Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) (3 page)

Chapter 3

“Jerry Flynn here. I’m also known around town as the Couch King. Come and see my furniture showcase.” Dressed in tights, a tunic, an oversized crown, and a robe trimmed with faux fur, Jerry sprawled back onto his throne—a couch. “At the Couch King, we give all of our customers the royal treatment.”

That commercial seemed to come on every fifteen minutes during the hours between breakfast and lunch. Jerry couldn’t get enough of himself.

Speaking of the royal treatment, I had an unwanted visit to make in thirty minutes. At 11:00, to be exact. Hillary Kaye had summoned me by phone. Hillary was the president of the Homeowners’Association, and to say she ruled the neighborhood with an iron first would be an understatement. People feared standing up to the woman, afraid she’d slap a fine on them for some kind of infringement. Rumor had it that she even had the power to foreclose on a home if she saw fit.

So how would I get to her house today? Walk across Dullington Estates? Take the car in case a fast getaway proved needful? Nah. I would walk to her place. Sure, the weather remained frigid outside, but since moving to suburbia, I’d quickly learned that driving everywhere packed on the pounds. My hips proved it.

I’d walked everywhere in Chicago, and I liked it that way.

I sighed and clicked the TV off. Yes, Jerry preferred to be known around town as the Couch King, but everyone really called him the Couch Potato King. His contribution to his fledgling business was spending the entire budget on low-grade commercials. The rest of his time he stayed in his office and watched TV. Believe me, Candace had told me all about it— numerous times.

If Jerry was the Couch Potato King, his wife then became known as the Couch Potato’s Wife. Of course, no one said that to her face. But believe me, things got around here in Boring, Indiana.

Poor Candace.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the way she’d been left dead.

Three days had passed since I found her. For as long as I could remember, I haven’t even been able to look at bodies at funerals or viewings. The thought of stumbling upon a freshly- dead one still caused me to go cold. And the thought never strayed far from my mind. It always popped up at the worst times—actually, all the time.

Candace had been a force to be reckoned with. I hadn’t completely figured her out, but there was something about her I liked. Once I got past her constant complaining, her negative demeanor, and overly-assertive personality, I saw Candace as someone who’d resigned herself to a life she didn’t want. I’d been rooting for her to find a slice of happiness again. Maybe if she could, I could too.

I guess that wouldn’t be happening. Maybe on either count?

Something banged in the distance. Someone was at the door. I left the living room window and pulled open the front door. There was Babe, wearing a Kiss Me, I’m Irish T-shirt that showed off the fat rolls at her stomach. A wide grin stretched across her glossy, pink lips.

“Hey, chickaroonie.” She barged inside my house, and I could smell Philosophy, her favorite perfume. Hers and millions of twenty-somethings. “What’s up with you? Haven’t talked to you in a few days, so I wanted to get the nine-one-one. You know, gab, shoot the breeze, catch up a bit.”

Four-one-one. It’s four-one-one, Babe.

I followed her with my gaze, wondering how she managed to get inside so effortlessly like that. I gave up and closed the door behind me. “Nothing new here. And you?”

She shrugged. “I’m knitting.”

“Knitting? That doesn’t sound like you.” It actually sounded like an activity someone her age would participate in. She always stayed far away from those things.

“What’s old is new.” She stopped at the doorway to my living room, placed a fist at her hips, and did a little shimmy that made me realize she’d been watching Shakira videos again. “Did you hear the latest?”

“The latest?”

“On Candace.”

“No, I sure haven’t.” My pulse pounded at my ears. Boy, did I want to hear the latest. And Babe was just the person to tell me. She never disappointed.

“She was poisoned.”

I touched my throat, feeling as if I’d just swallowed arsenic. “Poisoned? Are you sure?”

“That’s what Romeo told Annie, who told Emma Jean, who told me. Annie and Romeo used to date, you see. He would like to date her again, so he tells her things he’s mum about to other people in an effort to win her over. It’ll never happen.”

I leaned against the wall by my front door, unsure if I could move at the moment. “Tell me more.”

“Annie just doesn’t think that Romeo’s her type—”

“About the murder, Babe.”

“Oh. Well, they tested the pork rinds. Apparently, someone put ground up sleeping pills on them. Then they smothered Candace with something. She died peacefully, they said.”

“So it was murder.”

“Of course.”

Of course. What else could it be here in the most peaceful little town in the Midwest? I swallowed the sarcasm. “Do they have suspects?”

“The husband is always a suspect.”

Jerry. Could he have killed his wife? Sure, he was lazy. But a killer? Honestly, he was too lazy to think up a plan for murdering his wife. Maybe if the crime had been sloppy, he could be guilty. But something that would require careful planning, like poisoning pork rinds? No way. “I’m surprised he’s not back from South Carolina yet.”

“No one can find him.”

I straightened. “No one can find him?”

“I guess Romeo called the resort where he was supposed to be staying, but they said he never showed up.”

A million scenarios raced through my mind. Had someone killed Jerry as well? Was his body just waiting to be discovered somewhere? Would I be the one to trip over it too? I crossed my arms over my chest. How could this happen in safe little Boring, Indiana? In Chicago, I’d expect it. But not here.

“So, you wanna go do Zumba with me?” Babe grabbed her leg and attempted to pull it toward her chest. She nearly toppled over instead. I quickly grabbed her arm to steady her. She straightened with a “harrumph.”

“Since when are you doing Zumba?” That would explain her earlier shimmy, I supposed.

“Since Karen Jones one street over started offering classes at her house.” Babe leaned closer. “But don’t tell Hillary. I’m sure it’s a violation of the Homeowners’ Association somehow.”

