Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery) (17 page)

As an employee, I didn’t share in the big bucks they raked in, but they did surprise me at the end of the year with a bonus check equal to six month’s salary. I deposited half the money in Connor’s and Brooke’s college accounts and spent the rest on a master bathroom redo, transforming our outdated not-renovated-since-Eisenhower-was-in-the-White-House bathroom into a spa retreat, complete with Jacuzzi garden tub.

At the moment my Jacuzzi garden tub called to me.

After twisting on the faucets, dumping in three heaping scoops of fizzing chamomile bath salts, and stripping, I settled in for a long soak. With any luck, by the time my skin pruned, Blake’s logical brain would overcome the confrontational storm brewing inside him.

Or so I hoped.

However, as soon as the water filled high enough for me to turn on the jets, the bathroom door opened. “Go away,” I said, my eyes closed.

“Not a chance. Hold out your hand.”

Intrigued, I complied without opening my eyes. Blake placed a wine glass in my outstretched hand. I took a sip as he settled into the tub alongside me.

“We need to talk,” he said.

I sighed. There was no escape, but at least I didn’t sense any signs of confrontation in his voice. And he had brought me a glass of Moscato. Still, I responded by saying, “I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Do you?”
 

He laced his fingers through mine. Not what I expected. Maybe I didn’t know what he was going to say. I opened my eyes and glanced sideways, seeing no angry slant to his mouth, no dark puffs of smoke in that thought balloon hovering over his head. Instead, I noted concern. And love.

I sighed again. “Maybe not.”

“I aged ten years today, Gracie. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before. Worse yet, I saw a gun pointed at you. Too many horrific scenarios flashed through my mind. I want us to live to a ripe old age together, rocking on the front porch, enjoying grandchildren, griping about our aches and pains. I don’t want a future that includes prison, or worse yet, cemetery visits.”

Neither did I. “You want me to stop investigating Not-Sid’s death.”

“Please?”

How could I refuse? I didn’t like having guns pointed at me, either. Not that I wanted to play
Can You Top This?
, but I think I aged twenty years today. And I, too, was looking forward to grandchildren. Just not for a few years yet, given that Connor and Brooke were both still in college. Not to mention wanting miles of distance between me and any prisons or graves.

“All right,” I agreed. Blake’s logic had won out over my need to figure out whodunit and avoid any bad publicity for my fledgling business.

“There’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“You need to reconsider Relatively Speaking.”

“I can’t. We need the money.”

“We need each other more.”

My normally logical husband had let emotion cloud his judgment. None of my other clients were getting bumped off. Not-Sid was an anomaly. I saw no reason to fold Relatively Speaking over one scumbag scam artist who’d used me to get to rich women. However, this seemed like an ill-advised moment to launch into a defense of my business. Instead, I leaned my head on Blake’s bare shoulder and dropped the subject. For now.

The shrill ring of the phone interrupted our relaxing soak. “Ignore it,” said Blake as I reached for a towel. “It’s probably a telemarketer.”

Because the National Do Not Call Registry works so well. I often wonder if any of those nuisance callers ever really get slapped with fines and if so, do they pay them? At eleven thousand dollars a pop, judging from the number of calls we receive each week, the government should have been able to pay down the national debt several years ago.

Still, the call could be someone other than a telemarketer. “What if it’s not?” I asked.

“If the call is important, the caller will either phone back or leave a message.”

Practical as always, my Blake.

There are fundamental differences between men and women that have nothing to do with penises and vaginas. For one thing, the Y chromosome renders men incapable of multitasking, which makes women the superior species, in my opinion. However, that same inability to multitask allows men to ignore ringing phones whenever they’re busy doing something else. Like watching football or soaking with their wife in a Jacuzzi. Women are genetically incapable of ignoring a ringing telephone.

So for the remainder of our time in the tub, while Blake did his best to distract me, my mind raced with worry over who had called and why. Men never seem to worry about such things. I haven’t yet worked out whether that’s a good thing or not, given that I have a tendency to worry about everything.

When the phone rang again less than ten minutes later, Blake gave in to my anxiety. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded barefoot into the bedroom. A moment later he returned with the cordless handset. “Sylvia Schuster,” he said, handing me the phone. “She says it’s urgent.”

Since the recently deceased Not-Sid was my only connection to Sylvia Schuster, an urgent phone call from her had to have some connection to Not-Sid’s murder. And this is why women always answer a ringing phone. I took the handset from Blake and held it up to my ear. “Hello, Mrs. Schuster.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, dear,” she said, “but I thought you’d want to hear about what happened.”

“About what?”

“About Blanche Becker.”

I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I asked, “What about Blanche?”

“That lady detective showed up while we were all eating dinner. We had just finished our salad course. Baby greens with pears and goat cheese. Served with a champagne vinaigrette dressing. You’d love it.”

“I’m sure I would, Mrs. Schuster, but what about Detective Menendez and Blanche Becker?” Once again, I shuddered to think this is what I might sound like in thirty years. Worse yet, is this the way I came across now? I really needed to make an effort not to babble.

“I was just getting to that, dear. As I said, it was just after our salad and before the wait staff brought out the main course. Flounder almandine with broccoli and sweet potato fries.”

“Yes?”

“And that detective—what did you say her name was? Lorraine?”

“Loretta. Loretta Menendez.”

“Yes, of course. Anyway, she arrives with two other officers and arrests Blanche. Right there in the dining room. Read Blanche her rights and hauled her away. In handcuffs. Made for quite a show, I can tell you.”
 

