There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3) (12 page)

“She is your mother. From her perspective I might be asking the same questions.”

From her perspective as a multi-divorced woman jumping into an ill-conceived fourth marriage? Or as the actress who was too consumed with her budding career to raise her own daughter? Either way, she had no business inserting herself into my relationship with Steve.

I turned to face him. “I think you’re confusing her with your mother.” The cookie-baking Girl Scout leader, who had bandaged my knee after I skinned it playing flag football in Steve’s back yard.

A wry smile played at a corner of his lips. “Hardly.”

“I’m really sorry that she put you on the spot like that. I’ll talk to her.”

“Not a big deal.”

It was to me.

Steve lowered his gaze. “Want to know what I told her?”

I was dying to know, but at the same time I didn’t think my head could contain the explosion if he told me something I wasn’t prepared to hear.

I held out my hand. “This is so ridiculous I can’t believe we’re even talking about it. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell her if she brings the subject up again while she’s here.”

Pulling open a drawer, I saw a box of condoms and a first aid kit. “Are you sure you don’t mind me taking over this bathroom?”

“I rarely use it, so it’s all yours.”

It didn’t feel like it was all mine. It felt like I was intruding, and now, thanks to my mother, in every way possible.

“You’re a nice boy,” I said, stealing Estelle’s line. “No matter what my mama thinks.”

His eyes darkened as he stepped into the bathroom. “She and I would probably agree that I’m not that nice.”

Oh, my. What did he tell her?

Lowering his head, Steve covered my mouth with his. The kiss deepened, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he leaned me against the granite countertop, his erection pressing against my midsection. Feeling myself melting from his body heat, I savored his taste, his every touch.

Just as he pulled me to a sitting position on the countertop and reached for my zipper, my phone buzzed with a text message.

“Was that your butt?” he asked, running his fingers over my back pocket.

“Ignore it.” That’s what I planned on doing.

He unzipped my jeans and it buzzed again.

I reached for my phone to turn it off and saw that I had two messages from my mother. Gritting my teeth, I swore under my breath. Her timing was as bad as Donna’s, but at least Donna had enough patience not to call if I didn’t answer right away.

“Marietta wants to know when I’ll be home. She also wants to make reservations for dinner.” I met Steve’s gaze. “Want to come—”

“Hell, no.” He took my phone and tossed it into the carpeted hallway. “Now, where were we?”

My phone started ringing.

Steve blew out a breath. “Will she get the hint and leave a message or keep calling?”

Marietta Moreau wasn’t accustomed to taking hints. “She’ll keep calling.”

He zipped my jeans. “Your mother’s a real mood killer.”

“Tell me about it.”

“When you get back from dinner, we’ll pick up where we left off.”

Goody.

He retrieved my ringing phone and pressed it into my hand. “And don’t even think about sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

When I arrived at work the next morning and greeted Patsy, it felt like some semblance of normality had been restored after what had been a crazy last three days.

Gone was Friday’s Patsy, the songbird. Monday’s version of the legal eagle assistant perched outside Frankie’s office looked like she wanted to shred someone with her talons. I just hoped that someone wasn’t me.

She shifted her gaze to the glass-domed anniversary clock on her desk. “You’re here early.”

Thanks to Steve setting his alarm for six a.m. and making a big pot of coffee for us to share before he left at seven, I’d arrived at work a half hour early and that was after stopping for a mocha latte and a scone. “The early bird gets the worm, right?”

Not that I was after a proverbial worm. I didn’t feel right hanging out at Steve’s house without him there, and I didn’t have anywhere else that I wanted to go, especially considering all the parental disapproval that would be waiting for me at my house.

Staring at me in silence, Patsy opened her mouth and then closed it again. Whatever was going on behind those steely gray eyes, she wasn’t sharing.

I peeked into Frankie’s office and saw it was dark. “She’s not in yet?”

“She’s in a meeting.”

Dang. I was hoping to ask her about the report I’d sent her. “Do you know if she’s made any decision on the Marty McCutcheon cause of death?”

Patsy heaved an impatient sigh and held up a blue folder from the
pending
basket behind her desk. “I just faxed the release form to Tolliver’s, so I’d call that a yes.”

Tolliver’s Funeral Home worked in concert with the coroner’s office to provide a temporary morgue, but Curtis Tolliver’s real money was in the funeral services he offered. No doubt he’d soon be making a call to Marty’s widow.

“Okay.” That was that.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the funeral announcement and the lab results that would free Marty’s blue folder from the file purgatory behind Patsy’s desk.

