Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (7 page)

“I was. I did. It’s over and I had to get out.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it, Lisa.”

“So tell me. You know I hate to be left in the dark.”

“I couldn’t do it justice over the phone.

“Hang tight.  I’ll be right there.”

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the small dining room right off the kitchen, savoring my favorite French vanilla flavored blend and filling in all the blank spaces for Lisa. I leaned back and sipped the hot coffee while my best friend stared at me openmouthed.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I shook my head. “Nope. The grandkids’ fortune is in my hands, and they’re so angry that being infected with the flesh-eating bacteria would seem like a blessing in comparison. I just wish Elizabeth was here to enjoy it.”

Lisa reached across the kitchen table and covered my hand with hers. “I’m very sorry about your neighbor, Maggie. I wish there were something I could say that would help. But there isn’t. The murder was shocking and there’s no other way to look at it.”

I rubbed my eyes to keep from crying. At least I had one person on my side. One tall and glamorous person. With five inches on me, and none of the gangly awkwardness, Lisa could easily have been a model, with her rich auburn hair and large hazel eyes. In fact, I was pretty sure agents had approached her at different times in her life. But Lisa wasn’t interested. She had brains, a goal, and a well-mapped-out plan. And although I never understood the harm in earning some major dollars on the side, Lisa refused to be distracted. The woman believed in straight lines and clearly defined goals—in direct contrast to my own crooked life plan leading to a hazy end-result.

Lisa and I were college roommates. We were best friends from the minute I walked into our dorm room and saw her sitting cross-legged in the middle of one twin bed, chewing gum and charting her strategy for the next four years of college. In between chomps, Lisa pointed out that the booklet I had tucked underneath my arm was actually last year’s, out-of-date course catalog. If she hadn’t taken me under her wing, I would still be in college, with a different major every year, or racing around the campus looking for classes that no longer existed. Nurturing came naturally for her, so it was no surprise that she was drawn to nursing. She received her degree four years later and was now a head OB-GYN nurse teaching childbirth classes at night.

“So what does he look like?” Lisa always knew when, and how, to change the subject.

“What?”

“Detective Villari. He sounds gorgeous.”

“How in the world did you come up with that?”

She shrugged.  “Instinct.  Something about the way you two are already butting heads—“

“The guy practically accuses me of killing Elizabeth Boyer and you want to know whether he’s handsome or not?”

“Maggie, all he has to do is read Elizabeth’s letter and he’ll know you had nothing to do with the murder,” she said patiently. “Now, what does this guy look like?”

I sighed. Lisa had a wide stubborn streak.  She wasn’t about to let go until someone put a gun to her head.

“Fine. Have it your way. When I’m shuffling off to the electric chair, you’ll feel better knowing that the cop who brought me down was nice looking.”

She frowned. “Only nice looking? I was hoping for something a little more hot-blooded, you know, a Ryan Gosling look-alike. ‘Nice looking’ describes my father or my accountant on a good day.”

“Shouldn’t you be making dinner for your husband and daughter instead of drooling over a detective who would like nothing better than to throw your best friend in jail?”

Lisa shrugged. “It’s a known fact that a little tension between a man and a woman can really enhance the sex. Besides, Joel’s babysitting Mandy and stirring the chili I started. I’ve got at least another five minutes before Armageddon.”

“I hate to disappoint you, Lisa, but the man is nothing but a walking pain in the butt. Everywhere I go, he shows up and stares at me with a smoldering look that says, ‘You’re guilty. I know it. You know it.’ Call me silly, but romance- behind-bars is not my style.”

“Okay, so he’s not the man of your dreams,” she said begrudgingly. “Things could change.”

“What is this, The Bachelorette? I don’t want things to change. I like my life the way it is—or at least the way it was. Why can’t Villari just do his job and find the guy who killed Elizabeth? I don’t want to be involved with him, her two grandkids, or any of this.”

“Sounds like you already are,” Lisa said quietly. She got up and stuck her coffee in the microwave. “Look, Maggie, like it or not, Mrs. Boyer was found in your septic tank. Right there you’re involved. Then she puts you in her will as fiduciary controlling a whole lot of money, money that two vindictive little pond scrapings are pitching a fit over. And last but not least, you’ve got a detective breathing down your neck and scaring you to death.”