“Speaking of Hillary,” I glanced at my watch. “She called and asked if I could meet with her today. Something about doing damage control in the neighborhood after Candace—you know.” The image appeared again, and I shook my head to dislodge it.

Babe walked toward the door, jabbing me with her knuckles as she passed. That woman had strength for her age. “Okay, chickaroonie. Take care of yourself.”

And as quickly as Babe had appeared, she was gone.

I only had twenty minutes before meeting Hillary, so I’d better get going. Hillary despised tardiness. At our monthly Homeowners’ Association meetings, she locked the door precisely when the meeting started so no latecomers could get in.

Yet, she wanted more people to participate.

The woman had her opinions, for sure. Her methods, well, those were another story. She and Candace could have had a tight competition over who held the “Most Despised” title in the neighborhood.

I wrapped a colorful scarf around my neck, pulled a stocking cap over my hair, and shut the door behind me.

The last time I’d seen Hillary had been at one of the Homeowners’ Association meetings. I went only because I had nothing better to do than torture myself. Very few things qualified as worse than sitting through a meeting detailing all the many rules of the neighborhood. The best part—we paid a monthly fee for someone else to tell us how we could keep up our house. No basketball hoops out front, no changing the oil on our property, no above-ground pools in the backyard. Excessive, if you asked me. But you signed a contract when you moved into the neighborhood, vowing you’d obey the rules and regulations. Of course, it was only after you moved in that you realized exactly what all the rules were. By then, you’d signed your life away and it was too late. They had you.

Not even fifteen minutes later, I walked up the sidewalk to Hillary’s perfectly manicured property. Even in the winter the lawn appeared green and lush. The flowerbeds still had a touch of color to them. The bushes were neat and trimmed. How did she do it? She had three kids to keep her busy. I couldn’t keep up my lawn and I didn’t even have a dog.

Hillary greeted me at the door with her normal plastic smile and icy blue eyes. “You’re punctual. Good. We have a lot to discuss.”

The slim blonde ushered me inside her ultra-clean house. Her home reminded me of Hillary—not beautiful, but neat and attractive with everything in order. She walked briskly to the camel-back couch and perched on the cushion’s edge. With precision, she draped her hands over her knees and looked at me like I was her first-round draft pick.

Did I just use a football analogy? I’d better be careful, or I’d be tempted to join Kent in watching guys dressed in tights chase a ball across the field.

“I’m really worried about how Candace’s death will affect everyone in Dullington Estates. I’m hoping you have ideas on how we can be proactive and head off a disaster.”

I lowered myself into a chair across from her, feeling as tense as Hillary looked.

“Disaster?” Was I missing something? Had For Sale signs appeared up and down the street overnight? Were middle-class white collar workers suddenly forming street gangs?

Her gaze was so sharp that prickles shivered up my arms. “A murder in the neighborhood is the worst thing that could happen here. I try to see to it that everyone in the association is safe, that we don’t succumb to the lures of other neighborhoods that are riddled with crime and bad lawn ornaments.”

“Of course.” I resisted a smirk.

“So, how can we assure people that they’re safe? Do you have any ideas?”

I shifted in my seat and tried to find the right words. “Are people safe? I mean, a killer is out there somewhere. We don’t want to give people false security.”

Hillary twitched like I’d just thrown ice water on her face. “Of course they’re safe. This wasn’t the work of a psycho killer who picks random victims.”

I cleared my throat, realizing I needed to tread carefully. I had to draw on all of my experience with office politics and dealing with difficult people. Basically, I had to become plastic also. “Am I missing something? I mean, how do you know that for sure? You have to be pretty psycho to kill someone.”

“I will maintain the dignity of this neighborhood, with or without your help!” Hillary’s nostrils flared and her eyes lit with fire.

So much for drawing on my skills in office politics.

I held my hands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll help in whatever way I can. But, above all, we have to be honest.”

We decided on an impromptu meeting the next evening where Harry would talk to residents about how to keep their homes safe. The idea seemed to satisfy Hillary. I was sure it would make Harry’s day, too.

As I walked home, I actually enjoyed the sharp breeze that slapped my face. It beat talking to Hillary any day. Perhaps she was right—maybe Candace’s murder had been the work of someone close to her. Maybe there was nothing else for the rest of us to worry about. I sure hoped so.

My mailbox hung open. The mailman usually didn’t come until later in the day, so he must have gotten a head start this morning. I crossed the street and reached inside the glossy black box. A single white envelope waited in side with my name scribbled across the front. No stamp, no address. Just my name. Weird… and a little creepy.

Perhaps it was a note from a neighbor, requesting that we add more mulch to our flowerbeds or trim our bushes. People on this street tended to be picky about these things. Mostly about Candace’s home and its upkeep. I bit down on my lip. Candace wasn’t alive anymore for people to send these notes to or for people to threaten to turn her in to the association.

I shrugged it off and ripped the envelope open as I walked toward my front door. A single sheet of paper with a typed message was enclosed. I paused on my porch and braced myself for whatever complaint I was about to face.

My bones froze. Not from the weather, but from a cooler chill—one that started inside. I read the note again.

One murder makes people worry, then how about two? Who’ll be the next victim, will it be you? Keep your eyes open and watch what you eat, tell anyone you got this and you’ll be under six feet. Don’t even tell your husband, who may know too much, or murder number three may happen as such.

I’m watching you, Laura Berry.

I looked around the street for a suspicious face. No one. Not even a car driving by.

I slipped the letter back into the envelope and cast one more glance around the cul-de-sac.

I made a promise to myself a year ago, and that pledge was to never be a victim again.

I raised my head, in case anyone was watching from an unseen place. I wouldn’t show my fear. Wouldn’t be weak.

Bring it, psycho. Because when you try, I’m going to catch you red-handed.