Lethal Lasagna (2 page)

Living alone does strange things to a person’s mind.

We hear all kinds of things even on a calm night. But give us a storm, and our imagination runs wild. Personally, I see things that aren’t there, hear sounds that are non-existent, and pretty-much make myself a nervous wreck. Most of the time, I pray and ask God for protection and I’m fine. But, since Mitzi’s death, I’ve allowed my thoughts to get the best of me.

Another summer storm had built in the western skies, and once more I found myself sitting at my kitchen table, drinking hot raspberry zinger tea, and praying the Lord would calm the winds and rains.

My thoughts turned to Sprocket, wondering how he was taking this storm. I hurried to the living room and out the front door. My front porch is completely glassed in and weather proofed. It’s not real glass; it’s Plexiglas, that clear hard stuff that people like me use when they don’t want someone breaking into their house. I’ve created a little nook for myself in one corner. Tall artificial trees and plants shield me from the view of my neighbors while I sip on hot chocolate and read my Bible.

Sprocket’s doghouse faces the house. It’s large, wooden, and the interior is lined with lush carpet. As if he could sense me, he stuck his nose out and then hurried back inside. I didn’t blame him. His doghouse is dry and toasty-warm.

I walked back to the kitchen, retrieved my tea and then returned to the living room. This is the coziest room in the house. It is small with a miniature fireplace. I have one TV, a tan colored couch, small end tables, bookshelf, and a coffee table all crowded into the undersized room. Tonight I flipped on the television in hopes of hearing a weather update.

The weatherman reported a thunderstorm. “Well tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered as I set my teacup down. A flash of lightening lit up the room, and then all went dark. The electricity had just gone out.

This is not unusual in Oklahoma. I felt around in the drawer of the end table and found what I like to call the fire starter. It’s really just a long lighter that I got from the store. Then I cautiously made my way about the room lighting the many candles. In several moments, I had flickering lights all around the dimly lit room.

I picked up the historical romance novel, The Drifter. Yes, even at the age of fifty-two I still enjoy reading romance novels. I sat back down on the couch. After about an hour, the room began to get chilly. I pulled a light blue afghan from the back of the couch and stretched out with my book.

The television blared as the electricity came back on. I sat up with a start. My book fell to the floor and the jingle for Good Morning America finished bringing me fully awake. Sunshine filtered through the small window assuring me that morning had arrived and it would be another high humidity day.

As I blew out the burned down candles, I thought of Mitzi. She would have had a fit had she known I’d fallen asleep with them burning.

I folded the afghan and returned it to the back of the couch, scooped up The Drifter, and teacup then headed for the kitchen. After setting the cup in the sink and the book on the table, I put coffee and water into the coffee maker.

A loud knocking began at the back door. Now who in the world would be visiting first thing in the morning? The question had no more passed through my tired mind then my neighbor, Sara Green, started calling my name. “Claire!”

I pulled the door open just as she raised her hand again, and since she was looking over her shoulder, pounded me on the forehead. “Hey, what’s the big idea?” I gave her a not-so-gentle shove to keep her from doing it again.

“Oh I’m sorry, Claire. Can I borrow your phone real quick?”

It snagged my attention that she was looking at her house again. My gaze followed hers. A large old oak tree leaned again the telephone pole and several lines had snapped. That tree had been standing since the beginning of time. “If I have a dial tone, you can.” I stepped back and allowed her inside.

“Thanks.” She hurried to the phone that hung beside the refrigerator. “I should have had that tree cut down last time we had a storm through here. I knew its roots were rotten. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

Sara has short black hair, brown eyes and is a little taller than me. This morning she was dressed in coveralls, and a bright green shirt peeked from underneath. The woman could use a few fashion tips if her combat boots were any indication of her regular style of attire. And even I hate to admit they were.

“You’re not a bother.” I offered.

I rubbed the sore spot in the center of my forehead. Sara is one of the few young people who live on this side of town. My eyes moved to her beefy hands as she talked on the phone.

“Yep, it’s a leanin’ on the pole and I don’t have a phone. I’m over at Claire Parker’s house.”

