Candy Cane Murder (23 page)

“Ohio? What did Peter do in Ohio?”

“I don't know,” she said, shrugging. “Little Ricky called to talk about wedding music then and I got distracted.”

Darn that Little Ricky.

Oh, well. I'd still gotten quite an earful. Garth had been threatening Peter with disbarment. Which sounded like a viable motive for murder to me.

“Gosh, look at the time,” I said, making a big show of checking my watch. “It's been fun chatting, but I really should be going.”

“Thanks for the margaritas, Charlotte. And the shrimp cocktails. I can't believe I ordered two of them.”

Neither could I. But I assured her it had been my pleasure and waved to the bartender for the check.

He brought it over with impressive speed, and just when I was stifling a gasp over the total, I heard someone say:

“Hey Sylvia, how's it going?”

I looked up and saw a tall well-dressed black woman heading toward us.

“Betty!” Sylvia blinked, confused. “What are you doing here? Charlotte said she saw you leaving hours ago.”

Oh, crud. It was Betty, the secretary I was supposed to have met this afternoon.

“Do I know you?” she asked me, puzzled.

“Sure,” Sylvia piped up. “You guys met when Charlotte interviewed for your job today.”

“What are you talking about?” Betty said. “I'm not leaving my job. And I didn't go home hours ago.”

Uh-oh. My cue to exit.

“Well, see ya round.”

And without any further ado, I slapped fifty bucks on the bar, grabbed a chicken wing for the road, and got the heck out of there.

 

I drove home, filled with a sense of accomplishment—and enough Buffalo wings to stock a chicken farm.

Thanks to my successful, if costly, rendezvous with Sylvia, I now had a new suspect to add to my list.

Garth had been threatening to rat on Peter Roberts to the bar association. What incriminating evidence had Garth been holding over Peter's head? And more important, how the heck was I going to get my hands on it?

I'd bet my bottom Pop Tart it was stashed away somewhere in Garth's house.

Which meant I had no choice, really, but to tootle over to Hysteria Lane and break into the place.

A
t seven
A.M
. the next morning, I was parked across the street from Cathy Janken's house on my first ever professional stakeout.

It had been hell hauling myself out of bed at six to get ready for this gig, but now that I was here I was starting to feel quite Private Eye-ish. I'd come fully prepared with breakfast, lunch, a thermos of coffee, and an audiotape of
Anna Karenina
I'd bought ages ago and never got around to listening to.

And, of course, a bottle to tinkle in.

Hey, I'd seen
Stakeout I
and
II
. I knew the ropes.

I was prepared to camp out in my car until I saw Cathy leave her house. At which point I'd scoot over and do a little Breaking and Entering.

I was keeping my fingers crossed, though, that none of my stakeout accessories would be necessary. I remembered the sweat suit Cathy had been wearing when we first met, and I was hoping she was one of those maddeningly noble people who start the day with a workout at the gym.

But no such luck.

Hour after hour dragged by with no sign of Cathy.

By eight
A.M
., I'd finished my breakfast. By nine
A.M
., I'd finished my lunch. I tried to get into
Anna Karenina
, but in spite of three cups of coffee zinging through my veins, I was bored to tears. By the time the last chapter rolled around, I was rooting for the train.

Five hours, four coffees, and two diet Cokes later, I was desperate to take a tinkle.

I took out the empty liter bottle of Sprite I'd brought along for this purpose and eyed it with dismay. How on earth was I ever going to do this? I could never get my aim straight in the ladies room at my gynecologist's office; no way was I going to do it in a Sprite bottle. Had I lost my mind, bringing along a bottle with such a tiny neck?

Now what the heck was I supposed to do?

I couldn't very well ring a neighbor's bell and ask to use their bathroom.

For a few agonizing minutes I tried to hold it in, but it was impossible. With an angry curse, I started the car and sped over to the nearest Jack in the Box where I availed myself of their facilities. Okay, so I picked up an order of fries while I was at it. It had been ages since I'd eaten my lunch at nine
A.M
., and I was hungry.

Grabbing my fries, I got in the Corolla and raced back to Hysteria Lane. Just my luck, Cathy had probably strolled out of the house the minute I'd gone.

But no. Lady Luck finally decided to give me a break.

Just as I was pulling back into my stakeout space, I saw Cathy come out of her house and drive off in her SUV.

