Murder With All the Trimmings (29 page)

“I knew you wouldn’t believe a word against Heather, no matter what my daughter said. Somehow you’d twist the information so it would be Amelia’s fault. That’s how you handle any criticism of Heather and that’s why she’s such a . . .”

Josie stopped, afraid to go on.

“Such a what?” Mike asked.

“That’s why she has problems,” Josie finished, proud of her diplomacy. “And I was right,” she added triumphantly. “That’s exactly what happened.”

“Josie, I understand that you were worried about your girl,” Mike said, “but my daughter was involved, too. You should have taken me along with you. Heather is living with that psycho Doreen. I want to marry you. We’re in this together.”

Mike should have taken Josie’s hand by this point, but they remained apart. Some marriage we’ll have, Josie thought. We’ll be arguing about our kids till death parts us. The big question will be whose death.

Josie saw a light pop on in Mrs. Mueller’s house, and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Mike, your daughter needs help. She’s drinking too much. She used her computer to look up information about how to kill people with antifreeze.”

“Oh,” Mike said, “so my daughter is a killer. Do you really think Heather murdered Nate and that poor radio contestant?”

Yes, Josie wanted to say. But she restrained herself again and gave a more reasonable reply. “Who else would it be?”

“Maybe it was me,” Mike said. “Maybe I killed those people. Yes, that’s it. I bought the antifreeze—the police will tell you that—and I went to Elsie’s shop and poured it in the chocolate sauce. I wanted Nate dead so I could have you all to myself.”

“Mike, that’s crazy.”

“Not as crazy as accusing a fourteen-year-old girl of killing two people. Why would Heather do that, Josie? Give me a reason.”

“She didn’t want to work at her mother’s store,” Josie said. “And I don’t blame her. Heather planted those roaches at Naughty or Nice. She told Amelia that.”

“Planted those roaches? Heather won’t even kill bugs and spiders. She gets me to do it. She traps them under a glass. You really think she took a box, or a jar, of roaches to her mother’s store and turned them loose?”

“Yes,” Josie said.

“Funny no one else was around when that happened,” Mike said. “Doreen watches that kid like a hawk, but she didn’t notice her daughter carrying a box of roaches? She just let Heather turn them loose in the store and ruin her business.”

“She could have hidden them under her coat,” Josie said.

“Look, Josie, it’s your daughter’s word against mine. And I know who I believe. My kid has her faults, but Heather doesn’t trap people with alcohol.”

“Mike, please. I’m not saying Heather is a bad kid. But she has problems.”

“She didn’t make those problems, Josie,” Mike said. “It isn’t my daughter’s fault that she has two bad parents—Doreen and me. I didn’t help Heather when she needed me most. I didn’t want her to live with me. I didn’t fight for custody. I let her mother bring her up. I abandoned my daughter for my business, and Heather got stuck working at that terrible store.

“That’s my fault, Josie. And my responsibility. I’m going to the police and confess, so Heather doesn’t get blamed for those murders.”

“Mike, you can’t do that.”

“Try and stop me, Josie Marcus.”

“Mike, please. We can talk this out. Call me in the morning.”

But Mike was already stomping down Josie’s sidewalk to his truck. He was exactly the sort of man who would nobly—and uselessly—sacrifice himself for his daughter. Mike was burdened with love and guilt.

“Mike, please,” Josie begged.

“Later,” Mike said.

But Josie knew later would never come.

Chapter 32

Mike slammed the door to his truck. Josie slammed her front door, shot the bolt, then headed for the kitchen. Her fridge seemed strangely empty, until she realized the beer and wine coolers were gone. Josie guessed her mother had moved them, probably to the basement.

A bottle of cold Chardonnay glowed in the fridge light, an amber beacon. Josie picked up the bottle, started to pour herself a drink, then put it back.

A wine hangover would only make her feel worse—if that was possible. Instead she settled for a cup of chamomile tea at her kitchen table.

