1 Catered to Death (12 page)

Simpson looked sharply. “We all grow up, DeeDee, and heroes generally don’t hold onto the same glow forever, do they? At least, most don’t after we reach puberty.”

“I suppose not.” I fell silent. Simpson was certainly adamant that he hadn’t killed Frank but then again she wouldn’t have expected him to admit it to her if he had. He’d have to be some kind of a dope to do that. “Was he hard to work for?” I asked, wondering if Simpson would have the same job performance review of Frank Ubermann that Ruth Sparrow had given. “Was he what you’d call a difficult boss?”

“I never thought so. He could be a bit of a…pisser for lack of a better word but most of the time he was pretty fair.”

 
“Simpson, you called Monica Frank’s ‘bimbo. What did you mean by that?”

“What do you think I meant?”

“Do you think Frank was serious about Monica? Serious enough to divorce his wife and marry her?”

Simpson almost spat out his mouthful of coffee but caught himself in time, managing instead to spill half of his cup on the table. “Hardly,” he replied after getting control of himself. “Frank would never leave Sylvia. She’s the one who has the serious money in that marriage.”

I rose and walked over to the table where the coffee pot sat. There was a roll of paper towels on it and I ripped off several sheets. Once a mom, always a mom. Returning to Simpson, I wiped up the mess he’d made. “What does she do?”

“Not a blessed thing. She inherited her money and she loves to spend it on herself.”

“Not on her husband?”

“Only when he was a good boy, which wasn’t often. No, Sylvia loves to travel and she’s never spared any expense when she goes on a trip. That was when Frank really benefited. Those two traveled everywhere and always in style. Africa, Japan, Sweden—you name it and the odds are good that they’ve been there. They even took the Orient Express on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

“Imagine that,” I replied a touch enviously. Travel is one thing Steve and I have never been able to afford to do. It would be wonderful to go to any of the places Simpson had just mentioned.

Simpson looked at me curiously. “DeeDee, I get that you would want to know who killed him but you never met him before that disastrous luncheon, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why the third degree?”

“Well,” I admitted, “Maybe if I can figure out who killed Frank, I’ll get paid a little faster. As long as I have to wait, I’d like to learn as much as I can about the man—both personally and professionally. Who knows? Maybe I’ll catch a clue that the rest of you have missed.”

Simpson burst into loud, unflattering laughter. “You’re a detective too? A caterer and a private eye? You look more like someone who’d drive a car pool than any kind of Philip Marlowe to me.”

“Oh, I’d hardly call myself any kind of private eye,” I demurred. “I do like to try and solve puzzles though and you have to admit that Frank’s death is a pretty daunting puzzle to solve but I’m no detective.”

The laughter was replaced by a look of pity. “Do you honestly need the money from the catering job that badly? It couldn’t have been that much.”

“Well, I want to get paid, of course, but I’m not desperate. It’s just that it seems to me that whoever killed Frank had to have been at the luncheon and since I was there too, why not see if I can solve it?”

Simpson stared at me with penetrating eyes. “Why not indeed?” he asked. “I wish you luck with that one, DeeDee. It narrows the playing field considerably that it almost had to have been one of the guests at that inglorious little luncheon that you catered,” Simpson continued.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, it happened in the basement and all the doors are locked except for the front one and if anyone other than staff had come in that one, Ruth would have seen him or her.”

“That’s what I think too,” I agreed.

“Just be glad he didn’t die of food poisoning. Then we’d all know who Suspect Number One would be. You
were
the one who dragged all that food in.”

“I’d have no reason to kill Frank Ubermann,” I protested.

“That’s what they all say,” Simpson replied. He got to his feet. “Just don’t go looking in my direction, sweetie. I didn’t kill Frank and I never would have. I may not be the nicest guy on the block but I draw the line at murder.”

“All right. Thank you for talking to me.”

“No problem. And if I ever need a caterer, I’ll give you a call.”

“That would be great,” I said sincerely. “Would you like my card?” This was the third card I’d handed out that morning so coming to Eden Academy hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
 

“Why not? I’m thinking of doing something for the Super Bowl. I’ll call you.”

Happily, I got another card out of my purse and handed it to Simpson.

He studied it. “I still think you should change the name of your business to ‘DeeDee’s Gourmet.’”

“Not that many people would understand the joke,” I said. “Not anyone under forty.”

“I’m under forty and I think it would be hilarious! All right, DeeDee. You’ll be hearing from me.”

After Simpson left the staff lounge I remained on the couch for a few more minutes, feeling mentally drained after talking to—or being talked to—by Monica followed by what I’d learned from Simpson. I sighed, not feeling all that much closer to figuring out who had killed Frank Ubermann—or to getting paid—than I had an hour earlier. Getting up I dumped my coffee into the sink, tossed the Styrofoam cup in the garbage can and then took one last look at the staff lounge, my eyes moving slowly over the beat up furniture and scuffed floor, looking for clues to the mystery I desperately wanted to solve but finding absolutely nothing at all.

Chapter Eleven

“It’s not that I don’t think you could do it, honey. It’s more about why would you want to do it. You read murder mysteries, you don’t solve them.”

