Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) (2 page)

Chapter 2

“So let me get this straight. That is the exact way you found her?” Chief Romeo—who looked anything but the name— stared at me like I’d positioned Candace on the couch as a joke. His caterpillar-like brows hung suspended on his forehead. His belly bounced up and down in cadence with his uncertain nod, and his pudgy fingers sprawled on his hips. We’d been at this for nearly an hour.

“That was the exact way we found her.” I rubbed my arms against the winter breeze, not really minding the cold since it beat being inside my neighbor’s house with a dead body any day. I glanced across the street and spotted two other neighbors, Donna and Tiara, staring at me like I was going to be crowned the new Gossip Queen soon.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She came over last Thursday after the monthly Homeowners’ Association meeting.” Candace had been going on and on about how evil Homeowners’ Associations were. The negativity made me wonder why she bothered to act as treasurer of the organization.

I have to admit, after a few minutes, I’d tuned her out. Rachael Ray was coming on TV, and I didn’t want to miss that episode of
30-Minute Meals
. Rachael had become an unofficial hero of mine. I’d never been the domestic type. Everyone knew me as a bona fide career woman, someone voted Most Likely to Succeed in high school. But since I currently didn’t have a job, I was determined to learn how to cook. I never missed an episode of Rachael Ray.

I should have listened better to my friend that day. Who knew that would be one of the last times I’d talk to Candace?

An officer had led Babe to his squad car for questioning at the same time Chief Romeo pulled me aside, probably to see if our stories matched up. I glanced over at the vehicle and saw Babe’s hands flying in the air. I’m sure Babe’s version of the story sounded more interesting than mine. That was Babe for you. Spunky and animated. Me? I was the reliable, detailed one. But even with my level-headedness, my heart still squeezed in grief and tears threatened to spill over.

“Do you know where Mrs. Flynn’s husband is?”

Jerry. Poor, poor Jerry. Even though he was a royal jerk most of the time, someone needed to call and tell him the news. I didn’t wish the death of a loved one on anyone, however much of an insensitive clod he might be. “South Carolina. Golfing. He should be home in a couple of days.”

Chief Romeo shifted and, I couldn’t be certain, but the ground may have jolted with the motion. He jotted something else in his little notepad before glancing back at me. “Have you noticed any strange behavior on either of their parts?”

“Strange behavior?” I searched my mind. I’d only lived in Boring for nine months, and I was still trying to figure out what was strange and what was normal. “They were Trekkies.”

“Trekkies?”

“Yeah, you know. They liked Star Trek. Went to conventions. Had costumes even.” I’d classify that as strange.

Romeo sighed, pulled his lips back and exposed his teeth in what may have been a pensive, rankled expression. Instead of tuning into his possible exasperation, I tuned into his teeth. It appeared the town’s dear officer of the law had been eating at the Pronto Café before being called out to the crime scene. How did I know? The restaurant’s specialty was green eggs and ham. A big blob of green lay plastered next to his left incisor. I had to look away.

If Romeo was the face of the Boring Police Department, I didn’t feel inspired to confidence. Luckily, the biggest crime here was the city folks’ littering. At least, that’s what the town troublemaker, Emma Jean, would say.

Until today. I swallowed. My stomach churned as Candace’s pasty face flashed in my mind.

“Anything aside from the usual strange behavior?” Romeo asked.

I ran a hand through my bobbed hair, trying to review the past week. Trying to make my head come back down to earth. “No, not that I can think of.”

“Any enemies?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve been here less than a year, and I know her, but not like most people around town would.”

The lights from the patrol car flashed in the street, the fading sunlight brightening them. Other neighbors peered from their windows. Not Candace, though.

Candace would never snoop again.

I pinched myself, hoping to wake up and discover this was just a nightmare. God, please let me hear my alarm clock … and soon.

“Ma’am?” Romeo was staring at me.

“Yes?”

“Anything suspicious going on in the neighborhood?”

Last week I saw my neighbor Tiara, known by Babe as Miss Priss, buying motor oil at the General Store as though she was going to pop open the hood and work on her car herself. As if that was allowed by the Homeowners’ Association. That was the epitome of suspicious behavior in Dullington Estates as of late. I mentally yawned.

“Not to my knowledge,” I said.

He reached into his back pocket and produced a rumpled rectangle. “Here’s my card. Give me a call if you think of anything.”

Before I could respond, a beat up white Oldsmobile swerved into the cul-de-sac and skidded to a dramatic stop in front of the Flynns’ house. Harry McCoy stepped out. I rolled my eyes and caught Chief Romeo doing the same thing. Thirty-something Harry thrust his broad shoulders back. As he strode toward us, he tucked his khaki-colored shirt into his slim-cut matching pants. A few curls of dark hair escaped from the top of his shirt. Despite the winter breeze, Harry didn’t wear a coat. Come to think of it, had I ever seen him in a coat? He probably thought himself too macho for something as inconsequential as warmth and comfort.

From what I’d heard—thanks to my recent involvement with the rumor mill—Harry wanted to be a part of the town’s police force, only there were no openings. So what did he do? The next best thing—he headed up the Neighborhood Watch patrol. He took his position very seriously. When my husband locked himself out of the house and tried to crawl in through a window, Harry had pulled him back outside single-handedly. It was no small task, considering Kent weighed 200 pounds.