Josie mourned her lost romance. Mike was the first man she’d been serious about since Nate. She’d dreamed of being his wife. Marriage would have made things easier for Josie’s mother. Jane had never accepted Josie’s single status, and claimed that Nate was killed in a helicopter accident. Now the whole neighborhood knew the truth.

Josie loved Mike, but she loved her daughter more. I made my choice ten years ago, she told herself. I can live without Mike. But I can’t live without my daughter.

I’m thirty-one. It’s hard to settle into marriage at this age. I’m too independent. Where would we live—his house? My home? Would we buy another place? Would Heather live with us, at least on the weekends?

How would we handle the schools? My daughter has a scholarship to an expensive private school. Heather goes to a mediocre public school. She resents Amelia’s education but has no interest in learning. Can I take care of two daughters? Heather won’t listen to me, and Mike won’t hear a word against her.

The situation is hopeless. I can’t make Amelia like Heather. I can’t stand the kid myself. This is one family that won’t blend.

My romance with Mike is over. We need to end this gracefully before we hurt each other.

What’s next for me? Josie wondered. More dates with men who have iffy pasts? The dating pool at her age was pretty scummy. She was looking at deadbeat dads, men hung up on their ex-wives, men with drug and alcohol problems, men who couldn’t hold steady jobs, men who liked other men but thought they should marry to please their parents.

And Mike. Mike was perfect—except for his devious, drunken daughter. Heather was one problem Josie couldn’t get around. She put her empty teacup in the sink and checked on Amelia.

Her daughter was asleep.

It was three o’clock when Josie hit the cold sheets. If I was married, she thought, I’d be climbing into a warm bed with a hot man.

And abandoning my daughter.

She was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. The bedside clock seemed to taunt her as it moved through the night with digital slowness. The acid green numbers were burned into her brain. It was three 3:38 . . . 3:39 . . . 3:40.

Four twenty-two. At 4:23 Josie rolled over and faced the wall so she couldn’t watch the clock.

She rolled back at 5:16 . . . 5:17 . . . At 5:18 she threw a T-shirt over the clock so she’d quit counting the minutes. But she still heard it click every sixty seconds.

At seven a.m., she was awakened by the buzzing alarm. Josie must have dropped off for at least a few minutes. She felt worse than if she’d sat up all night.

Josie put on a robe, made her groggy way to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. Then she checked on Amelia. Her daughter was awake, flushed and feverish.

“I don’t feel good,” Amelia said.

“What’s wrong?” Josie asked, feeling her daughter’s warm forehead.

“My head hurts and I think I’m going to throw up.”

Josie took her daughter’s temperature—one hundred degrees.

“You have a temperature,” Josie said. “I think you’d better stay home today. I’ll e-mail the school.”

“Before eight o’clock,” Amelia said.

“I know,” Josie said. “I’ll get your assignments online, too.”

“Mom, I’m sick,” Amelia whined.

“Not so sick you couldn’t hike to Clayton with a backpack full of booze,” Josie said.

“Am I ever going to hear the end of that?” Amelia said.

“Not in my lifetime,” Josie said.

Amelia sighed dramatically and threw herself back on the pillows. Josie went off to make toast, her one culinary achievement. Amelia had missed a week of school after Nate’s death, but her grades were good, and Barrington was casual about letting parents take students on winter ski vacations and visits to grandparents in Palm Beach.

Josie was back in fifteen minutes with Amelia’s breakfast on a tray. Even when she wasn’t feeling well, Amelia methodically spread her toast with grape jelly, making sure all the corners were painted an even purple. Josie was in an impatient mood, and itched to take the knife from her daughter’s hand and spread the jelly herself.

“Mom, did you e-mail the school secretary yet?” Amelia asked.

“Nope, I’d better do that now,” Josie said.