Steve was already in bed, a
Time
magazine open on his lap and his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and looking just as cute as he had when we’d first met thirty years earlier. I looked at him in the mirror as I rubbed moisturizer into my arms. No doubt about it; I still had a crush on my husband. Switching my gaze from Steve to myself, I saw that I needed to make an appointment to get my hair colored in the worst kind of way but that would have to wait until I got paid from Eden Academy. My colorist had just raised her prices into the realm of ridiculous. I leaned forward and studied my roots. Maybe I’d pick up a box of Nice ‘n Easy at the supermarket. While I know Steve would never complain about or probably even notice how much I spent at the beauty salon, one thing I’ve always liked to do is pay for any extras—like getting my hair colored—myself. I know it isn’t much but it’s something.

“I’ve read a lot of murder mysteries,” I reminded him, “and don’t I always know who the murderer is before I finish? Remember how I make you read the last few pages so I can see if I’m right?”

“That isn’t even close to being the same thing as tracking down a real murderer,” Steve pointed out.

“Maybe not but you’re the one always saying that I have ESP,” I said. “I think being clairvoyant would come in handy solving a murder, don’t you?”

“It can’t hurt,” Steve agreed, “but DeeDee, you aren’t exactly Jean Dixon. Once in a while you get one number right on the lottery and you’re good at guessing who’s calling when the phone rings but let’s face it: your ESP skills probably aren’t going to help you figure out who whacked Frank Ubermann.”

He was probably right but I wasn’t willing to give up. “Maybe not but you know I’m very good at first impressions. Remember that bus driver Tyler had? The moment I met that man I knew there was something off about him.”

“I remember,” Steve said dryly. “I had to drive Tyler to school every day that year.”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I? He was wanted by the police.”

“For tax evasion, not kidnapping,” Steve pointed out.

“My instincts were still right.”

“Your instincts were half right. I still think you should just let the whole thing drop.”

“What are you talking about? The other night you were helping me go over suspects and you were just as gung ho as I was about figuring out who killed Frank.”

“The other night we were both in shock,” Steve reminded me. “Besides, it didn’t seem real then but now it does. DeeDee, murder is nothing to fool around with. Somebody at that school either killed Frank Ubermann or has a pretty good idea of who did it. I don’t want you involved. It’s too dangerous.”

I didn’t say anything because I hadn’t yet told Steve how Monica was holding up my paycheck. Knowing Steve, I was sure that he’d rush to Eden Academy to defend my honor and the honor of my fledgling business by demanding that Monica cut a check immediately. As nice as it was to have a knight in my corner, I really didn’t want that to happen. Not because I didn’t think Steve could handle tangling with Monica—although truthfully I wasn’t sure who would come out on top in that battle—but because I wanted to take care of everything by myself. Seeing how alone Ruth Sparrow was had struck a chord in me and while I’m not expecting Steve to die or run off with a twenty-year old, anything can happen and I needed to start doing more for myself.

Steve interpreted my silence as stubbornness, which it probably was. “It doesn’t really matter what I say, does it? You’re going to become the next Miss Marple no matter what I think, aren’t you?”

“Well,” I replied, turning halfway in my chair so I could look at Frank directly. “If you really really
really
don’t want me to try and figure it out, then I won’t. But I personally don’t see how it can do any harm. It’s not like I’m going to be in any kind of danger. We live in Kemper, Wisconsin, not some place scary like New York or Chicago.”

Steve looked at me, the
Time
magazine resting on his chest. “You honestly can’t see how looking for a murderer among a bunch of people you don’t know might not be just a wee bit harmful or dangerous even in a small town like Kemper?”

“No, I don’t. Most of the staff members at Eden Academy seem to be pretty normal. Rude, perhaps, but not homicidal.”

“One of them apparently was,” Steve pointed out. He sighed, a deep, long sigh that I knew quite well. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to talk you out of this.”

Success! Not that I’d have stopped investigating just because Steve told me to but because I knew it would be easier to keep going in my quest to find Frank Ubermann’s murderer if Steve was on board. “Nope. But you can help me. You do have a more analytical mind than I do.”

“You always say that when you want me to do something that you don’t want to do.”

“No, I always say it because it’s the truth. Look! You’re reading
Time.
I prefer
People.
You understand what our agent is talking about when she explains our insurance policies; I wait for her to finish talking so I can ask her where she got her hair cut. See what I mean? You have the gift of seeing the literal view of people and I’m pretty good at the figurative, if I do say so myself. Together we might just be the best detective duo since Nick and Nora or Jonathan and Jennifer Hart.”

Steve returned to his magazine. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, DeeDee. You know that,” he said with the good-natured smile that I loved. “Have I ever turned you down?”

I bounced a little on my chair. I’d known Steve would come through for me. He always did. “Not often.”

“So what’s your first move going to be, Miss Marple?”

“I’m going to start smoking out the murderer,” I told him, my eyes narrowing as I tried to envision my plan.

Steve dropped his magazine again. “And just how are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to pay a visit to each person who was at the luncheon and give them some kind of sample from my catering business. I’ll say that I’d appreciate it if they’d tell other people about me since I’m just starting out. That sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so but how will that smoke anyone out?”