The minute she was gone, I leapt out of the Corolla and grabbed a gift-wrapped box from the backseat. There was nothing actually inside the box. I'd brought it along in case one of the neighbors saw me snooping around. I'd just tell them I was bringing Cathy a Christmas gift. Clever of me, wasn't it?

A darn sight smarter than the Sprite bottle, anyway.

I reached back in the car for a final handful of fries, then trotted across the street and rang Cathy's bell. I wanted to make sure nobody was home. Maybe there was a cleaning lady inside just waiting to pounce on me.

But nobody answered the door, and satisfied that the coast was clear, I crept around the side of the house, testing for open windows.

Everything was sealed tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift.

And suddenly I was overcome with doubts. What if none of the windows were open and I had to force open one of the doors? I'd brought along my professional Breaking and Entering Tool (a shish kebab skewer I'd grabbed at the last minute), but really, I had no idea how to force open a door. I had a hard enough time getting the wrapping off a CD. What made me think I'd be able to hack my way past a dead bolt? And even if I did, what if Cathy had an alarm system? True, there weren't any security signs out front, but what if she had one?

Just when I was about to slink back to the Corolla in defeat, I spotted a small window above a jasmine bush at the back of the house. The bush was camouflaging the window, but on closer inspection, I saw that it was open.

Thank heavens. I wouldn't have to force any doors and set off any alarms.

I scurried to the window and tossed my empty Christmas package under the jasmine bush. Then I hoisted myself up to the ledge, which was no easy feat with those prickly jasmine branches scratching my fanny.

Shoving my upper body in the room, I saw that it was a guest bathroom. What a lucky break that Cathy had left the window open.

And that's when my luck came to a screeching halt. The upper half of my body sailed through the window without incident, but sad to say, my lower half did not have such an easy time of it. Somewhere in the dreaded hip/tush zone, I'd come to a standstill. Yes, like 99 percent of all the bathing suits I've ever tried on in my life, the window frame was too small for me. My hips simply wouldn't squeeze through.

In defense of my hips, I should tell you that the window was pretty darn small. That's probably why Cathy had left it open in the first place. Clearly she wasn't expecting any anorexic cat burglars. I should've realized I might not have squeezed through, but I hadn't, and it was too late now. I'd just have to climb down and give up this stupid breaking and entering plan.

I started to push myself back out of the window. But, to my horror, I couldn't budge.

Oh, crud. I was stuck.

What a nightmare. Eventually one of the neighbors was bound to notice a tush hanging out of Cathy Janken's house. Why the heck had I scarfed down all those chicken wings last night? Not to mention breakfast—and lunch—this morning. And that last handful of fries. What if those last few fries had wedged me in for good?

By now I was in an advanced state of panic. Any minute now the cops would come and arrest me! My name would be splashed all over the papers. I could see the headlines:
FANNY BANDIT FOILED IN REAR ENTRY
!

Just when I was cursing the day I ever heard of Seymour Fielder and
Fiedler on the Roof Roofers
, I noticed a jar of hand lotion on the bathroom counter. Could I possibly use that as a lubricant and grease my way loose? It was a long shot, but worth a try. I reached for the lotion, but it was just out of my grasp. Grinding my teeth in frustration, I tried once more.

And then a miracle happened. Somehow, in stretching my muscles, I must've loosened up that fraction of an inch I'd needed to set myself free. Because suddenly I found myself popping through Cathy's window like a human champagne cork.

I slid onto her imported tile counter, gasping for air, and clinging to a towel rack for dear life.

Me and my hips had made it, after all.

 

Plucking jasmine blossoms off my rear, I set out in search of Garth's home office. After everything I'd just been through, I sure hoped he had one. I found what I was looking for at the front of the house, across from the living room: A masculine library cum office, with built-in bookcases, leather furniture and hunting prints galore. Very British Lord of the Manor. But what caught my eye was the cherrywood desk by the window, complete with laptop and hand-tooled leather desk accessories.

Wasting no time, I scooted over to it and began rifling through the drawers.

The top drawer contained the usual assortment of rubber bands and paperclips, as well as a bottle of Viagra and a lifetime membership card from The Hair Club For Men.

I now knew that the impressive mane of hair I'd seen in Garth's portrait wasn't his own, and that he'd needed a little help in the dipsy doodle department. All very interesting, but no help whatsoever in my search for incriminating evidence against Peter Roberts.

