Secondhand Stiff (13 page)

“Excuse me a minute, Dev,” Greg told him, going back to his laptop. He turned it away from the cop. “I have to check something for work real quick, then you'll have my full attention.”

While Greg tapped along on his laptop, I settled at the table next to Dev. “Yes, Dev, Mom and I were in Torrance, and we were near the explosion. But you already knew that, didn't you?”

He took a sip of coffee, testing it for temperature, then followed up with a big, satisfying gulp. “According to Fehring, witnesses said a plump middle-aged woman and her elderly mother were asking questions about Goodwin right before the blast. One witness even provided your first names.”

“That must have been Bill Baxter. Mom and I had coffee with him.”

Greg closed his laptop. “Is Fehring involved because it was Buck Goodwin?”

“What do you think?” Dev took another sip of coffee. “In one day, two of the people at that auction have been involved in violence; one is dead. You do know about Redmond Stokes, don't you?”

Greg and I nodded in unison. “Mom and I were caught up in the traffic jam the accident caused,” I told Dev. “The news mentioned something about it being gang-related.”

Dev shrugged. “Easy to assume since most drive-bys are, but it's under investigation.”

“So, Dev,” Greg asked, “are you here on your own or at Fehring's request?”

Dev leaned back in his chair and studied the two of us. “You might say I'm the opening act.” He played with his coffee mug, slowly turning it around in his hands. “There are people wondering if Odelia here had something to do with the blast.”

“That's preposterous!” came an angry lisping voice from the living room.

We all turned to see my mother standing in the living room at the edge of the hallway. She was in a floor-length mauve satin robe, pulled tight and cinched at her waist. On her feet were matching slippers. She'd slipped in so softly none of us had heard her. She stepped closer and started shaking her right index finger at Dev.

“I don't know who you are,” she said, the slight lisp in no way masking her outrage, “but to even suggest my daughter had anything to do with that mess in Torrance is despicable.”

Dev got to his feet and extended his right hand with tired patience. “Is it safe to assume you're Mrs. Littlejohn, Odelia's mother?”

When Mom hesitated, I made the introduction. “Mom, this is our good friend, Detective Devon Frye. Dev, my mother, Grace Littlejohn.”

Mom still looked like she wanted to bitch slap Dev instead of shake his hand. It didn't matter that he towered over her; like a missile waiting for liftoff, she stood ready to defend my honor—something that touched me in spite of the situation. Finally, she held out her hand.

“I've been wanting to meet you, Grace,” Dev told her, taking her slender hand between both of his meaty paws. “I'm just sorry it's under these circumstances.”

Mom withdrew her hand as if Dev had cooties. “Odelia did not set that blast. Any fool who's met her could tell you that.” It was clear she wasn't giving Dev an inch.

“I know that, Grace. I'm just telling them what some people have suggested.”

I stood up. It was clear by the stony look on Mom's face that she had no intention of heading back to her room. “Here, Mom, take my chair.”

“Please,” Dev encouraged her. “Join us. After all, you were there and at the auction, so you might as well hear this, too.”

fifteen

“Coffee, Mom?” I asked
as she settled in a chair at the table.

She raised a hand to wave off my suggestion. “No, but I'd really like a cup of tea—some of that Sleepytime you have. Maybe it will settle my nerves.”

“Coming right up.” I filled the teakettle, set it over a flame on the stove, and got out two cups. Mom wasn't the only one with nerves that needed settling.

“That blast have you rattled, Grace?” Dev asked the question with sincerity, like he was speaking to his own mother instead of a witness. He was pulling out his tender side, which was considerable but seldom seem by suspects and witnesses.

Mom, however, was all jagged edges and sharp points. “Wouldn't it rattle you to be almost killed?”

“It would and it has,” Dev answered honestly. “I've been in a few near-death scenarios in my career. I've even been shot.”

I swiveled, a tea bag hanging from one of my hands like a Christmas ornament. “You have?”

Greg was just as surprised. “You never told us that!”

Dev shrugged. “It happened a long time ago, when I was in uniform for the LAPD.”

Mom pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “I know who you are now. You've become friends with my son Clark when he visits here, haven't you?”

“That's me.”

“It's hard on a mother when her son's a police officer. My son Grady died in the line of duty.”

My half brother Grady hadn't exactly died in the line of duty, but he had been a police officer at the time he was killed. Clark had never made it clear to me exactly what he had told Mom about the whole thing, so I wasn't about to quibble. And if Dev knew the real story about Grady, he wasn't letting on either.

Dev reached over and patted my mother's hand. “I'm sorry for your loss. Truly, I am.” This time Mom didn't withdraw her hand. “My late wife never liked being married to a cop. She liked it even less when our daughter became one.”

Mom gave Dev a nod, letting him know she shared his wife's pain. “I was very happy when Clark retired and went into private security work. He travels a lot now, but at least he's safe and seems to make a lot more money.”

At this point Dev looked away to his left. He appeared to be studying the wall next to the kitchen table, or maybe the edge of the picture on the wall caught his eye—hard to tell. Or maybe he was thinking about Clark and the job he had now.

