Éclair and Present Danger (7 page)

A click off to her right snapped her back into the moment, and she realized Chuck was no longer in the room.

“Do you want to sit down again?”

She looked up from the flyer as a different, far more disturbing scenario began to play out in her thoughts. “Is there a way to know how long Bart had been dead before I found him?”

“Sure. The autopsy will be able to tell us that. But, even before that report comes in, rigor mortis can get us pretty darn close to time of death.”

“Would Chuck know if that had started to set in?”

“Sure.”

“Could you call him back in one last time?” she asked. “So I could ask him?”

Greg shifted from foot to foot, his gaze never leaving her face. “You sure you want to hear this?”

“I don't want to,” she whispered. “I
have
to.”

I
t was a beautiful evening.

The kind of evening capable of relaxing even the most tightly wound nerves.

Unless, of course, those nerves had been wound to the breaking point by the kind of details no one should have to hear about a friend or loved one.

“What's got you so distracted this evening?”

Winnie traced her finger around the top of her glass and weighed her options.

If she told Mr. Nelson and Bridget what she'd learned from Chuck, she risked getting them upset over Bart's murder all over again. Then again, if she could use them as a sounding board, maybe they could hand the man's murderer to the police with a great big bow tied neatly on top.

“Probably that iced tea of yours, Parker.” Bridget pulled her hand from the top of Lovey's head and repositioned herself against the back of her favorite wicker chair. “Did you even put iced tea mix in the water?”

“What's that, Bridget?” Mr. Nelson shouted. “You want more iced tea?”

Bridget raised her gaze to the porch ceiling, rolled her eyes, and muttered something under her breath about men and stubbornness. While Winnie couldn't make out each and every word, she got the general gist.

Winnie guided Mr. Nelson's confused eyes to her ear. “Turn up your hearing aids, Mr. Nelson.”

He stuck his finger into first his left, and then his right ear. When he was done, he turned back to Bridget. “Do you want more tea?”

“No!”

Waving their neighbor off with a flick of his hand, Mr. Nelson focused his attention back on Winnie. “What's on your mind, Winnie Girl?”

“Mark put Bart and Ethel's place up for sale.” There. She said it.

Bridget snapped forward in her chair so fast, Lovey aborted the liftoff attempt that would have landed her safely in the elderly woman's lap and, instead, scurried in the opposite direction. “Bart's body isn't even in the ground yet!”

Pushing her glass into the center of the tiny table between herself and Mr. Nelson, Winnie patted her lap in the hope that Lovey would come over.

Lovey simply looked at her and hissed.

“True. But he
was
dead . . .”

Bypassing her offer, Lovey jumped onto Mr. Nelson's lap as the man leaned forward, eyes wide. “What makes you say that?”

“I—I just know, that's all.” She knew she was being evasive, but she wasn't sure filling in details was advisable, either.

“
How
do you know this, Winnie?” Bridget persisted.

“I saw the flyer. I spoke with the person Mark gave it to before I'd even found Bart . . . but
after
he was dead.”

Lovey turned herself around in Mr. Nelson's lap and then settled herself against his stomach. “But if you hadn't found him yet, Winnie Girl, no one could have known he was dead.”

“No one except the killer,” Bridget said, her voice dripping with irritation. Then, to Winnie, she said, “What do you know?”

“This is off the record, Bridget. I'm not law enforcement.” When she got the nod of agreement she was seeking, she continued, the nature of her words bringing a hesitancy to her voice she wouldn't otherwise have. “According to Greg Stevens and one of the EMTs—”

“Greg Stevens?” Mr. Nelson parroted. “Who's that?”

“Master Sergeant Hottie.”

She smiled at Bridget and then continued, all momentary amusement disappearing rapidly. “Rigor mortis tends to set in after about three to four hours. A body will reach full stiffness, if you will, at about twelve hours. Bart was nearing full stiffness when I found him yesterday evening.”