“Don’t you see? I’ll go to their houses and see them in their natural environments. People’s houses are always loaded with clues about their personalities and what their lives are like. Maybe I’ll stumble on something that will tell me who killed Frank.”

“Like what—a bow and arrow lying in the middle of somebody’s living room? Honey, whoever did this must have gotten rid of the evidence by now or they’d have to be some kind of big time idiot.”

“I know that. It’s going to take some digging,” I admitted.

“It’s going to take some major excavating,” Steve corrected.

“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“I guess it is,” Steve said. “At least it will give you another opportunity to talk to each of them. Who are you planning on dropping in on first?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Claudine. I’m pretty sure she was in love with Frank. Maybe he told her that he had decided to be faithful to his wife, no more hanky panky and she flipped out.”

“Does she seem like the type to flip out?”

“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean anything. Anyone can snap if the right button gets pushed.”

Steve returned to his magazine once again. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I think I’ll go over to Claudine’s house tomorrow night with some cupcakes and my business card and see what happens. I’ll make those red velvet ones that everyone likes.”

Steve turned the page. “From what you’ve told me about Claudine, she’ll keep the cupcakes and throw you out on your ear.”

“Probably. But not before I get at least a second or two to snoop around—you know—see if there are any framed eight by ten glossies of Frank Ubermann hanging in her living room or a pair of his pants hanging in her closet.”

“How are you going to maneuver your way into her closet?”

“I’ll think of something,” I said with more confidence than I actually felt.

“My mother was right; you are nuts.”

I grinned as I turned to face the mirror again. “And you love it.”

Steve smiled down at his article on world peace. “You know I do.”

Claudine Markham lived in a condominium in a part of town that was a lot less desirable than I expected. Claudine fairly oozed sophistication and she came off as more than a tad snobby so why was she living in a dump like Firefly Estates? Maybe Eden Academy didn’t pay its teachers as much as I thought it would.

I pulled into a parking lot that was littered with garbage and a stray broken recliner or two. After parking my car as close as I possibly could to Claudine’s building I carefully picked up a small box that contained three red velvet cupcakes. I climbed out of the car, made sure it was locked and then walked slowly along a crumbling sidewalk to Building A.

As I
 
moved toward the building, I went over the story I had formulated and planned on telling Claudine after she answered the door. I wanted to sound natural, concerned and friendly, like Aunt Bee from the
Andy Griffith Show
, only much younger and more fashionable, of course. I practice my lines in my head.

Hello, Claudine. I just wanted to drop in and give you a sample of my new cupcakes. I’m expanding my dessert line and I wanted to let all of my customers know about it and also have a small sample…

I relaxed a touch after mentally reviewing the speech I’d already prepared. It sounded good. It sounded believable. I’d always heard that small business owners were supposed to be proactive and bringing samples of new products to former clients’ homes was about as proactive as I could imagine getting other than standing on a street corner and passing out cookies.

I entered Building A and climbed the short flight of steps carpeted in burnt orange that led to Claudine’s front door. I had never considered myself to be any kind of a snob but I couldn’t help noticing how the interior of the building was just as icky as its outside. Claudine’s condo had been built out of what looked like inferior materials and the doors and windows were already showing signs of age and wear in spite of the fact that the whole development was only a few years old. There was also the unmistakable tang of mildew in the air mixed with the heady aroma of cigarette smoke. Again, I was surprised. Claudine had struck me as the type of woman who would demand the best in everything, from mailboxes to window treatments and also as someone who would never be associated with burnt orange anything.

I found Claudine’s apartment and rang the lighted doorbell next to the door. While I waited for Claudine to appear, I squared my shoulders and practiced slow and easy breathing. Appearing confident, according to all of my friends and every single magazine article I’d ever read on the topic, was just as important as actually being confident. More, really. Fake it until you make it and that whole school of thought. I could do that.

Claudine answered my ring within seconds. Opening the door, she stared at me as if she’d found a panda standing in her hallway. “What do you want?” she asked somewhat ungraciously.

Fake it until you make it.
Clutching my nerves tightly, I forced the smile I’d pinned on my face not to waver.
 
There was more at stake than just my measly payment for the luncheon; a man had died and the woman standing in front of me just might have killed him. It was my civic duty to find out whatever I could.

 
“Hello, Claudine!” I said in the brightest voice I could muster. “I’m here to give you a sample of a new dessert line that I’m starting—red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and chocolate shavings. They’re really marvelous.”

“Why—thank you.” Claudine looked a little bit surprised by my offering. “That was really quite nice of you.” She reached for the box and began closing her door. “I was just thinking that a sweet would be nice right about now.”

Steve was right. Claudine did plan on keeping the cupcakes and not inviting me in. She was milliseconds away from shutting the door again when I coughed like I’d just swallowed a hairball.

“Oh, dear. I seem to have a tickle in my throat. Do you suppose I could bother you for a glass of water?” I coughed again and willed some tears to come into my eyes which wasn’t too hard to do thanks to the almost visible haze of cigarette smoke in the hallway.