Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 01 - Death by Chocolate (12 page)

Everything was going well and I was feeling quite proud of
myself until Rick called at nine thirty-five.

I was up to my elbows in chocolate cheesecake when the phone rang. Paula had just left to take Zach to day care, so I dashed into our pseudo-office and snatched up the receiver. “
Death by Chocolate. This is Lindsay Powell.”

“That was pretty crass, Lindsay,” Rick said.

I assumed he wasn’t talking about my phone greeting. “
I’m
crass? You’re the one who cut out the poor little bear’s heart.”

“
I
cut out his heart? I did no such thing.
You
cut out his heart and then hung him! Muffy was completely freaked out! Do you know what it’s like to look out your window and see a bear hanging from a tree, a bear you gave as a present to someone you care about?”

“Do you know what it’s like to leave your house at
three thirty a.m., half asleep, and find a bear with a gaping hole in his chest?”

There was a moment of silence. Then in a quieter, slightly confused voice
— “He really had that hole when you found him? Lindsay, I drew a heart on that bear with raspberry syrup. I didn’t cut that hole.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t. You didn’t?”

“Well, I guess some animal likes raspberry syrup and nibbled a little too deep.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Crass,” I agreed.

“I’m sorry, babe. I wanted it to be a fun surprise for you, not something to shock your sensibilities. I’ll just have to bring you another bear. I have plenty of raspberry syrup.” Rick’s voice dropped into a low, intimate tone.

“Do not bring me another bear or send more flowers!”

“Did you enjoy the roses? Were they fresh?”

“They were beautiful. I enjoyed them, but I’d rather you didn’t send me any more. Why are you doing this? Did you and Tuffy have a fight?”

“Muffy. No, we didn’t have a fight. It’s just that she’s not you. I miss you. Can’t we try to work things out?”

I ordered my lips to say the word
No!
in an emphatic tone, but my throat and vocal chords ignored me.

“How about dinner tonight?” he asked, correctly interpreting my hesitation.

“I already have plans.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“I’ll call you. I have to go now. A buzzer just went off in the kitchen.”

“Did you like the eggs?” He couldn’t resist tossing in one last tug at the old heartstrings.

“They were okay. A little too done.”

“
A little too
—you
ate
them?”

“Yep. You know how crass I am. Gotta run. Bye.”

I hung up the phone, shoved some of Zach’s colorful plastic toys off the sofa and sank down, trying to sort out the kaleidoscope spinning around in my head. Rick’s persistence and my weakness were a part of that mass confusion, but not the major part.

The hole in that bear’s heart had been cleanly cut as if with a knife or scissors. There were no irregular rips and no evidence of sharp animal teeth. If Rick hadn’t done it, who had…and why?

Chapter Eight

I went straight home from work and changed into pantyhose, white blouse, black skirt and blazer for my visit to Lester Mackey’s apartment building. I had some sort of illusion that I should look official, a female version of the
Men in Black
. I actually looked more like I was going to a funeral, which was what I’d bought the outfit for in the first place, but it was all I had that even remotely qualified as
official
looking.

When I rang Fred’s door bell, I was loaded for bear, as it were, prepared to do battle if he tried to back out of going. As soon as he opened the door, I began a hurried account of the murdered teddy bear.

When I stopped to take a breath, he asked if I knew what I might be getting into. I lied and said I did.

He stepped outside and I noticed he was wearing a dark suit, too. I hadn’t even realized he owned one. Probably bought his for funerals, too.
Whose funerals? Who did he know besides Paula and me?

“We’re taking my car,” he said adamantly, indicating his 1968 mint-condition Mercedes.
White and gleaming like a toothpaste ad, it sat in his driveway, ready to roll. “Your driving sends me into cardiac arrest,” he explained.

That was fine with me. Not only would this be my first ride in his pampered vehicle, but
if we’d taken my Celica, I’d have had to clean out my front seat for him to sit there. That task would take a while and possibly uncover Coke cans dating back to my high school years.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t let him get off that easy. “You don’t need to worry about
riding with me in the future,” I assured him. “I bought a special set of electric paddles that plug into the cigarette lighter so I’ll be able to restart your heart.”

“
Unnecessary. Your car’s so messy, I’d have to take a tranquilizer before I could even stand to get in.”

He’d believe the electric paddles story before he’d believe I’d
planned to clean out my car, so I let it go.

His car in the driveway told me he’d had no plans to protest our mission. Other than coming out to be polished and taken to the grocery store, that vehicle pretty much lived in the garage so the paint wouldn’t fade and birds couldn’t poop on it or trees drop their leaves on it or squirrels scratch the finish with their claws or flies leave their footprints.

Anyway, Fred’s easy acquiescence made it obvious that he grasped the seriousness of the situation with Paula and Lester Mackey. That meant it was really serious.

Man, did I ever lie when I told him I knew what I was getting into.

He opened the passenger door. Courteous or just making sure I didn’t smudge the handle?

“I don’t suppose you found out exactly where this apartment building is,” I asked as I slid onto the cool leather seat.

“Yes, I did.” He went around to the driver’s side and got in.

Yeah, things were serious.

“How’d you find out?” I asked as we drove down the street at precisely the speed limit.

“Do I ask you for your secret recipes?”

“I’d give them to you if you did.”

“A secret’s not a secret if you tell.”

I interpreted that to mean, no matter how big a blabber-mouth I might be, he wasn’t going to reciprocate.