“I thought you just said Elizabeth’s letter would take me off the hook, that Villari would believe my story.”

“What is your story?” Lisa asked, blowing on the heated coffee as she carried it back to the table.

I sighed. “That’s the problem. I have no story. I found Elizabeth by sheer accident. If my toilet hadn’t backed up, or rather, if her body hadn’t clogged up the pipes, there’s no telling how long she’d have been in there. And as far as the will goes, I was more surprised than either Preston or Cassie. You would have laughed if you’d been there.” Suddenly, I sat up. “Oh, crap.”

Startled, Lisa jostled the cup.  “What?”

“The picture.  I just remembered the picture Elizabeth willed me is still hanging in her office.” I groaned. “Now I’ve got to face Preston and Cassie again and listen to them accuse me of manipulating this whole mess.  I’m not sure I have the strength to deal with this.  Any of it.”

“I don’t envy you there, but I still think Elizabeth’s letter is a good thing.  It may not prove your innocence,” Lisa conceded, “but it does explain a lot. Why don’t you pick some neutral ground, meet with Detective Villari, and show him the letter. I’m sure he can take it from there.”

I lifted my eyebrows, a little suspicious of any suggestion coming from Little Miss Matchmaker.  “Neutral ground?”

“Yeah. Someplace away from the murder scene and the Boyer grandkids,” Lisa said, pretending to think. “Maybe over dinner at—I don’t know—Antoine’s or someplace like that?”

“What a stellar idea,” I responded dryly. “Maybe I should wear my satin bra and thong panties, too, just in case he wants to reread the letter in another neutral area like my bed.”

“I would have suggested that myself if you owned something other than cotton underwear that sags in the butt,” she muttered, glancing at her watch. “Look, at some point you’re going to have to show the letter to the detective. What’s the harm in looking nice while you hand it over?”

“I promise to give it some thought, Lisa.” I waved my hand at her. “Go on home and see to your chili. Don’t worry. I’ll call you the moment Villari sweeps me off my feet, carries me off into the sunset and makes mad passionate love to me all night long.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, got up, rinsed her cup out in the sink and placed it upside down on the dish rack. She was drying her hands on the towel and staring out the kitchen window when I saw her smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

She turned and looked at me. “I think the man who’s going to sweep you up in his arms just drove into the driveway. Do me a favor and get your eyes checked because what you described as nice looking is mouth-watering handsome.” 

“Villari is here?” I propped my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands.  “The man won’t give me a moment’s rest.”

“There’s a world of women just waiting to change places with you, Maggie,” Lisa said, patting my back as she went to open the front door. “In fact, if it wasn’t for Joel, I’d be leading the pack.”

I raised my head. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie, you know,” I said wearily. “This is a murder we’re talking about.”

“It never hurts to be prepared.” She tilted her head. “Isn’t that what Elizabeth was always telling you?”

Moments later I could hear Lisa and Villari talking; their voices were muffled behind the open door, but I knew Lisa would play the perfect hostess and invite him in. I felt less than hospitable and didn’t want to do anything but glare at him until he was uncomfortable enough to hit the road. But what good would it do?  For all I knew, Villari was planning to stay the night, not for romance, but to further interrogate me. I imagined myself tied to a cold metal chair in some cavernous warehouse shivering beneath a naked light bulb as a steady drip of water plopped on my head. The man was determined to find me guilty of murder or force me to go stark raving mad.

“Well, I’ll be leaving now,” Lisa said breezily as she accompanied Villari to the table. “Give me a call tomorrow, Maggie, and we’ll go to breakfast or something.”

I grunted halfheartedly while she floated out the front door.

“May I?”

I looked up to find Villari looking questioningly at the chair.

“Sure. Sit down. There’s coffee in the pot if you want some.”

“Thanks.” He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a cup off the shelf, and poured himself some coffee. Lisa was right. You had to be blind not to notice the large square shoulders pulling his shirt tight against his back, or the outline of one tight little butt beneath his faded jeans.