Josie went into her office and tried to log on to the Internet. After the third time, she gave up and said, “Amelia, I’m going to have to use your computer to send that e-mail. I can’t get online this morning.”

Josie sent the e-mail, beating the eight o’clock deadline by ten minutes. “Still feeling like you might throw up?”

“No, my stomach is calmed down.”

Josie gave Amelia two bubblegum-flavored Tylenol Meltaways for the fever and then crawled back into her own bed. She was asleep when her phone rang at nine thirty that morning.

“Hello,” Josie croaked into the phone.

“Oh, Josie, did I wake you?” Alyce asked. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be back from taking Amelia to school.”

“I would, if she’d gone to school today,” Josie said. “She’s sick with a light fever. I hope it’s not the flu.”

“I’m sorry she’s sick,” Alyce said. “I have some good news for you. I’ve got your job back. In fact, Harry wants you to start working today.”

“He does?” Josie asked. “How come?”

“I told him that according to your contract, you could work unless there was a judgment against you and you were found to be at fault in the dispute. I explained that he could either pay you the amount you made last year this time, or he could put you to work. Harry said as long as he had to pay you, he might as well get you to work.”

“Alyce, that’s amazing. Does my contract really say that?”

“No,” Alyce said, “but Harry is too lazy to read it and too dumb to understand it if he did. Are you able to work today with Amelia sick?”

“Mom will watch her,” Josie said.

“Expect Harry to call within half an hour. He wants you to mystery-shop Grandma’s Country-made Biscuits.”

“Oh, good,” Josie said. “I like their food. Want to come with me?”

“I might as well apply the biscuits directly to my hips,” Alyce said. “At least I can drink tea with you. That has no calories. I’ll get a sitter to watch the baby. I’ll pick you up at eleven if everything goes right.”

It did. Harry called, cantakerous and crunching pork rinds. Through crunches, he ordered Josie to mystery-shop the country-biscuit restaurant. “You’ll have to eat biscuits and honey,” he said.

“I’m prepared to do my duty,” Josie said.

By eleven thirty, she and Alyce were seated in Grandma’s Country-made Biscuits with a pot of tea and a plate of “homemade 4 U” biscuits.The honey came in little plastic packets, which Josie wrestled open. “Wish my house was as hard to get into as these packets,” Josie said.

“Can you mention them in your report?” Alyce asked.

“Only in the remarks section. I wonder why they don’t serve those little glass jars of honey like you get on room-service trays.” Josie bit into her first biscuit and said, “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My so-called homemade biscuit is cold in the center. It’s been frozen and nuked.”

“I doubt that ‘nuked 4 U’ would be a catchy slogan,” Alyce said.

“I get so tired of having to turn in bad reports,” Josie said.

“Couldn’t you fudge it a little?” Alyce asked.

“It wouldn’t be fair to the people who are paying seven bucks for a pot of tea and six defrosted biscuits,” Josie said. She had her code. It was her job—her mission—to save innocent consumers from bad experiences.

“You’re right,” Alyce said. “I don’t know why restaurants nuke biscuits anyway. They’re easy to make.”

“For you,” Josie said. “Your biscuits are so light they need little anchors to keep from floating off the plate.”

Josie pulled apart another packet of honey and sent a big glob squirting over the table and down the front of her shirt.

“Josie, are you okay?” Alyce asked.

“No,” Josie said. “Everything’s wrong.” Her voice was wobbly with tears and she tried to hold them back. She didn’t want to cry in the restaurant. Over another pot of tea, she told her best friend the story of Mike, her daughter and the wine coolers, Heather’s alcohol problem, the rescue of Amelia, and the ruin of Josie’s wedding dreams.

“Oh, Josie,” Alyce said. “I am so sorry. Mike seemed perfect.”

“He was,” Josie said. “I mean, he is. His daughter is the problem that has no solution.”

“Do you really think Heather murdered Nate and that poor radio woman, and then injured the picketer?”

“I do. That kid is the original bad seed.”