Fatal Chocolate Obsession (Death by Chocolate Book 5) (8 page)

Fred piled one lie on top of another.

“Sure, thermography.” I leaned forward, folded my hands on the table and cleared my throat, buying a few seconds to think of what to say. “Works on the principle of heat. Your body always produces heat.”

Ken laughed raucously. “You know it, honey!”

I sat motionless for a moment, reminding myself that our visit had a purpose, and I should not mess up that purpose by reaching across the table and slapping that fool. “So you leave traces of your heat pattern everywhere you go. The cops can measure that heat pattern through the print of your shoes and go right to the pair of shoes that made the print.” I was pretty impressed with my own BS.

Ken’s brow furrowed in a scowl. “So you’re saying if somebody’s wearing a pair of Nikes just like thousands of other people, the cops can find that pair of shoes? How? They’re all alike.”

“No, they’re not. Each pair of shoes has its own pattern, just like fingerprints and DNA. No two are exactly alike. All they have to do now is find the shoes worn by the guy who murdered Bob, compare them to the prints they have, and the guy’s off to prison.”

Did Ken go pale at that news? It was getting dark and nobody had turned on the light in the kitchen so I couldn’t tell for sure.

He drained his beer and slammed the can down on the table. “They ought to give the guy a medal. Tina, get me another beer. Can’t you see this one’s empty? Get another one for my friend too.”

“No, thanks.” Fred appeared behind his chair and set an empty can on the table. I presumed he flushed the contents. “We’ve got to be going. Got to find that Russian immigrant.” He held a hand across the table. “Sure nice to meet another Bulldog fan. Thank you much for the beer.”

Ken shook his hand vigorously. “Let’s go to the next game together.”

Fred made a thumbs-up sign. “Deal. Call me. You’ve got my number.”

Ken followed us to the door and slapped Fred on the back as we left. I didn’t see Tina. I presumed she was still huddling in the kitchen. Maybe Ken would pass out on his way back through the living room. Maybe she’d then find the guts to grab one of her kids’ baseball bats and beat him as severely as he’d beaten her.

That wasn’t likely to happen.

We drove away from the ordinary house with all its extraordinary secrets. I was in a play in grade school and had to wear a bright orange tutu and an orange cardboard flower around my face. Getting away from Kenneth Wilson’s house felt almost as good as getting off that stage.

“You gave that creep your phone number?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“You told him he had your number.”

“I lied.” He drove calmly down the street.

“About a lot of things. Thermography? Really? And then you left me to explain it?”

“I knew you could do it. If he tries to get rid of a pair of shoes, we’ll know we’ve got the right guy.” He turned a corner on all four wheels. Such a waste of a good engine.

“How will you know if he tries to get rid of a pair of shoes? Are you going to sit by his garbage can all night and watch him?”

“All I have to do is scan the video from the camera I put above the door in his bedroom.”

“Is that what you got out of the bag and put in your pocket?” I turned around and looked at the back seat. Half a dozen canvas bags of various shapes and sizes remained. “What’s in the rest of them?”

“Necessities. I applaud you for not going off on our suspect. I could feel your anger, and I don’t blame you. But self control is essential when you’re trying to get information.”

“Or set somebody up.”

“That too.”

We rode in silence for a few moments. I hate to admit it, but there’s something soothing about Fred’s driving, sort of like a slow waltz down the street. I’d never tell him that, of course.

That night I wasn’t soothed.

“I sure hope we get proof against Ken and can lock that jerk away for the rest of his life,” I said. “I hate it because he killed my friend, and I hate him for what he’s doing to Tina.”

Fred’s profile was a stern silhouette in the dark car. “The best we can do is hope to get him before…”

It’s not like Fred to stop in the middle of a sentence, but I heard what he didn’t say.
Before he kills Tina too
.

I learned nothing else during the remainder of our ride. I was tempted to reach into the back, pick up one of those canvas bags and open it. I didn’t do it, but it gave me an idea.

I could plant a camera in Fred’s house the way he’d done to Ken and see what he and Sophie were up to.

