Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery) (16 page)

“Why would a woman who lives in Bernards Township attend a performance of the Westfield Symphony?” he asked. “It’s hardly around the corner.”

I shrugged. “Any number of reasons. She likes attending such events. She knows someone who plays in the symphony. She wanted to hear the guest performer that night. She has friends or family in Westfield. What difference does it make? She attended, and I introduced her to Not-Sid. That’s all that matters.”

“I suppose she has casabas?”

“They all have casabas. Not-Sid was all about the casabas.” And apparently, the portfolios.

“Except for Mary Louise.”

“Mary Louise’s portfolio obviously out-trumped her relatively normal sized casabas.”

Blake muttered something under his breath that I didn’t catch and decided I didn’t want him to repeat. Blake doesn’t mutter often, but when he does, the mutters are best left muttered.

We continued driving in silence until we turned into a sprawling community of semi-detached red brick town homes. Only the painted shutters and front doors, along with the plantings in the small front yards and the variety of cars parked in the driveways, differentiated one from another.

“Doesn’t look like Suzette Stephanovich has a Leila Raffelino- or Mary Louise Franklin-sized portfolio,” said Blake.

Which didn’t mean Not-Sid hadn’t tried to scam her. “At least we don’t have to contend with a rent-a-cop running interference.”

“And judging from the car in the driveway, I’d say Suzette Stephanovich is at home.”

Only how many women in their seventies drive humongous black Mercedes SUV’s? From what I remembered of the diminutive Suzette Stephanovich, she wouldn’t reach the pedals of the steroid-infused mega-monster parked in her driveway. “Blake, I don’t think that’s Suzette’s car.”

“Remick and Craft?”

“Maybe. Pull behind it.”

Blake maneuvered our Camry to block Suzette’s driveway. “Yes, that’s the license plate.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He whipped out his phone and started to place a call to Detective Menendez, but before he could punch in the first number, three Bernards Township patrol cars, their lights flashing, pulled up and surrounded us.

Three officers jumped from their cars, their guns drawn and pointed directly at us. “Step out of the car,” yelled one. “Hands where I can see them.”

“Do as they say,” Blake told me. “Don’t say a word. Let me handle things.”

My knight in shining armor didn’t have to tell me twice. I have a deep-seated aversion to guns, especially when someone is pointing one at me. And right now three someones were pointing three exceedingly scary-looking guns at me. I stepped from the car, my hands raised over my head, my legs trembling so much I feared I’d collapse to the ground. I glanced over at Blake. My unflappable husband looked anything but his normal unflappable self.

One officer kept his gun drawn on us while the other two first patted us down, then cuffed us. The pat down was humiliating, the cuffing painful. I think he purposefully tightened the cuffs to cut off the circulation in my wrists. I fought back the tears that stung at my eyes and stifled a whimper.

One of the officers, a thirty-something guy whose name tag read
Riley
, began reciting the Miranda warning to us. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

I turned my head slightly and started to mouth, “I’m sorry” to Blake, but two flashes of black behind his right shoulder caught my eye. Craft and Remick! They must have seen the patrol cars and dashed out Suzette’s back door.

“You have the right to speak to an attorney—”

“They’re getting away!” I yelled, pointing my chin in the direction of the strip of grass that separated Suzette’s townhouse from the next group of four connected homes. “You’ve got to stop them.”

“What are you talking about?” asked one of the cops who grabbed hold of my arm.

“The men who broke into Suzette Stephanovich’s house. They ran out the back. I saw them.”

“Nice try, lady. We’ve got our burglars right here.”

“—And to have an attorney present during any questioning,” continued Riley.

“No you don’t,” I insisted. “We pulled up right before you arrived. Your burglars are the guys who own that SUV, and they’re getting away.”

The cops looked at each other, unsure whether or not to believe me. Riley cut short the Miranda. “I’ll stay here with them,” he said. “You two check out these phantom burglars.”

The other two cops jumped into their squad cars and peeled off down the street and around the corner.
 

By this time, a sizable crowd of senior citizen gawkers had gathered on the sidewalks on either side of the street. I hoped they all suffered from cataracts and wouldn’t recognize me again. These people were my target market, but standing there in handcuffs, I wasn’t the best advertisement for my fledgling business.

“Those aren’t the robbers, you idiot!”

Blake, Riley, and I turned as a large woman exited the first townhouse in the group of townhouses next to Suzette’s, the one on the other side of the strip of grass. She marched toward us, a Bichon Frise nearly buried in the voluminous sleeves of her pink and orange paisley caftan.

“I told 911 two
men
. I may be getting old, and my eyesight may not be what it used to be, but I still know the difference between a man and a woman.” She pointed at me. “Does she look like a man to you?”

The Bichon yapped in agreement, its pink ribbon-bedecked head bobbing up and down.

“You called in the break-in, ma’am?” asked Riley.

“That’s right.” She bobbed her own head in time with her dog’s. “I was watering the plants in my bedroom when that black car, that one right there,” she said, pointing to the SUV, “pulled up into Suzette’s driveway. Two men dressed in black got out and headed around back. So Fifi and I went downstairs to see what they were up to. They ducked behind Suzette’s azalea bushes and pried open her bathroom window. That’s when I called 911. They ran out the back door a moment ago and cut through to the next street.”

Thank goodness for busybody neighbors! Whoever this woman was, I wanted to adopt her. “Any chance you could remove the cuffs now?” I asked Riley.

“Not a chance, lady. For all I know, you’re accomplices of the other two.”