I hoped I'd have better luck with the two deep file drawers on either side of the desk. The first one contained nothing but some old computer manuals and a pair of gym socks. And the other was locked.

Oh, well. I'd just have to break out my trusty shish kebab skewer and bust the lock open.

But, as I was about to discover, shish kebab skewers are totally useless when it comes to breaking a lock. After a frustrating ten-minute struggle, I gave up on the skewer and finally managed to pry the drawer open with Garth's Mark Cross letter opener.

Much to my relief, I saw that it was filled with files.

I quickly started rifling through them. First, under the P's for Peter. Then the R's for Roberts.

Nothing.

Then I remembered what Sylvia overheard Garth saying to Peter:
I know what you did back in Ohio.

I looked under the O's. And sure enough, there it was: A file labeled
OHIO
.

Inside I found a single piece of paper: a reprint of a newspaper clipping from the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
, dating back twenty years, about the arrest of Peter Robert Simmons, 19, for grand theft auto.

You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Peter Roberts and Peter Robert Simmons were one and the same. Young Peter had no doubt gone straight, dropped the
Simmons
from his name, and become a successful attorney. And he would've gone on suing people happily ever after if Garth hadn't dug up his criminal past and threatened to rat on him to the bar association.

All of which meant Peter Roberts had a perfect motive for murder.

That clipping had just catapulted him to the Number One spot on my suspect list. I debated about whether I should take it with me and hand deliver it to the cops, but I decided against it. Removing it from the house without a warrant would probably be tampering with state's evidence. I'd just have to leave it there, and tell the cops about it later.

I was putting it back in the drawer when I saw a familiar name on one of the files. In my earlier haste to find Peter's name, I hadn't noticed it. But now it popped out like a neon sign. Right behind
PLUMBING EXPENSES
, I saw a folder labeled
PRUDENCE
.

I reached for it eagerly, and pulled out an 8 x 10 photo of a gorgeous redhead, posed against a velvet backdrop, wearing nothing but a smile and a G-string. Down at the bottom of the picture, it said:
Brandy Alexander, Stripper Extraordinaire.

I'd never seen that naked body before, but the face was unmistakable. It was Prudence Bascomb. A lot younger and a lot trashier. But it was Prudence, all right.

Holy Moses. Garth hadn't been bribing Prudence to win the Christmas decorating contest. He'd been
blackmailing
her. For all I knew, he was putting the squeeze on her for money, too.

What a mother lode of evidence I'd just uncovered. Between digging up dirt on Peter and Prudence, Garth had been one busy little extortioner.

Thrilled with my discoveries, I returned Prudence's file to the drawer and headed back out to the foyer. I just hoped Cathy wouldn't notice the mangled lock on the desk.

I was about to slip out the front door, when I glanced into the living room and saw the bowl of candy canes that had been there the day I first visited Cathy.

Gosh, they looked good.

Oh, for crying out loud. What was I thinking? Hadn't I just gone through the humiliation of having my hips wedged in a bathroom window? I couldn't possibly allow myself to feed them one more empty calorie! Absolutely not. No way. No how.

As if.

Two seconds later I was sprinting into the living room, reaching for one of the little suckers.

Just as I was about to grab it, I heard the front door open.

“Come on in,” I heard Cathy saying.

Damn it! Cathy was home, and she had someone with her.

I looked around for a place to hide. Not a closet or armoire in sight. So I made a mad dash for the sofa and crouched down behind it.

Please don't let them come into the living room
, I prayed.
Let them go to the kitchen or the dining room. Anywhere but the living room.

“Come on into the living room,” Cathy said.

Argggh.

“I can't stay long, babe,” I heard a man reply as they walked into the room. “I've got to get back to work.”

Whoa, Nellie. There was a man in the house and he was calling Cathy “babe.” Something told me this wasn't a condolence call.

“C'mon, Jimmy,” Cathy cooed. “Work can wait. And besides, didn't you have a present you wanted to give me?”

“So I did, dollface. So I did.”

Before I knew it, Cathy and this Jimmy guy were on the sofa, going at it like two crazed rabbits. Clothes started flying—lace bra, thong undies, a pair of boxer shorts. Finally, a man's blue denim shirt sailed over the back of the sofa and landed at my feet. And not just any blue denim shirt. I blinked in amazement when I saw a US Postal Service logo on the front.