I burst into laughter at the ridiculous idea that I could get away with doing something like that.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

We pulled into his driveway. “I’ll see you safely inside your house then come back and put my car in the garage,” he said.

“I live next door. I think I can make it on my own.” I got out of the car and started across the yard. He walked beside me. “Seriously?” I asked. “Look. Henry’s on my porch waiting. If anything was going on, he’d let me know.”

“That’s true, but you know I can’t leave something unfinished. I’m going with you.”

As we got closer, I saw that Henry was holding something down with one big paw and ripping at it with his lion-sized teeth. I sighed. “Great. As long as you’re here, you can dispose of Henry’s gift.”

“I don’t think that’s a mouse.”

“Mouse, rabbit, bird, mole. I don’t care what it is, I want it gone. One time he brought me a snake.”

We reached the porch and Fred stooped to pick up the remnants of whatever Henry had brought home. Henry snarled. Of course he did. The gift was for me, not Fred.

“Fred will give it to me,” I assured Henry.

“Lindsay, you need to see this.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“This gift is not from Henry.”

Fred handed me a small object that gleamed in the moonlight.

A crystal butterfly.

Rick knew how much I loved crystal, so sparkly with all those pretty rainbows. He gave me a crystal unicorn for our first anniversary. I still have it—not because it has sentimental value but because it’s pretty.

“Can you believe this jerk?” I extended the butterfly toward Fred. “His ex-girlfriend was killed less than twenty-four hours ago, and he’s still harassing me.”

Fred pulled rubber gloves from his pocket, leaned down and picked up a tattered envelope. Yes, Henry had worked the envelope over, but gloves seemed a little fastidious even for Fred. “Are you trying not to disturb fingerprints or just being your usual OCD self?”

“Both. Do you mind if I open it?”

That’s Fred. Always polite, even at the scene of a stalking. “Sure. Open it, read it, take it home, shred it and burn it. I don’t care. I certainly don’t want it.”

Fred carefully opened the envelope printed with flowers and butterflies then slid out a card with butterflies and hearts on the front. He opened it. “
Butterflies are free and so are we. Come fly away with me for all eternity
.
I’ll shelter you from harm, and always keep you safe and warm. Anyone who troubles thee will feel the wrath of me.
I didn’t know Rick wrote poetry.”

“He doesn’t. And calling that poetry would be a stretch.”

He studied the card carefully. “This doesn’t sound like something he would say.”

I shrugged. Fred was right. Rick was an idiot, but he was an educated idiot. “Actually, it does sound like something he might write if he was trying to be impossibly cute.”

“Or maybe this is from somebody else.”

“Who else could it be?”

He turned the card over and looked at the back side which had nothing but the name of a commercial card company. “You tell me.”

“It’s either Rick or somebody has the wrong house. Maybe they meant to leave this stuff at Sophie’s, but their GPS got confused. Mine does that every once in a while. It thinks my friends Judy and Jerry Clarke live in the trash bin at their apartment complex.”

Holding the card by the edges, he lifted it to the porch light.

I studied him studying the card. “Can you see fingerprints before you even dust for them?”

“Of course not. I think you need to get some rest.”

I could not argue with that. I unlocked my front door, pushed it open, and Henry ran inside. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Fred scooped up the red wrapping paper Henry had shredded.

OCD. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if he knew there was a mess on my porch.

I watched as he went down the walk. Of course he couldn’t just cross the lawns. He might bruise a blade of grass. Or step on an elf. It spoke volumes about his concern for me that he’d walked across the grass beside me.

Then he reached his walk, the decision point. Would he go inside his house or cross the street to Sophie’s?

He turned toward me and waved.

I waved back.

He went on up to his house.

Darn! I should have gone inside and watched from the window. If he hadn’t seen me, would he have gone to Sophie’s? Would he go over after I went in? Would she come to his house? Was it any of my business? Absolutely not. Did I want to know anyway? Oh, yes!

