Murder Has a Sweet Tooth (16 page)

Keeping the image of Henry and Antonia firmly in mind, I pulled back my shoulders, marched into the rec center, and offered a broad smile to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “Annie Capshaw,” I said. “I’m with the McLean Virginia Now! You know, the Web site.”

The woman—whose name tag said she was Deb—couldn’t have known the site because I made it up. Polite person that she was, she nodded anyway. “How can I help you?” she asked.

I tried my best to look bored. No easy thing when I’m on a case and my brain is buzzing with prospects and possibilities. “My boss is making me do this,” I confided, leaning over the desk and lowering my voice. “I mean, who even wants to read an article about a bunch of soccer coaches getting together for a planning meeting? But . . .” My sigh was packed with enough resignation to sound genuine. “If I have to, I have to. I know they met here on . . .” I flipped open the portfolio I was carrying, the better to consult what I hoped looked like reporter-like notes, and gave Deb the date on which Vickie was killed. “I don’t need much. You know, just the names of the coaches who were here, which teams they represent, how long the meeting lasted. I guess the idea is that we’re supposed to show the community how active the soccer league is. You know, good PR.”

Apparently, Deb did know about PR, and since there’s nothing top secret about a league meeting for coaches, she wasn’t hesitant to share. She did some digging in a file cabinet behind the desk, found what she was looking for, and made a copy for me.

“It’s public record,” she said, passing the copy of the meeting minutes over the desk to me. “Nothing in there the coaches would object to anyone seeing. Just never had anyone ask before. Didn’t think anyone cared.”

I assured her McLean Virginia Now! did, and thanked her. As I walked away from the desk and found a seat on a bench near the door, I was already flipping through the minutes. It didn’t take long. They spelled out everything I was looking for in a report that was exactly three pages long. Edward Monroe had been at the meeting from the beginning. I knew this, because he offered the first report on the agenda, the one about league finances. He’d been there all the way to the bitter end, too; he seconded the motion to adjourn. According to the times listed in the minutes and to everything Tyler said about how long Vickie had been dead when the police found her body, there was no way Edward could have left the meeting when he did and still driven to Arlington in time to slit his wife’s throat.

A wave of relief washed over me, and I can attribute it only to the fact that finding out that Edward could not have been the murderer reaffirmed my faith in marriage. Of course, it did nothing at all for my case.

Thinking it over, I was just about to slip the minutes into my portfolio when I realized someone was standing right in front of the bench where I was seated.

I looked up and found Edward Monroe looking down at me.

“Deb says you’re with McLean Virginia Now!”

Deb, much to my dismay, had excellent hearing and a memory for trivial information that was far better than I’d hoped.

I wasn’t about to let that stop me. I hopped to my feet and Edward didn’t have a lot of choice: It was either step back or invade my personal space. “It’s kind of a hobby. You know, just something to pass the time. Jim works so many hours, and he’s out of town so often.”

“And you’re writing an article about the soccer league.” He touched a hand to the front of his blue windbreaker with its soccer league emblem above a Tigers patch. “Maybe you’d like to come watch today’s game.” Edward looked toward the door and I saw that out on the soccer fields beyond, kids clad in Tigers blue and white were gathering and warming up by kicking soccer balls around. “Reporting on a game, that would add some real color.”

My smile was bright as I sidestepped away from Edward. “I wouldn’t want to sound biased toward any one team.”

“But an article about a coaches’ meeting . . .” He countered with a step into my path. “That doesn’t sound all that interesting.”

“Blame my editor.” I hoisted my purse to my shoulder and tucked my portfolio under my arm. “She said she wanted facts and figures.”

Edward nodded. He understood. The look he gave me wasn’t exactly a smile. “The same facts and figures the police have been asking about.”

“Really?” If I’d learned anything from a lifetime of being best friends with Eve, it was how to toss my head in that wow-imagine-that kind of way that always catches guys off guard. Without fail, it works for Eve. For me? Not so much. At least if Edward’s stony silence meant anything.

It was one of those awkward moments I’m so not good at. And a chance I might never get again. Determined to get at the truth, I took the proverbial bull by the horns. “I’ll bet the police asked something else, too. I bet they asked if you left the meeting for a while. If you were there at the beginning, and there at the end, and if in between—”

“I popped out to murder my wife?” Edward’s eyes were blue. The color the Chesapeake Bay turns right before a storm.

I sucked in a breath and held it until my lungs felt as if they’d burst. That was right about the same time Edward threw back his head and laughed. “You ask a lot of questions, Annie.”

“Reporters do that.” Ambiguous, but true.

And apparently enough to satisfy Edward. His smile was cordial, but reserved, as if we’d just been introduced at a business meeting. “I can’t wait to read your article,” he said.

“I’ll let you know when it’s posted,” I promised, and because there wasn’t anything else to say and nothing to be gained from a man who was clearly toying with me, I nodded my good-bye and slipped away from him and toward the door.

I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until I was safely outside, and I refused to look back, either, even though I could feel Edward’s gaze fastened between my shoulder blades. I marched to my car and unlocked the door. I had already tossed my portfolio inside when a car pulled into the parking place next to time, and Chip, Glynis’s husband, got out.