It was Mr. Nelson's turn to look at the ceiling while Bridget closed her eyes and wrapped her hand around the tiny gold cross that dangled from a chain around her stubby neck.

“I'm sorry,” Winnie said, pushing back her chair and making her way over to first Bridget, and then Mr. Nelson. “I shouldn't be sharing this with you. It's too much. Too soon.”

Bridget held fast to her cross but opened her eyes to look at Winnie. “No. Bart was our friend. We want answers.”

At Mr. Nelson's slow nod, Winnie returned to her chair and continued. “Even without the results of Bart's autopsy, we know that it's likely Bart was killed sometime between eight and nine o'clock yesterday morning.”

“I was eating breakfast,” Bridget mumbled. “I've been having this thing where it feels as if my throat is closing in on itself, and I was focused on making sure not to choke . . .”

Mr. Nelson's brow furrowed in thought only to release
as he returned to petting the cat. “I think I was out back, readying the garbage to go out. Or maybe here, playing chess.”

“Did you see a car parked outside Bart's?” Winnie asked, sitting up tall. “Any sign of someone going in or out of his house? Any unusual people? Sounds?”

“Can't say that I did.”

Bridget snorted. “Not that Parker would hear anything, anyway, when he's staring at that chessboard of his . . .”

Anxious to avoid a fight, Winnie took up where she left off, her suspicions and fears finding their way into their most articulate form yet. “I guess I'm wondering why—if Bart was killed between eight and nine and I didn't find him until ten hours later—Mark was running off house flyers at lunchtime for a house
he
didn't own . . . but Bart did.”

Lovey's head popped up over the edge of the table at the sound of Bridget's gasp. “He knew his stepfather was dead because
he
killed him! I knew it! Why, I've been saying that man was up to no good for years, haven't I, Parker?”

Mr. Nelson tried to keep Lovey from jumping down, but the cat, having been disturbed from her lap-induced slumber, was having none of it.

Without waiting for Parker's nod, Bridget continued, her excitement tempered by a resigned sadness. “From what Ethel told me, Mark was just shy of two when she met Bart, and Bart accepted and loved that baby as if he was his own. What a kick in the head it is to know that none of that mattered in the end.”

“Bridget, I can't say for certain that's—”

“He couldn't wait another year or two until nature ran its course? He had to help it along by suffocating the only father he'd ever known?”

“Bridget. Please. This is just a theory. It will be up to the police to see if it has any merit.”

“Did you take it to them?” Mr. Nelson asked as he struggled to his feet and followed Lovey around the porch,
stopping every few steps to look across the street at Bart's home.

“No. Not yet.”

When he reached the end of the porch, he leaned his cane against the railing and shuffled himself in a half circle until he was facing Winnie and Bridget. “Now that you mention this rigor mortis thing, I saw something strange yesterday afternoon. Before you came home from work, Winnie.”

“Oh, Parker, please,” Bridget moaned, dropping her head into her hand. “This is not time for one of your silly little stories or jokes.”

A flash of something resembling hurt zipped across Parker's face just before he locked glances with Winnie. “What is it, Mr. Nelson?” she asked, over a second, louder moan from Bridget.

“I was here on the porch, sitting in that seat you're sitting in right now.”

“Okay . . .” she prompted, waiting.

Bridget looked from Winnie to Mr. Nelson and back again, her exasperation at an all-time high. “Why are you humoring him, dear? You know this is going to end up in one of his ridiculous little jokes that aren't the slightest bit funny.”

Winnie stood and joined her housemate next to the railing. “Go on, Mr. Nelson.”

“The school bus stopped at the end of the road just like always. And just like always, I watched Sissy meet Ava outside the bus and walk with her down the street.”

Lovey wound her way around Mr. Nelson's legs . . . the cane . . . the legs of just about every chair on the porch . . . and then looked up at Winnie and hissed. This time, though, Winnie gave the exchange only a passing notice as she waited for her friend to continue.