I watched Fred’s house until a light came on upstairs. His office, not his bedroom. He was going to get on his computer. Probably planned to illegally hack into government databases and get some more information on Kenneth
Bring us a couple of beers
Wilson.

Or maybe he was going to run down the manufacturer of that card, find the names of everybody who bought one.

I moved to the edge of my porch as if that would give me the ability to see through Fred’s blinds.

Surely he was checking on Wilson. Surely this late night activity had nothing to do with his interest in the card and envelope he’d taken with him.

I wished I could unhear his comment about my stalker being somebody other than Rick.

I opened my palm and looked at the butterfly. It sparkled in the moonlight. Of course Rick had brought it. He did that sort of thing when we were dating and after we split up. It was his MO. There was no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the flowers, wine and crystal butterfly. Though he’d never before written doggerel, I could see him doing that, trying to show me he was an innocent child at heart.

If Fred wanted to amuse himself by fingerprinting the note, that was fine with me. He’d find nothing on there but Rick’s fingerprints and Henry’s claw marks.

I hoped.

The possibility of a stranger coming onto my porch, leaving gifts and poetry for me…that was too creepy to think about.

A cold wind brushed across my face and sent a chill down my spine. Fall must be closer than I thought.

I hurried into my comfortable, welcoming house which suddenly didn’t feel comfortable and welcoming. The moon slanted through the windows creating eerie forms in the darkness. The recliner appeared to have a head sitting atop the headrest. A faded red design on my sofa glowed as if wet with blood. Emptiness flowed down the stairs and across the floor from the kitchen, surrounding me. Henry had vanished somewhere into that emptiness and I was alone.

For a fleeting moment, even though I was still angry at Trent for treating me like a suspect, I wished he was there with me—strong, solid, dependable.

But he wasn’t, and I was being silly, letting my imagination run away with me. I switched on the light. I must be experiencing a chocolate deficit to have such ridiculous thoughts. I’d make myself a cup of hot cocoa and go straight to bed.

I went to the kitchen and let out a shriek—just a tiny one—at the sight of eyes glowing in one corner.

Oh, good grief. It was Henry. I flipped on the light, pushing back the darkness and illuminating my cat who stood beside his empty food bowl, looking up with hungry blue eyes. The bowl was designed for a German Shepherd. Henry’s a big boy. His head is too large to allow him to eat from a cat dish. Besides, I’d have to refill it at least three times.

“Didn’t catch any snacks tonight?” I poured cat food pellets into his bowl, and he purred gratefully.

With my cat happy, I set a cup of milk in the microwave and thought about Tina. She was not likely preparing a cup of hot cocoa in a quiet house. Ken had been pretty drunk when we left, and Fred had brought up Bob’s name, reminded him of his wife’s infidelity. Did that renew his anger? Did he take out his rage on Tina after Fred and I left? While I stood in my kitchen waiting for my milk to heat, was she waiting to be seen in an emergency room across town?

Or worse?

Would I get a phone call tomorrow asking why I’d visited the recently deceased?

***

I took the butterfly with me to work the next morning. If I left it at home, Henry would feel the need to track it down and destroy it as he’d done with the flowers. Crystal might be a little harder on his paws and teeth than roses. I sanitized it to get rid of Rickhead’s touch and set it in the middle of the top shelf of the dessert display case.

The morning passed uneventfully. Nobody died. Nobody came in and made a scene. People ate their food, left with a smile, and all was well in Death by Chocolate.

Then Brandon’s father came in for lunch.

I’m sure I interact with a lot of people who wouldn’t be my friends if I knew them on a personal basis. But I don’t know them. I ask them what they want to eat and drink, they tell me, I serve it to them, they pay and leave. And life is good.

I could have served Grady Mathis, washed his dishes twice and never given him a second thought if only we could have confined the conversation to,
What would you like today? How about a ham sandwich on moldy bread with rancid mayonnaise and a glass of anti-freeze? Thank you, here’s your order.
That didn’t happen.

He bellied up to the bar and took a seat on the stool closest to the cash register, the one where I’d have to pass him every time I rang up somebody’s check. “Well hello, little lady.”