The coffee maker made sputtering noises. I decided to ignore Sara and make some toast, and then remembered I was out of bread. Well, cereal would have to do this morning. I moved to the pantry and looked over the varieties I’d collected over the last few months. A cereal, with Crunch in the name, caught my eye. I’d never had it before but had decided a couple of weeks ago to try it out. The dollar off coupon from Sunday’s paper had helped in that decision.

“Thanks for letting me use your phone.” Sara eyed the box in my hand.

Sara is probably in her early thirties and lives alone, too. Her house belonged to her grandmother, and when the old woman died, Sara inherited it. She leaned a hip against the refrigerator door. The same door I needed to open to get to the milk.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” I asked, pulling down two bowls.

A smile touched her lips. “If it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Have a seat.” I set down the cereal and bowls, enjoying the scent of freshly brewed coffee that saturated the room.

She plopped into a chair and looked out at her house. “Can you believe the wind blew hard enough to knock that tree over? I mean...I knew the roots were rotten but I think that was some powerful wind to pull it out of the ground. Don’t you?” Sara tore the box open and poured a generous amount of the cinnamon squares into her bowl.

“It was blowing pretty hard, but I slept through most of it,” I said, pulling a gallon of milk from the fridge. After handing it to Sara, I returned to the coffee pot and poured two mugs of steaming coffee.

“You’re lucky. It whistled around my windows so loud I couldn’t get a wink of sleep.” Sara poured milk into her bowl and then shoved cereal into her mouth. As she chewed, I realized why it was called Crunch. The noise was almost deafening.

Sara swallowed her food and then announced. “You might lose your phone line for an undetermined amount of time this morning. The telephone company is going to come out here and get that tree off their pole, and they said they may have to shut off the line for a while.”

I nodded, said a quiet prayer of thanks for breakfast and the safety of last night, and then answered her with a question of my own. “Did they say what time they’ll be here?”

“Nope. Just some time this morning.” She gulped at the hot coffee.

I took a small bite. My head hurt. Not sure if the pain was from the noisy cereal or the knock on my head, I stood to get two aspirin.

Sara shoved her bowl back and cupped her coffee in those large hands. “Have you heard any more about your friend’s murder?”

I poured four aspirin into my hand instead of the normal two. At this point, I decided the headache was from the combination of the knocks to the forehead and the noisy cereal and that I didn’t care if this many aspirin was thinning my blood. They went down almost as roughly as the hard cereal.

The police hadn’t released the cause of Mitzi’s death as of yesterday morning and I wasn’t sure if I should share the information just yet. Deciding to sidestep her question with one of my own, I asked. “Have you?

“Naw, just that they still haven’t found her killer.” Sara pushed out of her chair and carried her bowl and cup to the sink. “Thanks for breakfast, Claire. I have to be getting to work.”

She walked with purposeful steps to the door. Just as she started to step off the porch, I asked, “Sara, what do you do?” As her neighbor, this is something I should know. Mitzi’s neighbors hadn’t known much about her, and so far had been no help finding her killer.

She smiled and pushed her chest out a little. “I work for the city. I’m a sewer inspector.”

I wasn’t sure what all that entailed, but it didn’t sound fun to me. But it did explain the boots. “You’ll have to tell me about it some day.”

“Sure will. I’m sorry again about the bump on your head.” With that she waved and jogged to the old red pickup in her driveway. It sputtered and blew smoke as she backed out.

What bump? I closed the door and hurried to my bathroom. Sure enough, a nice size knuckle knot rested right between my eyes. No wonder my head hurt.

A long hot shower was in order. As the warm water rushed over my tired body, thoughts of Mitzi plagued me. How could I find out who killed her? Did I really want to get involved? The answer to the last question was yes. The police didn’t seem to be getting anywhere looking at the crime scene, as the Detective had called it, so maybe there was something in her personal life that would give me a clue as to who killed my best friend.

Mitzi was deeply involved in her singles group at church. She was taking a creative writing class at the college, and she held a Rose Hat Club tea once a week. Since she was gone, I assumed the teas were no more, too. A moment of guilt slapped me in the face. If I had been a member of the hat group, I could have spent more time with my best friend. I pushed down the guilt and focused.