Since Patsy was tapping her keyboard with mounting irritation, I figured that was my invitation to leave. “Thanks,” I said, making a quick exit down the hall to brew a fresh pot of coffee for my fellow third-floor caffeine addicts.

A minute later, I heard the door to the breakroom click shut behind me.

Patsy’s mouth was little more than a grim line as she held her empty coffee cup in front of her and resumed the staring contest I wished she had let me know we were going to have.

I had to do something to break the silence, so I held the coffee pot up to the light to showcase the grounds floating in it. “I don’t think you want this. It looks a little chewy.”

“I can wait.” She took a seat in one of the aluminum chairs at the table between us.

“Okay.” It was a little unnerving to have an audience as if coffee-making had suddenly become a spectator sport, but clearly Patsy wanted something beyond fresh caffeine. If she could wait, so could I.

After I started the coffeemaker I turned to her so that she could clue me in on my next move.

“Would you sit down a minute?” she asked without hesitation.

My mind raced as I sat in the chair across from her. What on earth did we have to talk about that warranted a closed door? Certainly nothing work-related, and I knew she’d never come to me seeking diet advice.

I smiled.

She didn’t.

Gripping her cup as if she needed something to hold onto, Patsy cleared her throat. “May I ask how well you know Mitch Grundy?”

I blinked. Not in a million years would I dream that Patsy Faraday would want to talk to me about her boyfriend. “Not all that well. I met him years ago when I was working at Duke’s.”

“Do you know anything about his personal life?”

“No.” And I didn’t want to. “I only know him as a restaurant supply salesman. Why?”

Patsy stared into the depths of her empty cup. “I think he might be something of a
player
.”

“Mitch Grundy?” Sure, he was a salesman through and through and had always impressed me as an opportunist, but did that make him the type to prey on the affections of lonely middle-aged women? I might not especially like the guy, but I had a hard time wrapping my imagination around the notion that Mitch was a
player
.

She nodded. “His profile is still up and—”

“His profile?”

“Online dating. That’s how we met. And now that we’re supposedly in an exclusive relationship, I’d like to know if he’s seeing other women.”

I had a bad feeling about where this was heading. “Maybe you should just talk to him about this.”

“I have, but his profile is still out there like he’s hoping for a better offer.”

“Patsy…” I wanted to say more, to give her something to bolster her confidence in this relationship, but I knew the woman well enough to know that my words wouldn’t be welcome.

She waved me off. “I’m a realist. But I won’t be played for a fool. Not again.”

According to my grandmother, everyone in Port Merritt knew Patsy’s husband had been cheating on her for most of their twenty-year marriage. Everyone but Patsy.

“That’s where you come in,” she added.

Hells bells. This felt like high school all over again. Some of my friends setting up chance encounters so that I could put their boyfriends to the test and find out if they were two-timing them. “This isn’t a good—”

“Nonsense. You can join us for lunch next week, when his business brings him back to town. You ask him a few questions like two old friends getting reacquainted. How we met. You’re single again. Show some interest in online dating. It should be easy to get him to open up.” She sharpened her gaze. “You’re sneaky and he’s a talker. It’s a perfect way to get to the truth.”

I didn’t particularly care for the way I was being characterized. “And find out if he’s seeing anyone else.”

“Exactly.”

Sheesh. Just like high school. But with a major difference—we weren’t friends, so why was she coming to me?

The coffeemaker sputtered, venting its steamy proclamation that the brew cycle was at an end. Patsy stood as if this also signaled the end of our conversation. “Of course, I’ll expect you to respect my privacy just as I will respect yours.”

“Of course, I’ll respect your privacy, but what do you mean about respecting mine?”

The curl of her lips told me I wasn’t going to like the answer. “If you’re living with Detective Sixkiller, you might not want to be seen in Port Townsend with Doctor Cardinale.”

Criminy, did somebody have my street staked out? “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to but—”

“I stopped for a quick bite at Duke’s this morning,” Patsy said on her way to the coffee pot. “Unlike some of those ladies, I’m not judging, and I haven’t said anything about seeing the two of you at the Grotto Friday night.”

I heard a
yet
loud and clear.

She picked up the carafe and filled her cup. “So, may I count on you to join us for lunch next week?”

Was this my penance for letting Kyle charm me into a dinner date? Or for not telling Steve about it when he came over later that night? No matter how I sliced this I was screwed. “Sure.”

“Excellent. I’ll set it up.”

She left the breakroom, humming a tune that sounded an awful lot like
Your Cheating Heart
.

Yep. Definitely screwed.

∗ ∗ ∗

After three hours of making copies for one of the assistant prosecuting attorneys and catching up on the filing, I took an early lunch so that I could return Victoria McCutcheon’s plate—my one loose end from last week.

