Murder Has a Sweet Tooth (19 page)

I don’t know how he might have responded, because Celia showed up at the oak door, which was twice as tall as me, and led me into a foyer complete with a suit of armor, ancestral pictures on the walls (they didn’t look like the forebears of either Celia or Scott), and a flagstone floor that I had no doubt was a pain to keep clean.

In a lightweight tweedy sweater and neatly tailored pants, Celia fit right in. She looked like the lady of the manor.

In my black pants and one of the spring tops I’d bought back when I worked at the bank, I looked like exactly what I was: a poser.

Fortunately, no one seemed to hold it against me. Glynis and Beth came out of the kitchen to greet me, as friendly as ever in spite of the cookie money drama, and eager to make me feel right at home. I might have relaxed if I didn’t look back into the foyer just in time to see Edward walk back in.

I stopped for a moment and studied him as closely as he was looking at me.

I thought Edward Monroe was a murderer, and that gave me every right to be suspicious, right? But suspicious or not, I wasn’t prepared for what had just happened.

Because I’d just found out that Edward was suspicious, too. There was money missing from Beth’s. And without coming right out and saying it, Edward had delivered a clear message:

He thought I was the one who’d taken it.

FORTUNATELY, MY NEWEST BEST FRIENDS APPAR
ENTLY either hadn’t heard Edward’s take on the missing money or didn’t buy into it. I followed them into the kitchen and, back in my element (No, not that element! Not the kitchen, investigating!), I knew I had the upper hand. Ever since the previous Tuesday, when Norman, Eve, and I did our James Bond thing and found out that there was more to these ladies than I’d imagined, I’d been planning for this meeting. I was as pleased as punch to see that the evening was materializing into exactly the showdown I was hoping for. I stood back, watched, and waited as Celia pulled a heart-shaped red porcelain casserole dish out of the oven.

“Reuben dip.” She beamed. “Scott loves Reubens and this is easier than making sandwiches. And you know, they say the recipe from Sonny’s cooking school is the best ever.” She set the cast-iron casserole on the granite island in the center of the kitchen, where Glynis was arranging her appetizer on a glorious Waterford crystal serving tray.

“Pita wedges,” Glynis said. “They’re topped with pepperoni and slices of provolone, and only Sonny knows the secret of how to keep them crispy, even though there’s olive oil and butter, too, in the recipe.” She giggled. “Sonny only shares his secrets with his students.”

All the while, Beth fiddled with a ceramic platter shaped like an octagon and decorated in a berry pattern. I’d seen the same platter on sale at Très Bonne Cuisine for more than two hundred bucks. I’d seen porcelain cookware like Celia’s, too, and I knew it cost a pretty penny, even on special. I’d never seen the Waterford on sale anywhere. But then, Target doesn’t have a Waterford department.

“Blue cheese herb dip,” Beth said, smiling down at the concoction as if it were a favorite child. “It’s one of Sonny’s specialties.”

Celia stepped back and looked over the arrangement of serving dishes, gleaming silver, and sprucely pressed linen napkins. “Perfect,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “And what did you bring, Annie? We’ll make room for whatever it is.”

I thought she’d never ask.

I reached inside the tote bag I was carrying and, one by one, drew out my contributions to the night’s festivities. I’d brought three items, each in the little plastic grocery store container I’d bought it in.

I popped open the first container. “Reuben dip,” I said, setting it down next to Celia’s creation. “We might want to heat it in the microwave eventually. But we should probably wait until yours is all gone. No use having two of them going at the same time.”

Apparently oblivious to the stifled gasps behind me, I stripped the plastic band from around the cover of the second container and plunked it on the island next to Glynis’s gleaming crystal dish. “Pita wedges,” I said. “I tried a sample over at Whole Foods and they may not be as crispy as Sonny’s, but they’re really good.” I was sure to keep my smile firmly in place when I delivered the pièce de résistance along with my last appetizer. “Blue cheese herb dip,” I said, taking the plastic lid off the container. “It might not be as good as Sonny’s but . . .” I looked from one woman to the other. “Anyone care for a sample?”

Just as I expected, my offer—and my offerings—were met with open-mouthed wonder.

“How did you . . .” Celia stuttered.

“How could you . . .” Glynis stammered.

Beth didn’t do anything but drop her jaw and snap it shut again. Like a fish that had been hooked and dragged out of the water.

And me? Satisfied that I’d gotten the reaction I expected, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Anyone want to explain? Or would you like me to start throwing out theories and we’ll see which one sticks?” I gave each of them a measured look.

Beth turned as pale as a ghost.

Color shot into Glynis’s cheeks.

With one hand, Celia clutched the corner of the island so hard, her knuckles turned white.

She shot a look over her shoulder toward the great room, where we could hear the men chatting. “We can’t talk,” she said. “Not here.”

“Then where?”

“We could talk . . .” Beth looked toward the great room, too. Inside her jumper decorated with cute embroidered teddy bears, her chest heaved. “Another time, maybe.”

Glynis jumped right in. “Another place. You could bring the girls to the playground tomorrow and—”

I stopped them with a no-nonsense shake of my head. “Here,” I said. “Now.”

Celia swallowed hard. She nodded. “Now. But not here.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the sliding doors that led outside and all four of us stumbled out onto a flagstone patio where a fuzzy layer of moss grew between each paver, as pretty as a picture. We made our way around a thick border of hyacinths and tulips and past a trickling fountain and an outdoor fire-place, and we finally pushed through another gate, the twin of the one out front. Ahead of us was another acre or so of flagstones and at the center of it, a swimming pool as big as the one at my old high school. We stopped there, but not for long. One glance and I knew why. The great room also overlooked the swimming pool and the patio.

As one, each of the women waved to her husband.