I forced a smile and bit back the urge to tell him I was not little and he should not count on my being a lady. “What can I get for you today, Mr. Mathis?”

He gave a mock frown. I think he intended to look boyish and charming, but he succeeded in looking like a Halloween mask of an ogre. “What’s this
Mr. Mathis
? You make me feel old.” He reached a hand across the counter, palm up, as if he expected me to put my hand in his. Ewww! “I’m Grady, and you’re Lindsay.”

I put both hands behind my back and reminded myself,
The customer is always right
. “What can I get for you,
Grady
?”

He ordered a sandwich and drink. “And what wonderful chocolate dessert did you make for me today?”

The customer is always right
. “We have the usual chocolate chip cookies and brownies. Our special dessert today is chocolate pecan pie.”

He grinned and winked. “I’ll have the special dessert made by the special lady.”

Oh, barf.

“Coming right up.” I went back to the kitchen. Unfortunately we had no moldy bread, rancid mayonnaise or antifreeze.

Paula came in while I was making his sandwich. “Do you want me to work the counter awhile?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I can handle this jerk though I may have to throw a pie in his face rather than serve him a piece.”

Paula shook her head. “Don’t waste the pie.”

She was right. Besides, an iron skillet in his face would be more effective.

I took
Grady’s
food to him.

“I see you got a new pretty.” He indicated the display case.

What creepy thing was he implying about my desserts?

I turned to look at the case and saw the light winking off the crystal butterfly.

“Oh, that.”

“Present from the cop boyfriend?” He winked.

Definitely an iron skillet. A large one. Full of hot grease.

I moved down to the woman two stools away. She’d just finished her brownie. “Would you like anything else?” I asked.

“I sure would.” Mathis’ words were low, dark and sludgy, like the oil that drains from my car when I haven’t changed it for several thousand miles.

I gave the woman her check and she handed me a credit card.

I had to go past the Mathis Monster to get to the credit card machine.

“Boyfriend didn’t give you that butterfly, did he?”

I kept my eyes focused on sliding the credit card through the machine and pretended not to hear, but I could feel the flush of anger rising to my cheeks. I really, really wanted to slap him.
The customer is always right.

I had to pass him on the way back to the customer.

“Cheating on the cop, huh? You are a feisty one!”

The customer is
not
always right. I was going to ask that one to leave, and if he gave me any flack, I knew where the iron skillet was stored. In the interest of haste, I could make do without the hot grease.

I gave the card back to the customer, got her signature, and turned to confront Mathis.

He smiled. “So when are you going to bring that little car in and let me make it all pretty and sexy for you?” He winked again, turning an already slimy question into scum from the depths of a pond that’s been stagnant for at least ten years. 

When was I going to take my car to his place? Oh, somewhere around the time traffic cops stopped writing tickets. Maybe on the day I started drinking coffee instead of Coke. Sometime after hell froze over in August. I opened my mouth to speak the words.

“Hello, Dad.”

I had been so focused on tossing out the father, I hadn’t seen the son come in. Wearing a cap with the brim pulled low over his face, he slid onto the stool next to Grady. “Hi, Lindsay.”

I swallowed my smart-mouth replies. “Hello, Brandon. Good to see you again.”

Only one other seat at the counter was occupied, but Brandon chose to sit next to his father. Since they were not best buds, that felt a little confrontational. If Grady Mathis started bullying his son in my restaurant, I would definitely have to get out the iron skillet.

Grady slid off his stool. “Guess I’d better get back to the shop since there’s nobody else to take care of it.” His voice no longer dripped with slime, but the smug superiority was equally disgusting.

Brandon said nothing, just kept his head bowed, the brim of the cap covering his face.

Grady laid some cash on the counter, looked at me and winked another time. I clenched my fist to keep from punching him in that eye to stop his winking for at least a while. “See you later, little lady.”

Not if I see you first
. The childish retort almost made it past my lips.

I shuddered and turned my attention to Brandon.