I’ll bet. I glanced at Blake as I asked Sylvia, “Did Detective Menendez say why she was arresting Mrs. Becker?”

That caught Blake’s attention. He mouthed for me to hit the speaker button.

“Oh, she rattled off a long list of charges. I can’t remember them all, but of course, there was resisting arrest. You wouldn’t believe the stink Blanche made.”

“Anything else?” The police wouldn’t arrive to arrest Blanche Becker for resisting arrest. That made no sense. They’d have to have a warrant authorizing her arrest for some criminal activity.

“I remember something about intent to commit something or other and conspiracy regarding something else. Anyway, that’s not the best part.”

“There’s more? What else happened?”

“I’m going to be on television!”

“What?”

“I’m so excited. I haven’t been on television since I was the original Karpet King housewife back in the fifties. I told you about that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but why are you going to be on television this time, Mrs. Schuster?”

“Because I was interviewed. I’m so glad I kept my hair appointment this morning. I almost cancelled it. Had a bit of indigestion, probably from the smoked sausage I ate for breakfast. I should know better, but it smelled so yummy, I couldn’t resist a link. And you know how it is with sausage links. One link leads to another, and another, and the next thing I knew, I’d eaten three links. Of course, I immediately regretted my lack of self-control, but by that time, it was too late.”

I sighed, noticing Blake’s pained expression and quadrupled my resolve to dial down my own ditziness. If that was even possible. I hoped so because I definitely didn’t want to grow into a Sylvia Schuster in my old age. “Who interviewed you, Mrs. Schuster?”

“That adorable hunk of a reporter with the blond hair, the one from Fox News. He arrived in one of their news vans and brought a cameraman with him.”

“When was this?”

“Shortly after Blanche’s arrest. He interviewed me for the ten o’clock news. I told him all about how you found Sidney Mandelbaum’s body and how between us, we figured out that Sidney was really Sheldon Becker.”

Between us?

“Only Fox News showed up? No other networks?” One was bad enough, but it seemed odd to me that only Fox showed up when reporters seem to travel in packs. On any given day, the same news story will break at the same time on each of the four major networks, plus cable.

“Well, I can’t give an exclusive interview to all the networks, now can I? That wouldn’t be ethical.”

Exclusive interview?
A huge boulder of dread settled in my stomach. “Do you know how Fox News learned about Blanche’s arrest, Mrs. Schuster?”

“Why I called them, of course! This could be my big break to get back into show business.”

How a news interview might result in a renewed television career for the former Karpet King housewife was too bizarre for even me to comprehend. However, I’m sure Sylvia Schuster found the step from Point A to Point B quite logical. Even if no one else would.

“But I wasn’t thinking just of myself, mind you, she continued.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe in sharing the bounty with people I like, and I’ve taken a liking to you, dear. This could be your big break, too.”

“In what way?” I foresaw only disaster coming out of Relatively Speaking tied to the Becker scandal, past and present.

“That reporter—I wish I could remember his name, Dan something, I believe. Or Don? Anyway, when I told him about you, he said he’d like to interview you, too, and I thought that was a wonderful idea, don’t you? He’s on his way over right now. I figured you’d want to know so you can powder your nose and apply a fresh coat of lipstick.”

That’s when the doorbell rang.
 

FOURTEEN

I hung up from Sylvia Schuster and grabbed for Blake’s bare arm. “Don’t answer the door.”

He glanced at the towel wrapped around his waist. “Trust me, Gracie, I’m not answering the door.”

I stepped from the tub and began to towel myself dry. Damn Sylvia Schuster and her big mouth! “Looks like you’ll get your wish,” I told Blake.

“What wish is that?”

“The death of Relatively Speaking.”

He offered me a noncommittal shrug. “They say all publicity is good publicity.”

“I don’t think that applies to having your business mentioned in the same breath with murder. By ten o-five tonight I probably won’t have a business.”

Blake had the decency to contain his joy. I glanced longingly at my spa bathroom and sighed, doubtful that any apartment above an auto repair shop in Newark would come with a Jacuzzi garden tub and a steam shower.

Blake threw on his robe and headed for one of the front bedroom windows while I slipped into my favorite Mickey Mouse jersey pajamas. “Looks like they plan to stick around for a while. They’re setting up lights.”

“How long do you think they’ll stay?”

“Until they get their story.”

“Do you think they plan to camp out on our street all night?” What would the neighbors think?
 

“At least until the news airs later. If they don’t get what they came for tonight, they might show up again first thing tomorrow morning unless a bigger story breaks and pulls them away.”

Was I wrong to hope for disaster to strike someone else overnight? Of course, not wanting bad Karma to come crashing down on me, I didn’t wish harm to anyone undeserving of a massive dose of caca. However, there had to be some terrorists, rapists, or murderers lurking out there in need of capture and comeuppance. Not-Sid’s murderer certainly came to mind. But if not him, someone who’d draw the attention of every network news van, including the one currently camped out in front of my house. Was that asking too much?

“You think the other networks will show up, too?”

“Eventually. Sheldon Becker’s disappearance ten years ago was a big story.”

Not that I remembered any of it. I groaned, and my body groaned along with me. Or more accurately, rumbled, reminding me Blake and I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Not that I felt like eating, but tell that to my stomach. And my husband, whose stomach chose that moment to echo mine. But I didn’t want to turn on any lights downstairs. “How do you feel about cheese and crackers and grapes for dinner?” I asked Blake.

“Are the cupboards that bare?”

“No, but I don’t want to risk setting the house on fire by cooking in the dark.”