“When they got to right there”—Mr. Nelson pointed to the street between their home and Bart's—“Sissy whispered something in Ava's ear, and Ava ran right through Bart's flower bed, trampling everything in sight. See?”

Winnie's gaze traveled beyond the road to the flower bed that encircled Bart's mailbox. Sure enough, all signs of spring that had been starting to form had been crushed into the mulched earth.

“I guess I missed that when I brought the pie over after dinner,” she mused.

Bridget's hands moved to her mouth but not before she released yet another gasp. Eventually, she spoke, her disgust rivaled only by disbelief. “How could she tell her child to do that especially after what happened the first time?”

The answer was on the tip of Winnie's tongue, but she let Mr. Nelson spell it out for their next-door neighbor. “Based on what Winnie just said, Bart was already dead by as much as six or seven hours when school let out.”

“I realize that,” Bridget said. “But Sissy couldn't have known that.”

Mr. Nelson's hand tightened on the handle of his cane. “She could if she was the one who held the pillow . . .”

W
innie pulled the sponge from the bucket, squeezed out the excess soapy water, and moved around to the driver's side of the ambulance. “Don't look now, Renee, but your number one fan is headed this way.”

Renee's head popped up from the other side of the car as she, too, took note of Mr. Nelson and his cane headed in their direction. Lovey followed at a safe distance and with a slightly lazier pace. “Maybe he wants to help dry.”

“Maybe he wants to gawk at you in that formfitting T-shirt.” She finished the door panel and moved down the length of the ambulance, stopping to dip her sponge into the bucket as she went. “In fact, if I'm right on the time, Mr. Nelson is giving up his noon sighting of Channel Five's meteorologist to get a closer look at you.”

“He
is
good for the ego,” Renee said in a half whisper before she made her way around the hood of the ambulance to meet Mr. Nelson at the end of the driveway. “Mr. Nelson, hello. Don't you look dapper today?”

Winnie stopped washing and turned in time to see
Renee straighten the man's clip-on bow tie, a gesture that earned her former and soon-to-be-again employee a sweet smile in return. She shook her head in amusement and returned to the task at hand.

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat and hobbled a few steps closer to Winnie. “Lovey seemed anxious to come outside and see what you were up to, so I let her out. I hope that's okay.”

“It's fine, Mr. Nelson.” She waved a soapy finger in the direction of the gold-colored eyes staring out at her from the oak tree on the opposite side of the driveway.

Lovey, in turn, blinked twice and then hissed.

Progress . . .

“Once you get to rinsing, make sure you rinse and dry one section at a time. Looks better that way.”

“Will do, Mr. Nelson. Thanks for the tip.” She got to the end of the driver's side and stood, the ache in her legs after three sides of bending and washing making her more than a little grateful for Renee's help. “Phew. Time to rinse. Renee, you want to spray it down?”

“I'll do that!” Mr. Nelson stepped forward, took the garden hose from Renee's hands, and hit her with the first shot.

“Oooh!” Renee squealed. “Oooh, that's cold.”

He released his hold on the trigger, his eyes wide. “Oh. Miss Ballentine. I'm so sorry. Can I help dry you off?”

Winnie snorted, then laughed, then snorted again. “You're as bad as a teenage boy, Mr. Nelson!”

“What?” he countered, his non-cane-holding hand splayed. “My hand slipped. It happens sometimes.”

She stepped over to the folding chair tasked with holding their car-washing supplies and liberated the first towel from the pile. “Here, Renee.”

Renee took the towel, dried off, and then wrapped it around her body. “Th-that's b-better.”

“You gonna keep that towel there?” Mr. Nelson asked.

“F-for a lit-tle while,” Renee managed between teeth clatters. “Th-that wa-ter is c-cold.”

“Oh.” Mr. Nelson dropped the hose, lifted his left forearm into view, and consulted his watch. “Well, I better head inside. The noonday weather report will be coming on in four and a half minutes, and I need to see what the day will bring.”

