Decorated to Death (3 page)

Immersed in a variety of cottage design, I did my best to ignore Pesty’s demand for lunch, but when she dropped her food dish on my foot, I gave up. “Okay, you win,” I said, “but I hope you realize that you’re not getting mac ’n’ cheese, pizza, or any of your people-food favorites. I’m afraid it’s Dandy Diet dog food for you, my fussy friend. And forget about dessert. It’s been deleted from your menu.”

“You better have something better than that planned for me, otherwise I’ll be forced to go to Max’s Diner for a bowl of his chili. From what I hear, it’s even better than the clam chowder,” Charlie said as he made his way into the kitchen from the attached garage, “and not quite as deadly.”

That the dumpy diner was once again up and running came as a surprise to me. The previous fall, Max’s clam chowder played a pivotal role in my effort to bring a blackmailing murderer to justice. Thanks to good timing by Matt Cusak (JR’s police lieutenant husband), along with Doc Parker’s medical skills, I survived being held captive by the killer and an almost fatal case of food poisoning.

“If you want to put your life on the line and eat at Max’s, that’s your choice, chum. Personally, if I were you, Charlie, I’d go with the dog food. But, if you’ll give me a minute,” I said, pushing my workbooks and notes aside, “I’ll fix us some chicken salad sandwiches, fresh fruit, and ice-cold lemonade. Play your cards right, fella, and I might even throw in dessert. How does warm apple pie with a slice of cheese sound to you?”

Wrapping his muscular arms around me, Charlie pulled me close, so close that I could smell the faint aroma of shower gel on his deeply tanned skin and the hint of shampoo in his closely cropped, silvery hair.

“And everyone thought I married you for your money,” he teased, tickling my neck with a long line of short kisses.

Fearing that her lunch was about to be usurped, the little Kees voiced her objection in a series of growling barks. After promising Charlie a rain check for his romantic overture, I got down to the business of feeding the hungry, myself included.

Like his twin sister, Mary, Charlie has a passion for sweets. Helping himself to a prelunch dessert of vanilla and caramel swirl ice cream, he casually mentioned that we were to be at our daughter’s house no later than six p.m.

“Oh no,” I yelped, accidentally dropping a large glob of mayonnaise into the waiting mouth of an certain opportunistic Keeshond. “It completely slipped my mind.” The “it” was the bon-voyage backyard barbecue that JR and Matt were hosting for Dr. and Mrs. Parker. The Parkers were leaving the following day for Los Angeles, the first leg of an extended Hawaiian vacation. In his absence, Doc’s patients would be cared for by young Dr. Peter Parker, his bachelor nephew who’d recently relocated from Indianapolis to Seville.

“I suppose,” said Charlie as he transferred a spoonful of ice cream from his dish to the drooling Pesty’s food bowl, “that the two deli trays you promised to make for the party at JR’s this evening also slipped your mind.”

“Jeez, you got that right. Actually, this whole Dona Deville business has thrown me a bit off-kilter,” I said, hiding my misgivings regarding the prospective project behind what I hoped was a sunny smile.

“I figured as much after overhearing your side of the phone conversation,” said Charlie, “so when I saw you hauling out your workbooks, I ducked out to Milano’s and picked up two party-size antipasto trays.”

Milano’s is a family owned and operated Seville restaurant that features authentic Italian cuisine. Even on my best day, I could never whip up a tray as good as one from Milano’s.

“When I dropped them off at JR’s,” Charlie continued, “she said to tell you thanks. She also said not to mention anything about the Deville project in front of Matt. According to JR, after tonight’s shindig, Matt wants her to slow down and take it easy for a while.”

JR’s husband, Matthew Cusak, grew up in a series of foster homes. At seventeen, he joined the United States Marine Corps. When his four-year stint was over, Matt bounced around the country, and from job to job, before enrolling at Indiana University where he met and fell in love with JR.

Shortly after graduation day, Matt and JR were married. While Matt pursued a career in law enforcement with the Seville police department, JR settled into the role of fulltime wife and mother. The addition of Designer Jeans to JR’s hectic schedule is something that Matt has struggled with since day one. That he wanted JR to cut back on her workload wasn’t exactly a surprise to me or something new.

“My lips are sealed,” I assured Charlie as I set the table for the promised lunch. “By the way, you really are a prince. Taking care of the two trays qualifies you for a reward. Can you think of anything that you would really, really like?”

The question was barely out of my mouth when I knew the answer. Handing my husband a napkin, I instructed him to wipe the grin, and the ice cream, off his royal face.

Instead of sealing my lips, I should have sealed my brain since the party and the trays weren’t the only things that had slipped my mind. Because of my failure to remember that the washing machine was in dire need of a service call, I was left with a laundry chute filled with soiled clothes (mostly mine) and one very clean, very green chenille jumpsuit. Having no other choice, and looking like a hormonal Peter Pan, I zipped up the jumpsuit, strapped on a pair of sandals, drenched myself from head to toe with insect repellent and announced to the impatiently waiting Charlie that, at long last, I was good to go.