As one, each of them waved back. All except Edward Monroe. One by one, he looked us over. His gaze rested on me longer than it did on the others. His hand tightened around the stem of his wineglass.

I had the feeling he was about to step out of the French doors, point a finger, and announce to the world that I was the biggest thief since Jean Valjean. Before he could make his move, Celia tightened her hold and dragged me to the other side of the pool.

When we got there, I shook out of her grasp. “I don’t think they’ll hear us here,” I said, but Celia didn’t look so sure. One more look around and she caught hold of my arm again and pulled me to a freestanding little building surrounded by shrubs and an edging of daffodils. There was a combination lock on the door, and she quickly spun through the numbers until it snapped open.

“We’re having trouble with the sauna,” she mumbled, setting the lock down on a nearby rock. “We don’t want the kids messing with it. In here.” She opened the door and nudged me through it. As soon as Beth and Glynis were inside, too, Celia closed the door. “If Scott asks,” she said, “I’ll tell him you’re thinking of installing a sauna and you wanted a tour. Unless you have a sauna?”

“No sauna.” It was as truthful as I was ever likely to be. I not only didn’t own a sauna, I’d never been inside one. While the women paced, ordering their thoughts and (I had no doubt) trying to decide how much I knew, how I knew it, and how much they were willing to confess about their cooking skills—or lack of them—I took a quick look around.

The sauna consisted of a single room. It was large and comfortable, made entirely of cedar, and with U-shaped seating large enough for . . . I did a quick tally. The way I saw it, at least twelve people could comfortably occupy the sauna at any one time. Across from the benches built into the wall was a heater. I stationed myself right in front of it, and, realizing I wasn’t going to let them off the hook, one by one, the women took their seats.

Without any introduction, I launched into what I’d been planning to tell them since the Tuesday before, when I found myself outside Preston’s Colonial House watching Beth go inside. “I bought all my appetizers at the grocery store. The same place you all bought yours.”

Glynis half rose. “But Sonny—”

I stopped her with one pointed look. “I’m not dissing Sonny. Believe me, I’m sure he makes all the things in his classes that he says he makes in his classes. But, see, I finally figured out why you were so happy when you found out I took cooking classes at Très Bonne Cuisine. You knew a cooking friend would come in handy someday. And I did, the day Michael wanted fresh-baked flan and none of you were able to make it for him. You see, besides realizing once and for all that I never want to attempt flan again, there’s another thing I figured out. I know you don’t attend any of Sonny’s cooking classes. You see, Sonny’s cooking classes are only held on Saturdays.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Celia practically sounded cocky. Her mouth thinned. “All you had to do is ask, Annie. We’re special.” She looked at her friends and managed a giggle that might have been convincing if I hadn’t known she was lying through her teeth. “Sonny gives us private lessons on Tuesdays.”

“Really? You’re not in any of his class books,” I said, and I watched the starch go right out of Celia’s shoulders. “You’ve never been in any of his class books, because you’ve never been in any of Sonny’s classes. He’s never heard of you. Any of you.”

“How would you know?” This from Glynis, whose bland eyes practically snapped with annoyance. “And what difference does it make, anyway? Why do you care where we get our recipes?”

Even though I was in full control of the situation, I couldn’t help but gulp with trepidation. Talk of cooking always does that to me. As if to prove how unconcerned I was, I held up both hands and took a step back. “Recipes? I don’t care. I’ve never cared. Believe me! When it comes to cooking, there’s no way on earth I could care less. And I wouldn’t care now. If it wasn’t for Vickie.”

Beth stifled a tiny sob, but then, she apparently didn’t have nearly the gumption of her two friends. Celia and Glynis rose from their seats.

“Vickie?” Celia was shorter than me. When she looked up at me, her top lip curled. “You didn’t even know Vickie. You don’t care. And telling people we take cooking classes from Sonny, that has nothing to do with Vickie.”

I kept my voice even, the better to try to lull them into complacency. “Sure it does. Because Vickie said she was going to cooking classes, too. Fact is, she was going to Swallows every Tuesday night instead. Another fact is, when the cops asked you about it, you said Vickie always had an excuse. You told the police that on one Tuesday, Vickie said she had a headache and couldn’t make it to class. On another, you told the cops, Vickie said both her kids were sick and she had to stay home with them. A third fact . . .” I cut to the chase. “What you never bothered to mention was that if there was a cooking class and if Vickie was in it, you never would have known, anyway. None of you. Because you were—you are—doing exactly what Vickie was doing every Tuesday night. You’re all going out on the town.”

Celia dropped back down on the bench.

Glynis sputtered.

Beth slapped one hand to her open mouth. Her eyes got big. Her face turned as white as the eyeballs of the teddy bears on her jumper. When she managed to choke out a few words, her voice was nearly lost beneath another sob. “Oh, my God, you’re a cop!”

I swear, I almost laughed. And maybe that would have been a good thing. Maybe it would have helped relieve some of the tension that built in the room like the heat must have done when the sauna was working.

I knew I’d lose my advantage if I was too easy on them, so I kept my expression blank and my voice firm. “I’m not a cop.” My inherently honest nature kicked in big time. I knew it would eventually. “I’m a private detective.”

“And you think we killed Vickie!” Where she got that idea, I didn’t know, but Beth was so convinced, tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, I knew this was going to happen. I told you.” She jumped off the bench so she could face her two friends. “I told you we’d get in trouble if we did what we were doing. But you wouldn’t listen.”

Celia tossed her head. Her inky hair moved like silk. “Nobody was in trouble. Not until Vickie decided to go back to the same place, over and over again. Not until she decided—”

Beth folded her arms over her chest. The teddy bears on her jumper peeked out over her forearms. “She didn’t decide anything. It just happened.”