That’s me, the Fashionista Felon. Dressed in Ralph Lauren and wearing Tory Burch on my feet, I break into retirees’ homes with the files and picks I carry in my mustard Milly Tote. I kept my sarcasm to myself, though, figuring Riley would take it as a confession. Besides, Blake was giving me
The Look
. I know when to behave. Sometimes. This was definitely one of those times.

Riley realized he hadn’t finished Mirandizing us and started over from the beginning. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney, and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Got it?”

Got it?
I didn’t think that was part of the Miranda warning, but maybe the courts accepted paraphrasing. Both Blake and I nodded.

A few minutes later Riley’s radio squawked. “We’ve got them,” said one of the other cops. “We’re heading to the station. Bring in the other two.”

Blake and I were escorted to the remaining patrol car where Riley held the top of our heads as we awkwardly maneuvered ourselves into the back seat without the use of our arms. Not an easy task.

“My car is still running,” said Blake.

“And my purse is on the front passenger seat.” I added.

Riley turned off the Camry’s engine, grabbed my Milly, and locked the door. He pocketed Blake’s keys and unceremoniously tossed my Milly onto the extremely cluttered and messy passenger seat next to him. I cringed, hoping Milly survived the greasy Burger King wrappers. I also wondered if he would have just driven off, leaving our car and my Milly for anyone to steal, had we not said something.

THIRTEEN

I’ve always had tremendous respect for the police. They put their lives on the line everyday to ensure our safety. However, I have no tolerance for stupidity, and right now Blake and I were the victims of the very definition of gross stupidity.

As we drove toward the Bernards Township police station, scenes from every law enforcement drama I’d ever watched flashed before my eyes. If there was any truth to any of them, I knew the drill. Once we arrived, the cops would lead Blake into one interrogation room and me into another. We’d each sit for hours in a hot, stuffy, windowless room while some detective tried to coerce us into admitting to a crime we hadn’t committed.

I’d already been questioned by the police for something I didn’t do. Let them pick on someone else for a change. Like the real criminals.

So imagine my shock when we arrived to find Detective Loretta Menendez waiting for us.

“Why are they cuffed?” she asked.

“We didn’t know if they were accomplices,” said Riley.

“They’re not accomplices.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“We caught them outside the vic’s house.”

Menendez turned to me. “Didn’t I warn you to leave the investigating to me?”

“But—”

“Butt out, Mrs. Elliott. I have half a mind to let Bernards Township lock you up overnight to scare some sense into you. This isn’t a game. Stop playing Miss Marple.”

Miss Marple?
I resented the little old lady reference. Call me Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden or Veronica Mars, but do
not
compare me to the septuagenarian Miss Jane Marple! She’s old enough to be my mother.

Besides, if it weren’t for me, Menendez wouldn’t have a clue about Not-Sid’s killer. Not that I had any clues, either, but I had uncovered Not-Sid’s identity and Craft and Remick’s plot to break into the homes of Not-Sid’s dates. Which led directly to Craft’s and Remick’s capture. Exactly where would Detective Menendez be had I not butted in?

However, one look at Blake and I knew to keep my mouth firmly shut. No sense trying to douse a fire with oil. I’d wind up singed to a crisp, and he’d have every right to spout a few dozen I-told-you-so’s. Instead, I offered the detective a contrite nod of my head.

Detective Menendez ordered Riley to uncuff us. He looked annoyed, but he complied. I don’t know if a Union County detective can give orders to a Somerset County patrolman, but he didn’t seem to want to test out any theories to the contrary.

Even though we hadn’t been shackled for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, it felt like hours. Spasms of pain continued rocketing up my arms and shooting across my back muscles, after being freed from the restraints. My hands were numb, and red marks encircled my wrists where the metal had dug into my flesh. I shook my hands to get the circulation going, then rubbed at my sore wrists.

Riley handed me my Milly, now sporting a greasy French fry impression on one side, then reached into his pocket and tossed Blake his car keys. “You’re free to go,” he said.

“How are we supposed to get back to our car?” asked Blake, rubbing his own wrists.

Riley looked to Menendez for an answer.

“I can’t take them,” she said. “I need to question the other two you hauled in.”

Riley grimaced. “Wait here. I’ll take you as soon as I can.”

~*~

As soon as I can
morphed into
when I get around to it
, and
when I get around to it
looked like it might stretch into next Tuesday. After waiting half an hour, Blake called for a cab, but Bernards Township isn’t exactly an urban mecca, and we waited another half hour before one showed up. By the time we retrieved our car and arrived home, it felt like next Tuesday.

Blake and I hadn’t spoken to each other from the moment we left the police station. I’ve lived with my husband long enough to pick up on his moods. The thought balloon suspended over his head contained dark puffs of steam. I didn’t blame him for being angry. After all, it’s not every day a mild-mannered, by-the-book college professor is hauled off in handcuffs, but this really wasn’t my fault. He had every right to be angry. Just not at me. However, I don’t think he saw it that way, and I was too chicken to broach the subject.

Our marriage has succeeded for so long because we provide balance for each other. I’m the Yin to Blake’s Yang. Confrontation plays no part in our marriage. Or at least it hadn’t until the day I told Blake about Relatively Speaking. Ever since, I’ve sensed a huge confrontation building, and at the moment, my tingling Spidey senses told me that confrontation was about to blow up in my face. So I took the coward’s way out. As soon as Blake unlocked the front door, I made a beeline for the bathroom.

Five years ago, while still gainfully employed, I had designed a scarf pattern that became the next big thing, not quite along the lines of the quintessential Hermès scarf, but successful enough that the company bigwigs parlayed the pattern into licensing agreements for everything from clothing to linens to home furnishings.