The drive from Kettle Cottage on Blueberry Lane to Matt and JR’s 1920s renovated bungalow on Tall Timber Road took less time than it did for me to get dressed. Unfortunately, every parking space was filled. It took a bit of doing but Charlie eventually found a parking spot that was within walking distance of the party. That it was also within walking distance of the Himalayas was something I thought best not to mention. Besides, I had enough to do trying to remain upright while dislodging an accumulation of pebbles from my sandal-clad tootsies as we trudged along the dusty, unpaved road. By the time we reached our destination, I’d developed a couple of nasty blisters along with a new appreciation of Hannibal’s trek over the Alps.

Kerry and Kelly, JR and Matt’s nine-year-old twins, had been given the task of presenting each guest with a colorful, fragrant lei. The two kids spotted us the moment we entered the backyard.

“Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa,” said the flaxen-haired Kerry almost shyly and in stark contrast to her twin brother’s boisterous shouts of “Aloha, Grandma and Grandpa. That’s hula talk for hello and come back again,” crowed the grinning Kelly before being corrected by his almost-always-correct twin sister.

“Aloha is a Hawaiian word.” Kerry snorted, rolling her pale blue eyes in a show of exasperation. “Sometimes brothers are so dumb. There’s no such thing as hula talk. Tell him, Grandma,” ordered the pint-size feminist.

“Well,” I said, accepting a wreath of red and white flowers from Kelly, whose mood was in danger of becoming as dark as his hair, “Hawaii is a collection of Polynesian islands, which explains the great diversity found in Hawaiian culture. That being the case, hula talk could very well be a collection of colloquialisms used by those who, over an extended period of time, have developed their own particular version of their native tongue. Any questions?”

“Nah,” a smirking Kelly replied.

Just as I’d hoped, the gobbledygook explanation had defused a potentially explosive situation.

Satisfied that he’d been exonerated, the boy was ready to move on. “See ya later, alligators.”

“Yeah, after a while, crocodiles,” added Kerry with a conspiratorial wink to her twin, signaling a temporary truce in their ongoing, gender-driven battle of sibling rivalry.

Once Kerry and Kelly were out of hearing range, Charlie gave me a thumbs-up. “Nicely done, sweetheart. You sounded just like Judge Judy. By the way, you look rather striking this evening. Is that a new outfit? It sure is green.”

“You should have quit while you were ahead, chum. Come on, Captain Hook, let’s join the party before it’s time for me to return to Neverland.”

“Huh?” said a puzzled Charlie, leaving me to conclude that sometimes husbands, like brothers, are so dumb.

The crowd had spread across the redbrick patio and onto the lawn like warm syrup on a stack of hotcakes. Under a canopy of shade trees, an ice-filled copper washtub held an assortment of canned soda, fruit drinks, bottled water, and beer. Off to the far right, on an apron of flagstone, sat an oversized stainless-steel gas grill.

Picnic tables with bright, floral-patterned cloths had been strategically placed in close proximity to the white, ivy-covered gazebo. The low stone wall encircling the property looked party perfect with its thick blanket of climbing roses, clematis, and honeysuckle vines.

Although it was still early in the evening, the air was heavy with the delicious mixture of simmering barbecue sauce, molasses-soaked beans, blooming flowers, and the the lemony scent of burning citric candles.

Once we’d exchanged pleasantries with half the neighborhood and had been formally introduced to Dr. Peter Parker, a pleasant but rather nondescript young man, Charlie made a beeline for his golf buddies and a cold beer. Without my husband’s arm to lean on, I hobbled over to the gazebo where Doc Parker’s wife, Lucy, was holding court.

“Ever since his fiancée died, quite needlessly I might add, the poor boy has thrown himself into his work,” Lucy was saying as I sat down between JR and Mary on one of the several benches that line the inside walls of the little summerhouse. Thankfully, good manners prevailed and no one commented on my jumpsuit or limping gait.

JR was wearing a beige silk shirt and white jeans. A taupe-colored ribbon held her blond ponytail in place. She look both comfortable and chic. Mary had on a denim A-line skirt paired with a white and navy cotton wraparound blouse. Like JR, Mary looked great, proving that you don’t have to be built like a swizzle stick to be fashionably dressed.

“Needlessly?” boomed the Amazonian Patti Crump in spite of sitting within whispering distance of Lucy. “What does that mean? Did she kill herself?” Like Sergeant Friday of television fame, Seville’s first, and so far, only, female police officer was interested in the facts and just the facts, ma’am. If the older woman was intimidated by Patti’s directness, it didn’t stop her from continuing with the story.

Dressed in a beige linen shift that was almost as wrinkled as her skin, Lucy Parker heaved a deep sigh. “In a way, I guess you could say that, with her being anorexic and all. The girl certainly needed a lot more help than anyone, including Peter, suspected.”

“And where and when did this all happen?” demanded the imposing Patti, ignoring the shushing sounds emitting from tiny Martha Stevens, the sharp-witted, Cuban-born wife of Rollie Stevens, Seville’s antiquated police chief.

“Oh my, let me think a minute,” begged Lucy, obviously pleased to be the center of attention. “She died three years ago. I believe it was on Valentine’s Day. The poor girl was so emaciated that the family decided not to have the usual visitation and funeral. Schubert’s in Indianapolis handled the cremation. Of course, Peter was just devastated.”

