seams were peeling away.

My brain woke up on the way to the station, and I thought about how Colleen had been acting recently. She’d been even more strained than her usual three-kid stress level; had something else been going on in her life? Something to do with Mark?

Main Street was still asleep, dawn just starting to show over the horizon. I turned onto Cedar. At the end stood the police station, a white clapboard building that used to be the home of the mayor in the 1960s, normally sleepy, but now alight and buzzing with activity. I took a deep breath and let myself in.

Erica, Colleen and Bean sat together on wooden chairs in the waiting area, looking so much alike and yet so different. Same nose, same Irish skin and serious hazel eyes. Colleen’s face was more round, softer somehow. But all three were worried.

Lieutenant Bobby stood behind the counter with a grim expression. I sent him a nod while I sat in the chair opposite the siblings.

“A lawyer on the way?” I asked.

Erica nodded. “Bean called a friend. He’ll be here soon.”

“Did you tell Mark not to say anything until he got here?” I asked.

“I didn’t have time,” Colleen said, her exasperation making me realize she must have already been asked that.

“What happened?” I asked.

Erica threw an accusing glance over her shoulder at Bobby. “Bean doesn’t want us to talk here. All I can say is that Colleen called me crying to tell me Detective Lockett was taking Mark in for questioning about Denise’s murder.”

“Holy cow,” I said. “Based on what?”

She shook her head. “Later.”

“Was Bobby there?”

“No. Just Lockett and Noonan.”

Chief Noonan must know about their family history—no secret in this small town—and kept Bobby out of it. But what was up with the harsh early morning tactics?

Bobby had his hard I’m-a-cop face on. I wondered if that meant he was mad at the chief or Mark.

Erica started to say something else just as Antony Marino, the famous criminal lawyer to top-level DC politicians, walked in with a freakin’ entourage. As I’d seen on TV, he strolled in with his fedora and tailored suit as if he owned the place. The only thing missing was the ornate cane that he usually carried. I half expected to see 1920s paparazzi behind him with their old-time flashbulbs exploding.

Colleen looked alarmed when she realized who Bean’s friend was. “I can’t afford . . . ” she started to stutter.

“Don’t worry.” Bean put his hand on her arm. “He’s doing this for free. He owes me.”

That must be an interesting story.

“I’d like to see my client immediately,” the lawyer demanded, his courtroom voice echoing in the small hall.

Bobby sent a wry glance toward Bean and led the lawyer back to the “interrogation” room, a small office that was nothing like they have on cop shows. No two-way mirror, a table made of carved mahogany and, since it also served as the lunchroom, super comfy, ergonomic chairs the West Riverdale Chamber of Commerce recently bought the police department.

A few minutes later, Mark was escorted out by Detective Lockett, Marino walking behind with a satisfied smirk. Mark was all disheveled, probably at being woken up at the crack of dawn. When he looked at Colleen, his face changed, becoming red with shame. There was no doubt to any of us that he was guilty of something.

Some kind of unspoken married-forever communication happened between them and Colleen flushed with anger. Not just anger. Rage. Right when she was about to lunge toward Mark, Bean grabbed her by both arms and steered her outside, talking urgently into her ear.

Only so many things made a woman that mad. Was Mark having an affair?

We followed, Marino and his staff taking Bean aside to talk by a waiting limo, and the rest of us stood by the cars. Colleen stared daggers at Mark while he found something fascinating on the ground to explore and Erica clasped her hands together, her face tight with worry.

How awkward could it get? I worried that Colleen would erupt into violence like on those reality cop shows. She was tall but I could probably hold her back. I’m short but tough, and I’d been an athlete my whole life. Oh wait, she wrangled those twins all day. She’d probably be able to take me. And she had fury on her side.

Marino walked over with Bean at his side. “I’ll clear a time in the next two days. No one talks to the police, including that Lieutenant Simkin.”

He continued. “As soon as a local judge wakes up, the chief will have his warrant to search your home and office. I’m
sure
there is nothing present to implicate you. Be there and cooperate.”

The lawyer jumped into his limo and his entourage followed, one of them opening his laptop before the door was closed by the driver.

Bean took in the murderous expression on Colleen’s face and seemed at a loss for what to do next. But just for a moment. “Michelle, please drive Colleen home. Mark will ride with Erica and me to discuss what Marino’s next steps will be.”

He put his hand on Colleen’s shoulder. “I’ll call you when we’re done. Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out together.”

Mark looked plenty worried about going with Bean but probably realized Erica’s car was the lesser of the two evils. Bean slammed the door, the only indication that he was pissed as hell.

I was definitely getting the short end of the stick. I had the infuriated woman. A brief vision of the Hulk breaking out of my van crossed my mind before I shook it off. Colleen got in and shoved her seatbelt into the lock.

As I started driving, Colleen sat silent, her hands shaking with anger, or maybe adrenaline.

“I just want to say that if there’s anything I can do, let me know,” I ventured.

Somehow my innocent sentence opened up the floodgates and she punched the dashboard with both hands so hard I thought the airbags would explode in our faces.

“That cheating sonofabitch,” she yelled. She let out a string of curses, punctuating each one with more pounding on the dashboard.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut
, I told myself just as she burst into tears and hugged her hand to her chest. It must have hurt like hell.

I drove a little faster then, feeling helpless and overwhelmed. I’d never had the kind of commitment she had from Mark, and couldn’t imagine the pain he’d caused her.

We arrived at her house and she didn’t get out right away. It looked idyllic—a two-story redbrick ranch house, with toys in the driveway and even a white picket fence. “How could he ruin that?” she asked.

“You don’t know for sure that he . . .”

She nodded, still staring at the house. “I know. The wife always knows, even if she tries not to.”

If I hadn’t seen his guilty look, I’d never have believed it. If Mark could have an affair in our small town, then anything could happen.

“So he was having an affair with Denise?” I asked, confused.

“No!” she scoffed, as if that was absolutely idiotic. “I knew something was up with him. Two weeks ago, Denise was going to be at some camera trade show in the same hotel that Mark’s company was hosting a convention. So I asked her to check up on him.”

I imagined giraffe-tall Denise watching him at the hotel bar, trying to stay hidden, maybe behind a fake tree in the corner.

“Not follow him or anything,” she said defensively. “Just to peek in and see if he was misbehaving. She came back saying she hadn’t seen him, but now it seems like she did catch him. That sonofabitch.” She shook her head, sadness edging out the anger in her voice.

“It’s one of his clients,” she said. “Or that bitch assistant of his. She’s always so condescending to me.”

She was getting away from the major issue. That Detective Lockett believed Mark was a viable murder suspect. And that the murder victim was Denise, her best friend.

“So you think he . . . did something . . . to Denise?”

She whipped her head around to stare at me and I backpedaled. “I mean. Chief Noonan . . .”

“Are you crazy?” she asked, turning her anger onto a more convenient target. “No. Never.”

I couldn’t imagine plump, hair-receding, exhausted-from-parenting-three-kids Mark having an affair. And I didn’t want to.

“Oh good,” I said, as if reassuring myself. “Why did Lockett bring him in?”

“Something about text messages Denise sent,” she said. “She sent me one asking me to come in early but I didn’t get it until this morning. When it was too late.”

She turned to stare at her house, as if not sure she wanted to go in. The sun was rising quickly, dissipating the red clouds in the distance. Her anger seemed to be gone, replaced with uncertainty.

Then she firmed her chin and opened the door. “Time to call the locksmith.”