Forty minutes later, I pulled into her driveway and parked next to a sporty new four by four with chrome wheels.

Very showy. Victoria’s visitor had sunk some money into this truck.

I knocked at the front door and once again the lace curtains covering the bay window fluttered seconds before the door swung open.

What a difference a few days had made. Marty McCutcheon’s widow couldn’t have looked lovelier. Her blood red lipstick matched the tone in the red and black brocade jacket she wore over a pair of black cigarette pants, giving her an alluringly exotic look. Add in the healthy blush of her cheeks and the pleasant smile on her glossy lips, and the beautiful Victoria McCutcheon didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to a heartbroken widow.

“Charmaine.” She stepped back like a gracious hostess. “Please come in. Do you have news?”

I smelled notes of garlic and onion wafting in the air. “Not much in the way of news but I wanted to return your plate.”

Her smile disappeared as she took the ceramic plate from my hands. “You caught me in the middle of making lunch, which is going to burn if I don’t—”

“Sorry to interrupt you,” I said, following her into the kitchen, where I saw Jeremy sitting at the counter with a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

Victoria splashed some soy sauce on the vegetables she was stir-frying. “Of course you know Jeremy.”

The guy who looked like he wanted to break that cup over my head? Yeah, I knew him.

I smiled politely. “How’re you doing?”

A corner of his mouth quirked into a half-smile. “I’ve had better days.”

Me too.

“Would you like to join us for lunch?” Victoria asked. “It will be ready in a few minutes.”

I glanced at Jeremy to gauge his reaction as to whether three would be a crowd, and got a big nothing as he stared straight ahead and sipped his tea. “Thank you, but I can’t stay.”

“You know what? I need some onion from my greenhouse.” Turning down the heat under her wok, Victoria stepped over to the French doors that led to the back yard. “Walk with me and tell me your news.”

I didn’t have much news to tell, but this gave me an opportunity to speak to her without Jeremy listening in, so I stepped out onto her patio and waited until I breathed in the earthy scent of the greenhouse near the fence to say what little I could disclose.

“The Coroner released your husband’s body this morning. This means that—”

“I know,” she said with a sad smile. “That’s why Jeremy is here. We’re meeting Curtis Tolliver at one-thirty to make the arrangements.”

It seemed to me that Jeremy had gone out of his way for a free lunch since Tolliver’s Funeral Home was located a block south of his dad’s flooring shop.  From what Austin had told me about the way Victoria could wrap the men in her life around her little finger, I wondered if the assistance Jeremy had offered had been his idea.

At least she was getting some help. “Good.”

“Is that all the information you have for me?”

I nodded. I knew she would want to hear something about the testing of the items I had taken into evidence, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that it seemed highly unlikely that was ever going to happen. “That’s pretty much all I know.”

Sighing, Victoria turned her attention to the green onions growing in a container at her left, and I wandered to the back of the greenhouse, where several varieties of fragrant lavender and lemon verbena commingled into a delightful bouquet. On the shelf next to the verbena sat two flats of assorted herbs at the ready for use in her kitchen. Behind them tall spikes of deep blue-violet flowers on slender stems appeared to be segregated from their edible neighbors by a laminated
do not touch
sign. Tubs of tomato plants heavy with fruit nestled on the shelf to the right of the herbs, and in the far corner a spiky aloe plant rested on the top level of an old wooden ladder.

“I envy you all the fresh herbs,” I said, missing the herb garden I’d had in the kitchen window greenhouse of my old apartment.

“It smells good back there, doesn’t it?”

I leaned over one of the herb flats to get a better look at the blue-violet, bell-like blooms behind it. “This flower is unusual.” It also looked vaguely familiar.

When I tried to breathe in its scent Victoria grasped my arm with a firm grip. “You don’t want to get too close to that one.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Monkshood. Very pretty, but very dangerous if you don’t handle it with the proper precautions.”

Monkshood! No wonder it looked familiar. It was one of the toxic plants I’d read about two days ago.

I turned to her, my heart thudding in my chest. “Because it’s poisonous.”

She locked gazes with me. “It can be.”

I struggled to maintain some semblance of calm while alarm bells clanged between my ears. “Why—”

“I’ll save you the trouble of asking. I used the monkshood in Marty’s tea. It’s quite safe when properly diluted as anyone familiar with Chinese herbal medicine would assure you.”

Victoria was telling me the truth, but that didn’t mean that I was ready to buy everything she had told me hook, line, and sinker.

“Several members of your family, including you, were concerned that your husband ate or drank something that led to his cardiac arrest. I’ve learned enough about poisonous plants the last few days to know that the symptoms he had…”