“What an extraordinary way to die,” exclaimed Mary. The concept of deliberately depriving oneself of food was almost beyond her comprehension. “I suppose that Peter, being a doctor as well as her fiancé, probably blamed himself for not being able to help the girl.”

“Certainly not,” replied Lucy sounding as offended as she looked. “If you want to know the truth, Peter blamed the girl’s obsession with her weight on that silly book
Be Thin and Win
, by that awful woman, Dona Deville. Peter was so angry that he…” The rest of Lucy’s reply was drowned out by the clanging of the dinner bell.

“Come and get it,” yelled Matt between clangs. With a mountain of mouthwatering ribs, crocks of homemade baked beans, Papa Milano’s antipasto trays, and a dessert table to die for, the subject of death by eating disorder was all but forgotten, at least for the time being.

JR, Mary, and Patti rushed off to help Matt with the dispensing of food while I limped across the lawn and into the house in search of a couple of Band-Aids for my blistered heels. As expected, I found what I needed in the downstairs green-and-white subway-tiled bathroom.

In most homes the bathroom is nothing special, but that’s not the case with JR’s bathroom. Everything about the room reflects the unpretentious look promoted by the Arts and Crafts movement, which began in England during the latter part of the nineteenth century. It’s a style perfectly suited for JR’s relaxed personality.

It took a while, but eventually Matt and JR had restored the room to its original, no-nonsense look. Like they say, everything old is new again, which would include the claw-foot bathtub and freestanding washbasin. The Craftsman-style makeover brought the bathroom into the twenty-first century while retaining the flavor of its Arts and Crafts origins.

On a glass shelf above the commode sits JR’s small collection of Overbeck painted porcelain. Dubbed by Mary Overbeck, one of six sisters who owned and operated Overbeck Pottery from 1911 to 1955 in Cambridge City, Indiana, as “humor of the kiln,” the little figurines add a touch of whimsy to the room’s otherwise uncluttered design and decor.

Reaching inside the square wall-mounted, bevel-mirrored medicine cabinet, I inadvertently knocked over a plastic container from Finklestein’s Pharmacy. Even without the aid of my misplaced cheaters, I recognized JR’s name on the prenatal vitamin prescription. The accidental discovery of the prescription renewed my determination to stay on the sunny side of the street. In the meantime, JR’s secret was safe with me.

By Saturday morning, my resolve to remain positive had considerably waned. From past experience, I knew the importance of establishing a good rapport with a prospective client. It was something that my phone conversation with Dona Deville hadn’t accomplished. Knowing the lady was less than thrilled with my insistence that she accompany me on the walk-through, I had a sinking feeling that I wasn’t on Dona’s list of favorite people.

With the added fear that the cottage might be on the brink of structural disaster, the sunny side of the street was growing darker by the minute. Something had to be done and done fast to quiet my nerves and steady my shaky positive attitude.

Charlie had already left for his golf match with Denny and most likely wouldn’t be home until the late afternoon. Since I was in complete agreement with Matt’s wish for JR to do less, I reached for the phone and called Mary.

“Hey, Mar, it’s Jean. How would you like it if I treated you to the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at Farmer John’s?”

“My stars, I’d love it, but knowing you,” Mary said with a giggle, “I’d say that you have an ulterior motive. Does it have anything to do with sleuthing? I hope not, otherwise our husbands will have our heads on platters, and I don’t even want to think about what Matt will do to us.”

Even though she would have denied it, I could tell that Mary was disappointed upon learning my ulterior motive involved nothing more dangerous or exciting than a short side trip to Dona’s cottage on Old Railway Road. With both the cottage and the restaurant located near the same interstate, the drive from one place to the other would be a relatively short one.

“But why this morning?” asked Mary. “I thought you and Dona had a date to go to the cottage after the book signing today at Lowell’s. What did she do? Change her mind?”

Before I could answer, Mary prattled on. “Did you read Hilly Murrow’s review of Dona’s new book in this morning’s edition of the
Seville Sentinel
? If Peter Parker was upset over
Be Thin and Win
, he’ll probably go ballistic over
Dump Your Doctor
. According to Hilly, the new book is chock-full of home remedies that can cure just about everything from athlete’s foot to zits. She gave it four stars so I guess she really likes it.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, anxious to move the conversation away from local reporter Hilly Murrow’s critique of Dona’s latest book and back to the reason for my phone call. “Mary, even though we probably won’t be able to get inside the cottage, I need to at least take a look at the outside before meeting with Dona. It may very well be in such a state of disrepair that I won’t even want the job.”

“My stars, I’ve never known you to be so nervous about doing an initial walk-through. What’s your problem?”

I wasn’t about to admit to Mary that my inherited Irish intuition was acting up again. Along with fraying my nerves, it had also cost me a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, no problem,” I said with forced gaiety, “it’s just that I don’t want to be surprised if it turns out the place needs a structural engineering firm more than it needs Designer Jeans. What we find out there might end up killing the whole deal.”

At the time, I hadn’t the slightest inkling that my words would turn out to be so prophetic.