Winnie retrieved the hose and pointed at the sky with the nozzle. “I'm pretty sure it's going to be sunny today, Mr. Nelson. There's not so much as a cloud in the sky.”

“You never know, Winnie. You never know.” And then he was gone, hobbling down the driveway and up the front steps to their porch with a speed he rarely possessed—unless Renee or a weekday forecast was at the other end.

“Was it something I said?” Renee asked.

“Nope. It was something you did.”

“What did I do?”

“You covered up the T-shirt he intentionally soaked.” Slowly, Winnie moved around the car, spraying off soap as she went. When she reached the end, she waited for Renee to catch up and then handed the woman a can of soda from the cooler. “Thanks, Renee. For everything. I'm not sure I could pull this thing off without you.”

Renee tossed the car-drying towel onto the chair, took a sip of soda, and then added her body towel to the mix. “Think that'll get him back out here?”

“Not until the weather report is over.” She leaned against the pin oak tree at the edge of the property and took a sip of her own soda. “You haven't asked about my time at the ambulance district with Master Sergeant Hottie. You feeling okay?”

“I'm fine,” Renee said, shrugging. “Just missing Ty, I guess.”

“He's only with Bob for two more days.” She looked at her friend closely and noticed some unfamiliar circles under the woman's eyes. “Are you sleeping?”

“Some.” Then, with a flick of her hand, bubbly Renee was back. “So tell me . . . how'd it go?”

She considered pressing Renee on the subject of her recently finalized divorce and the resulting split custody schedule, but she let it go. Her friend needed a distraction from life, not a rehashing. When Renee was ready to talk, she'd talk. “It went well. Greg is really nice. He thinks my—”

“Nice?” Renee shouted. “Nice? I don't want to hear that he's nice!”

“Well he is. And as I was starting to say, he thinks my idea for the Emergency Dessert Squad is great.”

Renee finished off her soda with two long pulls, set the can down on the chair next to the towels they hadn't used, and reached for Lovey. Instantly, the cat settled into Renee's arms and began to purr. Loudly. “Anyone with a brain in their head would think it's a great idea, because it is. Did he let you look at one of the ambulances?”

“Yup. And I came up with an idea for those desserts that call for a drizzle of icing or glaze.” It was hard not to feel a little hurt by the affection her new cat seemed to show everyone except her, but she shook it off. Besides, she had bigger fish to fry. “When we deliver them up to the door on the gurney, I'll drizzle on the topping via an IV bag.”

“An IV bag?”

“That's right. And it will hang from an extendable pole just like a real IV bag would.”

“Cute.” Renee stroked her hand down the top of Lovey's neck and then returned her fingers to the same general starting place to administer a well-received scratch. “We'll have to figure out a way to keep the chocolate warm so it stays at the right consistency, won't we?”

“Yes, but I don't think that will be too difficult. We won't have to hang the bag until we're unloading the ambulance for delivery.” She set her half-empty can down on the ground at her feet and slowly walked toward Renee and Lovey. The closer she got, the narrower the cat's eyes became. Two feet
from her intended destination, she stopped. “Do you think this cat is
ever
going to like me? I mean, she was left to
me
, you know . . .”

“It's probably just a reaction to your stress. Cats can sense stuff like that, I think.” Renee clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth and smiled down at Lovey. “The day you got her, you closed down the bakery
and
found a dead body. That's not the kind of stress a person can hide real well.”

“You're stressed about Bob and not seeing Ty this week . . .”

“Okay, but—”

She held up her hand and continued. “And Mr. Nelson and Bridget are both stressed beyond belief about Bart's death . . .”

“Yeah, but—”

“So your stress theory doesn't hold up, Renee.”

“Then I've got nothing.” Shrugging, Renee lowered herself to the ground and repositioned the cat against her legs instead of her arms. Once she was sure Lovey was going to stay, she pointed to the house across the street. “So what's going on over there, anyway?”