I shook my head in disgust. Elizabeth Boyer had just been killed and I was drooling after a detective and checking out his police credentials.

Villari sat down across from me, one hand wrapped around his cup.

“You look tired.”

“I’m exhausted,” I admitted. “I always forget how much a murder takes out of you.”

His expression never wavered.

“Okay, I admit it was a lousy joke.”

“Yeah, it really was,” he said, taking a sip.

“Well, I’m not in top form right now... usually I’m much funnier. Maybe you could come back another day and I promise to have you clutching your sides with my comedic talents.”

Villari narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Why in the world would you be interested in that?

“Ms. Ke—”

“It’s Maggie. Call me Maggie. If you’re going to worry about my eating schedule, you might as well call me by my first name.”

“Maggie, then. When was the last time you ate?”

“I still don’t understand what possible difference that could make to you or this case? Unless you normally check out the nutritional habits of your prime suspects?”

Villari leveled his gaze at me. No wonder he was a homicide detective. I bet he cracked case after case with nothing but that piercing stare of his.

“Let’s just say,” he said quietly, “that I like to keep my ‘prime suspects’ healthy. I wouldn’t want anyone to accuse me of coercing a confession. It wouldn’t do me any good to have you fainting from hunger at the trial. After all,” he said, “that might sway the jury’s sympathy.”

Chills traveled down my spine and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck like a cat with her paw stuck in a light socket. The man thought I was guilty. He actually thought I had killed the dearest lady in the world and stuffed her in my sewage tank. The more I thought about it, though, the less afraid I was and the angrier I got. The guy didn’t have one shred of evidence and he was hovering around me like a pesky horsefly. I was getting exceedingly tired of it.

“You know, there is a real killer out there. You might try going after him, or her, instead of wasting your time bothering with someone you’ve already questioned repeatedly and gotten nowhere with.”

“Do you always have trouble sticking to one topic?” His lips started to twitch at the corners. “As much as I appreciate you reminding me about the murder that occurred, or ended, in your front yard, the original question was, and still is, when was the last time you ate something?”

“I give up,” I said. “Not that it matters in the slightest, but I think I had some toast this morning.” I thought back through the day. “No, that’s wrong. I had toast last night.”

“You haven’t eaten since then?”

“Not that I can remember. No, wait. I ate some yogurt before I went to the meeting this afternoon.”

“Any chance you have any real food in the house?”

“Not really.  Cooking isn’t high on my list of talents.”

“Does anyone deliver around here?”

When I didn’t respond, Villari sighed and pulled out his cell from his pocket.  “Does everything have to be difficult with you? I’m a cop, remember? We’re supposed to be the good guys. The men in blue. The people you trust.”

After one look at the exasperation on his face, I recited the number of the local pizza joint. He looked as worn out as I felt. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and thick stubble covered his face, thick enough to make me believe he hadn’t shaved since the day I’d found Elizabeth.

After placing the order, he hung up and put his phone away.  With food on the way, he leaned back in his chair and his eyes settled on me.  “Well, Maggie, you certainly know how to stir up trouble.”

“I had nothing to do with this murder, regardless of what you think,” I replied tiredly. I walked into the kitchen and placed my cup in the sink, turning around just in time to see Villari slowly and methodically checking me out from head to toe.

“Is there a problem?” I asked dryly.

“Not really. I was just wondering why you insist on wearing such shapeless clothes. Everything you wear makes you look like a stick figure dressed in Rosie’s old clothes.”

“I can’t imagine why my wardrobe would be any concern of yours.”

He shrugged. “You’re probably right, Maggie. How about this, though? How’d you get yourself in the will?”

Chapter Five

“I can’t say I didn’t enjoy that little meeting we had this afternoon,” Villari said around a bite of pizza. “Those two grandkids looked mad enough to tear you apart limb from limb.”

The pizza sat between us on the kitchen table. I lifted my second piece from the box, put it on my plate, and immediately picked off the onions and bell peppers and piled them on Villari’s plate.