I’d start my investigation by visiting her class at the college and her church. Maybe someone there knew who might want Mitzi dead. Still it didn’t make sense to me, Mitzi had to have been the nicest person alive. She’d give away her last dollar to the poor, if they asked for it.

After dressing, I fed Sprocket and took him out for a quick walk around the block. The telephone company was at Sara’s when we returned home. After giving Sprocket his treat, I drove to the college.

“Mrs. Parker, it’s too late to enroll in the Creative Writing class.”

I hate when someone half my age tells me what I can and can’t do. The need to tell the child I have to be in that class threatened to overwhelm me. I took a deep breath and informed her once more. “I don’t mind having missed half the classes.”

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.

The desire to tell her that if she was looking for her brains not to bother because there was nothing up there for her to see but moths and hot air, pulled strongly at my better judgment. A woman close to my age stepped forward and rescued Tiffany from my wit.

Her nametag identified her as Louise M. “Can I help out here?” She asked and gave the younger woman a stern stare.

The girl huffed, “She won’t listen. I keep telling her it’s too late too enroll in classes for this semester.”

Louise turned her attention to me and smiled. “Did Tiffany tell you that you’re welcome to observe if you want but wouldn’t get class credit?”

As I shook my head no, I had the satisfaction of watching little Tiffany turn three shades of red.

“I forgot,” she admitted, in a strangled voice.

Inserting a touch of honey into my voice, I listened as my question dripped with sweetness. “Do I need to fill out any paperwork to do this?”

Louise handed me a nametag that had Visitor printed across the front of it. “Just put this on your blouse when you attend the first time. Also, be sure and introduce yourself to the instructor. After that you should be fine.”

“Thank you.” I tucked it into my purse and returned her friendly smile.

A glance at my watch told me I had an hour before class started. My stomach rumbled reminding me of the slim breakfast I’d had earlier this morning. It had been a while since I’d eaten college food. Surely the food here would be better now than it had been in my day.

****

Clutching my new notebook and old pen I moved into the classroom with the rest of the students. I took a seat toward the back and to the inside of the room. From this location, I had a good view of the students as they entered. People of all ages filtered in. I was pleasantly surprised to see they weren’t all young like Tiffany-the-teenager-with-attitude. But then again, it also amused me to see at least ten women fifty years and older filing in and hurrying to seats up front. Who would have known there were that many women my age who wanted to be writers?

And then it happened. He walked in. Professor Brandon Harvest.

My jaw dropped and my tongue spilled out like a panting basset hound. Schoolgirl thoughts and emotions raced through me. He was the same man I’d head butted at the police station.

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His warm brown gaze surveyed the room. The other grey-haired ladies sighed collectively. Who could blame them? Instinctively, I reached up and touched my own sandy brown locks and grinned.

“Isn’t he a dream?” the woman behind me whispered.

The Lord sure knew what He was doing when He created Professor Harvest. I almost laughed at my own thoughts. Brown hair and soft chocolate eyes, not too tall but not too short, not a flat stomach but definitely not a fat tummy either, this man was every fifty-year-old woman’s dream. I nodded at the woman behind me and then shifted in my seat to absorb every word he uttered.

After about an hour, he looked at the watch that encircled a tan wrist and announced. “Okay, we’ll take a fifteen minute break and then start on our activity.”

A student’s hand popped up. “I have a question,” she blurted before he had time to respond to her raised, waving fingers. Her hair still held a hint of blonde, and her turquoise eyes pleaded with Professor Harvest for his undivided attention.

I
’
ll just bet you do. I gasped at my own mean thoughts. Lord, I don’t know what’s come over me…please forgive that mean thought, the ones I had earlier with Miss Tiffany, and the next one I’m sure to have.

“Is it a question that can wait until after our break? I’d hate for the others to miss it.” He raised a fine tan brow in the woman’s direction.

She lowered her hand and nodded. I watched her and another lady gather their purses and head out. When they got to the door, they both looked over their shoulders as if worried the handsome instructor would disappear. I couldn’t contain the giggle that crawled up my stomach and out my throat.

“Hello.”

His rich voice took me by surprise. With a little squeak I whirled around. My gaze flew up his body and into his eyes. A smile touched them. He dropped into the seat in front of me and extended his hand. “So, we meet again. I’m Brandon Harvest.”