Sycamore Street was in an area no older than our neighborhood
—possibly a few years newer, in fact—but it hadn’t aged as graciously. The homes and small apartment buildings hovered between picturesque and run-down.

Fred pulled over in front of a red brick building in the middle of the block, and we looked at each other.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” I lied again. “Uh, do you think we ought to discuss how we’re going to handle this? What we’re going to say to the manager?”

“Follow my lead.”

If anybody else had told me that, I’d have protested long and loud, but I figured Fred must have every syllable carefully planned out
, and I wouldn’t have to say a word. Surely he didn’t trust me to improvise.

He took off his glasses and put on a dark hat.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me we should come disguised!” I protested.

“You’re disguised. You’re wearing real clothes. Anyway, you don’t have to be. I do.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected him to.

We got out and started up the walk, stepping over the upheavals of concrete and tree roots. The building was in even worse shape than it had appeared from the street. Chunks of mortar had fallen from between the bricks at odd intervals, and a long, jagged crack ran all the way down one side. The mesh on the screen door was rusty and had come loose at one corner.

“I think we can assume Lester Mackey was not a wealthy man,” I whispered.

Fred scowled at me. Apparently I wasn’t following his lead.

We went inside and were immediately engulfed by a musty smell. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like in the winter when the place was closed up with no fresh air coming in.

Fred knocked on the door to our right that said, in faded letters, “Apt. A, Manager.”

The overweight, under-washed man opened it so fast, he must have been watching out the window and seen us come up. He glared at us from beady little eyes set deep in his puffy face, and his rubbery lips stretched into a frown with the corners reaching almost to his chin. A television game show blared from inside his apartment. We’d ob
viously interrupted his routine.

“Whaddaya want?”

“Robert Anderson and Julia Crawley.” Fred responded so easily I had to stop myself from turning around to see if those people were standing behind us. “We’re with Guaranteed Heir Finders, and we’re trying to locate Lester Mackey.”

“I don’t where he is.” The man started to close the door, but Fred was faster. He grabbed the edge while I added my contribution by stepping halfway inside and smiling at the manager. Smiling or sneering. It was hard to know how the effort came out.

“Whoever helps us locate Mr. Mackey gets the ten percent finder’s fee,” Fred said. “Ten percent of five million dollars.”

I sidled
closer even though the smells of well-aged fast food and dirty clothes were kind of overpowering. I might never eat another burger.

The manager studied us for a minute. “You got any proof who you are?” He wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

Fred took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the man.

He’d even printed up cards for the occasion! I was
quite impressed with this display of sneakiness.

The manager relaxed and rolled his lips into a gross caricature of a greedy smile. “Ten percent of five million dollars? What is that, about a hundred thousand dollars?” Okay, he was as dumb as he looked.

“Five hundred thousand,” I corrected.

His smile got bigger and grosser. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but I get a lot of salesmen, you know. Name’s George Stinson. I’m the manager.” He extended a puffy, sweaty hand.

Fred’s lips pinched just a little, but that was the only indication of the distaste I knew he was feeling as he grasped that creep’s hand and shook it. I was impressed. Fred was good at this acting business.

“So what can you tell us about Lester Mackey’s whereabouts?” Fred asked, retrieving his hand and holding it at his side with the fingers spread as if airing it.

“He rents apartment C upstairs, but he’s not there. Come on in and make yourselves comfortable,” George Stinson invited, opening the door wide and indicating a room littered with dirty dishes, fast-food wrappers, clothes and beer cans. “You want a beer?”

“We appreciate your offer of hospitality, but we can’t drink while we’re on duty,” I improvised. “Or sit down.” No matter how good an actor Fred might be, I didn’t think he could survive that assault on his fastidiousness. I wasn’t sure I could, either, and I’m not all that fastidious.

“If Mr. Mackey isn’t in his apartment, where is he?” Fred prompted.

“He’s gone for a few days, but he’s coming back. All his stuff’s still here.”

“Gone where?”

Stinson looked a little uneasy. “I’m not real sure.”

“Could we see his apartment? Maybe there’ll be something there to tell us where we can find him. These bequests expire so fast, we really need to get right on it.”

These bequests expire so fast?
I’d never realized Fred had such a line of BS…and Stinson was buying every word of it.

“Sure, just let me get my keys.” The manager reached behind the door and produced a rusty ring of keys. “All set.” He started up the stairs
, and we followed.

“How long has Mr. Mackey lived here?” Fred asked.

“He come in three weeks ago needing a furnished place for a month.” Stinson paused every couple of steps to take a rattling breath. Obviously the combined acts of climbing stairs and talking at the same time created an unaccustomed and strenuous activity. Sitting while watching television game shows probably strained his repertoire of simultaneous physical and mental activities. “I don’t usually rent furnished, but this guy had the cash to pay extra and said when he closed his big business deal at the end of the month, he’d have a nice bonus for me.” He turned back to Fred. “That won’t interfere with the ten percent from this inheritance, will it?”

Fred shook his head. “Of course not. All you have to do is help us find this Mackey, and you’ll get ten percent of whatever he gets. Did he tell you what his big deal involved?”

“Nah. Pretty tight-mouthed guy. Lot of people are. Long as they pay their rent, I don’t care. I mind my own business. Whatever he was doing, looked like he was working pretty hard at it. Left out of here a little after noon every day and didn’t get back till late at night, sometimes dawn.” If you could get past his gasping, Stinson sounded kind of pompous with importance in this real-life game show he thought he could win.