Winnie retraced her steps back to the tree and leaned against its trunk. “We have no idea. Since the crime scene tape came down yesterday morning, we haven't seen any more police.”

“No suspects?”

“I can't speak for the Silver Lake PD, but Mr. Nelson and Bridget and I have come up with two.”

A flash of movement at Mr. Nelson's front window let her know that the weather report was over and that her neighbor was trying to determine whether it was worth venturing outside again. The fact that Renee's chosen patch of ground was outside of the man's visual path had Winnie guessing Mr. Nelson would remain inside.

“Did one of you see something?” Renee asked.

She smiled and waved at the elderly man. “I saw something
after
the fact that gave us the first suspect, and Mr. Nelson saw something that gave us the second.”

“Care to share?”

“Yesterday, while I was at the station talking to Greg, I saw a flyer on a bulletin board listing Bart's house for sale. When I asked how it got there, one of Greg's coworkers said it came from Bart's stepson, Mark Reilly.”

Renee made a face first at Winnie and then at Lovey as the cat abandoned her cuddle spot in favor of smelling her way around the ambulance and the assorted car-washing paraphernalia scattered across the ground. “I admit the timing is pathetic, but maybe the guy can't afford the mortgage on the house now that his stepfather is dead.”

She watched Lovey lick a bead of water off the outside of the garden hose and then continue on, stopping only to stalk a butterfly and a falling leaf before contemplating a dash across the street. “Lovey, stay over here,” she cautioned. Surprisingly, the cat lowered herself to the grass, swished her tail from side to side, and remained on their side of the road.

Looking back at Renee, she continued. “But here's the thing. Mark was copying these flyers hours before I found his stepfather's body.”

“Maybe Bart agreed to the sale.”

It was a wrinkle she hadn't considered.

Now that she did, though, she couldn't help but wonder if Renee was right. Bart had grown increasingly more depressed since the death of his beloved Ethel. Even Winnie's peach pie deliveries couldn't keep a smile on his face for more than a few minutes. Maybe the memories of a life shared in that house had become too painful . . .

“I guess I hadn't thought of that possibility,” she finally admitted. “I suppose you could be right.”

“Maybe. Maybe not—oh, there she goes!”

Winnie pushed off the tree and whirled around in time
to see Lovey dash across the street and right through the middle of Bart's trampled flower bed. “Lovey! Come back! Come back here right now!”

Renee stood, readjusted her still-wet T-shirt against her body, and joined Winnie in her own dash across Serenity Lane. “Cat Lesson Number One: Cats only listen if they want to listen. So that whole ‘come back, come back' thing you just yelled? Completely ineffective.”

“
Now
you tell me,” she mumbled as Lovey scampered around the side of the Wagners' house. Darting left, Winnie half ran, half jogged around the back of the house and stopped. “Lovey?”

When there was no response, she threw her hands in the air. “Great. Two days into my role as cat owner and I've already lost the cat.”

Renee called for silence with her index finger and then cocked her head toward the house. Seconds later, she lowered the same finger to point at a partially askew screen next to Bart's patio. “Cat Lesson Number Two: Cats are curious. Period.”

She looked from Renee to the basement window and back again. “Huh?”

“Lovey is in there.”

Again she followed the path of Renee's finger, and again she took note of the gap between the screen and the windowsill. “In
there
?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But how am I supposed to get her out?” she asked.

“You're the creative one. You'll figure it out.” Renee waved, pivoted on the toes of her bare feet, and headed back around the side of the house.

Winnie ran to catch up. “Aren't you going to help me?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not about to blow your chance to play damsel in distress.”

“Damsel in distress?” she repeated.

Renee's answering grin was decidedly wicked. “That's right. Lovey just did you a huge favor.”

“A—a favor?” she stammered. “How the heck do you figure that?”

“Damsel in distress, Winnie. Damsel. In. Distress.”