Then again, maybe he was remembering what he'd stopped by to discuss.

Or maybe he was thinking about what to buy his grandchildren for Christmas. Dev had two now—a girl and a boy. But I knew that last option was a very long shot.

When he turned back to us, he was all business. “Like I said, some people have suggested that Odelia had something to do with the explosion at Goodwin's, but neither Detective Fehring or I buy that.” Dev turned his steely gaze on me. “Unless you've started a sideline we don't know about.”

I plopped the tea bag into a cup and held up my hands in surrender. “You've got me, Dev. When I don't work for Mike Steele,
I make bombs in our garage.”

“That's nothing to joke about, Odelia,” Dev snapped. “People saw you snooping around Goodwin's right before the place went up like a rocket. Someone even claims to have seen you in the alley behind his store shortly before the blast.”

“When was this?” Mom asked. “I don't recall that.”

“Before I joined you at the donut shop.”

I turned to Dev, ready to plead my innocence. “Yes, I was back there, Dev,” I explained. “I was trying to see if Buck's truck was parked there instead of in front. But it wasn't ‘shortly' before the explosion. It was at least thirty minutes, maybe even forty minutes before then. And if I had planted the bomb, would I have left my car parked directly in front of the store and gone for coffee?”

I noticed Greg paying sharp attention.

“Did you try to get inside?” Dev asked.

“No, I didn't. I did see one of the kids from the sandwich shop back there emptying trash. Bet he's the one who told you he saw me.”

“I don't know where the information came from,” Dev said, “just that someone saw you there and told the police. And be glad you weren't back there when the blast occurred. The bomb was planted in the office, in the back of the store. Anyone standing in that part of the alley would probably have been killed.”

Silence fell over our little gabfest like a shroud soaked in motor oil. It was bad enough to think of Mom and me parked out front just minutes before the explosion, but the thought of me standing just feet away from the bomb turned my legs to jelly. I grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter to steady myself.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” Greg started for me, but I held up a hand.

“I'm fine, honey. Just rattled.” I looked over at Mom. She was staring at me with wide, watery eyes, her face pastier than it had been in the car after the blast.

An awkward silence fell over the kitchen again, only to be shattered a moment later by the doorbell. We all jumped. Wainwright, who'd retired to his bed once he'd said hello to Dev, now shot like a rocket for the door. This time he was barking his stranger-danger bark. Muffin understood that tone and retreated under the buffet again.

“That's probably Detective Fehring,” Dev said, getting up. “I'll get it.”

At the door, Dev tried to muscle Wainwright aside, but the dog wasn't having any of it and continued pushing his strong body between Dev and the door. “Down, boy,” Dev said to the animal, but with no luck. Dev wasn't his master or his mistress, and Wainwright was determined to guard the house against the intruders. It was his job, and he was good at it.

“Wainwright,” Greg called sharply to the dog. “Here.” He rolled his wheelchair from the kitchen area into the great room.

The animal looked to Greg, then to the door. He was still on alert, his bark reduced to a guttural growl of warning.

“Come here,” Greg ordered again. This time the well-trained dog obeyed. He trotted over to Greg but kept glancing back at the door, ready to protect Dev should he need help.

Greg grabbed the dog's collar and pulled him close, patting him on the head to calm him down. “Don't worry, ol' boy, Dev's got this covered.”

At the door was Detective Fehring and her partner, Detective Whitman. Dev let them in just as the teakettle started its high-pitched whistle. We all jumped again. Even Wainwright let out a few bottled-up barks.

While the battalion of detectives greeted Greg and made their way into my kitchen, I turned off the flame and poured hot water over the two waiting tea bags. Maybe no one would notice if I sloshed some Scotch into mine. With sadness, I abandoned the idea as coming too late.

After placing the two cups of tea on the table, one in front of Mom and the other in front of a chair by Greg's place, I pulled a plate of sliced lemon out of the fridge, removed the plastic wrap, and added that to the table. Both Mom and I preferred lemon in our tea, but I was really delaying the inevitable face-off with Detective Fehring. She'd already greeted Mom. Now everyone was waiting on me.

Maybe Wainwright needed a good, long walk.

“Odelia.” Greg, seeing my hesitation, rolled up to me. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's get this over with.”

He was right, of course. Even though I was guilty of nothing but nosiness, it always unnerved me when I was questioned by the police, like I was waiting for them to pin something on me—say, the Lindbergh kidnapping or global warming—and in my rattled state I'd confess to it all. I'd make an awful spy. At the first sign of trouble I'd take the cyanide, sure that if I didn't I'd surrender national security secrets within the first sixty seconds of questioning.

With my husband by my side, I plastered a smile on my face and went to the table to face the music. I really should have laced my tea with booze.

Detectives Fehring and Whitman were standing with Dev where the great room met the kitchen area. It was the border marking formal territory from cozy comfort. Friends gathered around our large kitchen table or the patio table in good weather. Company and insurance salesmen sat in the living room. Dev had a foot in each, waiting for either Greg or me to make the call on the current situation. Wainwright had been banished to his bed on the perimeter of the kitchen, but he watched the new people with canine caution. In the end, it was Mom who tossed the coin about their acceptability.