“Hi, Chip.” His eyes were unfocused and I could tell he didn’t remember me. But then, at Beth’s house the night before, it was obvious Chip was more interested in drinking wine than he was in the company of his friends. I’d personally counted seven glasses that he drank, and that was before Beth served my flan with Kahlua and coffee. Just in case he was still a little bleary-eyed (either from the alcohol or from my too-rubbery flan), I rounded his Audi. “I’m Annie. We met last night at Michael and Beth’s.”

“Of course.” His smile came and went quickly. Like Edward, he was wearing a blue Tigers windbreaker and he smoothed one hand over it. “You’re new to the neighborhood.”

“And I hope I’m fitting in. It’s kind of awkward. You know, trying to get to know people. I mean, with all that happened to Vickie . . .” I dragged the thought out, hoping he’d jump right in and fill in some of the gaps. When all he did was shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, I decided on a more direct approach.

“That was great news about Michael. About his promotion. I just saw Edward inside.” Almost afraid to look, I turned that way. There was no sign of Edward Monroe, thank goodness. “He’s seems really excited about having Michael on board as CFO. He said it’s going to take a real load of day-to-day worries off his back.”

“He did?” Chip wrinkled his nose and behind his thick glasses, his eyes squinched. “Glynis says—” He caught himself and cleared his throat.

Like all detectives everywhere, I knew exactly what that meant. Chip’s common sense had momentarily gotten the best of him. Too bad. Because I would have loved to know what Glynis said about Michael’s promotion.

Of course, that didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend I already did.

“I know. That’s what she told me, too.” I raised my eyebrows and laughed, sharing the confidence with Chip. “And after all that stuff a couple weeks ago about how Michael almost got fired . . .”

Like I’d done, Chip looked toward the front door of the rec center, and call me too imaginative for my own good, but I swear he was looking for Edward, too, and when he didn’t see him, relief swept across his expression. “He never really would have done it,” Chip confided. “Edward talks a good game. You know, hard-nosed. But then, he has to, doesn’t he? He’s running a major corporation and he can’t afford any screwups. But when push came to shove, he wouldn’t have given Michael his walking papers. Edward’s not that kind of guy.”

Eager to hear more, I inched forward. “What kind of guy is he?”

“Edward?” Again, Chip glanced over my shoulder toward the rec center. When he looked back at me, I practically heard his smile screech. That’s how stiff it was. “Edward’s a great guy,” he assured me. “He was a loving husband, and he’s a good friend. A really good friend. I’d better get to the game,” he added, backing away. “The kids are waiting.”

It wasn’t until he was all the way over at the soccer field that I turned back to my car.

That was when I realized Edward Monroe was standing outside the rec center watching us both.

BELLYWASHER’S IS CLOSED ON MONDAYS, SO THE
next Monday instead of catching up on restaurant paperwork or staying at home to tackle the mountain of laundry waiting for me, I talked Eve into rescheduling her appointment with her aesthetician and I did something I have never done before of my own free will: I went to a cooking store.

And not just any cooking store—Sonny’s, in Reston.

We stopped just outside so we could look over the gingham curtains that framed the front window, where stuffed teddy bears dressed as chefs worked at a pint-sized stove, served from teensy silver trays, and sat at a teddy-sized dinner table. “Cute,” I decided.

It was. Sonny’s shop was not as elegant as Très Bonne Cuisine. It was not as ultramodern or (from what I could see as I stepped inside the front door and took a quick look around) as expensive. What it was, though, was down-home delightful. We stepped inside and into the old-time general-store decor, and saw at once that Sonny’s was as country as Très Bonne Cuisine was sophisticated. Jacques . . . er . . . Norman would have hated every inch of it. I, on the other hand, did not feel the least bit intimidated. In fact, I took a deep breath, and was rewarded with the incredible aroma of barbecue. I let that breath out slowly, and I swear I felt the cooking-induced tension that always assails me in such places melt like a pat of butter in a hot pan. “This is the most comfortable and at home I’ve ever felt in a cooking store,” I told Eve. “Even when I did my stint as manager of Très Bonne Cuisine.”

Of course, I don’t think she heard me. Eve was already checking out a display of party favors, and I had the uneasy feeling we’d be having the wedding souvenir discussion again soon.

No matter. At least not right then. I followed my nose, savoring the scent of barbecue all the while. That shouldn’t come as any surprise. I didn’t have to be a good cook to have good taste, or to know that good barbecue is right up there on my gotta-have-it list with any form of chocolate, any flavor of cheesecake, and juicy hamburgers—as long as there’s a slice of cheddar melted on the top and a side of fries to go with them.

I found myself all the way at the back of the shop and face-to-face with a tall man whose name tag said he was Sonny himself. He was about fifty, broad shouldered, and muscular, with a shock of brown hair, a face that wasn’t as handsome as it was agreeable, and eyes as blue as the Virginia sky. There was a slow cooker open on the counter in front of him, and when he leaned over it and breathed in deep, his smile was a mile wide.

“That smells fabulous,” I said, and Sonny rewarded me by grabbing a plastic spoon, dipping it into the barbecue sauce that bubbled in the slow cooker, and holding it up to my lips. I tasted and smiled my approval.

“That, darlin’, is some of the best barbecue you’ll have this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.” Sonny’s Southern accent was as heavy as his smile was contagious. He grabbed another spoon and took a taste for himself and when he was done, he smacked his lips. “Sonny’s ExtraSpecial Sweet and Tangy Sauce. If I put it on top of my head, my tongue would slap my brains out trying to get at it! We sell it by the pint jar.”