“I heard the siren and came right over.” Harry’s prominent chin jutted out as he gazed over the cul-de-sac, his domain. He looked at Chief Romeo. “So, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Chief Romeo shook his head, chewing as he did so. He must have found that leftover green egg. “This is official police business, nothing that the Neighborhood Watch needs to be involved with.”

“I beg to differ.” Harry spoke with slow precision. “I’m in charge of keeping this neighborhood safe. So why don’t you fill me in?”

Chief Romeo sighed and shifted, the action causing his stomach to bounce like a water balloon. “Harry, I’m going to have to ask you to back off. You’re not a part of police investigations. How many times have we been over this?”

Harry raised his hand in the air. “I’ve sworn to serve this community. And that’s exactly what I intend on doing. I will not let my neighbors down here in Dullington Estates.”

I stuffed Chief Romeo’s card into my pocket and headed across the street. I’d heard enough of the conversation, and I knew I was no longer needed. I’d given my statement, and Chief Romeo would be in touch if he needed me.

Babe waved at me enthusiastically as I walked past the squad car. The poor officer sat with shoulders slumped, as if listening to Babe exhausted him.

I continued on home, desperate to get away from the crazy around me—which meant avoiding Donna and Tiara, despite their gossip-hungry eyes.

I still couldn’t believe it. How could Candace be dead? How did she die? Was it an accident—did she choke on a pork rind? I certainly wouldn’t guess that based on the position in which I’d found her. She’d looked too peaceful sprawled out on the couch.

That was it! Candace had looked too peaceful.

Like she’d been positioned on that sofa.

Which would mean someone killed her.

My eyes fluttered open. I lay on my couch.

I sprang forward, my gaze darting around for a remote and pork rinds. And Chief Romeo. And muscle-bound Harry. And crime scene tape. Anything else to tell me I’d died just like Candace.

What I saw was my house as my neighbors would see it, if they’d found me here dead on the couch. I’d rushed out earlier, knocking over a potted plant, and dirt still stretched across the hardwood floor. Laundry sat in piles on the loveseat. And who could ignore the dust that coated every available surface? I hadn’t quite taken to house cleaning as my husband had hoped.

“Honey, are you okay?” Kent leaned over me.

I gasped and pressed my hand over my heart. Kent. He’d been sitting in a chair beside me. Just Kent. Not a killer.

How was I? I seemed to be alive. But I had to get off this couch. Maybe it was the couch that killed Candace. Maybe the furniture had taken on a mind of its own and—

No sooner had I stood than Kent propelled me back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I frowned. Kent didn’t understand. Had we ever understood each other, or was understanding simply an act people perfected during dating and completely abandoned after marriage? “I don’t want to die on the couch.”

“You’re not going to die on the couch, honey.”

I stared into my husband’s teddy-bear brown eyes. I loved those eyes. They were what first attracted me to him my sophomore year at Northwestern. His oval face had gotten fuller with age. I liked the change. He was too skinny when we got married. The fitness nut had run cross-country for our college and maintained his slim build, up until recently. Now he just looked normal.

“Then where?”

“Where what?”

“Where will I die?”

“You’re not going to die. You’re just traumatized. Babe caught me on the front walk and told me all about it. Give it time.” He sat down in a ladder-back chair beside me. A football game cheered in the distance. The announcer proclaimed a touchdown.

“Yes!” I heard my loving husband say.

Glad he was so concerned about me that he couldn’t enjoy the game.

Kent was mesmerized by the tube. He used to stare at me like that. Six years of marriage later, things had changed. It wasn’t that we were unhappy. We were just—comfortable, I supposed.

“Kent?”

He turned toward me and picked up my hand with both of his. I pulled myself up slightly and rubbed my eyes, trying to recall the chain of events that had played out. They flashed back, all too vividly. Still, I found myself asking, “What happened?”

“Candace is dead, honey.”

I bit back a sarcastic
really?
“I know. What happened to me?”

He patted my hand. “You just had a little panic attack. It’s not unusual after something like you saw.”

How long had I been out of commission? Were there any developments since then? “Have you heard anything about her? About what happened?”

He shook his head, and I noticed he needed a haircut. His brown hair touched the top of his ears. “No, sweetie. I don’t think the police know anything yet.”

“How about Babe? Is she okay?”

“Last I heard, she was trying to organize a press conference in her front lawn. Chief Romeo put the kibosh on that. Besides, Charlie Henderson would have been the only person there to ask questions.” Charlie was the editor and reporter of the Boring Times.

What a contrast. In my former life, I’d worked in public relations. I’d been close to being named partner when Kent decided we should move. Kent said I should take it easy here before looking for another job—like there were any.

My smile only lasted a minute. I squeezed my eyes shut as flashes from today went off in my head. I tried to get the images out of my mind. I couldn’t. I still saw Candace. I smelled the rotting trash needing to be taken out. I heard Oprah blaring in the background. I grasped Kent’s hand more firmly.

“I found her.” My throat burned as I said the words. Why had I let Babe talk me into going into that house? How much counseling would it take for me to recover from this?

“I know. It’s going to take time for all of us to process what happened.” He stroked my hair. “Especially you.”

I sank back into the couch. I’d never get over the image of her dead body lying there with the remote and pork rinds.

Nor would I get over the image of my husband watching football in the midst of my trauma.