“Why don't you folks sit down?” Mom said. “I'll make a fresh pot of coffee.” She started to get up from her chair. “And take off those coats, they're wet.”

“Grace,” said Greg, “I'll make the coffee. You enjoy your tea while it's hot. You, too, Odelia.” My husband left my side and swiveled for the kitchen counter.

There were three chairs at the table already and an open space for Greg's wheelchair. Three other chairs were scattered around the wall waiting to be pressed into service. I grabbed one and Dev another. We placed them together at one end, near where Dev had been seated. Without thinking, we'd marked our territories—police on one end, civilians on the other—much as the living room and kitchen were divided as formal and casual.

“You want some pie?” asked my mother of our visitors. “We have pumpkin and apple.” She turned to me. “Any of that pecan left?”

I shook my head. “That's all gone.”

All of the detectives declined. A second later, Fehring said with a slight smile at Mom, “On second thought, Mrs. Littlejohn, I would like some pie with my coffee. Apple, please.”

I started for the kitchen again, but Greg waved me back. “I got this, sweetheart.” He glanced over at Andrea Fehring. “Would you like that warm with ice cream, Detective?”

“Just warmed up a bit would be great, Greg. Thank you.”

In spite of the coffee klatch pleasantries, I took my place at the table as if facing a firing squad.

Dev began, “I just confirmed that Odelia was in the back of Goodwin's store.”

Fehring looked at me with tired eyes. I noticed more gray strands in her dark hair than when I'd first met her months earlier. “And what did you do back there, Odelia?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. I was just checking to see if Buck's vehicle was back there, but it wasn't. I saw one of the sub shop kids come out and dump some trash, and then I left and went to meet Mom at the donut shop.”

“And you never saw anyone in or around Goodwin's?”

“No one.”

The bell on the microwave dinged. Greg brought Fehring her pie and a fork. Next to me, Mom carefully slurped her tea through her injured mouth and winced.

Fehring noticed. “Are you okay, Mrs. Littlejohn?”

Mom nodded. “The explosion frightened me so much I bit my lip and my tongue. Who knew dentures were that sharp?”

“You're lucky that's all that happened to you,” Whitman said with a concern that was anything but sincere.

I really didn't like him. I wasn't crazy about Fehring either at the moment, but if Dev said she was good people, that was good enough for me. Maybe under different circumstances, we might actually like each other. Whitman I wasn't sure I'd ever like. He seemed too snaky, and I hate reptiles. They make my skin crawl, both the animal and the human kind.

Mom matched his tone and answered, “So we heard. We also heard a woman in the parking lot had a heart attack. Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Fehring answered. “It was a mild one and she's in the hospital for observation, but she'll be fine.”

Greg wheeled over with a tray across his lap. On it was the coffee pot, some mugs, cream and sugar, and a few spoons. He lifted the tray to the table. I poured the coffee and distributed it to Fehring and Whitman. Dev shoved his empty mug toward me for a refill.

During the coffee service, Fehring took several bites of pie. “Great pie, Odelia,” she said, washing it down with hot black coffee. “My family never has pie for Thanksgiving. It's my father's birthday, so we always have cake and ice cream. Just doesn't seem right, does it?”

If she was trying to make me—all of us—more comfortable with her forced folksy charm, it wasn't working. “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective Fehring, but I didn't make the pie. My mother did.”

In response, Fehring lifted her coffee mug in a salute to Mom.

“If you want her recipe,” I barked, “I'm sure she'll share it with you after the interrogation.”

“Odelia,” Mom snapped. “These good folks just want some information. I doubt they'd be having pie and coffee if they were here to arrest us for something.”

“Calm down, ladies,” Greg intervened. “Just answer the questions you're asked.”

Then my level-headed hubby looked at each of the detectives individually, one after the other. “In all the drama, we forgot one very important question. Should Odelia and Grace have an attorney present for these questions?” When no one answered immediately, he tacked on, “Or maybe we should just have coffee tonight and set a time for them to meet you at the police station after they've lawyered up.”

“That won't be necessary, Greg,” responded Dev. “No one here believes Odelia is a suspect; we just want to ask her questions to see if she can shed some light on the situation.”

“You sure about that?” Greg prodded with growing agitation. “Seth Washington's out of town, but I'm sure I could get Mike Steele over here with a single call. Or maybe even Ina's attorney.”

“While you're at it, Greg,” Dev shot back, “why not put in a call to Willie Proctor? Isn't he your caped crusader in times like this?”

Whoa! I've never seen Dev and Greg face off. I understood Greg's attitude. Like Wainwright at the front door, he was stepping forward to protect his loved ones. Dev was no stranger to sarcasm, but to throw out Willie's name like that was not like him, especially in front of other cops. He hardly ever shot off his mouth. He weighed his words; even his digs were carefully considered first. Something wasn't right with our friend.