“Oh.” I took the offered hand and allowed him to shake mine. “I’m Claire Parker.”

His warm fingers released me. “A new student?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” I felt the heat crawl up my face and heard a snicker behind me.

Once more, that fine eyebrow arched upwards. “I see.”

“You do?”

Again the snicker.

“No, not really,” he answered.

What in the world was wrong with me? Maybe I should check the expiration date on that St. John’s Wort. I dug in my purse and found the visitor pass. My hands trembled as I peeled off the paper and then slapped it onto my pink sweater with a smack. Then, I sat up straighter and took two calming breaths. “Yes, I am a new student and no I’m not taking this class for credit so maybe I’m not a student. I’m not sure.”

A smile touched his kissable lips. Did I just think kissable? That couldn’t have been me. Another wave of heat hit my cheeks. Yes, I did think kissable.

“Have you learned anything during the last hour?” he asked, leaning forward on the back of the chair and looking me straight in the eyes.

At the moment, I couldn’t remember anything he’d said in the last hour. A lock of light brown hair fell onto his smooth forehead. I must have nodded because he continued.

“Then I’d say you are a student. Do you plan on continuing with the class?”

I noted the laugh lines around those soft blue eyes. He had a small scar above his right eyebrow. His lips lifted in a bigger grin, and I noted his even, white teeth. Oh my stars! I realized I was staring at him like a newborn calf after its mother. I nodded.

“Good. After class, if you would like, we could go get a cup of coffee and I could bring you up to speed on what we have covered this semester.” He stood and broke eye contact.

I stuttered. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

He nodded and then moved away. I couldn’t seem to pull my gaze from his retreating back.

“Lucky dog, he’s never given any of us that special treatment,” a female voice hissed behind me.

I didn’t bother to comment. If the venom in her voice were any indication, it wouldn’t have done me any good to comment anyway.

During the next hour, I listened to Professor Harvest and the rest of the class discussing how to plot. His method seemed a simple one, and his assignment for the next class period required that the students write a two-page synopsis explaining the main plot and a sub-plot. I scribbled the instructions down in my new notebook. As I did so, I reminded myself I was here to learn more about Mitzi’s murder, not write a book.

The students asked questions such as, “Can it be any genre?” and “What point of view do you want us to use?”

I decided a lot of the questions were asked just to keep him talking. Eyelashes batted as he turned to answer each of their questions. Were there any serious writers in this group, or were they all here to study the handsome instructor? Had Mitzi been as smitten with him as the others had? She hadn’t said so. Could he be the reason for the deadly lasagna?

“I’ll see you all on Monday. Have a good weekend.” He returned papers to a briefcase while the students filed out of the room.

I made a mental note of the men in class, there weren’t many. Could one of them have killed Mitzi? Unlikely, they would have shot her. Not killed her with food, my tired mind reasoned.

“Have fun on your date.” The woman who’d sat behind me offered in a semi-bitter voice. Her earlier venom had evaporated.

I turned to her and smiled. “It’s not a date.”

She dropped her note pad and pen into a small satchel. “Oh, I think it is. He’s never asked any of the rest of us out for coffee.”

I decided the best thing to do was take her mind off the good professor. With my hand extended, I announced, “I’m Claire Parker.”

“Martha Lewis.” She gave me a limp-wristed excuse for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Martha. What do you write?” I picked up my purse and walked with her toward the door.

It must have been the right question to ask because some of the frost melted from her tone as she answered. “Children’s stories, mostly. I’m hoping to win the contest.”

“What contest?” Could this contest have been an excuse to kill Mitzi?

“Well, it’s more like our final exam.”

I stopped and looked at her. “What’s the prize?”

“Publication in the school magazine. It goes out to all the students and alumni. Whoever wins will have a wonderful little piece of information to add to their writing portfolio.” She continued toward the door. “What do you write?”

I followed. “Honestly, I’m not sure.” I answered thinking about it for the first time.

“What do you enjoy reading?” The rich voice came from behind us.

I turned as he flipped off the light switch. “Historical romance.”

“Figures,” Martha muttered and left me standing in an empty classroom with the most handsome man I’d had the pleasure of meeting in years.

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